ASH MISTRY AND THE CITY OF DEATH (12 page)

“
ou mean like out of
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
? The Thuggee?” asked Ash. They’d gone to a café for dinner and found a quiet corner away from the small crowd of men watching and cheering the cricket game on the old crackling TV.

“I forget most of your education comes from Hollywood,” said Parvati. “What do you know about them?”

Ash tried to remember the film. There was something about chilled monkey brains and Indians being badass until the white hero came along and spoiled all the fun. “They strangled people quite a lot.”

“Yes. It was the old way. They killed their victims without spilling blood. Have you ever strangled a man?”

“No.” But he’d come close, hadn’t he? Ash blushed with shame, thinking of how he’d almost strangled his dad when he’d dreamed of being the first Ashoka.

Parvati unwrapped her light cotton scarf and wound the ends round her fists. “It’s hard work. The victim struggles, and unless you get the cloth in exactly the right place, knot under the Adam’s apple, you waste a lot of energy achieving not very much.”

“Sounds like you’ve done it.”

“You think I’d need a scarf?”

No, of course not. Parvati’s venom was lethal to man, demon, and probably god. One bite would do the job. Not for the first time Ash wondered exactly how many people she had killed in her long, long life.

“Do you know the legend of how the Thugs were made?” she asked.

“Not something that comes up in the National Curriculum.”

“Kali was fighting a terrible demon. A demon as powerful as Ravana, and she was alone. All the other gods had fled.” Parvati had a faraway look. It wasn’t as though she was telling a story, something she’d read or been told by another person. It was as if she was remembering it from her past.

She continued. “So there she is, stabbing and slashing at this rakshasa. But she can’t defeat him. Every drop of blood she spills, out grows another rakshasa. Soon she’ll be overwhelmed.”

“What does she do?”

Parvati ran her palm over her arm. “The goddess takes sweat from her body and creates two men. She rips a strip of cloth from her skirt and gives it to them. They kill each and every rakshasa.” Parvati made a twisting movement with her fists. “Strangling them.”

“Killing them without spilling any blood.”

Parvati nodded. “The Thugs were created to be demon killers. To follow the path of Kali. Over the centuries they became greedy, petty-minded and corrupt, using their skills for highway murder and robbery. But you’re missing the bigger picture.”

“What’s that?”

“The first men she made, they were Kali-aastras.” Parvati sighed. “The Thugs believed that if they killed enough, performed the correct rituals and observed the right omens, they would gain supernatural powers. They believed that by murder they might become Kali-aastras themselves. Like the first of Kali’s creations. Like you.”

Kali loves death.
He’d been told that, ages ago. He gained power through death, so why wouldn’t the Thugs believe the same thing? Weren’t they, the Thugs and him, all servants of Kali?

“I’m not a Thug,” said Ash.

“But you are, Ash. Kali made you to kill demons, like the first two Thugs. You are her weapon, her right hand. The hand that slays.”

“I may have these powers, but that doesn’t mean I’ll use them.”

She smiled weakly. “I know, Ash. But the Kali-aastra
might not give you a choice. The more powerful you grow, the more it will demand of you.”

“And Ujba? Is he a Thug?”

“In a manner of speaking. He knows all the old rituals and skills. He understands what the Kali-aastra is capable of better than anyone else. But his goals are not your goals. He worships Kali in a way that’s rather antisocial.”

“He’s a killer?”

“He kills for what he believes in.” She looked at him over her sunglasses. “And in that he’s not alone, is he?”

“Then how is he going to help me?”

“By teaching you to channel your past, your other lives. Think about it.” She tapped Ash’s temple. “Think what knowledge lurks in there. What skills. If you could access your former selves in a controlled manner, you could use their abilities, what they know. You say Ashoka’s one of your previous incarnations. Don’t let him control you.
You
control him, instead. If you could use all his military wisdom and warcraft, you would be unstoppable.”

Ash sank back into his chair. “It’s never going to end, is it.”

Parvati smiled softly, but shook her head. “Not in this lifetime, nor any other.”

nd again they come. Ash screams as the images tumble through his mind, memories and emotions and dreams of countless people he has been since the beginning.

He is a red-robed soldier standing in a shield line as the sky darkens with arrows.

He urges his horse to a gallop as he raises his spear for the—

Hands tied, he takes steps to the scaffold. The sun shines on the headman’s axe as he lifts it and the birds caw from—

More and more they assault him, and Ash feels as if he’s drowning. He struggles against the endless torrent and—

Ashoka sits upon a horse, hand resting on his hilt. Beside him is a young woman in scaled armour—

He sits upon a horse, hand on his sword hilt. Beside him is Parvati.

He is with Parvati.

Ash pushes the others away, letting the spirits wash over him, and he guides himself towards this one moment, this one life.

Ashoka sits upon his horse, watching another city burn. The ash, even from here, is hot and the night sky boils over with dense clouds of smoke, lit by the roaring flames of temples, of palaces, of homes and shops and people. Sparks of tinder float in the darkness like the eyes of a million demons.

The soldiers drag the slaves. Each one chained to the one in front, the lines stretching back to the horizon. Most are dumb with despair, dirty, some bloody and dressed in rags as they proceed along the road, a mute, living line of misery. Somewhere in the darkness there rises a long, wailing lamentation as the women find the corpses of their husbands and sons among the slaughtered.

The sound pleases Ashoka. It sounds like victory.

“They will call you emperor after this,” says Parvati. The rakshasa princess rests upon a corpse, takes off her boot, and shakes out the dust. The man, breathing but hours ago, full of life, hope, joy and dreams, is nothing more than part of the scenery now. With a sharp tug, Parvati pulls off his turban and begins to clean her sword with the long cloth.

Ashoka looks down from his saddle. “Emperor Ashoka. I like it.”

“And then what?” Blood shines upon her armour and her hair, plaited and wrapped round her head to prevent it being grabbed in battle, is speckled with gore. She wipes her face and leaves a trail of red across her pale cheeks. The green, serpentine eyes glow. “More war?”

“Do you tire of it, sweet Parvati?”

She scoffs. “Mortal, I have seen such sights that would haunt even you. This
–
” she sweeps her hand over the burning city
–
“was but an hour’s work for my father.”

“Your father was the lord of the demon nations. I am but a man.”

“A man. Cruel, vain and petty.” Parvati bows mockingly. “My father would have enjoyed your company. You and he would have had a lot in common.”

“More than you think.” Ashoka smiles at the confusion in the demon princess’s eyes. He nods to his bodyguard. “Bring him.”

His men drag an old man forward and throw him to the blood-soaked ground. It is the priest. His face is bruised and his clothes torn and bloodied, and he clutches a silver box to his chest. He kneels on the ground, head bowed. “My great lord,” he croaks.

Ashoka swings down from his saddle and stands in front of the man. He rests his hands upon the hilt of his sword. “Tell me, Parvati. They say your noble father was the greatest sorcerer the world has ever known.”

“No other being has ever mastered the ten sorceries,” says the rakshasa girl.

Ashoka snaps his fingers. “The box, old man.”

“My lord, you do not understand—”

Ashoka grabs it and kicks the man back into the dirt.

The box is small, delicately engraved with ancient symbols and sigils of power. It is warm to the touch and heavier than it should be. The object within has weight.

“They say Ravana could transform himself into anything, or anyone. They say he could cross from one side of the world to the other in an eye-blink. Is what they say true, Parvati?”

“It is.”

“Could he raise the dead?” challenges Ashoka.

“That no one can do.”

He opens the box and takes out the object within.

Parvati gasped. “The Koh-i-noor.”

Ashoka grins. “The Brahma-aastra, yes. They call it the Life Giver.” He leans closer to the man. “Have you awoken it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

With one hand holding the massive, glowing gem, Ashoka draws out his sword with the other. Parvati says nothing, but her eyes narrow.

“Hold him,” orders Ashoka.

The old man cries out as the guards grab him. Ashoka tightens his grip upon his hilt and lays the blade against the man’s thin body. The Koh-i-noor pulses within Ashoka’s grasp, and beams of light rise out of its faces. The colours change and brighten and the stone begins to burn.

Ashoka grins. “Now, the test.”

The blade enters the old man’s chest. A thick fountain of blood bursts from the wound, spraying the guards and Ashoka. The old man’s screams rise to a feverish pitch, and he thrashes in the grip of the guards, his scrawny body filled with a hideous, desperate strength. But eventually he slumps, his skin glistening with dark blood.

Ashoka draws out the sword and hands it to one of his men. He raises the limp head by its white hair and stares at the closed eyes and the slack jaw. More blood dribbles from the dead man’s mouth and his tongue hangs dumbly.

Ashoka holds the glowing jewel and moves it back and forth so the light blazes upon the pale flesh.

The limbs, dead and bloodless, twitch.

Ashoka gazes intently at the dead man.

The dead man’s eyes open and gaze back.