The Lord of Hellwell took upon him a manlike form and entered the room where Sam sat alone.
“The last ever I saw of you was upon the day of the Great Battle,” he stated. “Later, I heard that they had found a way of destroying you.”
“As you can see, they did not.”
“How came you into the world again?”
“Lord Yama fetched me back—the One in Red.”
“His power is indeed great.”
“It proved sufficient. How go things with the Rakasha these days?”
“Well. We continue your fight.”
“Really? In what ways?”
“We aid your old ally—the Black One, Lord Nirriti—in his campaign against the gods.”
“I suspected this. It is the reason I have contacted you.”
“You wish to ride with him?”
“I have thought it over carefully, and despite my comrades’ objections I do wish to ride with him—provided he will make an agreement with us. I want you to carry my message to him.”
“What is the message, Siddhartha?”
“The message is that the Lokapalas—these being Yama, Krishna, Kubera and myself—will ride to battle with him against the gods, bringing all our supporters, powers, and machineries to bear upon them, if he will agree not to war against the followers of either Buddhism or Hinduism as they exist in the world, for purposes of converting them to his persuasion—and further, that he will not seek to suppress Accelerationism, as the gods have done, should we prove victorious. Look upon his flames as he speaks his answer, and tell me whether he speaks it true.”
“Do you think he will agree to this, Sam?”
“I do. He knows that, if the gods were no longer present to enforce Hinduism as they do, then he would gain converts. He can see this from what I managed to do with Buddhism, despite their opposition. He feels that his way is the only right way and that it is destined to prevail in the face of competition. I think he would agree to fair competition for this reason. Take him this message and bring me his answer. All right?”
Taraka wavered. His face and left arm became smoke.
“Sam . . .”
“What?”
“Which one is the right way?”
“Huh? You’re asking me that? How should I know?”
“Mortals call you Buddha.”
“That is only because they are afflicted with language and ignorance.”
“No. I have looked upon your flames and name you Lord of Light. You bind them as you bound us, you loose them as you loosed us. Yours was the power to lay a belief upon them. You are what you claimed to be.”
“I lied. I never believed in it myself, and I still don’t. I could just as easily have chosen another way—say, Nirriti’s religion—only crucifixion hurts. I might have chosen one called Islam, only I know too well how it mixes with Hinduism. My choice was based upon calculation, not inspiration, and I am nothing.”
“You are the Lord of Light.”
“Go deliver my message now. We can discuss religion another day.”
“The Lokapalas, you say, are Yama, Krishna, Kubera and yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Then he does live. Tell me, Sam, before I go . . . could you defeat Lord Yama in battle?”
“I do not know. I don’t think so, though. I don’t think anybody could.”
“But could he defeat you?”
“Probably, in a fair fight. Whenever we met as enemies in the past, I was sometimes lucky and sometimes I managed to trick him. I’ve fenced with him recently and he is without peer. He is too versatile in the ways of destruction.”
“I see,” said Taraka, his right arm and half his chest drifting away. “Then good night upon you, Siddhartha. I take your message with me.”
“Thank you, and good night upon yourself.”
Taraka became all smoke and fled forth into the storm.
High above the world, spinning: Taraka. The storm raged about him, but he took scant notice of its fury.
The thunders fell and the rain came down and the Bridge of the Gods was invisible. But none of these things bothered him. For he was Taraka of the Rakasha, Lord of Hellwell. . .
And he had been the mightiest creature in the world, save for the Binder.