Ash Mistry and the World of Darkness

by Sarwat Chadda

  Reggie releases Paul. He locks his fingers as tightly as possible around his rifle and stands.

  I want my death to mean something.

  He wants to believe it. He needs to believe it.

  He sees three German soldiers.

  They see him.

  Reggie splashes through the mud, yelling. He charges, rifle thrust ahead of him, aimed at the central soldier.

  His boot catches on something. Reggie slips. The rifle drops from his hands and as he falls he sees a hand, the hand of a dead man, the fingers snagged on his shoelaces.

  Sprawled in the gore and mud, Reggie struggles to move. A German kicks him, and stars and blinding flashes burst behind his eyes. They slam their rifles into him, beating him. His death will not be worth even a bullet.

  A shot rings out. A man cries and falls on top of Reggie.

  A fierce, warrior’s roar breaks the fog.

  Reggie heaves the cumbersome body off, but he’s sunk too deep in the mud to free himself. He can only watch.

  The remaining two Germans, back to back, shoot wildly. There, a shadow! Then it vanishes.

  There is a flash of fire from the grey gloom. Then another German tumbles backwards, a burst of red flowering on his forehead.

  A man seems to grow from the smoke, coalescing from nothing, insubstantial one moment, then fully flesh and blood the next, a pistol in one hand and a cane in the other.

  The remaining German fires. The man brushes the rifle aside and beats the pistol butt into the man’s face. Bones crunch. He drops his pistol and his hand flashes to the silver cane top, a tiger’s head. Bright steel flashes free and a narrow blade passes through the German’s neck.

  The man twists the blade, opening the wound wider as blood sprays from the holes either side of the throat.

  The German drops to his knees, then keels over as the blade is pulled out.

  “There, all done,” says the man. He wipes the blade clean and looks down at Reggie. “Need a hand, fella?”

  “You killed them. All of them.”

  The man helps Reggie up. “It’s what they deserved.” He brushes his blonde hair from his face. “Just sport, really.”

  Reggie stares at the carnage. “How?”

  “Practice. I’ve had a lot.”

  “But he was standing right next to you when he fired. How did he miss? It’s not …”

  Reggie stops. The German fired when the man was right in front of him.

  There is a gaping, bleeding hole in the man’s chest. Blood dribbles down his jacket, black and thick in the semi-darkness.

  Bewildered, Reggie can only stare at the hole. “How?”

  The man’s blue eyes shimmer and he puts his finger to his lips. “Shh, let this be our little secret.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Ash woke, he wasn’t sure at first where he was. Then he felt the steel manacles around his wrists and fetters around his ankles, and remembered.

  Rani hadn’t taken any chances. She and Jackie had hauled him into the back of the Humvee, then driven for what seemed like hours.

  They’d arrived at some airfield just as the sun was rising in a grey sky to see a plane waiting for them. A sleek, dagger-like Learjet, one of three, each with the Savage logo on the tail. He’d been half dragged, half carried up the steps, then dropped into a seat. Minutes later the plane was in the sky and they were heading into the sun, flying east. Ash closed his eyes.

  So he’d slept, and dreamed. Dreamed of being a soldier back in the First World War.

  No one famous. No one out of the history books. That was odd. Ash’s previous visions had been of legendary heroes like Rama and the first emperor of India, the first Ashoka. So why some nobody of a private in the trenches? The memories didn’t come by chance; they came for a reason. He’d been thousands of different people, so why was this one coming forward now? This Reggie was trying to tell him something.

  There was a vividness to these dreamed memories of his past lives that was utterly different from his conventional dreams, or even his nightmares. By now he knew the difference. What he’d remembered, he could count on being real, and true.

  So, he’d met Savage before. There was no doubt in his mind that the man who’d saved his life in this vision, his life when he’d been Reggie, was Alexander Savage. He was in his late thirties, wore a moustache and a captain’s uniform, but there was no mistaking him.

  Ash shifted again in his seat, and peered out of the window. Ten hours flying east and they’d re-entered the night.

  The moon shone high over a vast landscape of deep shadow and brilliant crystalline snow, sparkling faintly blue under the lunar light. As Ash leaned up against the window, he knew it could be only one mountain range. The Himalayas.

  Ash’s belly grumbled. The plane juddered and banked to the right. It swept through a thin mattress of clouds, and Ash spotted lights below, a narrow strip of red eyes laid out upon the snow. It was wedged between two sheer cliff faces and beyond the landing strip fell away to nothing.

  The jet shook, the vibrations passing through the floor and up Ash’s toes. It jerked from side to side as the winds accelerated through the mountain pass, buffeting the small craft.

  “Scared?” asked Rani. She sat facing him, buckled up and wearing a heavy fur-lined coat, the collar done up to her cheeks.

  The mountain walls seemed to almost touch the wing tips.

  Ash smiled. “Are you? You can hold my hand if you are.”

  Rani ignored him.

  Jackie stumbled to her seat and she didn’t look good at all. Her tawny mane shivered as she watched the rocks blur past and her nails dug deep into the armrests.

  They were flying low over a collection of huts. Plainly built from stone and roofed with tiles, they were simple farmers’ huts with corrals where long-haired yaks huddled together for warmth. Then the nose of the Learjet rose and the engines screeched as it hit the tarmac. Ash jerked forward as the brakes slammed on. The jet raced along the runway, the scenery whizzing past until, not as soon as he would have liked, the plane slowed.

  Jackie gave out a huge sigh.

  They had barely come to a stop before Rani was up and pushing open the door. Freezing wind threw in a flurry of snow and she sank her chin deeper into her furs. “Bring him.”

  Jackie grabbed Ash under the arm and pushed him forward.

  Jeez, he was going to be an icicle. The snow was knee-deep and the wind howled between the mountains, bringing swirling clouds. His skin stung as if thousands of tiny ice crystals were attacking him. And the air was so thin. Ash gulped big lungfuls and even then was panting as he came down the dozen or so steps.

  Headlights dazzled him. Four white Humvees faced them, engines running, their tyres half submerged. People moved about, but they were just silhouettes against the glaring headlights. Ash clenched his jaw to stop his teeth chattering.

  “Ash, you look positively frozen,” a man shouted over the roar of the winds and the noise of the jet engines. He stepped forward, taking off his own coat. “Here, boy. We can’t have you catching pneumonia.”

  Of course. Why else bring him here? “Savage.”

  The man held out his coat. His face wasn’t made of human flesh, it looked more like porcelain, or marble – perfect, unblemished by any mark or wrinkle or colour. He was dressed in white and his eyes were hidden behind black shades. Tucked under his arm was a tiger-headed cane, the handle a snarling beast with ruby eyes. His blonde hair was almost as pale as his skin and it shimmered as it blew loose around his face. He put the coat around Ash’s shoulders.

  “And I hardly think we need these. Please, Rani. Young Ash is our guest.”

  Rani said nothing, but undid the cuffs and manacles and tossed them aside into the snow.

  Savage, arm still around Ash’s shoulder, directed him to the nearest vehicle. “You ride with me. We’ve so much catching up to do.”

  Ash gazed at the man. The last time he’d seen him he’d been a grotesque, deforme
d monster with barely a spark of life left in him. This version was little short of a god. In spite of himself, Ash struggled to control the sense of … awe that threatened to overwhelm him. It was like a heatwave radiating off Savage.

  “Where am I?” Ash asked.

  Savage paused as he reached the Humvee and turned to face Ash, taking off his glasses.

  Ash stiffened. A pair of black eyes gazed at him. They were black upon black, and inside the pupils swirled the darkness of the abyss. A thin border of fiery red circled the edges of the irises and there was nothing good or human in the blank gaze. These were the eyes of someone who’d stared into hell. Savage’s smiled broadened. “Welcome to Tibet.”

  Jackie and Rani travelled separately, leaving Ash alone with Savage and the driver. The going was tough; the roads were narrow tracks with a sheer drop to one side and ten-metre-high piles of snow on the other. Savage lit a cigarette as he made himself comfortable on the seat opposite Ash. He waved the first cloud of smoke away and peered at Ash, that superior smile never fading from his bloodless lips. “You do not look well, Ash.”

  “Looking at you makes me sick.”

  “No, it’s more than that.” Savage laughed. “Kali has abandoned you.”

  There was no point denying it. “How can you tell?”

  “My magic gives me enhanced perceptions. You no longer radiate the way you used to. That divine light’s gone out, leaving you a dull, dull mortal.” Savage scrutinised him. “The Kali-aastra must have used all its remaining power to transport you across timelines. The charge has depleted down to nothing.”

  “So you brought me here just to gloat?”

  “Hardly, Ash. I brought you here to celebrate.” He flicked ash off the burning stub. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d never have cast the Time Spell.”

  “It’s not over yet, Savage,” said Ash, with a confidence he really didn’t feel.

  “You know, I knew most of the Time Spell already. It was written on Parvati’s scrolls, the ones I took from her back in Lahore.”

  “So why didn’t you cast it then?”

  Savage sucked a deep breath and shook his head slowly. “No, that would have been a disaster. Magic’s a dodgy business. Even with small, minor spells, the risks are huge. You saw what I’d become with two centuries of spell casting.”

  “A deformed monstrosity.”

  “Exactly. Fortunately I had Ravana himself to guide me. But his scrolls were not complete. So when we went to Lanka …”

  Ash understood. “The Black Mandala.”

  The Black Mandala had been created by Ravana. It had all his magic inscribed upon it and last year he and Savage had ended up in the demon king’s capital city to find it. Ash had destroyed it, but clearly not soon enough.

  Savage tapped his temple. “I’d only studied it for a few minutes before you tore it up, but all the patterns, all Ravana’s symbols, were in here, locked in my subconscious. The mind’s a remarkable thing, Ash. Everything you see and hear gets stored in here. Vast libraries of knowledge. We don’t forget anything, we merely lose the ability to access it.”

  “So what did you do? Hypnotise yourself into remembering?”

  “Something very much like that. I put myself in a trance, pictured the Black Mandala before me, and drew the rest of the Time Spell out. I didn’t need to remember it all, just the sections missing from Parvati’s scrolls.”

  “No mistakes at all?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if there’d been even a single syllable out of place.”

  “Congratulations,” said Ash. “So why are you here, in Tibet? Found your retirement home?”

  The vehicle turned off the mountain road and Ash breathed a sigh of relief. The endless zigzagging up the mountain edges had been steep and grim. And the altitude sickness wasn’t helping. A powerful headache throbbed within his skull and he could only take in half as much oxygen as he needed so was constantly gasping. How could Savage be wasting breath on smoking?

  Now the landscape was levelling out. They passed by a stupa, a white-painted religious tower, wreathed with fluttering prayer flags. Piles of stones lay around it, each a token of some long-ago pilgrim. The road was tarmacked, and the houses they passed, traditionally built, were in good condition. A farmer was loading his horse cart and stopped to give a solemn bow as they rolled past.

  Savage put out his cigarette and lit a second. “I love Tibet. I come here when I want to get away from it all. The first time was in the 1950s, with the Chinese invasion. The military conquest was very straightforward. The Tibetans were armed with bows and arrows, and the Chinese rolled in with tanks. But the Tibetans had powerful sorcerers. I was hired by the Chinese to deal with them.”

  “I would have thought China had its own magicians.”

  Savage’s lips parted slyly. “It has more than mere magicians.”

  A mountain loomed up ahead. Its top was lost in the clouds, but the sun, just appearing over the jagged mountain range, lit the east-facing side with a soft pinkish hue. Lights shone upon its sheer walls, and as they drew closer Ash saw buildings and terraces and towers. Birds, mere black specks, circled above the many golden roofs and gardens that jutted out from the rock.

  “Bukrong monastery,” said Savage. “The Chinese gave it to me after we’d cleared out the monks.”

  As they approached Ash strained his neck gazing up and up at it. It seemed to have been built out of the mountainside. The walls were ochre, red, blue and white, vibrant and fresh against the austere grey of the stone. Vast glaciers surrounded the monastery, brilliant and shimmering as the sun rose.

  The gates opened up and they entered a courtyard. Servants, local Tibetans in long red coats, rushed to open the door the moment the car stopped. Behind them came in the other two vehicles and soon Savage was accepting tea from his bowing staff. A cup was offered to Ash and he took it, glad of the hot fluid warming him.

  The gates closed with an ominous dull thud.

  “Rooms have been prepared for you, Ash, so eat, rest and make yourself comfortable.” Savage started up the wide staircase into the main building. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Jackie growled in Ash’s ear, “Let me take you to your rooms.”

  He followed her.

  “You have this floor to yourself,” she said when they arrived at his quarters. “There is a servant outside if you need anything.”

  Ash glanced at the door. “No locks?”

  “Where can you possibly go?” said Jackie, closing the door behind her as she left.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Daylight woke Ash. Bright shards of light illuminated the bedroom, cut into uneven angles by the old wooden window shutters.

  Blimey, he was stiff. Ash forced himself up, aching and groaning like an old man. So this was what it felt like to be human. He’d forgotten.

  His rumbling belly reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. Beside the bed was a brass bowl of fruit. He devoured an apple and set to munching his way through a couple of bananas. A mug of Chinese tea waited on a table and he sipped it as he pushed and stretched himself, roughly knocking the ache out of his muscles. There was a pile of magazines stacked on a table. Ash flicked through a few as he ate.

  They all had Savage on the front.

  Time’s Man of the Year. The Economist. Newsweek. He was even on the cover of Rolling Stone with a bunch of rock stars. There he stood, white-suited, black-framed and gold-skinned, a god among mortals.

  It felt as if Savage had already won.

  Ash turned the magazines over so he wouldn’t have to look at Savage’s smug, victorious face.

  A bath filled with steaming water waited, with fresh clothing piled on stools beside. Ash dragged his bruised body into the hot water and let the pain soak out.

  Now what are you gonna do?

  Time to review the situation.

  The cons. Trapped somewhere in the highest mountain range in the world. Captive of an immortal
sorcerer who can travel through Time. Guarded by a demon princess who wants to kill me really, really badly. Not friends with a jackal-demon who wants the same, if not more.

  What else?

  Oh yes, total and permanent loss of all superhuman abilities. Which sucks. Big time.

  So, those were the cons. What about the pros?

  Ash frowned. There had to be some. Hmm …

  I’m still alive. That counts.

  Refreshed, belly filled, and wearing clean clothes, Ash looked around his room. All over the walls were indistinct images of gods and monsters and legendary heroes that could be seen as faded outlines on the worn plaster. The beams had once been painted, but now they too were bowed with age and rotten. Thin, moth-eaten carpets covered the uneven wooden floor, and the wind blew in around the ill-fitting window frames. Coals burned in tall bronze braziers, but it wasn’t enough to keep him warm. Ash found a long Tibetan coat in a wardrobe. The inner lining was fur, maybe goat or yak, and the outer dark red Chinese silk embroidered with dragons. He slung it on over his woollen outfit and leather boots, also lined with fur. His breath steamed in the cold air.

  The door swung open and there was Savage. “Rested?” he asked.

  “What do you want with me? Why all this?”

  Savage stepped aside. “Let me show you, Ash.”

  Reluctantly Ash stepped out. Savage led the way and they passed along corridors deep into the mountain. The lighting came from small oil lamps and the walls danced with sinister shadows.

  “This is something only the Eternal Warrior would understand. That is why I want you here. To be witness to my legacy,” said Savage as he tapped his cane along the flagstones.

  Legacy? Ash didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Here, my sanctuary,” said Savage, stopping before a pair of doors. Each was encased in bronze and ornately carved with mythological animals. They seemed to stir as Ash approached, but that was probably just a trick of the light. Probably.

  Savage pulled the bronze doors open and a sigh of air escaped, gently stirring torch-lit motes into a dance about them. Beyond the doors was a gloomy chamber of bare, crudely chiselled stone, inhabited by vague shapes.