THREE days had passed. Tūmbṃār awoke with a fright, his body sweating. He looked around himself and saw he was in the palace upon a soft bed. By his side was Iḷēhaḥ, sleeping on the bed. His body was dressed, and he felt pain as he moved his arms and legs. Questions raced through his mind and he recalled the day before of his battle, the dead trainer and civilians, and the rampaging fire. He hyperventilated and suddenly felt his throat burning. He vomited upon the bed with traces of blood intermixed. He put his hand to his mouth: seven teeth were gone, yet they would eventually grow back. He could feel the surface of the erupted molars.

Iḷēhaḥ then awoke and saw the vomit upon the bed, but she cared little for it, seeing Tūmbṃār awake. She embraced him, sobbing, and said, “You fool! Why do you not listen to me. Did I not tell you to run if things became too dangerous!”

Tūmbṃār remained silent for a while before saying, “I’m sorry.” And he cried, “I couldn’t save them. I let them die; I killed them!”

Night had fallen, and the group had packed all their belongings.

Three days before, Tūmbṃār was found by the others within the heart of the fire, barely breathing. He was quickly brought to the palace, and the Servants were once more called. They spent that entire night staying the blood loss and repairing the lacerations. More scars would develop, but at the very least, he was saved. And when they had taken their leave, the others were left to wash him and clean off the blood. Iḷēhaḥ since then had spent the entire time by his side, eating and drinking just enough to stave thirst and hunger. The others had worried more for her than for Tūmbṃār whom they trusted would pull through just fine as he had done many times before. Her concern for Tūmbṃār seemed to border on obsession as they saw the terror that gleamed in her eyes. But they said nothing of it and let things be.

Hirmān, meanwhile, had left a day and a half before, having been able to secure transit on a Gazhigam caravan. The city was left in a state of disarray from what had happened and the envoy was furious with the king from what had occurred for he claimed a few of his non-combatant personnel perished in the attack, though the truth of those words could not be ascertained given the state of the charred bodies.

The envoy quickly left the city with his men, having said in a fit of rage: “The next we meet shall an even worse fate your city will behold!”

Such a comment was unwarranted, but the lord let him depart with heavy heart having said nothing in return. It also seemed to the others that the envoy had caught wind of their presence, though they could not confirm, for he had not openly addressed the matter concerning them. Nakthaḥm knew that they were indeed being pursued on that day, but with his powers waning since his binding, he could scarce make out who they were. All this bode ill, and they had decided upon leaving that very night. Aiṛth had not fully recovered, but she was well enough to move about. And though Tūmbṃār still felt the pain in his arms and legs, he would have to bear it.

They descended the steps of the palace, with Tūmbṃār carried upon Vrihkhaḥ’s back. The night was cold, and the streets were empty. Not even the lights of the red-light district were alight: the city seemed in mourning.

The incidents of terror, malice, and abject violence seemed to only grow worse as Tūmbṃār continued on his journey. He began to question why it was he even set out. Was this what he wanted to witness? Was the world not supposed to be pleasant?

The greatest of wars had been fought thousands of years before, as were the dreadful wars of the continents, and the world was supposed to be in a lull. Why now, of all times, when he had to journey, did he have to see this?

For all the joy and merriment he had for hearing stories of great heroes and wars; for all the joy he felt in fighting and sparring, not once did he wish for himself to behold or even consider the death, let alone harm, of another. And now it seemed to him that he and the others were just running from this. To save themselves for the purpose of their mission. A mission he himself did not care for, though he knew what it meant were they to abandon it.

The others remained silent as they walked through the dead city. Erezuri, now dressed in her usual attire, took them through the alleyways to evade any wandering eyes of others who might have remained hidden.

Then, as the moon drew to its zenith, they made to the gate whereupon the ramparts were many archers and in front were a mass of soldiers: many on foot, some on horseback, and few on chariots. And there beside the gate stood seven camels, one for each of them. These camels were very tall with heavy fur, and their legs sculpted with thick muscles, almost like that of a stallion. A very unusual kind for this type of desert, but they did not question it. Instead, they held worry, knowing in their minds what was to come.

Tūmbṃār looked horrified when he noticed the mass of soldiers, having not been told what was to occur.

“Erezuri, what’s going on?” Tūmbṃār said, as he jumped off Vrihkhaḥ and stumbled to the floor; his legs and arms were still weak. “Are you going to war with them!”

She lifted and dusted him. “Aye, for we have no choice. They are coming with their force to decimate this city.”

“But shouldn’t you run away?” demanded Tūmbṃār. “The Drasūvayeznd will come, and they’re sure to use it against you!”

Her face held a grave expression, and she knew she could not console him. But instead of holding silent, she said, “Listen Tūmbṃār, such is the way of things now. We must hold to our Khāryaḥ and not run from it. Even the citizens themselves understand it. But I hold hope that they shall not use the Drasūvayeznd against the city; though the rules of war have been broken, even the envoy should not want such blood on his hands.”

“No, this isn’t right!” shouted Tūmbṃār with tears in his eyes. “Won’t you and everyone else flee from here? What good is it to hold to Khāryaḥ if it means your and everyone else’s deaths? No, no! I’ll stop this madness here—I won’t let you fight.”

And he hugged her as tightly as he could. Erezuri smiled and put her arms around him. She said in a low voice, “I have not known you for long, but keep no worries, for even if I am to fall, we shall surely see each other again in the Hall of the Forefathers.”

Tūmbṃār felt a sting in his neck and his eyes became dreary. He looked directly at Erezuri’s gentle face before falling into a slumber. Iḷēhaḥ, seeing this, stormed to them and pulled Tūmbṃār away. The princess of Vālukyāvaḷūr rose, and Iḷēhaḥ suddenly slapped her.

“Iḷēhaḥ!” shouted Feyūnhaḥ, who pulled Iḷēhaḥ away from Erezuri before she could strike her again. “What is the matter? You know how stubborn Tūmbṃār is! he wouldn’t have come with us were it not for what she did!”

“And I should stand and abide it!” she lashed at Feyūnhaḥ. “I know we could have reasoned with him! He would not leave me or any of us to die here. Perhaps we could have even run away with this insolent princess!”

“Have you gone mad! Suggesting to abduct a warrior from the battlefield. For all your talk about the Dehaḥṃār, not even I can agree with such an action. They have their Khāryaḥ as we have our own; is that not why we were tasked by your forefathers to do as we must. And Tūmbṃār himself should’ve known better! Letting his emotions get the best of him at a time like this. We can’t afford to die for each and every person, and you, goddess, should at least show some ounce of respect, given all she has done for us. What do you think would have happened otherwise? Would you have wished for Aiṛth to bleed out in the desert with our improper care?”

Erezuri came in between the two of them, and said, “I apologize. I did not mean to cause strife. Perhaps I acted in haste in what I did to Tūmbṃār, but rest your worries Iḷēhaḥ. I know you care much for him, but even you must agree that even were you to take me, he would have still not budged. Not without everyone else. And given his power, I am sure he would very much have made that a reality, and we would all have to suffer it.” Iḷēhaḥ stayed silent but with solemn face. “Regardless, you best set out now. Go north and west from here and you should reach a mountain range about three leagues yonder. Follow that range, for it shall lead you west out of the desert, and should provide cover were they to send the Drasūvayeznd your way.”

Iḷēhaḥ responded, “I shall not forgive you for what you have done to Tūmbṃār. But I thank you nonetheless for what else has occurred.”

She shook her head. “No need to thank me! My honor it has been to serve the Agents of the Gods. It is good to know they still watch over us, even if for their own interests. With that alone, any fear I had left in my fate is but gone. Vyāythaḥ’s speed to you all! That One and All shall manifest in you!”

“As in you,” said Feyūnhaḥ, who embraced her tight. “May the Dehaḥṃār look upon you with favor.”

“Ah, if you happen to see Hirmān, apologize to him for me. Were he to have known of this, he may have died with me, but as long as he and the people live, hope yet remains for us.”

“We’ll do that. Have no worry.”

Feyūnhaḥ and Iḷēhaḥ hoisted Tūmbṃār on Vrihkhaḥ, and they all mounted their camels. With one last farewell, the camels rode off into the desert. Never again would they see the city, with the last memory left of it being the smile of the desert princess who waved to them, now set on course of her forlorn attempt at victory, in full knowledge of her fate.

When the group had passed the horizon, Erezuri mounted her steel-clad horse and made to the front where stood the general. And the forces marched west into the desert to meet their enemies.

Three miles west, the Drasūvayeznd ascended over the horizon with an army of fifty thousand strong, of which many were chariots and war elephants with archer stations.

“What do you think our chances are?” asked Erezuri.

“Very bleak, if I may be honest, my princess,” said the general with a grim face. “It has been my honor to serve this city and you. May we meet again in the Halls of our Forefathers!”

“Hah!” laughed Erezuri. “Save those words for later! We ride not for death—if the Gods look upon us with favor, perhaps they shall turn the tide. Ride on!”

Looking to the sky, she held her arm and signaled to the general. He in turn signaled to the commanders, who in turn signaled the soldiers and, in due fashion, did the thousands upon their side adjust their formation to the crescent mimicking the red moon above. The enemy that came their way changed their formation to that of an eagle with long spread wings, planning to envelop the crescent formation.

Shouts were heard on either side as the two armies raced toward one other, all while the deadly structure floated above. With not an ounce of fear upon the soldiers’ faces, the armies crashed through and arrows flung high into the sky. The wailing of horses, the shouts of the soldiers, the sand and blood that flew and mixed created a blood-soaked stage, not seen for millennia.

The crescent of Erezuri’s army was quickly overpowered by the eagle of Rṭyāshphaḥ’s force. The enemy soldiers cut through the princess’ ranks with due swiftness. Their elephants charged through and crushed the horses and felled many of her soldiers with an onslaught of arrows.

Now Erezuri had brought a small force with her that charged deep into the enemy formation to duel the opposing general. With cries and slashes, she cut through the soldiers as her retinue unleashed a great storm of arrows, acting as shield and cover for their valiant princess. And when they cut through fifty lines of soldiers, there was the enemy she sought upon his muscular stallion arrayed in steel and gold. The enemy soldiers, upon order of their general, gave passage to the princess and her retinue. They themselves skirted around to fight against her now dwindling force.

Erezuri looked to the general with a solemn face. She held her sword to him, and said, “O general of the thousand-fold King, whose kingdom stands like a jewel within this continent, I come before you requesting a duel! May our forefathers give their ordinance to this, as was the way for them and before the dissolution of the rules of war! What say you?”

He held his sword up in like manner, tossing aside his helmet, revealing an aged, grim face with a long mustache flowing from his lip. His scaled fhorlia and cuirass gleamed under the moonlight, and Erezuri felt as though Svyamhaḥ herself was bestowing her favor to him.

“Though it be not good for a man to combat a woman or a woman to combat a man regardless of prowess,” he said, “still I see that your mind is fired with determination. I shall meet you in battle and incur this sin by engaging you! But before we commence, I ask of your name, princess of Vālukyāvaḷūr.”

“I am Erezuri, for I am to be Forthright in all Manners that Concern Me. I am Captain of the Royal Guard of Vālukyāvaḷūr and now stand as the premier leader of the army of my home!”

“And I am Hriviṭuna, for I am Immobile and Steadfast like a Mountain.”

They approached, their blades held to one another, steel against steel.

They both shouted, “May the Gods and Benefactors, with their precepts, pronounce this battle!”

Their swords were drawn, and their steel clashed. Swing upon swing, the clangs reverberated and shook the sand. Every clash seemed to signify another’s death. The sands about seemed to swallow the corpses. The graceful movements of the two actors widened their stage, as the other soldiers sought not to interfere. Sparks flew from every strike and singed the hair of the combatants. The air was becoming dry, and the battle was to rage for all that night.

The steel clashed ever long, as Erezuri failed at each chance to break through her adversary’s guard. No number of direct strikes could break through, as Hriviṭuna’s sword stood as both blade and shield.

The chariots rushed about as the soldiers were engaged in relentless struggle with one another; chaos and disarray went through Erezuri’s ranks as the enemy slowly overwhelmed and felled them. Their blood washed across the sand.

Erezuri paid no heed, swinging furiously against her adversary. Her focus directly solely toward taking his head. But he stood tall, his swings fierce and mighty enough to launch the sand high into the air. She was beginning to grow tired and though she had many chances, she stood fearful of making a mistake, being torn asunder by his blade with just a slight misstep. Truly, as was his namesake, did he stand like a mountain before her, insurmountable by one of feeble stature.

But as the night grew long, and the Drasūvayeznd passed above, she gathered her resolve. She, in silence, prayed to the celestial lady shining high above beside her sister, the countless stars. She had found her resolve no longer fearful of death.

She directed her attention to Hriviṭuna’s neck as he charged toward her with his sword raised. Blood lust arose in her and she in likewise raced to him. Steel clashed against steel. The blades slid and chattered against each other as the combatants grit their teeth. But in that moment when the tension was at its highest, Erezuri as graceful as a swan, let fall her enemy’s sword as she stepped to the side and with not a moment to pass brought her sword up with a swift arc and swung it towards the exposed nape!

Just as she was to behead him, a javelin sped through. With great force, it pierced her chest upon the right side, straight through the heart! She was thrust far back into the sand toward the ranks that ran either way.

The general, furious, looked over to his side and saw not far, an elephant with a mounted javelin launcher and there upon it stood soldiers of the royal guard who were to be guarding the envoy. And the general beat his fist into the sand in great shame at what had occurred.

Erezuri’s retinue recovered her from the mass of soldiers and laid her down on the sand. The javelin had pierced front and back, and she spewed blood. She looked to her soldiers with tears in their eyes and gave a gentle, stained smile.

She then looked to Hriviṭuna, who said, “This is not right, this is not right!” He sat upon the sand with his sword upon his lap and head hung down. “I beseech you to fell me! I cannot bear this shame at having won by unfair means; naught else I can do to pay as recompense.”

“Nay,” said the princess as she coughed and spat out blood. “I had understood what was to occur. I knew your soldiers would not have kept quiet. If this is to be my end, so be it. Keep your head Hriviṭuna, you who stand like a mountain—you have lived to your name. Though I feel as if you had held back on me—you,” she gave a cough, a spit, and a gasp for breath, “you who are so much like that preceptor of those brothers, Levāñyhaḥ, who willingly let herself fall when seeing the nature of the enemy before her. You who display such adherence to Khāryaḥ, that though I was to fall, you would have let me slain you. The Gods look favorably upon you.”

She turned her head toward the city and beheld a flash of light. The city erupted into flames and sent a shockwave that knocked the ranks of soldiers on both sides with a powerful gust. “Ah, my city! My city! Father, father! You foolish man. Your daughter shall die here, as well as you and our people. Was this what was truly destined for us—what now shall Hirmān rule over?” she said as tears flowed down her cheeks and dampened the now still sand.

The Drasūvayeznd descended and unleashed a volley of flaming arrows onto the fleeing populace. When it had ceased, the structure opened and more soldiers disembarked, taking the survivors captive. Hriviṭuna cursed at this turn of fate, while Erezuri, with her last breaths, muttered:

Dehaḥṃār kudahaham seli

Kudahaham nivroyiti

Upyari tethradhva tethaḥ

Ahamvahm ahv’apreti

Rodhya’dhyavahm nah’ham yavhō

Yavhaḥ rakzh’hamzūrvahm

Nizir vahmse Ishvhaḥṃ

Nizir vizhmṛtārhaḥ

Gods, where have you run to?

Where do you hide?

Is it up there or down here?

You whom we call to but do not answer.

We cry and we cry, but you do not come;

Save us from evil, you whom we look to.

Deliver us to the Highest,

Deliver (us) to That (we have) forgotten.

She looked above and could see forms of light coming for her, and she reached for it. And likewise did Hriviṭuna and Erezuri’s attendants see them. The maidens of the Vuryothaḥ: the Storm Warriors, descended in form with their golden locks and braided hair; pristine faces and hands purified in the seventy-two holy rivers of the Heavens; and donning resplendent golden armor and tiaras, shining as the myriad Suns of Samiztrahaḥ. They, in gladness, brought forth the fallen princess into their gentle embrace.

And in likeness, all across the battlefield, Hriviṭuna and Erezuri’s attendants could behold the divine spectacle of the maidens raising the souls of the dead to be brought with them. Erezuri, now within causal form, looked to the sorrow-stricken individuals that could see her there and from afar, and gave her farewells as they looked on in amazement, graced with a sight that they felt they should not behold. She, alongside the fallen foes and allies, took their seats in the astral chariots, decked in garlands and exquisite adornments blazed with the luster of gold, and rode off into the night, vanishing before their eyes.

Before they realized it, the princess’ arm had fallen. Her life left the earth with her prayer carried into the wind. They sat in silence, the clamor of running soldiers not deterring them from paying respect to her lifeless body. Hriviṭuna, while dismayed and awed and unable to process what he had seen, carried her while her attendants and those who had survived were chained alongside their captive citizens. Brought into the Drasūvayeznd, they looked upon their ruined city: its wealth looted, their people destroyed, their lord and princess dead, and its sole remaining prince, unbeknownst, now orphaned. Thus ended the once prosperous city-state of Vālukyāvaḷūr.

The group reached the range, a fold mountain with many layers of waving warped rock upon the surface. Though the range was tall, they ran along its length until they could climb upon a gentle slope toward the top, where lay a wide carved path. Looking into the distance, they could see the city, but now in flames. Only a few moments later, a great gust of wind blew past.

The Drasūvayeznd, while without the orb and the astral steeds, laid waste to the armies and the city with a concentrated blast from its center, followed by a deadly rain of arrows. They stood horrified at the onslaught, all while the boy slept soundly. They feared how he would react were he to find out.

Aiṛth sang The Prayer for the Dead, and the group rode along the path far into the distance, leaving the city and Erezuri far behind. Iḷēhaḥ looked once more at the city and could see the forms of light ascend in the distance and she knew then who had come. The princess was to be taken higher than the Halls to the realm of the Gods, where she herself would become a goddess. Remorse came over her and she silently prayed for the fallen, hoping she could seek peace with Erezuri. The others did not see it, but tears flowed down the boy’s cheeks, who silently muttered the name of the fallen princess in his sleep.

“Do you suppose we should’ve stayed behind and helped the princess,” said Sanyhaḥmān. “I regret not having been able to do more. We let them die!”

“There is little use dwelling on it,” said Nakthaḥm. “We have made our choice. The dead will go where they will; their concern is none of ours.”

“He’s right,” said Feyūnhaḥ. “We knew what was to happen, no use regretting now,” but her voice became stifled as she wept, “but I would be heartless if I couldn’t admit to my sorrow!”

Aiṛth tried to calm down Feyūnhaḥ, but unable to control herself any longer, the princess wailed. Iḷēhaḥ knew Erezuri had passed to a better place, but she would not speak of it. She looked to the still sleeping Tūmbṃār knowing that he had surely realized what had happened, for she alone could hear his soft muttering of the princess’ name.

Looking back on the path, they did not speak any longer. The night was still young, and without rest, both the camels and Vrihkhaḥ galloped at full speed along the rocky path. No sign of slowing down, they hastened, kicking up stones, pebbles, and dust.

The path slowly ascended, and they passed into the face of the mountains. Without the light of the Moon or the Stars they could hardly see what was in front, even with fire resting within their hands. Long the darkness stretched, mimicking the desolation within their hearts. Though they had all resigned to the fate of the princess and her nation, it had struck them harder than they thought. Even Nakthaḥm, who was not used to engaging with people in such ways, could not help but feel the same pangs of sorrow. And that sorrow had affected both Vrihkhaḥ and the camels, who likewise shed tears but did not wail.

Light once more came out at the other end, and they were again on the rocky path where now the air had become more chilled. The clouds seemed closer but did not obstruct the crescent of the moon. The mass of stars shining through the visible galaxy followed the mountain path and guided them on their way. The crags of stone that stood upon their sides with their sharp edges brought to mind of an earlier time, when strife was at its highest amongst the Ṃārhaḥn.

The dead of many generations laying sound asleep in the receding sand; within the rocks of the mountains that were raised from the Earth when the powers had swept this piece of land over many many wars. And though the thought of it would no doubt bring sorrow, the way the light shined gently upon the rocks and stones and pebbles, made it seem that the Moon and the Stars honored what had befallen those soldiers plighted to the cause of duty.

Very much did Iḷēhaḥ herself think this: sure that it was indeed the truth, having herself seen the operation of the Heavens. Yet even distanced from it, she knew that she knew she could no more talk or interact with Erezuri as she once was.

Never in the Heavens did she have to bear such a thing, but having become close to the others and understanding their feeble existence, she understood how temporal their lives really were. And what of the Gods? Would their lives persist forever? If they were born it only made sense that they should die, and yet those who believe in them and those that live beside them act as if they should live forever, immortal in all respects, unfazed by harm, old age or the passage of time. The Gods themselves believe this and before, she would not have ever questioned it. But now it was much different.

Perhaps if a time came, she would ask Vshephaḥ and Īrshevhaḥ about such things, they being wiser than all the others and understanding much in relation to the Ṃārhaḥn and their fate, though being ever secretive and guarding of such things. A similar situation to Tūmbṃār’s with his teacher.

They continued to ride far without rest, the path slowly leveling at a great height from where they could see farther into the desert than they ever had before. Good it was that the view was not obstructed, though they did wonder to themselves who it was that had hewn it. But even more so, why did they have to carve it so high, where the air was so frigid that it stung them through even their layered coating? Not even the heat of fire upon their palms could help, and they shivered.

When they were comfortable enough knowing that the soldiers could no longer pursue them, they stopped, about where a gentle slope that tapered into a steep drop overlooked the interior of the desert. They had not noticed till now, but they had ridden through the entire night, no doubt having crossed a hundred leagues, at the expense of the camels and Vrihkhaḥ collapsing. Never did it cease to amaze them at the stamina of these animals, but they had to be weary that they did not push them too far, lest their hearts give out. In the distance the Sun was beginning to rise and showered the group in its golden glow, and while Samiztrahaḥ would have very much liked all who saw him to salute upon their waking, the group very much wanted to rest, at least for a few hours—even the most pious Aiṛth who could not muster the will to greet that effulgent god.

Tūmbṃār awoke shouting and looked around frantically. The sun stood high above and he could see the scenery had changed, indeed, very dramatically. He saw the others, who were beginning to wake from their slumber upon his frenzied arousal. But he, knowing what happened the night before, brimmed with anger. As if possessed by a demonic spirit, he shouted incessantly for the others to awake even going so far as to slap them each (except Aiṛth) much to their anger. But when they saw his face, they realized why he had done so and expected the worst from him.

“Why?” he shouted. “Why didn’t you say? Do you think us to be so weak that we had to run, leaving all—” he burst into tears, “leaving all of them to die! You cowards! All of you! This needn’t have happened. We could’ve saved them. Always, always do you flee from what must be done.”

“Tūmbṃār!” called Nakthaḥm, looming over him. “Do you think you had the power to stop an invading force; one that came with the Drasūvayeznd? Would you ask for Iḷēhaḥ to have stopped it once more with her powers?” Iḷēhaḥ wanted to interject, but Nakthaḥm kept her back. Tūmbṃār, however, was not unnerved and gnashed his teeth.

“I know there was a way we could’ve stopped them. I know there was!” he lashed back. “If power was what was needed, then I could’ve used what was taught to me by Athruyam; the very same force I used against you, Nakthaḥm!”

“And give your life for so feeble an act?” scoffed Nakthaḥm. “True! You may have taken down the Drasūvayeznd, but what about the army? Would you have vanquished them in your rage?”

“No! No I wouldn’t have, I—” and he stuttered and then shut his mouth. He could not retort, but his anger would not abate. He could not forgive himself for having left Erezuri and the city to its fate. The words he heard in his dream haunted him the previous night and even now:

I have fallen Tūmbṃār, but be not sad. We shall surely one day see each other once more and though we have not known each other long, I hope in the next life we shall speak and enjoy one another’s company for much time! Calm those tears, have no fear, for the goddesses and the gods will guide you on your path. You will no doubt see more suffering along your journey, but keep calm and learn to temper your emotions. For they shall be your downfall if left unchecked. Keep these words of mine close to your heart. Tell Iḷēhaḥ I am sorry once more, and I hope you shall forgive me for what I have done to you. Farewell.

No, he would not keep calm, because to him this was not right. He desired to save as many as he could even should he fall. That was his conviction, and so, looking to Nakthaḥm and the others with a solemn face, he said, “You didn’t give me the chance to fight. You took me away before I could properly say or do anything. I can’t see it as anything but wrong!”

“Would you forsake the words of your teacher?” asked Nakthaḥm. “He must have taught you how to control and temper yourself.”

“Aye! And I’d go against it, if it means having to be idle in all that I see wrong!” Tūmbṃār held his hand out in a zṣhṭya and said, “On the name of the Gods, the Highest and That One: Never shall my tongue be loosed to engage with you again!”

Se mudrāhaḥvach Arhaḥṃār!

That One and All seals my speech!

He uncurled his finger and dropped his hand. With his head hung low, he walked past the others and sat far away from them, looking upon the rocky surface. His rage flamed inside of him, but visibly he seemed dejected and lifeless. With his voice now sealed to them, unless they were to meet one with great ability to undo such an oath: he would remain as such. Silent.

Iḷēhaḥ, Feyūnhaḥ, Sanyhaḥmān, and even Vrihkhaḥ were horrified at what the boy uttered and they wanted to approach him, but as if held back by an invisible force, they could not do so. Nor would anything they say reach him.

Nakthaḥm sat down upon the ground, saddened, and pondered over many things, unsure now what should be done. The boy had made his choice; a hasty one and nothing more could be done about it. They would have to wait long before they could see the sage. Until that time, silence would hang between them, just as the silence holds between the Gods and their patrons.

The Sun shined high above, and Nakthaḥm cursed him in his mind.

THUS ENDS THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ṂĀRHAḤNYAHM