THOUGH most would say the village was small, it was still sizable enough that it took them at least an hour’s walk to make to the elder’s tent. They expected to find a tent much larger than the rest, and while that was the case, it was not as large as they expected. Its perimeter seemed to only expand a fraction more than the rest, barely standing taller than the others. Yet even so, they could make out from the exterior that it was indeed the elder’s hut. Six lamp posts surrounded it, and the opening was furnished with the symbols of the Gods but with the Wind holding a more prominent position: a goad whose tip was dulled.
Passing through the entrance, they saw a man seated next to a fire pit, with Servants about praying to the flames. Their hymns were directed to Vyāythaḥ and it seemed as if the Wind was responding through the flames. With each syllable uttered the flames with gentle motion danced and in turn synced to the utterance.
when their words had reached a close, the flames at once dimmed to embers only to again resurface back to its erratic nature where it once more lit the interior of the tent. The Servants bid well the elder and bowing with folded hands to the others, made their way outside. The elder with a joyous smile said, “O Great Sage! these must be the folk you told me about. Come, come! Take a seat!”
At his behest, they sat around the pit and marveled at the interior. It did not look all that much different from a house, in fact, with its having two levels, it made seem all the more so. On each side was furnished either various tools or seats or tapestry, with beds resting above and below, though the ones above looked a bit smaller. When all were comfortable the elder gave a shout that startled the group. Almost immediately, some women came rushing by and speaking within in his own tongue, the elder seemed to give directions to bring something.
And not long after, a whole host of food was set before them. Most of which was cut mutton. Looking closer, they realized there was only mutton, with perhaps leaves and scarce traces of fruits garnishing it. The smell alone was enough to make them gulp, but Tūmbṃār felt apprehensive were he to so much as touch what was laid before him. Even with his dislike for meat, he too was very much hungry, but satiating his hunger at the expense of provoking his teacher’s ire would not at all have been a wise endeavor.
“Eat my guests! Eat!” said the elder as he gave a hearty laugh. “It’s been long since folk have visited us here. I would not like it if you did not find some comfort here before you set again on your travels. We also have much to discuss, but that of course can wait.”
The elder’s mannerisms reminded Tūmbṃār much of the smith and he felt a little relieved that some familiarity could be had in even the most remote locations of Ārhmanhaḥ. His stomach then growled. The boy turned his face away from the sight of the food.
The elder seeing this said, “Is this food not to your liking child? I could butcher a pig for you if that should suffice. Or perhaps you’re from the south and would like me to slaughter a cow or calf? Though I wouldn’t very much like it, feeding guests is of much greater importance.”
Tūmbṃār in horror at once said, “No! No! Don’t butcher a pig or a calf. That would make me even more sad.”
“Then why not eat?” asked the elder.
The others were about to speak for him, but Vādruhaḥ interjected, “He has done so on my command.” He turned to Tūmbṃār and continued, “I have told you before Tūmbṃār that you must only eat meat when no choice is set before you.” He nodded to his teacher. “And it would seem that we you do not have that choice now. You need not wait for my direction on this matter. The words I have dispensed to you before shall not change.”
Tūmbṃār was confused and looking to the elder, asked, “Don’t you have any fruits or vegetables here?”
“We do as you can well see the ones that have garnished the meat!” said the elder. “But not enough to nearly feed you for your stay. Indeed were we to bring all we had, we would run out of garnish in just this night alone.”
“But this valley is so lush,” said Tūmbṃār; “surely there must be more in other parts?”
The others likewise found it quite strange. But they gave little care of it. They dearly wished to pounce upon the morsels laid before them.
“Well, my child, you know the name of this valley, do you not?”
Tūmbṃār thought for a bit and remembering their entry to the valley, said, “It’s called the Jaḍa valley right?” The elder nodded but seemed to want more. The boy thought for some time and said, “Ah! It means lifeless doesn’t it?”
“Indeed!” said the elder. “Now you may be wondering why that would be the case. It would so happen that while this valley is indeed lush and beauteous in its own way, the land can hardly be said to be fertile. At least not for farming. We have tried over many generations to cultivate this land, but alas! it does not produce much. And so we had since given up farming and now gather our food as our ancestors in days long gone had.”
“I had heard that to be the case,” said Feyūnhaḥ, “and while I’ve ventured here from time to time, I did not once think it to be as you said. But I was able to subsist off the local fruits for some time, before having to venture elsewhere.”
“Ho! So you have visited as well?” said the elder delighted. “What of the others? Have you come as well before? I daresay I have not seen the likes of such persons around here before. You must’ve surely passed through our village at some point, but of course we don’t stay in one place for very long.”
“I have visited once before as well,” said Iḷēhaḥ; “‘tis unfortunate I could not have met you sooner, but I had my own troubles to deal with that for much time had prevented me from engaging with any other. It was a very unfortunate and lonely time and I think whatever force had held me obstructed any path that would lead me to you or your village.”
“Unfortunate indeed!” said the elder surprised. “Do the Laukṣhramās now dispense curses to their own kind? I think you are one of them are you not.”
Iḷēhaḥ laughed and said, “Nay, but I do not fault you for assuming as such. My likeness is quite like theirs and for good reason. I think that should be all I can say, for now, on that matter.”
“And I shan’t pry further, kind maiden,” said the elder laughing.
“And that leaves me!” said Sanyhaḥmān. “I think I am the last of us that has ventured here before. I ventured around the outskirts, however, and I presume you and your people stick closer to the center of the valley. I was on a mission of sorts, and you could say, I still am and for what I searched as part of it, well, from what I know, I don’t think it to be residing in any place that could be easily accessible. So I went off to many treacherous and perhaps dangerous locations to find it, only to be met with failure. Perhaps what I seek could be found in plain sight, and at this point, I’d hope that to be true.”
“That sounds like quite the special item, my dear Vachūṇaṃār. Were such an item to reside here, I’d gladly give it to you. We have little eye for things of value, and would rather be rid of it than keep. Unless of course it pertained to the Gods, but such relics are now long gone. Or I hope at least,” he said laughing louder.
The others were a little flustered over that remark, knowing themselves to be carrying a Dvhaḥṣhtro. It seemed the sage had not spoken on it so they stayed quiet.
“Ah, but I think I have digressed long enough on that. You are all welcome here! Come whenever you may and we shall do our best to hold a feast for you! And you, child, eat to your heart’s content. Your teacher should have no qualms over this. I know what it is the disciple of a Zūryashhaḥ must do, and great it is to uphold such ideals. But for just this time you should relax and be tolerant of this food. Your stomach at least seems more than willing to gorge in it!” And no sooner had he said that, did Tūmbṃār’s stomach growl, leading the others to laugh and he to blush from embarrassment. Turning to Vādruhaḥ, the elder said, “I’m assuming shall fast for our stay?”
“Indeed I shall,” said Vādruhaḥ.
“Won’t you get hungry, teacher?” asked Tūmbṃār.
“Have you already forgotten how it is I held myself in your village? Nary a bite did I eat, and when I did it would always be of the smallest portion. Not many of even the Zūryashhaḥ can hold such a fast, but I am one of the few that can. And so that being the case, there is no need for either you or any other to give concern my way. I shall be just fine.” He smiled and the boy did so likewise.
“What of your other friends?” asked the elder. “There were two more of you were there not? A priestess and a young girl. I should have food sent their way.”
“Perhaps it is best you wait on that,” said Nakthaḥm. “I think she will fast tonight. But I shall save some for the orphan an bring it to her.”
“Ah, if that is the case, then so be it. The Servants shall do as they like. We have talked enough for now, let us eat!”
And at his call Tūmbṃār and his friends ate the food that was set before them. Devouring large pieces of meat as if they were like grapes dangling from the stem, their hunger seemed to have no end. The aroma of the broth and the curry heightened their appetite even more, and they drank it down like it was water. Within just a matter of minutes the entire assemblage of their meals had been vanished into their bellies. Yet to their delight, the dinner was far from over. The elder gave another shout. And the women that had come before, brought more platters and great bowls of the cooked mutton and curry. The aroma this time exuded a gentler smell as it seemed the spices had been lessened for that serving. But the taste did not in the slightest diminish. Their long meatless journey from the forest to here was well-rewarded!
Their feast continued through tens of whole servings, where the platters and bowls were stacked in succession. The women and no less the elder were surprised over this and even giggled and laughed from their display. It really did seem as if they had been starving to this point. When the last dish was eaten and the final bowl was set atop the five foot tower of emptied platters, they were at last satiated. The last time they even had a chance to eat as such was back in the domain of the Mrigūhvha but to them—or at least to those barring Tūmbṃār—this meant more than anything they could have eaten there. Even if the dish here was less refined than elsewhere.
“I take it you have all had your fill now?” asked the elder.
“Indeed, kind sir!” said Nakthaḥm as he belched. His stomach much like Tūmbṃār’s had grown quite considerably. They looked almost pot bellied. While he did not much mind it anymore, his appearance was still rather unsightly. His clothes had still yet to be mended, and so he was still stuck in that same loin cloth with traces of the soot still covering his skin—though he had scrubbed most of it away in a nearby pond beforehand. “Never a finer meal have I partaken in. But perhaps it is my own hunger that has added the additional spice to make this dinner all the more delightful.”
Iḷēhaḥ slapped his back and the soot flew off, creating a small dust cloud that dissipated in the air. “Quite rude, Nakthaḥm! Do not speak as such to one who has treated us so well.”
“Worry not, kind maiden!” said the elder laughing. “We’re a simple people, so to get such praise is quite surprising. We know our limitations as well as any other, and so it’s good that your friend thinks as such and speaks truthful rather than exaggerated words as is often the case with most guests.”
“You humble yourself too much, O kind elder,” said Nakthaḥm, “but we have eaten long, and have not even introduced ourselves. I find it quite amusing that I of all people should have to say this.” He grinned at the others who gave shamefaced smiles. The demon stood and bowing with folded hands, said, “I am Nakthaḥm, for I am He that is of the Night.”
The others following his motion, rising as well and introduced themselves accordingly. And when they had all said who they were, the elder rose as well and said, “I am Zhivya—for I am He that is to Live—and the foremost elder of the village of Vyāyutaram: the Moving Village of the Wind.”
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They walked on the plains north of the village. When they had finished giving their introductions, the elder bade them come with him, and so they walked from the village to whatever place he wanted to show. Nakthaḥm had, at this time, broke from the group intending to take some food to the priestess and orphan. And while the ladies would have much more liked to have gone in his stead, they knew that Aiṛth would not at all be pleased to see them for that time. Seeing as how close she had grown to Nakthaḥm, they let him attend to that matter without issue.
Continuing along the path, they passed by some marked stone pillars. Ones that bore resemblance to the ruins they had passed behind the mountains. The dirt trail slowly morphed into one of stone, and they became as steps that curved about the hill. From where they walked they could see hardly beyond. The sun had already set and the moon shone brightly.
But clouds would come to obstruct the light every now and then. And so their path became much dark, and while it seemed in good reason to use their powers to light the way, they became wary of displaying it as such to one whom they did not know too well. Granted the elder had already done much for them, but given that Vādruhaḥ had not spoken at all about giving such information on their travels or abilities to any within the village, they approached such matters with caution. They did not wish to make a repeat of similar incidents that had occurred before. And if it should come to that, they hoped either the sage next to them or the Gods above would be able to rectify it.
After having ascended what seemed to be a few hundred feet, they at last reached the summit. They were certainly not as high as they were before when they had first entered this part of the valley, but it was enough so where they could see the village and its many lights illuminated from the torches and lamps. It almost seemed the village had grown in that time, but perhaps that was one reason why it was given its epithet.
When they were satisfied with their sight, they looked behind to see a grand hut, made of palm wood, bamboo, and stone thatched with dried kusha grass. It seemed to stand some fifty feet tall and the roof merged into the walls to seem like a quarter dome. Many lanterns were set about and a stone path inset into the dirt led to the open doors sided by two statues holding flaming bowls within their hands. They were a dress similar to the people of the village an yet seemed not to bear their qualities. They looked as like people that had hailed from elsewhere, perhaps having vanished in some by gone age, which very well might have been the case.
The people of this valley did indeed hail from elsewhere.
“Let us enter now, my guests,” said the elder, “the Servants should be waiting for us inside. There is something you must see within.”
They followed after the elder and entering inside, they could see the walls lit in all ends, great beams were held above and on the far end where Servants stood beside or knelt before an alter. The light of the moon came down through a hole in the ceiling and illuminated what looked to be a bow. But it was not just any bow, for its frame was gilded and decorated with many jewels. And its length stretched past the edges of the altar seeming as like an armament meant for one of enormous stature.
“What is this bow that rests there?” asked Iḷēhaḥ. “It seems almost like a weapon made for a god.”
“I’m glad you asked my fair maiden,” said the elder, “for this was the main reason why I had gathered you all to meet me. This glow that you see encasing the bow was not always as such. In fact this bow, though a relic, was rather musty and worn and had an almost rusted hue to it, unable to be cleansed. And so over generations we let it sit here, coming every now and then when chance permitted to clean the insides of this temple. But a few months ago, just when the sage had come here, its form all on a sudden changed! And the first to see it were these here Servants.”
“Aye, it was so!” said one of them coming forward bowing. “Unlike the rest of the villagers that come and go through this valley, we ourselves stay stationed at these various temples, watching over the relics. For it was said in days long past that when a worthy individual should present themselves, then should the weapon make itself known with the hues of its luster. We have stationed ourselves at various temples and though many relics are set in each one, it is only this that has made itself known to us.”
“I am confused,” said Iḷēhaḥ. “You speak as if telling us that this weapon has a mind of its own. What has this weapon made itself known as?”
The Servant in high spirits proclaimed: “It has presented itself as the bow of the great King Sītṛa! The very one that was strung by that high-souled lord before his commencement on that great war to defeat the demon-king Gazhruṇā! Armed with potent divine armaments that sent missiles flying hither and thither, causing the land to tear and shake under its duress.
“And as I say this, I can see the glow that emits from that child’s sack. Could it be true? Is he the one that carries with him a Dvhaḥṣhtro.”
Stolen story; please report.
And the others quickly turned their heads to Tūmbṃār, to see that what the Servant said was in fact true. The light of the Dvhaḥṣhtro pierced through the boy’s sack and its hues seemed to shine in sync with that of the bow.
“And so it at last comes for the child to play his role,” said Vādruhaḥ.
“What do you mean, teacher?” asked Tūmbṃār surprised as the rest. “Wasn’t my role to face the Demons?”
“Yes quite! and this shall aid you. But I speak of something even grander than that, for this artifact wielded by one who was seen as emissary to Lūshhaḥ can not be wielded by just anyone. And its purpose far outweighs even your battle against the Demons. I shall speak more on that later when I think you are ready to hear the whole of it. I suspect you would doze from my words as you are wont do in many other such cases.”
And Tūmbṃār embarrassed gave a light laugh. The others meanwhile could not help but become intrigued over the sage’s words. It seemed questions would keep arising with all of these new revelations.
Zhivya then spoke, “Well, I’m surprised it was you Tūmbṃār, out of all others to possess the Dvhaḥṣhtro. The Gods must really have grown desperate to have contracted a child! And I now know why that’s to be the case.” He turned to Vādruhaḥ and said, “O great sage, you had told me at length of the incoming invasion, but is that all there is to it? Would it not be enough for the Gods to enter to Lower Realms and quell such an attempt then and there? It has been done before and I’d think it little issue for such high beings to do so again.”
“Yes and they very well could,” said Vādruhaḥ, “if it were not for the ally that now sides with them. One said to have perished long ago, but whose form has arisen from the aether. Or perhaps it is better to say they have once again taken form. And this enemy is an even greater threat than the Demons themselves. But, I can speak little more of them for it in fact could be any one of the terrible beings that have lived in cycles past, whose very nature brought ends to countless beings of the Higher Realms. Or perhaps it could be a new one, carrying with it in its nature the same malice its predecessors once held. Having corrupted the minds of many others in various ages.”
“Why did you not speak of this before?” cried Iḷēhaḥ. “I cannot in all due certainty say who this enemy is, but for one to exist now, that is even greater than the Demons should cause even greater perils! Why have my forefathers not spoken of this? Is this not something we should know?”
“Your questions are better directed to them than me, Child of the Heavens,” said Vādruhaḥ laughing, “Not even I know all that there is to this universe and the many fates it holds. Long have I lived, and I did not think that such a one could come so soon. In my travels I convened many times with others of my order and it became all the more clear what this change in the world that we have seen stems from. But to your consolation, there is still much that remains a mystery, and I am sure the Light himself knows what must be done in this matter. Consult him should you have issue. Well, assuming that he will speak with you again.”
Iḷēhaḥ became rather annoyed at this. Not so much at the sage, but the circumstances surrounding their whole journey. And she feared that the specters that assailed them in the underground passages were in some way related to this. And they no doubt held their gaze upon Tūmbṃār. Her worries would not seem to allay and it did not help that the actions of beings higher than even herself were beyond her understanding. As the time had passed and their journey progressed ever on, the more hopeless she felt. What more could they do if the power of even the Dvhaḥṣhtro alone could not assail it?
Sanyhaḥmān and Feyūnhaḥ could not help but feel the same way as her. Yet they were not fearful, more dejected.
The maiden looked to Tūmbṃār and saw that his face beamed with delight, and this baffled her. “Why are you smiling Tūmbṃār? Does not what the sage has said cause you any worry?”
“A little bit,” he said, “but I’m happier that there might be a way to reason with the Demons! Now I just need to figure who and what this enemy is. Teacher! the bow is supposed to be used to defeat it, right? Am I to use the Dvhaḥṣhtro with it?”
“Well it seems my student has been paying attention after all,” Vādruhaḥ said with a smile.
“Of course I have!” said Tūmbṃār pouting. “I’m not like what I was back in the village. I’ve changed. I mean look at my height, I grew a whole three inches!”
“And yet you’re still shorter than the rest of us,” said Sanyhaḥmān laughing.
“I’ll grow taller, just you wait!”
“Are none of you worried as to what could happen to us?” said Iḷēhaḥ now distressed. “We cannot with our current strength engage such a foe. O Zūryashhaḥ, please talk some sense to us. You surely do not mean for us to go and fight such foes do you? Even with the passage of twelve years, and the collection of the Dvhaḥṣhtro, I very much doubt that we should be able to combat such an enemy as you have said. This would go beyond even the Gods themselves so what to speak of any weapon that could be acquired of them. Dusdrahaḥ did warn us about the use of the armament, but this calamity that has sided with the Demons seems to be universal in nature and one whose power could very well vanquish us in an instant! Should we now march to our deaths?”
“Calm yourself, child. You shall effect a path toward success in this endeavor. That I am sure. Do not forget the promise I have made to the boy’s parents. He shall very much come back alive, and I mean the same to all of you. But it is true, that this enemy shall be difficult to face and your current powers shall do little against it. The Dvhaḥṣhtro will, however, perform well against this adversary, provided you can collect them all and wield them correctly. And I shall teach you soon how it is you should wield them.
“But to better prepare yourselves I advise you speak with Nakthaḥm. I do not think he was at all aware of this, nor do I suspect him to have withheld information. But perhaps jogging his memory could lead to some clues as to who they might be. After all, they must surely have been following you for some time.”
Those words sent a shudder down Iḷēhaḥ’s back. “You mean the specters?”
“Aye.”
“Wait do you mean those things we fought in the underground passages?” asked Tūmbṃār. Vādruhaḥ nodded and the happiness that had filled his face was now swept with dread and horror. “I—I don’t wish to go anywhere near them!”
“Ho! And you seemed quite confident before,” said Vādruhaḥ.
“That was different! That was before I had an idea of what they were. Their forms and presence were too terrifying to behold. It was as if they could see everything about me, but even more so to warp whatever it was that I held dear. To bring about evil in my self if I succumbed. I don’t think I could fortify myself against such a foe.”
The boy hung his head low and quivered, and while Iḷēhaḥ thought she should think this unfit of him, his cowardice brought relief to her. For fear was what held at bay unwarranted actions one might otherwise take.
The priests and the elder listening to this conversation did not know what to say. They had hope that the sage’s words would hold true, but they could not help but have doubts of their own. It was not long before that they had reacted much like Aiṛth upon hearing the words Vādruhaḥ had said about the Gods.
And that nonacceptance soon turned to fear after hearing of the impending invasion. Yet their thoughts did not stay disarrayed for long given their duty related to the artifact. Vādruhaḥ himself had spent much time assuring all would be well, and that for the moment they need not do otherwise than they had before. Even service to the Gods was a meritorious action, regardless of one’s knowing the truth behind their stations.
Vādruhaḥ came near to Tūmbṃār and put his hands on his shoulders. Bending down, he kept his eyes level to the boy’s and said, “This evil that has haunted you, while very much powerful, more powerful than you have ever known, will not hurt you, so long as you keep your mind strong. Remember as I have told you before, evil cannot wholly consume anyone. Why? Because its will and force is not its own. In fact it would be more correct to say, that it acts as a negation to that which is good. And so being the case, your light shall never be extinguished, nor anyone else’s for that matter. Not even the light of that enemy that bares such malice. Pay no heed to what it could do to you, for as long as you resist it, it can never thrust its wretched desires upon you. That is the truth.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Tūmbṃār still in fright. “The evil that took hold of Zūryaṃār’s brothers caused them to do all sorts of things. Things that I can’t even speak about! This evil must have come from that enemy, right? I could see such things in the dreams I had, and at times I saw those things lurking in the shadows, twisting the minds of those who fell to its delusions. You say if I resist it, that it shan’t hurt me. But that doesn’t make sense. Those brothers of old who were so valiant before, valiant than even I could ever hope to be, fell to its might.
“Even with both yours and Levāñyhaḥ’s instructions they fell so easily. Lūshhaḥ himself, tried as he did, could not correct them either. What hope is there for me then were I to succumb? And there were even ones in higher ages, who didn’t atone by the end of their lives, that became as such. What hope do I have against such a force? Can Lūshhaḥ really help against this? He seems to keep himself away most of the time, and while he’s protected me and us, for that matter, many times, I don’t think he shall always be around. Even though he says he will. It’s all so confusing, but I can say this fear won’t leave so easily. I truly do not wish to meet them ever again. My heart aches just thinking about it.”
“Well it is understandable to have doubts in this regard, but no evil is all-powerful. It alone cannot twist the minds of those without the will of the recipient. The reason for the fall of the brothers of Zūryaṃār, and even those in higher ages, had come to their own weakness and lack of fortitude. I had seen it in their eyes at that time. That while it did not manifest physically, they had always in one way or another harbored ill intentions. Their love for their brother was very much real, but discontentment over their positions, the lack of love, they perceived, from their father, and the contest of the Gods brought out from them undesirable traits.
“Traits that I, Levāñyhaḥ, Lūshhaḥ, and even Zūryaṃār had well pointed out to them. But they would not listen, not because any evil told them to do, but because that was what they desired. Understand at least this: no evil can exert its will upon you unless you so deem it. So answer me this, do you wish to do as those brothers of old had done?” Tūmbṃār shook his head. “Do you fear pain?” He thought for a bit, and though he of course did not like it, he could not necessarily say he feared it. “Then you have already held yourself strong. And that strength shall not leave you. Hold your head high and have no reservations of your role. No evil, no fear, no malice should be able to stifle your resolve. To protect not only this world but your friends.”
The boy felt some reassurance from those words and smiled. The worry and fear had not yet left him, but he felt in time he would be able to conquer them, if what his teacher said was indeed true—which he had little reason to doubt. While not told directly, the others also heeded the sage’s words knowing they were meant for them as well. Iḷēhaḥ alone remained unconvinced, but it seemed for that time they had little choice but to listen to the sage.
Vādruhaḥ then directed Tūmbṃār to proceed to the altar. The priests stood the side and knelt with folded hands. They recited prayers as the boy passed by them. It seemed not unlike a miniature procession as if to welcome a new king. When he reached the altar he bowed with folded hands before the weapon as if ask permission for his using it. He then put both his hands under the bow and slowly lifted it from its seat of rest. Though its size exceeded his stature, it strangely felt light. He could not feel any force pushing it to the floor.
Looking toward the upper part of the grip, he could see a long crack that circled from there into the upper limb. And he could tell that this must have formed when Sītṛa had strung the bow. His allies at the time became very much worried that it should split under the duress. But as soon as the bow had been strung, a great light as like a thunderbolt was said to have issued to the Heavens. The Gods at last stood upon the side of that wicked-turned-righteous king, and thus had he proceeded to war.
Yet that crack glowed and seemed to heal. The string of the bow though thick was also soft, unworn, pristine, able to glide across his fingers with ease as if it had never seen any use in battle. A bow fit for not only a noble king but even a God. And he assumed that must have been a divine instrument much like the Dvhaḥṣhtro he carried. Perhaps even Dusdrahaḥ’s.
As he turned the bow from the light, he walked back to his teacher and friends. But every step he took, seemed to grow heavier and the lightness of the bow seemed to dissipate. His legs began to shake and the floor boards began to crack. His legs bent ever so slowly and he strained himself to keep moving. Unable to bear any more of the weight, he dropped the bow, the luster of which had now left, letting it crash to the ground and splinter the wood.
Tūmbṃār fell to his knees and panted. He looked to his palms that had suddenly become worn and rough. The bow that now looked drab and dull had now many marks and scratches spread along its length. Just grasping it was enough to have been able to wear out his palms. Or perhaps the weight of the bow had done that. But in either case there was still much he would need to do, to be able to effectively wield it.
“What just happened?” asked Sanyhaḥmān bewildered. “Wasn’t the bow meant for Tūmbṃār? It seemed almost to reject him.”
“This is all very strange,” said Feyūnhaḥ, “what are we to do against this enemy if Tūmbṃār can’t wield it? I much doubt any of us could. And even were it the case we have no Dvhaḥṣhtro by which we can use to send in flight.”
“Fear not over this,” said Vādruhaḥ; “this was very much expected and well within reason. He shall only need to train under me in order to wield this. And all of you shall train as well under my tutelage—that is one reason I had asked you to come here. Each of you shall likely meet the Gods as well at some point, as I had related before in our last meeting, and in turn receive a Dvhaḥṣhtro of your own to wield. It shall become all the more important that you learn this now, when you still have the time. I fear after we part from here, it shall be a long time after that we shall meet. And while I would not recommend it, you may very well have to use the Dvhaḥṣhtro against certain adversaries. Some whose power could rival even that of the enemy.”
Iḷēhaḥ sighed. “Shall our worries never cease.”
“Though there is no limit to how much a Dvhaḥṣhtro can be used, unlike those in higher ages, it shall strain your body significantly. Even more important, however, is that you do not use it against an enemy whose power does not exceed your own, by perhaps even a hundredfold. Treat these weapons as being universal in nature. I know Dusdrahaḥ at the very least must have related that using it otherwise could bring a catastrophe worse than anything that has been wrought before. Indeed such a thing very well could have occurred during the war on the plains of Upaurikṣhetvar, were its powers not able to be cancelled by one another.”
“You needn’t tell us that,” said Sanyhaḥmān, “we wouldn’t have even considered using it against the Drasūvayeznd. And the power of that structure in some ways can exceed that of the towering demons of the Lower Realms. But I guess this begs the question, how will we know when to use this? A scale of power that’s hundredfold in nature isn’t something that’s measurable—at least by us. Maybe Nakthaḥm would be able to tell, but with his powers chained to an extent over his heart I don’t think that would be very reliable.”
“You will know when such an enemy comes,” said Vādruhaḥ. “There are not many if any enemies that could fill such a gap of power between that of the Demons and the those who lived in previous cycles. An enemy whose power could reduce a planet to dust, yes, perhaps that is a good metric.”
Sanyhaḥmān and Feyūnhaḥ held their mouths agape at that last remake.
“No, you must be joking!” said Sanyhaḥmān. “I’d think such an enemy would kill us before we had the chance to strike back.”
“Even I have doubts over this,” said Feyūnhaḥ. “Why not just destroy this planet and be done with it? There are other planets of which habitation could be found. And these enemies must likely know of our quest.”
Vādruhaḥ lifted Tūmbṃār and dusted his clothes. “And while that is true, most wicked individuals have shown they would much rather lord over the world. After all, is that not the reason why all of us trapped here in these vessels we call bodies? Ah, when will the Ṃārhaḥn at last come to the realization that they must return to whence they came? But I digress. There is no need to harbor worry over this. Even should the enemy have the power to destroy the universe itself, they will most assuredly not do so; of course not out of any good intention.”
“But if an enemy could muster such strength, how ever are we to best such a being?” asked Feyūnhaḥ. “This really does seem beyond us.”
“Use the Dvhaḥṣhtro just as King Sītṛa had, and naught shall be able to stand in you way,” said Vādruhaḥ. “We have talked long enough. It is time we took our leave.” Turning back to the chief and the Servants, he bowed and said, “My apologies, for having spoken at length. My gratitude for bestowing the bow to my disciple.”
The priests and the chief alike at once prostrated.
“No need to apologize, great sage!” cried the Servants. “What has been willed to us in years past has now come to pass. Our duty here has been fulfilled and we should hope that any threat that should now to Ārhmanhaḥ, can be dealt swiftly by you disciple. Our solace rests in him now.”
“Never shall we forget what it is you have shown us, O Zūryashhaḥ,” said Zhivya. “May you and your companions have a comfortable stay in our village.”
The sage laughed and said, “My stay indeed should be comfortable, but as for the others you need not worry yourself. They have much work ahead of them.”
The boy, maiden, princess, and monkey-man shuddered upon hearing that. Just as Tūmbṃār had said before: their training was to be a harsh one.
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Resting at the banks of a river, where the lights of the torches reflected across the moon-lit waters, the priestess sat and sobbed. Dhīṇahi, tried her best to cheer Aiṛth, but for that time she guarded her heart. The girl hung her head low, seeming now about to sob in likeness to the priestess, when Nakthaḥm arrived with food in hand.
He rested it on the girl’s lap and said, “Eat child, I shall take care of her.”
Dhīṇahi’s face glowed and she nodded, before gorging into her meal. Nakthaḥm sat beside Aiṛth and looked calmly at the river that swept by.
“What is it that you want?” asked Aiṛth. “Have I not been humiliated enough. Would now the demon seek to insult me further?”
“I came neither to humiliate nor insult, my lady,” said the demon, “but to comfort to whatever degree I can offer. Being a priestess may give you some abhorrence to such a thing, but might you humor me this one time. Think this to be my way of thanking you for mending my clothes—well, should you continue to mend them when chance permits.” The priestess looked his way and Nakthaḥm could hear some giggles under her mask. Suddenly, she burst into laughter and startled Dhīṇahi. “I did not think what I said to be so humorous. Yet glad am I that there is still some joy in you.”
“The joy had never left!” she cried. And when she calmed, she continued, “Yet I still cannot trust what the others have said. And I do not think anything you have to say should change my stance either.”
“And that is fine,” said Nakthaḥm. “All I ask is that you do not make enemies of us, regardless of what you believe. I hold no doubt over what the Zūryashhaḥ has said, but that is due in part to my own history.”
“What history?” asked Aiṛth now curious.
“One that I shall not relate now, or anytime soon,” he said with a solemn face. His face seemed to morph into one of disgust as he thought on it, but he slowly relaxed. “There are many mysteries in this world, some to me, and many to you and the others. But do not seek to act with vehemence toward it. After all is it not said that toleration is the highest of virtues, even to that which would otherwise seem evil?”
“True indeed are those words, but there are times when evil itself should not be tolerated!”
“And do you truly think now to be one of those times?” asked Nakthaḥm.
Aiṛth was about to speak but then stopped herself. She pondered over his words and then thought to her outburst. “While it pains me to admit, I suppose you are right on this matter. I had acted rather rashly toward the others. Yet it is still not enough for me to forgive those words of theirs! I cannot relent on my stance—at least not until such statements can be verified.”
Nakthaḥm stayed silent a while, in thought to himself. And then he said, “That might be rather hard. I should think that it will not be answered until we have made our way into the Heavens. If the Gods were to confirm the words of the sage and Iḷēhaḥ, would then you believe them?”
“If that is how they shall answer, then I should have no choice but to accept,” Aiṛth said disheartened. “This would not be the end of my troubles. Doubts would then creep into my mind, many of which I do not think can then be answered. If what is stated in the compositions is to be wrong, how then should I act—what then should I believe? Would not all of this have been for naught? What worth would my religious tutelage have? I cannot help but think that I would need to distance myself from all that I have ever learned all those whom I ever trusted, and I am afraid to do that.”
Nakthaḥm ruffled her hair like she was a child and said, “I have enough hope that your concerns shall be answered by then, with those things that have seemed to elude us to at last make sense. I do not know the full scope to what this world of ours offers but I can at least say that there is more than is recorded in the compositions. Ideas that may have been lost or simply forgotten with time. You still have much to learn as does everyone else. And while your doubts will surely hold precedence in your mind, rest assured that the answers shall come. The Light will not abandon those whom seek it.”
His words relieved her doubts and she let go of her sullenness. Resting her head on the demon’s shoulder, she set her gaze on the moon and passed into a quiet slumber.