Brahma, Vayu, Mara and four demigods stood below in the street.
He tried to raise his lance, but his hand shook so that it fell from his grasp, rattled on brick, was gone.
The scepter that is a skull and a wheel was pointed in his direction.
“Come down, Sam!” said Brahma, moving it slightly so that the pains shifted and burned. “You and Ratri are the only ones left alive! You are the last! Surrender!”
He struggled to his feet and clasped his hands upon his glowing belt.
He swayed and said the words through clenched teeth:
“Very well! I shall come down, as a bomb into your midst!”
But then the sky was darkened, lightened, darkened.
A mighty cry rose above the sound of the flames.
“It is Garuda!” said Mara.
“Why should Vishnu come—now?”
“Garuda was stolen! Do you forget?”
The great Bird dived upon the burning city, like a titan phoenix toward its flaming nest.
Sam twisted his head upward and saw the hood suddenly fall over Garuda’s eyes. The Bird fluttered his wings, then plummeted toward the gods, where they stood before the Temple.
“Red!” cried Mara. “The rider! He wears red!”
Brahma spun and turned the screaming scepter, holding it with both hands toward the head of the diving Bird.
Mara gestured, and Garuda’s wings seemed to take fire.
Vayu raised both arms, and a wind like a hurricane hammered the mount of Vishnu, whose beak smashes chariots.
He cried once more, opening his wings, slowing his descent. The Rakasha then rushed about his head, urging him downward with buffets and stings. He slowed, slowed, but could not stop.
The gods scattered.
Garuda struck the ground and the ground shuddered.
From among the feathers of his back, Yama came forth, blade in hand, took three steps, and fell to the ground. Mara emerged from a ruin and struck him across the back of his neck, twice, with the edge of his hand.
Sam sprang before the second blow descended, but he did not reach the ground in time. The scepter screamed once more and everything spun about him. He fought to break his fall. He slowed.
The ground was forty feet below him—thirty—twenty . . . The ground was clouded by a blood-dimmed haze, then black.
“Lord Kalkin has finally been beaten in battle,” someone said softly.
Brahma, Mara, and two demigods named Bora and Tikan were the only ones who remained to bear Sam and Yama from the dying city of Keenset by the river Vedra. The Lady Ratri walked before them, a cord looped about her neck.
They took Sam and Yama to the thunder chariot, which was even more damaged than it had been when they left it, having a great gaping hole in its right side and part of its tail assembly missing. They secured their prisoners in chains, removing the Talisman of the Binder and the crimson cloak of Death. They sent a message then to Heaven, and after a time sky gondolas came to return them to the Celestial City.
“We have won,” said Brahma. “Keenset is no more.”
“A costly victory, I think,” said Mara.
“But we have won!”
“And the Black One stirs again.”
“He sought but to test our strength.”
“And what must he think of it? We lost an entire army? And even gods have died this day.”
“We fought with Death, the Rakasha, Kalkin, Night and the Mother of the Glow. Nirriti will not lift up his hand against us again, not after a winning such as this.”
“Mighty is Brahma,” said Mara, and turned away.
The Lords of Karma were called to stand in judgment of the captives.
The Lady Ratri was banished from the City and sentenced to walk the world as a mortal, always to be incarnated into middle-aged bodies of more than usually plain appearance, bodies that could not bear the full power of her Aspect or Attributes. She was shown this mercy because she was judged an incidental accomplice only, one misled by Kubera, whom she had trusted.
When they sent after Lord Yama, to bring him to judgment, he was found to be dead in his cell. Within his turban, there had been a small metal box. This box had exploded.