It was as if a Mandara mountain itself had descended onto the battlefield, intoxicated with the task of churning a vast ocean not of water, but of arrows. Clubs as mighty as thunderbolts crashed down, each blow threatening to shatter all before it with irresistible force. The scene became a whirling circle of spears, quelling relentless showers of missiles. Like the moon surrounded by stars, the god of death himself seemed present, eager to devour with the tip of his lance. The mountain of battle was scorched by the spinning discus and the searing heat of thunderbolts. Its rocky surface glimmered with the flash of tridents and rang with the piercing sound of iron goads. The air resounded with the clamor of Bhusundi slings and heavy clubs, the tumult of maces echoing all around, while axes wielded by fierce warriors crossed the field in a ceaseless storm. Here was a field where crests and crested helmets were shattered, where beaks and fans were severed, and even the river Ganges seemed broken by the loud, cracking, and splitting sounds of destruction. A vast canopy of swirling dust arose from the shattered weapons, and the clash of arms sent forth blazing flashes of lightning amid the whirling flames. The sound of battle was as if the very cosmic egg of Brahma had broken. Whole mountains of family lines were destroyed, streams of weapons were cut down in the fierce contest between the two warriors. Even as they parried weapon after weapon, the time of the mighty was slipping away, yet each stood confidently, steady and unshaken, in the ocean of battle. Then Viduratha released the Agneya weapon, which thundered like a bolt of lightning and set the chariot ablaze, flames leaping as if dry brush along a riverbank had caught fire. In the midst of the vast sky, within the hollow of battle, he stood armored, like a rain-laden cloud wrapped in a veil. With the king of weapons unleashed, a most terrible battle raged. Both warriors, strong and valiant, fought fiercely until, exhausted, they came to a truce. But the fiery weapon swiftly reduced the chariot to ashes, and having burned through the forest, it reached the river, like a lion emerging from its cave. The river, close at hand, countered the fire weapon with the watery Varuna weapon. Abandoning his burning chariot, Viduratha leapt to the ground, sword and shield in hand. In a flash, he sliced the hooves of his enemy’s chariot horses with his sword, as easily as cutting through lotus stalks. Viduratha too, now without a chariot, took up shield and sword. Both warriors, eager and armed, moved in circles, ready for the next clash. Their swords met again and again, grinding against one another like saws, and the people watched, awestruck, as if witnessing a fierce contest of grinding teeth. Suddenly, Viduratha seized a spear, hurled it, and cast aside his sword. The spear thundered through the air with a roaring sound, like a great calamity or a bolt of lightning striking the ocean. Unbroken, it struck his opponent’s chest, just as a beloved who does not wish for an unpleasant husband falls upon him. Yet, though struck by the spear, death did not claim him; only a stream of blood flowed out, like water from a wounded serpent. Seeing him thus wounded and weakened, as darkness is dispelled by the moon, Taddeshalila, radiant and joyful, spoke of her former play. “O goddess, see—our husband has been slain by Narasimha; the demon Sindhu, with his mighty neck, was torn by the lion’s claws, sharp as a thousand spears. Like the mighty wind roaring over a lake where the king of serpents dwells, blood pours from his chest with a sound like sharp arrows. Alas, how terrible! The chariot has been brought for Sindhu to ascend; it is golden, like the crest of Mount Meru, swirling like a lotus whirlpool. See, goddess, his chariot has been shattered by the mace, like a golden city crushed by the fall of a whirling mountain. My husband, who set out and brought the chariot to mount, is struck down, as if by Indra’s thunderbolt or the club hurled by the ocean. Deceiving with his charm, he swiftly mounted the chariot—see, my husband shines forth exceedingly in battle. Alas, how terrible! That Sindhu has forcefully seized the prince’s chariot, like a monkey climbing a cliff or a branch in the air. Look, my husband, as he climbs, is struck on the shoulder by a sword, and like a mountain of ruby, he pours forth blood in brilliance. Alas, alas, how dreadful! By this Sindhu wielding a sword, my husband’s legs are cut, as a tree is severed by a saw. Alas, alas, I am slain, I am burned, I am dead, I am destroyed; my husband’s two knees are cut, like lotus stalks severed.” Having spoken thus, overwhelmed by fear for her husband’s fate, she fell fainting to the ground, like a vine cut by an axe. Meanwhile, Viduratha, his knees severed, still struck at his enemy, but quickly fell upon the chariot, like a tree with its roots cut. As he was falling, the charioteer carried him away in the chariot, but at that moment, the excited horse struck his neck. With his neck half severed, he was pursued by the horse and entered the palace in the chariot, just as Lakshmi enters a lotus. Yet, that house, endowed with the power of Sarasvati, he could not truly enter, being as if intoxicated, like a fly unable to pass through a blazing fire. His body, thin and stained with blood from the wound in his neck, his garments smeared with red, the charioteer left him near the goddess, entered the house himself, and lay on the bed of death, having escaped his enemy. Then, a cry arose: “The king is slain, the king is slain by the rival king in battle!” At this, fear seized the entire kingdom. The people, burdened with their possessions and household goods, fled in panic. The city, filled with the weeping of wives, became a fortress in flight. As the people fled, the streets echoed with cries; wives were snatched away, and the great conflict descended into frantic mutual plundering. The tumult of foreign soldiers dancing in triumph resounded, and the city was left leaderless—without rulers, elephants, horses, spies, or flying messengers.