Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress. Sarwat Chadda

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.

      

      

ama!”

      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