Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress. Sarwat Chadda
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