Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress (8 page)

here are we going, Ash?” asked Lucky.

“Away.”

Lucky looked back across the flat, featureless landscape they’d spent the night crossing and Ash knew what she was thinking: their uncle and aunt were dead back there.

“We had to leave them, Lucks.” Even as he said it, his chest tightened;
abandon
them, more like. But as the wind moaned through the stiff branches of the trees, Ash thought he heard the flapping of giant wings and glanced skyward, afraid. A vulture? Jat? He searched the star-blazed sky, but saw nothing. “We need to keep moving.”

Lucky dropped to the ground. “I want Auntie Anita back. And Uncle Vik.”

“I know.”

Ash checked for the sadhu. The old man waited in front of them on a shallow ridge, leaning on his staff, but eyes focused on what lay on the horizon.

Ash knelt down beside his sister. What could he say? The golden arrowhead was heavy in his pocket, the edges biting into his thigh. Had he brought this on them?

The guilt wrapped heavy round his heart, a dragging weight that wanted to pull him to the ground, to make him lie in the dirt and give up.

But not yet, not yet
.

He wouldn’t give up while Lucky was counting on him. He had to look after her. Had to get them both home. That was what he focused on to lift him back up, to stop him from despairing.

Ash smiled down at her. “Your hair’s a mess.” He dragged his fingers through the dusty tangles.

Lucky blinked at him through red and puffy eyes. She wiped her nose. “What are we going to do?”

“Keep moving.” Ash fought back his own tears. “C’mon. Those monsters might still be after us.”

Lucky turned white. Her big frightened eyes stared hard at Ash and she bit her lip. “OK, Ash.”

He helped her up. The sadhu waited until they were level with him.

“We will find somewhere safe,” he said.

“We need to go to the police,” said Ash. Savage and his monsters were murderers. The police had to know. He’d make sure Savage went to prison for a million years.

“That will do no good. Men like Savage own the police.”

“Then what? Just hide?” said Ash. “What about my uncle and aunt?”

“What do you want, boy?”

Wasn’t it obvious? “I want Savage to pay.” A black pain stabbed through him, one of anger, of hate. “Revenge.”

“Revenge is a dark path.”

“I don’t care. We’re just going to let Savage get away with this?”

“We will deal with Savage.” The sadhu glanced at Lucky. “But first look to the living. To those who still need you.”

Yes, he was right. Who was he kidding anyway? He wasn’t a fighter.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I am called Rishi.” He raised his eyebrows. “And your name?”

“Ash. It’s short for Ashoka.” His dad had named him after the first Indian emperor. Some name to live up to. It was like being called Napoleon.

“A hero’s name.”

Ash laughed bitterly. “I’m not a hero.” A hero would have saved his aunt and uncle. A hero wouldn’t be snivelling with fear.

Rishi put his hand on Ash’s chin, turning it up so they were eye to eye. “Then we will make you one, Ashoka,” he said as he released him. “And your name, little daughter?”

“Lakshmi. But everyone calls me Lucky.”

“Come then.”

Ash and Lucky took a few steps up the shallow ridge.

The Ganges river lay before them. On the far bank rose Varanasi, ethereal as it floated upon a pale mist. Over the still air came the distant sounds of temple bells. Rishi wandered down to the river’s edge, then squatted on his haunches, resting his staff across his shoulder. He glanced up at the gently brightening sky, still dark but tinged with pale lavender in the east. “We must get back to Varanasi. I have friends there who will help us.”

“What sort of friends?” Ash asked. “Someone who can stop Savage? How?”

“With training, with knowledge, with the aastra,” said Rishi. “We will find a way to defeat Savage, and discover why he is so eager to get his hands on it. That Savage is searching for an aastra disturbs me greatly.”

Ash dropped on to the sandy mud, sinking his head into his hands. He didn’t want any of this. The world was mad. He closed his eyes but couldn’t stop the tears from falling. Lucky sat down beside him and put her small hand on his shoulder.

“I just want to go home,” Ash whispered.

“Home?” asked Rishi.

“London. This sort of thing would never happen in London.”

“It happens everywhere, Ashoka. Demons, and creatures far worse, lurk in the shadows all over the world. But wherever there is such evil, there are also those who oppose it. Even in London.”

“In London? Who?”

“An ancient order of knights. Warriors dedicated to fighting what they call the Unholy. They are the—”

“Rishi! Master!”

A voice cried out from the thick morning fog. Ash took hold of Lucky’s hand.

Rishi pointed at a dark shadow floating on the river. “There.” He waved his stick and a boat appeared. Nets hung along its sides, and a wiry-looking fisherman, dressed only in a dirty white loincloth, waved back.

Varanasi at dawn. Gossamer mist rose off the waters as the heat descended. The sun, just a red disc on the horizon, peered through the grey haze and promised another baking day.

It was a long, slow journey back up-river. Lucky slept, but Ash couldn’t. Each splash of the oar or bird cry had him twitching, staring everywhere, clutching the boat’s old wooden frame with stiff fingers. His heart raced, expecting the monsters to burst out of the water or swoop down at any moment. Rishi, the sadhu, just sat cross-legged, staff across his lap, eyes closed.

What could they do? If he could just call Dad, tell him what had happened, he’d come and sort it out. If the Indian police couldn’t touch Savage, the English police could. Things were normal in England. He just wanted to be back there. The pain of longing twisted his guts. Home. That was all that mattered now.

A dog barked as they approached the southern edge of the city. Two women stood knee-deep in the water, washing clothes. One attacked a shirt with a brick-sized lump of soap while another thrashed a rolled-up sheet against a stone slab, knocking out all the dirt. The dog, skinny and small, barked again, wanting attention, wanting a few scraps. One woman flicked the shirt at it, showering its face with soapy water, and it ran off. She laughed and got back to work.

His life had changed so much in the last twelve hours but for the rest of the world, it was another normal day. Demons didn’t exist in their lives.

Ash couldn’t get Savage out of his mind. He pulled out the aastra from his pocket. “Savage wanted this, didn’t he? Could I use it against him?”

“Be careful with that.” Rishi spoke quietly. “It was forged by a god.”

“This?” He turned the arrowhead over in his palm. “How does it work? Just fire it at Savage?”

“No, it has no power yet,” said the sadhu. “An aastra must be awakened, charged with energy. You must make an offering to the god who made it and then they will fill it with their power.”

“What sort of offering?”

“Each aastra is attuned to the power of the one who made it. One constructed by Agni, the god of fire, would have powers over that element. Place it in a fire, and the energy from the flames would be absorbed by the aastra. The greater the fire, the more powerful the aastra would become. You would be able to create infernos, burn entire buildings with a glance, immolate armies and, with a snap of your fingers, extinguish the fiercest firestorms.” Rishi looked down at the water. “Or if it was made by the river goddess Ganga, you would immerse it in water, and it would take the energy of the water itself.” He scratched his beard. “And this one. Who gave it to you?”

No one. He found it. In a buried chamber he wished he’d never entered. He wished he’d stayed in the pit and waited. Not gone through the wall and stolen the arrow from the hand of the statue.

“Rama was holding it.”

“That narrows it down. Rama was a great hero. He would have been armed with only the most powerful of aastras.”

“So what does this do?” How could he use it to beat Savage and his rakshasas?

“Rama was a warrior, so what else could it be? It is a death bringer.”

“Aren’t all weapons?”

“All other weapons are mere shadows of what you hold in your hands.”

He didn’t know much about the gods, he’d never taken them seriously. Sure, he went to temple but that was just going through the motions. This was
real
. Brahma. Vishnu. Shiva. Ganesha. Yama. Durga. The list of Hindu gods was endless.

“You said if the aastra was made by the river goddess, water would awaken it,” said Ash. “So, if I dip it in here, I’ll be able to command the rivers, right?” He held the golden arrowhead over the edge of the boat. If this worked, he’d summon up a tidal wave to drown the Savage Fortress and everyone in it.

“Just don’t drop it,” warned Rishi.

Arrowhead in his fist, Ash put his hand under the water. And waited.

“How do you feel?” asked Rishi.

“Nothing.” Not a tingle. No sudden surge of super-strength. No feeling that he’d be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

“So it is not an aastra of the goddess Ganga,” said Rishi. “How did Rama awaken his aastra, the Vishnu-aastra?” asked
Ash. Maybe there was a connection between that aastra Rama had fired at Ravana and this golden one.

“He pledged his crown to Vishnu.”

Ash frowned. “But didn’t he become king?”

“Yes, a ruler with no will of his own. Everything he did was for the good of his people. That was why Rama is considered the perfect king. He kept nothing for himself. Not even Sita.”

“Sita? His wife?” Ash knew the story. The entire war between Rama and the demon king was over Sita. Ravana had fallen in love with Rama’s wife and kidnapped her, keeping her imprisoned in his kingdom of Lanka. “Didn’t he get her back?”

Rishi looked sadly into the waters. “Not for long. You see, she’d been Ravana’s prisoner for years and people questioned her faithfulness. Had she succumbed to Ravana’s advances? The rumours never died down and if a king does not have the respect of his subjects, he has nothing. So Rama banished his own wife. After all he had done, all he’d suffered, after the millions who’d died, he could not have her. That was the price he paid for his crown. The price he paid to awaken the Vishnu-aastra. He gained a kingdom, but Rama himself lost everything dear to him.”

Ash looked at the golden arrowhead. Rama lost the woman he loved, yet he knew the golden arrowhead’s price was even higher. Suddenly it felt cold and heavy in his palm. He’d only had the thing a few hours and two people had already died. “You take it.”

Rishi gazed at the arrowhead long and hard. His fingers tightened round the staff so the wood creaked under the strain. “I am a priest. I am not permitted to bear weapons.”

Ash tucked it away.

On the bank, pilgrims came down the
ghats
– the stone steps that ran the entire length of Varanasi and offered easy access to the riverside. People emerged from the temples, ashrams and old palaces that lined the bank. The grand buildings had seen better days, better centuries, but that was India. The ancient never died. The palace walls bore adverts about local cafés or restaurants, or some doctor or other service. One building of pink stone had been covered with garish portraits of the gods. Krishna, blue-skinned and playing the flute. Elephant-headed Ganesha. And Shiva, his arms spread out and foot raised, poised to dance.

Rishi followed Ash’s gaze. “Music would awaken an aastra
of Krishna’s; the more beautiful the tune, the greater would be the power bestowed to it. Dancing would count as an offering to Shiva.”

“Let’s hope it’s not one of Shiva’s then,” Ash said. “I dance like a three-legged hippo.” Then he caught sight of another figure, lurking in a shadow. “And her?”

There in the corner of the building stood a stone statue, ten feet tall and partially hidden, as though it was a thing best suited to darkness. The body was that of an emaciated skeleton, a woman, her black skin tightly stretched so each rib stood out against it. Round her neck dangled a skull necklace, and her skirt was made of severed arms.

“The goddess Kali,” said Rishi. “What pleases her most is death.”

Kali’s ten arms were outspread, almost all of them carrying a weapon: a spear, sword, axe, noose, an immense bow and a sheaf of long arrows. In one hand she grasped a decapitated head by its hair and hideous rakshasas writhed in terror beneath her feet. She glared, her red tongue hanging out, hungry for blood. Ash felt her gaze upon him as they drifted past.

Men drew cups of water from the river, pouring libations to the gods, while others laid garlands of flowers upon its
surface. Further along Ash watched an old man dive under again and again, washing away his sins.

Smoke rose out of a metre-high pile of ash and charred logs on the banks of the river. Ash peered at the crumbling stack. That was what all pilgrims strived for – to die here and be cremated on the banks of the Ganges.

Among the smouldering logs were the remains of a person. Had some family just left after cremating their father? Grandmother?