“This is all I have been, Ash,” said Savage as he lit a heavy iron candelabrum from an oil lamp and held it ahead of him. “Not many have ever been down here, but you, of all people, should see this.”
Ash followed him in.
Savage put the candelabrum down and let its light swell.
It shone upon barrels of muskets, upon the keen edges of swords and on moth-eaten fabrics of old uniforms. There were flags, smoke-stained and bullet-ridden, hanging from banner poles above them. The chamber reached upwards ten or fifteen metres, and was perhaps the same in diameter, a roughly hewn circle with dusty carpets and faded drapes upon the walls. A stool, ornately carved from some dark wood, sat in the centre and Savage offered it to Ash. Ash refused.
He lifted down a long-barrelled musket with a curved stock, inlaid with a vine design in mother-of-pearl. The barrel must have measured almost two metres.
“An Afghan jezail,” said Savage. “I got that when we stormed Kabul back in 1842.”
Ash breathed deep. Despite the thin air he collected the scent of oil, of wood and steel, and of blood and gun smoke. Sweat stained the leather sword hilts black and the edges of the bindings were wrinkled with wear. One mannequin wore a grey uniform; its buttons still shone bright gold, but the shoulder braid was frayed. Ash put his finger in one of the holes in the cloth. “That must have hurt.”
“Gettysburg. I was a colonel. Now that was a battle. A slaughter.”
Ash wasn’t much up on American history, but he knew Gettysburg had been the bloodiest battle of the Civil War. “You fought for the South? Why am I not surprised?”
Savage picked up a pair of iron manacles, shaking the chains. Each link was at least three centimetres thick. “You think slavery is wrong, is that it?”
“You even need to ask?”
“I owned slaves. I spent years involved in that ‘peculiar institution’. I shipped them from Africa to the cotton fields of the South and the sugar plantations of the West Indies. Slaves drove the economy, Ash. I even had a farm in Kentucky for a while. Me, a farmer. Can you imagine?”
He dropped the manacles upon the stone with a clang that echoed around them. “Utterly boring for the most part. But I do remember one evening. I’d been riding and stopped at the crest of a hill. The sun was on the horizon and the sky was a beautiful darkening red, the clouds soft pink and the upper tops of the trees just tipped with shimmering purple leaves. Quite, quite beautiful.” Savage sighed and his eyes were distant, as if he was still looking at that sunset.
“Down the slope and all the way to that horizon were cotton fields with line upon line, endless regiments, of slaves. Men, women, children. All collecting the white tufts with their dark, nimble fingers. My overseers rested under a tree and their horses grazed by a large pond. There was a perfect peacefulness about it. But how they sang, Ash. No choir of angels could have matched it. It was a tribal song from their home in Africa, mixed in with a hymn they had been taught, so it was both familiar and exotic. Hundreds of voices, in perfect, simple harmony. The children wouldn’t have been old enough to have learned it in Africa; it was a uniquely American creation, this song. No free man would have sung it with equal passion. Do you know why?”
“Do tell me.”
“Slaves are free in a way no one else is. They have no responsibilities. They worry about nothing. Their needs are simple: food and shelter. Their duties are simple: to work and ask no questions. They know where they will be this year, the next, the year after that and for ever. If they do what they’re told, they will be taken care of. That is why childhood is such a blessed state. Deep down, people can’t deal with their lives. They want to be taken care of. That evening was the most perfect moment of my long, long life. They were content and untroubled. Happy, Ash. As close to happy as a person can be. On my farm we needed no manacles. No whips, no threats.”
“You really believe that?”
“Look at what happens when you give people freedom, choice. Invariably they make a mess of things. What is democracy but rule of the mob?”
“Let me guess – this is where you suggest it would all be better if you were in charge?”
Savage’s eyes darkened. “I’ve seen the future, and humanity will leave only ashes.” He spoke with cold conviction. “Time mastery isn’t just backwards, it’s forward as well. I’ve glimpsed the future … futures. It’s in a state of flux, but one thing they all have in common is that mankind destroys itself. It may be war, it may be overpopulation, pollution, global warming … All dangers we can see right now, but no one with the will or ambition to do what is necessary.”
“And what’s that?”
“Be happy with less. It really is that simple. Food, shelter. And life. But people pursue unsustainable goals. More cars. More luxuries. More food. More this. More that. Like parasites you only consume, and sooner than you think you will devour your host. Then what? You cannot eat money, nor drink oil.”
“So you want us to be happy with a bowl of rice?”
“In a few years there will be catastrophic climate change. Drought for some countries, torrential rain for others. Crops globally will be destroyed. Wars will erupt as nations fight to control resources. Then, Ash, when you see cities filled with starving populations, where they will eat the wallpaper and their shoes and finally each other, you will be very happy for some rice. I would save the world such pain.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
Savage smiled. “With shock and awe.”
Chapter Fifteen
Savage led Ash out of the sanctuary and gestured to a staircase. “You’ll see better what I mean from outside.”
Ash hesitated. Should he let Savage just gloat? That was why he was showing Ash all this. It was typical arrogance. But he’d come this far. He had to know what Savage was planning. For better or for worse.
They climbed up and up and up. Ash was panting after the first flight, his lungs struggling with the lack of oxygen. By the second flight his legs were shaking. But up and up they continued. He forced himself to keep pace with Savage, not wanting the Englishman to see how weak he was, stubborn pride keeping him going while his strength failed.
The stairs were of dark polished wood, and lanterns lit each landing. The servants bowed as Savage passed, never meeting his gaze. They worked in silence, heads down, not one even looking in Ash’s direction. There were no manacles and they looked well taken care of, but they were surely bound by something – fear, perhaps. Each trembled slightly as Savage walked by.
That’s how he keeps them under control. They’re too terrified to do or say anything.
A strong, freezing breeze descended the staircase, carrying with it a swirl of snowflakes. Sunlight intruded above and they reached the top flight, Ash dripping with sweat and breathing heavily.
“What a view, eh?” said Savage.
It was true. They walked out on to a tiled, elevated landing. The monastery had been partly carved into the mountainside and a natural plateau had been converted into an elegant garden terrace with trees, a narrow iced-over stream and shrubs sitting in large ceramic pots. There was no barrier and Savage walked to the edge. The drop was sheer – more than three hundred metres to bare rock, jagged and shadowy, like the maw of some gigantic beast.
Clouds brooded overhead and a light flurry danced about them. The world was pristine white, the snow below patterned with the shadows of passing clouds, so it felt as if the landscape moved beneath them. Far, far away to the south were the peaks of the Himalayas, barely visible through the snow, but a line that lay between Savage’s palace and the rest of the world. Geography wasn’t Ash’s strong suit, but he knew that beyond those peaks lay Nepal, and beyond Nepal lay India … but a long way beyond the horizon. Ash had never felt so utterly alone.
Rani waited beside a wrought-iron table with a bottle of champagne and three long-stemmed flutes on it. Next to the drinks were some chunky military binoculars and an old-fashioned telescope made of wood and
brass.
Her chin was sunk into the thick wool of her long green coat and her eyes were only half open. Her movements were slow and overly deliberate. Her face, deformed by the scars, was drawn and her cheeks jutted hard against the scale-flecked skin.
It’s the cold, Ash thought. Rani’s a snake. It’s slowing her down.
“My lord, all is prepared,” said Rani.
Savage handed Ash the telescope. “See that building down there?”
Ash slid open the telescope and gazed down where he pointed. The lens distorted the sight, warping the edges, but he did see a large building with a walled courtyard. Children, wrapped up so they looked like colourful snowmen, ran and had snowball fights, while a few elderly monks tried to keep some sort of order.
“One of my charities – an orphanage. The headmaster’s an Old Etonian friend of mine.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
Savage moved over to the edge. Ash went to join him. One push and—
“Don’t bother, Ash. I can fly,” said Savage. “Please pay attention. This is rather important.”
“What is? So you run an orphanage. Lessens your guilt, does it?”
“I have nothing to feel guilty about. Those children down there are well looked after. They have the best education and the best … medical treatments. Not one has had even a runny nose since they joined. You won’t find a healthier bunch of kids this side of, well, anywhere.” He nodded to Rani and the rakshasa princess drew out a small radio from her sleeve.
“Now,” she said, speaking into it.
Ash turned to the sound of a motor running behind him. The palace continued up, getting narrower and smaller, like a stepped pyramid, and on the level above them one of the larger doors opened.
A missile launcher rolled forward on its tracks and stopped when its head was jutting out of the building. The targeting mechanism turned and clicked, locking into place. Nestled in a tube was a single missile.
The weapon was about three metres long, the nose and the front half made of clear glass, a long tube filled with a green liquid that bubbled and frothed. The tube was painted with symbols: Harappan pictograms, from the ancient language of India.
“I call it the Ravan-aastra,” said Savage.
“Only gods can make aastras.” But dread filled Ash’s heart.
Savage smiled. “Did Parvati ever tell you about her early life? How when she was born she was human? Or thought she was?”
“Yes. The rakshasa soul awakens over time. She said she used to have bad dreams, but they were actually old memories resurfacing.”
“That’s right. The actual change comes around puberty. That’s when the rakshasa takes over. The first transforming is rather dramatic. They call it the Harrowing. The child has no control over what’s happening and they assume their true form. Their monstrous form. Do you know what Parvati did when it happened to her?” asked Savage, quite casually.
“She left her family. She realised what she was and thought it safer for them if she wasn’t around.”
“Is that what she told you?”
Rani snorted with derision. “We killed them. Killed them all. We lived with parents, grandparents and six other siblings. We tore them to pieces. We ate their flesh and drank their blood.”
“No. Parvati would never do that.”
Rani looked at him with cold, deadly hatred. “That’s what I did, and she is me.”
Savage laughed. “Poor, naive boy. When the demon soul awakens it’s mad with rage, rage at its imprisonment, and bloodthirsty. Some, a few, hang on to a small human part and perhaps flee before they can do too much harm, but most were raised within families, have homes and people around them, and that first transformation of a reborn rakshasa bodes ill for anyone caught in the vicinity.”
The missile hummed as guidance fins adjusted themselves along its sleek, deadly body.
“I intend to take over the world,” said Savage. “It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it. Otherwise you mortals are going to destroy it.”
“You and whose army, Savage?” Ash looked around. “How many rakshasas have you got? A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand, tops?”
“Many, many more. It’s just that they don’t yet know it.” Savage searched the landscape with his binoculars. “I’ve spent millions in the last decade researching DNA. How to repair it, how to strengthen it. I’ve discovered there’s one ingredient that does the job better than most. DNA from rakshasas. I’ve cured most of the world’s ills by adding just a touch of demon into everything. It is, literally, the magic ingredient, and why I now own the biggest pharmaceutical company on the planet.”
Ash felt a bilious lump bubbling up his throat.
Savage continued. “I’m going to save the world, Ash, whether it likes it or not. But one of the problems has been humans. They’ve overrun. They’re top of the food chain with no predator to keep them in line.”
“Rakshasas.”
“Yes, Ash, rakshasas. But since their near extinction by Rama thousands of years ago, there have never been enough to keep the human population in check. Only a handful are born every decade. A trickle. I’m going to turn that trickle into a tidal wave. I’ve found a way to activate the Harrowing.”
Ash looked at the missiles. “What’s in them?”
“My new miracle drug. Retro-Anti-Virus Number One.”
RAVN-1.
Ash gazed down at the orphanage with creeping terror.
“The results might vary depending on the child.” A sly, cruel grin spread over Savage’s pale face. “An entire generation of children, transformed into demons. Throughout the world. There will of course be a period of readjustment, but you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. And tell me, how will you fight them? They will be children, people’s sons and daughters. What soldier would raise his rifle against his own child? Your humanity, your compassion, will be your downfall.”
He gestured to Rani. “Let’s show Ash what I mean.”
Rani pressed the button on the radio.
The missile launched.
Chapter Sixteen
The missile screamed and flames burst from the exhaust, filling the plateau with smoke and the stench of burning petrol. The flames turned from red to blue to white, the noise rising in pitch as the colours transformed and the missile shook, trapped within the launch mechanism. Ash covered his ears, but it made no difference; the hellish wail pierced him.
Then it was free.
It roared overhead, dipping a moment before locking into its flight path, rising high over the snow-clad landscape in a trail of black smoke, the sun glinting on its glass body.
“Now this is the exciting bit,” said Savage, his attention focused through the binoculars.
The missile reached its zenith, then began a slow dive. Even as it fell it altered direction, shifting from side to side with added bursts of speed as it swooped towards the orphanage.
And Ash could do nothing.
Then, still high over the building, it exploded.
Ash’s heart swelled. It had failed! He wanted to laugh. All that talk of Savage’s—
A green cloud spread out above the orphanage and began to descend over the walled playground and the surrounding area.
“The burst radius is a mile,” said Savage. “But depending on prevailing winds the contaminants could cover another ten miles easily.”
The orphanage vanished within the green fog.
Savage pointed at the telescope, limp in Ash’s hand. “You won’t want to miss this.”
Reluctantly Ash raised the telescope.
At first all he could see was the green smoke. Dark silhouettes moved within it, flailing around, stumbling and lost within this thick cloud. He caught a glimpse of someone tall, one of the monks, trying to guide the kids indoors, but they were too scared and panicked to pay attention. A few collapsed.
Ash’s fingers tightened around the telescope, but he continued to watch.
A wind
blew the clouds apart, revealing the playground. A handful of children, all younger than Ash, stumbled or lay in the snow, coughing and crying and choking.
One boy shook. He was curled up, head buried between his knees, his entire body spasming violently. He beat his head with his fists as if trying to smash out what was within. Then he threw back his head and screamed.
His black hair thickened and spread over his face. He tore at his clothes with long claws, and then got to his feet, swaying and writhing.
A monk ran out of the thinning cloud, his scarlet robe covering his mouth and nose. He ran to the boy and held him.
The other children began to shriek and scream. Ash couldn’t hear them, he was too far away, but their wide-open silent mouths made him shake.
Scales spread over the face of a girl. One boy, only five or six, stared in horror as extra arms burst out of his chest – long, spindly and covered in black hairs. A group of children ran around on all fours with tails swishing and whiskered snouts twitching. The monks looked about them in bewilderment, horrified. Four of the kids, the youngest, were unchanged; they gathered around the monks, staring and sobbing at what was happening to their friends. One monk fell down, tripping over a boy transformed into a black-pelted wolf. He tumbled in the snow, landing on his back. The wolf sniffed him.
It growled and bared its yellow fangs.
The monk raised his hands, saying something as the wolf shook off the last of its torn and tattered clothes. It put its forepaws on the old man’s chest and the other rakshasas crowded around the fallen monk.
The wolf paused. Did some human part of it make it hesitate? It shook its head ferociously and howled.
The monk, ever so slowly, tried to stand.
“Now that’s a mistake,” said Savage.
The wolf sprang. It hit the monk and both crashed into the snow, throwing up a big cloud of white. The jet of blood shot out and arced over the other demons. They charged in and attacked.
“Run,” urged Ash. “Run.” He turned away from the frenzy to the monk trying to shield the youngest, still human, kids. “Run!”
Ash Mistry and the World of Darkness Page 9
