Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress
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“Can you see a ladder or anything?” he asked.
“No.” Lucky knelt over the edge. “I’m so sorry, Ash.”
“Just go and get Uncle Vik.”
“OK.” She stood up. “Don’t go anywhere.” Then she ran off, shouting.
Ash brushed himself down. Apart from the lump on the back of his head, he just had a few bruises and scratches, and a soft spot on his butt where he’d landed. He found the torch and, with a shake, a dim glow rose from the bulb. He searched the rest of the pit: there was a pick down here and a plastic water bottle filled with a yellow liquid that probably wasn’t lemonade.
“Lucks?”
Nothing. He couldn’t even hear her shouting. How far had they wandered? No idea. Would Lucky even recognise his hole? There were hundreds. He could be down here ages!
Ash lifted the pick. Maybe if he jammed it into the wall halfway he could use it like a step. He drew it over his head and swung with all his might. Dust and chunks cracked and fell off after a few hefty wallops.
What’s this? He put his finger against a piece of rubble.
It was a brick. The corners were square and even. He saw that behind a few centimetres of the compact, hard sand was a brick wall, definitely man-made. He tapped it – it gave a dull, hollow sound.
That means there’s an open space on the other side. He lifted up the pick and struck the wall, his muscles reinvigorated with excitement. He hit it again and again, breaking up the earth, knocking out bricks. Each blow sent a bone-jarring tremor right through him. A brick fell back with a sharp crack. Then another fell away until he was deafened by an avalanche of dust and sandstone.
Coughing harshly, Ash waved his arm at the dense cloud of dust until it cleared enough for him to see what had happened.
The wall had collapsed, showing a space beyond. Even in the weak torchlight Ash sensed the space was large. He dropped the pick and crawled through the hole, torch in hand.
He had to duck; the ceiling was just too low, dangerously bowed by the weight of sand above it. The ground above groaned and dust showered down over him. Not good.
The chamber was rectangular and as he swept the beam of light across the room it fell on a dusty, cobweb-covered statue.
Ash pulled away a handful of cobwebs. Roughly life-sized, the statue was bronze and of a muscular, blue-skinned man. In his right hand he held a curved bow, in his left an arrow.
Rama. India’s greatest mythological hero.
Light shone off the arrow, attracting Ash’s gaze. The shaft was ivory and the fletching white. But the light came from the arrowhead, a broad triangle of gold.
It looked like gold. Real gold.
Ash reached out with trembling fingers.
The ivory shaft crumbled as soon as he touched it. The arrowhead fell away and instinctively Ash grabbed it.
“Ouch!”
He felt the splinter go into his thumb and it stung like crazy. The tip of the arrowhead had broken off, only a few millimetres of metal, and lodged itself deep in his flesh. Bloody hell, it stung like a scorpion.
How could it hurt so much? His head pounded like there was a drum behind his eyes. The statue seemed to sway, to come alive. Rama’s chest rose as he took a deep breath and he tore the cobwebs off his face.
Ash’s blood went cold. The face was his own.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Each blow threatened to shatter him. Ash sank to his knees, clutching his head as waves of nausea engulfed him. The drum beat grew louder and louder until Ash could hear nothing more. He closed his eyes and screamed, but his cries vanished in the echo of the drum.
He blinks. The pain in his head recedes, but his vision is blurred and all he sees is a vague shadow standing over him.
Rama? Why do they call him Rama? His name isn’t Rama. It’s…
He shakes his head. It is full of sand, obscuring his thoughts and memories. What is his name? He lies on the ground, armoured warriors looming over him, their shadowed faces marked by fear and concern. He tries to rise, scraping his fingers over the hard, dusty earth. No, it is not dust that covers the earth.
“Ash…” he mutters. Why is that so familiar? The word cries up from a distant place, from a deep cavern. Is it some forgotten memory?
Ash. Is he Ash? Or is he—
“Rama.” A hand reaches down and touches his shoulder. “My brother.”
Brother? He doesn’t have a brother. Does he? He turns his attention to the man standing over him. The face is slim, handsome but careworn. He wears armour, ornate, princely, but battered and covered with patches of dried blood. The man’s brown eyes are bright with love, with worry. It is a face he recognises.
“Lakshmana, is it you?”
“Aye, brother.” Lakshmana tightens his grip and puffs hard as he lifts him back on to his feet.
Rama rises. He sways momentarily, but steadies himself. Beside him stand a few of his generals and he smiles to them. Their relief is clear. If Rama had died, then all hope would be lost.
“You fell, my prince,” says Neela, his most dedicated general. The old warrior passes him a skin filled with lukewarm water. Rama guzzles it down, then pours the remainder over his head and torso. The armour steams as the water evaporates on the burning metal plates.
“You have been fighting seven days without sleep. You must rest,” says Lakshmana.
Rama – yes, he is Rama – breathes deeply, settling the whirling confusion in his head.
There was a pit, and a chamber beyond. He couldn’t see clearly: it was dark. He closes his eyes, trying to recall the details, but the harder he tries, the vaguer the memory becomes. All he remembers is he hurt his thumb.
He looks down at his thumb, but sees nothing. What was that name? He has forgotten already as he brushes the ash off his fingertips. No matter. He is Rama, prince of Ayodhya, and he is here.
At war.
The sky blazes red, as though the clouds themselves are on fire. The four winds howl across the endless battlefield, adding their cries to the cries of a million soldiers, to the din of clashing blades and battered shields, the screams of the rakshasas.
The world is aflame and Rama stands in the heart of the inferno.
“Look!” cries Neela. Neela has stood and fought beside him in countless battles, proved his courage and bravery a thousand times over, but Rama sees fear in the old warrior’s eyes, hears how the voice trembles.
Rama’s heart quickens and his breath is hotter than the desert wind. He looks out across a sea of blood and death at the thing that terrifies even the heroic Neela.
A giant, made of gold, ploughs through Rama’s army. In each fist he carries a bronze sword, and he laughs as he swings them back and forth across the battalions, reaping the lives of dozens of men with each stroke. His armour bristles with spears, arrows and broken swords. Any mortal creature would be dead a hundred times over from such injuries, but he is anything but mortal.
Behind him his army roars with glee and savage delight. A hundred thousand rakshasas follow on the heels of their king. He is beautiful, golden-skinned and shining like the midday sun; bright flames lick his body, and he radiates such light it hurts to look upon him. Brightest of all is the brand upon his forehead, the circle of ten heads, glowing like a third eye. The mark proclaims his mastery of the ten forms of sorcery, his mastery over reality. He has such power that even the gods are afraid.
“Ravana,” whispers Rama. The demon king.
How many years have they fought? How many lives have been lost in this war? It comes down to this. Rama gazes across the field of death, stares at the white-limbed corpses of friends, cousins, countrymen, tangled in their death throes with the demonic forms of the rakshasas, with their tusks, claws and hideous, shark-like teeth. A black emptiness swells in Rama’s breast, a despair. So much death. Is this to be his kingdom? A land of broken men, of widows and fatherless children?
But even that world is better than the one Ravana seeks to build.
“The Carnival of Flesh,” whispers Neela, his voice almost gone by the horror of what approaches.
Men, what were once men, parade and gibber, driven by the whips and howls of the rakshasas. These were the ones who surrendered to Ravana, who broke under his threats and who thought to make treaties with the demon king and live under his rule.
Some drag themselves forward on stumps, blind eyes staring wildly, wailing in endless torment. Skin flayed from their bodies, their bones exposed and organs trailing through the dirt and filth yet still alive and suffering. Some scavenge about the dead, tearing flesh off corpses and lapping up the blood of the dying. They have been driven beyond mere insanity by the tortures they’ve suffered.
Creations more monstrous than any rakshasa trample across the fields, huge lumbering giants built from the whole populations, tumbling creatures of hundreds of arms, legs and screaming mouths. Each still alive, but for ever trapped in a waking nightmare by Ravana’s magic.
Neela’s hands tighten round his sword. “How can such things exist?”
“Ravana is the master of reality,” says Rama. “He can make anything possible.”
Then how can he, a mere mortal, defeat him? Rama steps back.
“Steady yourself, brother.” Lakshmana grips his arm, meeting his gaze with determination. “You can end this. Only you.”
Tears fill his eyes, and Rama’s knees weaken. All strength pours from him, and but for Lakshmana’s support, he would fall. He stares at the golden warrior, bright as a funeral pyre, the centre of the carnage.
“How?” he asks. “How?”
“It is your destiny, Rama. What can you do but follow?”
It takes all his remaining energy to make his lips curl into a smile. He sees himself reflected in the breastplate of his brother. It is not the smile of a living man, but the rictus grin of the dead. Yet all men die. Better here, surrounded by his generals, beside his brother, fighting the greatest evil the world will ever know.
Today is a good day to die.
“Give me my bow.”
Rama holds out his hand. The weapon is as tall as he and only he is capable of bending it. Brilliant white, the bow is engraved with the blessings of all the gods. He plucks the string.
The air trembles with its vibration. The winds fall silent. The storms still, and each man lowers his sword and looks towards Rama. Even the rakshasas falter in their charge.
Ravana, his golden armour covered in blood and gore, looks at him, grinning.
“Surrender, Prince Rama.” He does not shout, but his words carry across the battlefield. “And I will be generous.”
Rama’s hands tighten round the bow and he feels the hot rush of blood pounding in his temples. He conquers his fear, burying it deep under a mountain of rage. “My aastras, where are they?” he says to his generals.
Each of the gods has armed Rama for this battle. Each has given him a divine weapon, an aastra, to use in this final conflict. But how many has he already cast against the armies of rakshasas? How many swords has he broken on the endless sea of demons Ravana sent before him?
“My lord,” says Lakshmana. “There are but two left.”
Rama takes the two arrows, one tipped with gold, the other of silver: aastras of the greater gods. Ravana roars and the earth shakes as he charges. Rama’s generals run ahead to protect him, but they fall like wheat beneath the scything blades of the demon king.
He has time for only one shot. Rama raises his bow.
But which arrow?
The first was a gift from his patron god, Vishnu. He gazes at the bright arrowhead of silver with a shaft of deepest ebony.
Each aastra demands a sacrifice of its wielder to awaken its power. To Vishnu, he will offer his crown, his mortal power. He will serve Vishnu till the end of his days, and will serve willingly.
But the other aastra?
The second arrowhead is of the brightest gold, the shaft bone white. It hums in his fingers. The power within slumbers, and there is only one way to wake it.
“Use it,” urges Lakshmana. “I am ready, my brother.”
To awaken this aastra, the highest price must be paid, greater than any kingdom or crown. Rama looks into his brother’s eyes. “No, I cannot.”
“I am ready,” repeats Lakshmana. He unbuckles his breastplate and pulls open his silk shirt. “Strike now. Awaken the aastra.”
“No, I cannot,” Rama says again. The price is too high, even for him. And what would he become if he paid it?
A monster. A creature more terrible even than the demon king. One that would devour the universe. No, the price is too high.
He tosses the arrow, the golden aastra, into the blood-soaked sand.
Rama notches the Vishnu-aastra and draws the bowstring. He peers along the ebony shaft at the demon king. Their eyes meet across the battlefield.
“My Lord, Vishnu,” whispers Rama. “I am yours.”
He releases the aastra.
Ash tried to move, but he was pinned to the ground. Dirt stuffed his mouth and clogged his ears.
“Here, I’m here,” he groaned. Spots of light slid over the rubble.
He glanced around him, half expecting to be surrounded with dismembered demons. The ground trembled, and he gulped. Ravana’s footsteps? No. It was just his heart, running overtime.
It had been so real. The war. The slaughter. He closed his eyes again and out of the blackness he saw him, Ravana, the demon king. Ash knew how the story ended. Rama fired the aastra and destroyed Ravana. The story. End of.
And demons. They weren’t real, none of it was. But still…
He’d been Rama. He’d felt the hot wind, he’d smelt the awful stench of war and death. It had seemed so real. More than a dream: a vision. Or a memory.
I am not Rama. I am Ash Mistry. I am thirteen and this is turning out to be the worst day of my life.
“I see him!” Feet scrabbled over the collapsed chamber roof and Ash tried again to move, but the fallen ceiling had him pinned. His breath came in shallow pants; he felt trapped in a giant’s fist. He ached all over, but it was his left hand, his thumb, which felt like it had been dipped in acid. It was as if that splinter was burrowing itself deeper into his flesh.
Ash saw his uncle climb down towards him, white with fear. Then torchlight blinded him.
“Get that out of his eyes,” Uncle Vik snapped. He brushed the dust from his face. “Are you hurt, Ash?”
Nothing felt broken and he could still wiggle his toes. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? “I’m fine. I think.”
“You men take hold of the slab. On three we’ll lift.” A figure moved across the beam, taking command. Ash caught a glimpse of a pair of highly polished black shoes. Lord Savage put a hand on Uncle Vik’s shoulder. “When we lift, Professor, you’ll draw the young lad out.”
Uncle Vik nodded and took hold of Ash’s wrist.
“One. Two.” The slab across Ash shed some loose dirt and sand. “Three!”
Men groaned and stone scraped against stone. Ash took a deep breath and kicked with his feet. Uncle Vik locked his grip and pulled hard. Ash’s knees tore across the hard clay-packed floor, but he didn’t care. He kicked again and slid free.
“Drop it!”
Uncle Vik clung to Ash as the three men released their grip on the heavy stone. It smashed down, breaking into four huge lumps.
“Ash…”
Uncle Vik was crushing him more than the collapsed ceiling. His uncle then stepped back, to look him over.
“Ash, are you all right? Anything broken? Pain anywhere?”
“I’m OK.” Ash coughed again and someone handed him a water bottle. He poured half the lukewarm water down his throat. The rest he tipped over his head.
People and torches clustered all around him. He was half-pulled, half-carried out of the collapsed pit. Head still spinning, Ash could see that the chamber he’d been in had fallen in on itself. Maybe he shouldn’t have bashed a hole through a supporting wall.
Ash climbed up a short ladder and found himself in a small semicircle of people. They were just dark shadows, but one stepped forward and entered the ring of torchlight.
“The boy looks fine to me,” said Lord Savage.
Ash turned away. Where was his uncle? In the flashlight, the men around him didn’t seem human, but grotesque distortions of man and beast, and… something else. The teeth were too large, the eyes too big, the smiles too hungry. Ash stumbled back, his heart pounding with panic. Was it the dream, still?
No, no, no. He covered his face. The rakshasas weren’t real. Still, even with his eyes closed, a smell lingered, stuffing his nostrils. Blood and sweat.
“Maybe we should take him back to the palace?” Mayar came forward, wearing a new pair of black sunglasses. “We could take care of him.”
“Uncle?” Ash said.
His heartbeat doubled as Jackie, the Englishwoman, blocked his way. In the semi-darkness her hair seemed denser, like a mane or a pelt of fur. “Poor boy,” she said with mocking sympathy, “he looks dead to the world.”
“Uncle?” Where is he?
“Yes, Lord Savage,” said the tall, hook-nosed man, Jat, as he tapped his nails together. “Let us deal with this boy.” Was it Ash’s imagination or had those nails grown? They looked like the curved talons of some hideous bird.
Hands grabbed Ash’s shoulders and he almost screamed. But it was only Uncle Vik. He smiled and drew Ash close beside him.
“I think we should go home,” Uncle Vik said.
“Really, Professor Mistry, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Savage snapped his fingers. “I’ll have my staff prepare a place for the boy to rest and have one of my doctors visit him here. Far easier than travelling all the way back to Varanasi.”
“Mr Savage, I know how to look after my nephew.”
“Lord Savage, if you don’t mind, Mistry,” said Jackie.
“That’s Professor Mistry, if you don’t mind,” replied his uncle.
Savage waved his hand. “No, it’s fine. Professor Mistry is just a bit upset.” He set his gaze on the two of them. “Be sensible, Professor. It’s a long way back to Varanasi and the roads can be… unsafe. Stay here.”
“Are you ordering me, Lord Savage?”
“If that’s how you want to put it, yes, I am.” Savage licked his dry, cracked lips and reached out for Ash. “The boy will remain with us.”
Uncle Vik stepped between them. “Ash is going home, with me.”
Savage thrust his tiger cane into Uncle Vik’s chest. “I’ve paid good money for you, Professor Mistry. I expect obedience. I demand obedience.”
Uncle Vik knocked the cane away. “I am not a slave, Lord Savage.”
Savage wiped dripping saliva from his lips. “Is it more money that you want? I know what you Indians are like. Always begging. Very well. I will have another cheque drawn up in the morning.”
Savage looked Uncle Vik up and down, making no attempt to hide his contempt. It was the same look Ash had seen in that portrait of the first Lord Savage – arrogant, superior and cruel. “Do we understand one another, Mistry?”
Uncle Vik lowered his gaze. “I understand, Lord Savage. Perfectly.”
Savage smiled and summoned Mayar. The huge servant lumbered over, the ground shaking with each footfall. “Prepare the spare rooms—”
Uncle Vik pulled out a folded piece of paper: Savage’s cheque. He hadn’t banked it. He slowly tore it in half, then in half again. He gazed up at Savage. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I must decline it.”
Ash gasped as Uncle Vik threw the pieces into the air and two million pounds fluttered away in the desert wind. This was all Uncle Vik’s dreams. This was flash cars, big houses, exotic holidays, the respect of being his own man, at last. It was all that anyone could ever want.
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