Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress

by Sarwat Chadda

What on earth had happened? Rishi said that an aastra made by the fire god, Agni, would be awoken by flames. Ash thought back to last night. He’d been near that huge funeral pyre, felt the heat on his skin. Was it an Agni-aastra? Somehow that didn’t seem right – the aastra hadn’t reacted until much later. The pain had come on suddenly.

  When Jat had died.

  It hit him hard: the aastra was activated by death. The pain he’d felt, the energies that had wracked his body, must be death energies absorbed from Jat by the aastra. Now Ash knew exactly whose aastra it was. It had been her shadow he’d watched creep across the wall to claim the dead demon. He’d seen her hideous, red-tongued, skeletal statue as they’d drifted along the river with Rishi. The sadhu had warned Ash then what the goddess wanted.

  What she loves most is death.

  Kali. The goddess of death. The aastra was hers.

  Ash licked his dry lips, the one external sign of his fear, then followed the spider woman.

  The door led into a long hallway. Cobwebs hung from the corners and fat black spiders sat in the deep recesses, their multitude of eyes glistening. They crept along the wall, following him.

  The windows had been bricked up a long time ago, and the furniture was covered in a fuzzy layer of dust. Portraits lined the walls, hidden beneath a century or two of dirt.

  Despite the grime, the gaze of one portrait, the first and largest, caught Ash’s attention. Savage looked down at him full height from the long-ago past, one hand on the tiger-headed cane, the other holding the stem of a poppy. It had been poppies and the opium they produced that had made Savage’s first fortune, selling the drug to the Chinese in the nineteenth century.

  The aristocrat’s hair was pale blonde and shoulder length, loose and roguish. In the background Ash glimpsed a set of manacles on a table, a reminder that Savage had been a slaver as well as a drug dealer. His skin was blanched white, without any sign of colour or life. He could just as well have been a corpse but for the fire blazing in his blue eyes. They were bright with power and arrogance.

  Ash looked along the line of portraits. There were ten at least, all from different time periods. The most recent showed Savage in the uniform of a British army officer from World War Two. His hair was grey, his back stooped, and his hand resting on his tiger cane. He looked about sixty or seventy, even though he was really over two hundred. But his eyes still held their cold, ruthless light.

  “Why has no one guessed he was the same man?” Now, with the portraits all lined up, it was obvious.

  “Lord Savage travelled widely. Africa. The Far East. The Americas. He stays away for decades so when he returns, no one is around who might remember him. At least, no one who isn’t in the same business as him.”

  Ash paused. “Why do you serve him? You’re a rakshasa. Why do you follow a human?”

  “Lord Savage is far more than human.” She smiled and Ash’s skin crept as though one of those spiders was on his back. “And he gives us what we want.”

  Light broke into the hallway as she opened the double doors at the end. Ash stepped out on to one of the pavilions on the edge of the Savage Fortress, overlooking the Ganges. A trio of small rowing boats bobbed just where he’d arrived with his uncle and aunt for the party that first night, a lifetime ago.

  Above him the sky was brooding grey, heavy with storm clouds. Shining blades of lightning flickered on the horizon. The wind out here, up on the high battlements, was strong and sharp. The monsoon was coming.

  They approached a white silk gazebo. The cloth walls had been pulled back and tied to four supporting posts, and a table had been laid with delicate china. There were three seats and two people at the table.

  The first was Mayar, back in human form. He stood, arms folded across his chest, eyes reflecting nothing but demonic anger. He ground his jaws together and Ash’s nerves jumped as the teeth slid across each other like scraping razors.

  The second sat on a wrought-iron chair. Dressed in a slim-fitting white suit, he waited, hands lightly placed on the silver cutlery.

  “Come, my boy.” He raised his hand and Mayar drew back one of the other two chairs. “You must be starving. I’ve had a full English breakfast prepared. Thought you might appreciate some home cooking.” He reached over, picked up a narrow-necked china teapot, and held it poised over Ash’s cup.

  “Some tea?” asked Lord Alexander Savage.

  sh stood there, facing the man responsible for murdering his uncle and aunt. Every muscle locked; it was the only way to stop himself from ripping out Savage’s eyes. Mayar leaned closer, as if sensing Ash’s rage, eager for him to try. Mayar just wanted an excuse to kill Ash, and Ash was about to give it to him.

  No. Ash couldn’t take on Mayar. Or Savage.

  Maybe he was just a coward. Standing up to Hakim was one thing, but these guys, like Mayar, had been killing since time began. They were a whole different league of bad. He should attack Savage, even if it meant Mayar would kill him before he’d touched a hair on the man’s head. That’s what a hero would do, wasn’t it?

  But Ash wasn’t that sort of hero. He wasn’t any sort of hero.

  “Sit down, Ash. It’s getting cold,” said Savage.

  Ash sat.

  In silence he watched the English lord pour out his tea. The flesh hung off Savage’s fingers, and his skin seemed as brittle as autumn leaves, wrinkled, dry, crisscrossed with cracks. Cancerous black melanomas covered his hairless scalp. The cracks extended to his face, encrusted with blood where they’d dripped through the peeling, torn skin. Each facial movement stretched the thin tissue, opening up more tears and weeping scars.

  How had Savage known about the meeting? He’d laid the trap and Ash had thrown himself straight into it.

  “What have you done with my dad?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Savage raised his hand in a moment of realisation. “Ah, you want to know why we were waiting at the ghat. Simple, really. I am an adult and you are a child. Did you ever play chess with your father? Or any adult?”

  Ash grimaced. Of course he had. He’d played his father loads of times, but never won.

  Savage recognised the defeat from his slumped shoulders. “Yes. And what did you learn? That adults beat children. It’s what we’re best at.”

  He continued. “When I heard about your relatives’ tragic accident, I called your parents with the bad news that you were missing. I offered my assistance in trying to find you, assistance which was gratefully received. They even sent me photos of you both for the posters I had put up. Of course your father came straight over here to help.” Savage sipped his tea. “I knew you’d contact your parents sooner or later. And there is no magic to tapping a phone so I heard everything your mother told your father. Last night I merely had him drugged so he wouldn’t keep your appointment and sent my rakshasas instead. They’ve been most eager to see you again.”

  So simple. And like a stupid kid he’d fallen for it.

  “Mayar’s a little upset. Jat was a close friend of his.” Savage cut into a fried egg. His movements were feeble, and he barely had the strength to lift the silver fork to his lips. Yolk splashed over his chin as he chewed. “And you, Ash, killed him.”

  “But he’ll return. Be reincarnated at some point.” Ash looked at Mayar. “Won’t he?”

  Mayar’s snarl made the china cups shiver on their saucers. Savage raised his hand and the big demon backed off. “Alas, not in this case,” Savage said. “There is a single thing in the universe that even the rakshasas fear. She is the ultimate force of destruction.”

  “Kali.”

  “Kali. You were wearing the Kali-aastra when you killed Jat. It is as though she did the deed herself and there is no coming back from the black goddess, not for rakshasas. It is, how you say, game over.”

  This was all about the aastra. Why did Savage need it?

  To open the Iron Gates.

  What had Uncle Vik said about that Harappan city out in Rajasthan? The city would have librari
es, temples, tombs. All with treasure. But that treasure was gold and knowledge.

  Savage was rich enough already, so he didn’t need more gold. It was knowledge he was after. Were the Iron Gates guarding some great magical library?

  “You want scrolls, don’t you? To learn the other masteries? Is that it?”

  Savage laughed. “You think you can learn the ten masteries from text books?” He shook his head. “No, Ash, I am not searching for something, but someone. A guru to teach me the last few forms of magic.”

  But only one being knew all ten sorceries.

  “Ravana,” Ash breathed.

  Flashes of the dream he’d had when he first found the aastra came back to him. Rama, surrounded by his generals. His loyal brother beside him, holding a second arrow. Everyone kneeling at the feet of Rama, their prince, praying he would kill the demon king.

  Rama did kill Ravana.

  Didn’t he?

  But we come back.

  Savage wanted to be able to alter reality, time itself. He wanted to turn back the clock and become once again young, strong and beautiful. But only Ravana knew how to do that. Everything came back to Ravana.

  “Didn’t Rama kill Ravana?” Ash said.

  Savage’s eyes widened, then a slow smile cracked his face. A drop of blood fell from his chin on to the white table cloth as the skin stretched.

  “Rama merely killed him,” replied the Englishman.

  Ash rubbed his thumb, thinking about Rama, his first dream. Rama had held two aastras – one from Vishnu and the other from Kali. He knew that now. Only Kali offered utter destruction. Only Kali guaranteed total annihilation.

  But Rama had fired the Vishnu-aastra. And that meant…

  “Ravana can be reborn.” He whispered it, appalled by what it meant. The demon king could come back.

  The excavated city had palaces, libraries, temples and tombs. Tombs.

  Royal tombs were for the great and powerful. For ancient kings.

  For demon kings.

  “You want the aastra to open Ravana’s tomb.”

  Savage nodded. “Did you know he forged his own body? Of gold and bronze and metals dragged out of the very deepest bowels of the earth? No flesh could contain his power. Look at me. Look at how my body withers and decays with just the weakest of spells. Now imagine that power, a million times more powerful. Demons are naturally magical, but Ravana was in an entirely different league. He cannot be reborn into simple flesh.”

  “So Rama put his golden body in the tomb.”

  “And sealed it with iron gates. The iron prevents the spirit of Ravana from re-entering the only vessel that can contain it. But once the tomb is open…” Savage laughed – or it should have been a laugh. Instead it sounded like he was coughing up a lung. But Ash wouldn’t be that lucky.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” said Savage. “That Kali herself, the goddess born to kill demons, will be the one who releases the greatest demon of them all? Kali is the destroyer. Of mortals, of demons, of cities, of nations, of everything. So I will use the destructive powers of the Kali-aastra to smash open the Iron Gates. Imagine how generous Ravana will be to the one who frees him.”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing.” Ash glared. “Are you totally insane? What sort of world will it be with Ravana free?”

  Ash knew, he’d seen the Carnival of Flesh, the things Ravana did to humans just for his amusement. He thought back to Parvati, and the way she’d talked about her mother, who was made into a monster just to lift Ravana’s boredom.

  “I imagine for the likes of you it will become a living hell,” said Savage. “But I will be young again, immortal, and second only to Ravana in power. It will be fun.” He glanced across the table. “I’d put that down if I were you. It is quite blunt.”

  Ash looked. He was gripping the butter knife in his trembling hand. He put it down, but it was hard forcing his fingers to open.

  “That’s it?” he said. “Just so you can be twenty again and have a full head of hair? All this misery, just to cure your baldness? Haven’t you lived long enough?”

  “It can never be enough.” Savage’s eyes darkened. The Englishman’s voice was low and brittle. “To gain what little power I have, I made deals, bargains with creatures more terrible than any rakshasa. When I die, they will want payment in full.”

  “So what is waiting for you?” asked Ash.

  “You cannot imagine, even in your darkest nightmares.”

  “Well, you’re not getting the aastra,” said Ash. “That tomb will stay closed for all of eternity.” Thank God he’d hidden it.

  The Englishman scowled. “Do you know how many decades I’ve spent searching for Ravana’s tomb, and the key to open it? The fortunes I’ve spent? What would you give to wield the power of a god? Anything, I’m sure,” Savage said, more to himself than to Ash. “I discovered the tomb last year. But I was still searching for the means with which to open it.”

  “The Kali-aastra.”

  “Exactly. You see, it had been found after Ravana’s defeat by a priest who recognised it for what it was. Such things cannot easily disappear. The scrolls your uncle was translating described where the priest had placed the aastra, in a shrine, awaiting a hero to claim it. Instead an ignorant, stupid boy finds it by pure, dumb luck. I can almost hear the gods laughing at me.” Savage twisted his napkin, wringing it as tightly as he could. “They’ll not be laughing once I have freed Ravana.” His gaze locked on to Ash’s. “Tell me where the aastra is.”

  “Or what? You’ll kill me?” Ash didn’t doubt it. He breathed lightly, his heart fluttering like a panicked sparrow’s. But he knew he could not let Savage get his hands on the aastra.

  Savage shook his head. “I won’t kill you.”

  The door at the far end of the pavilion opened. Savage tapped the edge of his cup. “Makdi, if you’d be so kind.”

  The spider-woman poured him some more tea.

  “Bring some more toast. Our other guest will be wanting breakfast,” he said.

  Jackie came out of a door, pulling someone behind her – a young girl also dressed in a long white dress.

  Oh no.

  All courage ran out of Ash like water.

  They had Lucky.

  ave you ever been on safari?” Savage moved his teaspoon round the cup, the silver chiming musically against the thin china.

  Ash smiled at his sister as she sat down. He wanted to encourage her, but tears flooded his eyes and the smile threatened to become a sob.

  “Lucks, are you OK?” Ash asked.

  Lucky stared at him, pale, and her eyes red and exhausted. She didn’t look like she’d slept at all. “I’m… fine,” she whispered.

  He’d tried so hard – tried and failed. Chest heaving, he moved his hand across the table towards his sister. Their fingers just touched before Jackie pulled Lucky back against her chair. Lucky sat, head bowed down to her chest. She looked small and fragile under the shadow of Jackie.

  “Have you seen how jackals hunt?” Savage said.

  A low chuckle came from Jackie. Ash glared at her as she put her hand on Lucky’s shoulder. His sister flinched.

  “Don’t you dare hurt her,” Ash said. Jackie didn’t even raise an eyebrow. The rakshasa knew his threats were empty. “She hasn’t done anything.”

  Savage continued. “They hamstring the prey. It’s usually a calf, one that’s young and soft. One that won’t put up a fight.” He glanced at Lucky. “Eat up, my dear. Those eggs are fresh.”

  “Leave her alone,” Ash whispered, but all his fight was gone.

  “The calf just lies there, eyes rolling madly, can’t get up, can’t defend itself. Then the jackals go in. Not for the throat, or the chest. Not for the quick kill. They tear open its belly. Nuzzle inside, get all the soft juicy bits. All the time they’re doing it, eating the calf from within, it’s still bleating and its eyes are staring around everywhere, desperately hoping someone will save it.” Savage sipped the tea. “Can you imagine the
pain? Being devoured while you’re still alive? I’m sure it’s quite dreadful.”

  Ash closed his eyes to stop the giddiness. He gulped the damp air, hoping he wouldn’t puke. He was imagining it right now.

  “Then, with its heartbeat weakening, the calf gives up. The hope fades and the last look it has, in those innocent big brown eyes, is one of despair. Hopelessness. Complete defeat.” He set the cup down on the saucer. “Do you know that feeling, Ash?”

  Ash looked up. Hot tears rolled freely now.

  “Please don’t hurt her,” Ash begged.

  Savage sighed. “Yes, I think you do.” He dabbed his mouth clean. Breakfast was finished, business was over, he’d won. “Where is the aastra?”

  “Don’t tell him, Ash!” Lucky cried.

  What could Ash do? If he gave Savage the aastra, then Ravana was free and that meant terror and nightmares for the world. But this was his sister. She’d done nothing wrong. Ash pushed his fists against his eyes.

  “Wait,” Ash said. “I’ll make you a deal.” He met Savage’s gaze. “My life for hers.”

  “No! I’m not scared.” Lucky struggled to get up, but Jackie’s hands pressed down on her shoulders.

  “You would die for your sister, I admire that. But that is not part of the deal. If you tell me where the aastra is, I will have you and Lucky on the first flight back to England. First class.”

  “You’re lying. You’ll kill us both.”

  “Why would I do that? You will be unharmed as long as you give me the aastra. You have my word as a gentleman.”

  “How can I trust your word?”

  “You have no choice.” Savage raised his finger and Mayar moved his chair back. The Englishman stood unsteadily; he needed Mayar’s arm to support him. He was so old, so frail, he’d crumble with a sneeze. If Ash could delay things, then maybe Savage would die first. He didn’t look like he’d last five more days.

  But Savage wasn’t going to give him five minutes. “You’re trying my patience, boy,” he said.

  Jackie sniggered and smacked her lips.

  Ash gave up. “I hid it behind the statue,” he said. “In the street where you found me.”