At Gauri Parvat,
The whole area surrounding the now depeopled and evacuated Gauri Parvat stood rumbling with minor tremors and shockwaves. This had become a usual and common occurrence. The entire mountain had become highly unstable. Molten magma kept overflowing occasionally from the precipice.

A mountain-: blood-red like the kumkum or vermilion on the parting of the hair of a married Indian woman; the Gauri Parvat was a towering pinnacle that stood testimony to the legend of Gods and Demons-: a sheer and barren cliff that hallowed Mahishmati and her people with her presence; a past steeped in mystery and leading us to the very beginnings of culture and civilization; a divine blessing to the people of that region and also a curse.

This volcanic mountain was both the strength, the edge Mahishmati possessed over other surrounding kingdoms, and also the weakness that made it susceptible to both external and internal enemies. It was situated at the exact central point of the kingdom of Mahishmati.

This was the place where Senapathi Bhairava Varma and the rest of the soldiers who had faithfully served Mahendra were exiled on Subahu's accession to the throne of Mahishmati. All these were people whom Maharaj Subahu's regime had considered completely disposable.

The horror of living here surpassed even the horror of death. The people who worked here were afflicted by strange diseases that had no name. The causality list kept growing bigger and bigger. Older prisoners of war kept dying one after the other. Newer prisoners of war were sent to replace them.

In this dangerous environment, working under hazardous conditions, the new recruits too aged quickly, got diseased or died. Another new batch of prisoners of war were sent to replace those who could not be worked or were useless. They were all herded together like animals in a very small, confined and tumble down hall at night.

They all subsisted on the barest minimum of food, water and clothing. If at all any of the prisoners of war tried to escape or refuse to work, they were brutally whipped within just an inch of their lives to make them as an example for the rest. The inmates of this camp had no contact whatsoever with the outside world. They could not go outside nor could anybody from outside come within.

A tall and impregnable fortress with two entrances was built encircling this volcanic mountain. It was called the Kanchu Kota (Copper Fortress). One of the entrances overlooked the Rajmaarg (Grand Trunk Road) leading directly to the capital city of Mahishmati. The other entrance opened out to the nearest shortcut to the Kalakeyan heartland.

Bullock loads of covered stuff were secretly towed away during the nights under heavy military escort and came back. Kanchu Kota was in itself a heavily protected garrison. Royal troops were stationed in it in unbelievably huge numbers, almost enough to protect a capital city teeming with thousands of people.

This had been the life Senapathi Bhairava Varma (Mrithyunjay's father) and the rest of the captured soldiers had been condemned to ever since Subahu came to power. Bhairava Varma was assaulted by another bout of coughing which ended with him spitting out blood. The overseer who was supervising their work quickly rode up to him with a whip and lashed out, "Take that! Another time you waste time coughing......"

Bhairava Varma instantly resumed doing what he had been doing earlier. He did not wait for the overseer to complete his words. He did not want another lash to land on his body from the filthy hands of that overseer. The pain of the lash wound was not something a hardened warrior and Captain like him couldn't endure. What was unbearable was the toll it took on his proud heart. Another day and another place, he would have taught that man a fitting lesson. But situations in life had forced him to swallow his pride for the sake of staying alive.

The fingers of his fellow comrades visibly tightened round their pick axes and crowbars. They were all unanimously contemplating on using it against the overseer for treating their captain in that obnoxious fashion. They were reigned and held back from executing it by the expression on Bhairava Varma's face as he shook his head and muttered in a barely audible voice, "Not now!....Not yet!....We all have to stay alive to get the word across....or else what we know will die with us..."

Hours passed and the shadows of night had closed in upon the looming mountain. They were all herded back to the hall. Bhairava Varma had been in charge of the Sercret Documents Archive of Mahishmati. By virtue of his office, he possessed knowledge about a number of things that happened in the past. His association with the late Sarvasainyadhipathi Kattapa and General Gomukha filled him in with the rest of the story. At that time, he dismissed all of that as useless and irrelevant information. But only now did he realize that he alone held the key to what was happening in Mahishmati.

Bhairava Varma groaned, "Did at least Pandu get across with the message?"

"No" said one of his fellow companions with the feeling of desperation almost overpowering him and his faculties. "Slaughtered like the five before him."

"Did the scroll also....." gasped Varma almost out of breath.

"Pandu destroyed the scroll before he got caught" reassured the speaker. "But the sad thing is that our message for help also didn't get through. I wonder why we are even fighting when there is no hope left."

Bhairava spoke, "I am still fighting because I am a Kshatriya. My hope will die only with my death. I hope it's the same for all of you."

"Yes...Senapathi....Hope is alive as long as we are!" roared the other prisoners of war.

"Now all of you cover for me. I have to write it again" said Bhairava.

One of the soldiers said in a dejected tone, "But we are out of even materials for writing. All the scrolls and writing ink that we had been secretly hoarding is also exhausted."

Bhairava tore out a part of the tunic he was wearing. He cut his thumb with a small penknife and started writing with his blood. After he had composed nearly half of the message, due to his weakened and anaemic physical state, no more blood oozed from his wound.

Taking heart from his stirring example, his men offered blood from their own thumbs to complete the message. At last, the message was composed. All that remained was its dispatch. This was their last chance. They had to get it across beyond the Kanchu Kota into the right pair of hands. It ran like this:

"This is the true story of Mahishmati written with our blood......We do not want this story to die with us (dab.....dab....dab)....We want it to go.....beyond the fortress of lies.....the wall of misinformation and disambiguation......crossing the valley of death...(splat....splat....splat) We all want this story to live....."