Главная страница | Сказки | Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress

Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress
Sarwat Chadda


Breathtaking action adventure for boys of 8-12. Ash Mistry, reluctant hero, faces ancient demons… and comes into an astonishing, magical inheritance.Varanasi: holy city of the Ganges.In this land of ancient temples, incense and snake charmers…Where the monsters and heroes of the past come to life…One slightly geeky boy from our time…IS GOING TO KICK SOME DEMON ASS.Ash Mistry hates India. Which is a problem since his uncle has brought him and his annoying younger sister Lucky there to take up a dream job with the mysterious Lord Savage. But Ash immediately suspects something is very wrong with the eccentric millionaire. Soon, Ash finds himself in a desperate battle to stop Savage's masterplan – the opening of the Iron Gates that have kept Ravana, the demon king, at bay for four millennia…















Dedication


For my mother


Epigraph

Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.

The Bhagavad Gita




Contents


Cover (#ulink_914fcd2b-eff5-510b-b80e-cca0ae4af088)

Title Page (#litres_trial_promo)

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Acknowledgements

Other Books by Sarwat Chadda

Copyright

About the Publisher













hat is so not a cobra,” said Ash. It couldn’t be. Weren’t cobras endangered? You couldn’t have them as pets, not even here in India.

“That so totally is a cobra. Look,” said his sister, Lucky.

Ash leaned closer to the snake. It swayed in front of him, gently gliding back and forth in tempo with the snake charmer’s flute music. The scales, oily green and black, shone in the intense sunlight. It blinked slowly, watching Ash with its bright emerald eyes.

“Trust me, Lucks,” said Ash. “That is not a cobra.”

The snake revealed its hood.

It was, totally, a cobra.

“Told you,” she said.

If there was anything worse than a smug sister it was a smug sister three years younger than you.

“What I meant was, of course it’s a cobra, but not a real cobra,” replied Ash, determined his sister wasn’t going to win this argument. “It’s been defanged. They all are. Hardly a cobra at all. More like a worm with scales.”

Almost as though it had been following the conversation, the cobra hissed loudly and revealed a pair of long, needle-sharp ivory fangs.

Lucky waved at it.

“I wouldn’t do that if—”

The cobra darted at Lucky and before Ash knew it he’d jumped between them. The snake’s mouth widened and he stared at the two crystal drops of venom hanging off its fangs.

“Parvati!” snapped the snake charmer. The cobra stopped a few centimetres from Ash’s neck.

Whoa.

The snake charmer tapped the basket with his flute and the cobra, after giving Ash one last look, curled itself back into it and the lid went on.

Ash started breathing again. He looked at Lucky. “You OK?”

She nodded.

“See that? I just saved your life,” Ash said. “I practically hurled myself between you and that incredibly poisonous snake. Epically brave.” And, now the heart palpitations had subsided, epically stupid. But protecting his little sister was his duty in the same way hers was to cause as much trouble as possible.

The charmer hopped to his feet. He was ancient and bow-legged, a bundle of bones wrapped in wrinkled ash-coated dark skin and a saffron loincloth. His only possessions, apart from the snake and his flute, were a shoulder bag made from sackcloth and a long bamboo walking stick. Serpentine dreadlocks hung down to his waist.

A sadhu, a holy man. There were thousands of them in Varanasi. It was India’s holiest city, built on the banks of the sacred Ganges river. Hindu legend says that if you die here you get instant access to Heaven with no worries about the religious cycles of reincarnation and rebirth. That meant the streets were cluttered with old people, just waiting to live up to the famous saying: See Varanasi and die.

The entire city was a living museum with an ancient temple or some dilapidated palace on every street. Ash was mad on history. He loved nothing better than exploring castles, going to museums and checking out the weapons displays. The first day had been an amazing adventure, exploring the dingy alleys and winding lanes, experiencing the intense, almost overwhelming life of India first-hand.

But now?

Now, two weeks into their trip, Ash felt suffocated by the oppressive heat, the stench, the crowds and the touts and the death.

The narrow streets shimmered in the July heat. Cars, rickshaws, beggars, merchants, pilgrims and holy men jammed the lanes and footpaths. A scooter bounced past, its horn crying out like a distressed duck, swerving violently as it dodged round a malnourished-looking cow that had decided to take an afternoon nap in the middle of the road.

“Where is that car?” swore Ash’s uncle, Vik. Uncle Vik gazed up and down the crowded road, trying to spot the taxi they’d hired to take them to the party. Unfolding a white handkerchief from his breast pocket, he wiped the sweat off his shiny bald head.

“There’s a cow blocking the road,” said Ash. “It’s just sitting there with its tongue up its nose.”

The cow’s skin hung off huge shovel-sized hip bones and shoulder-blades. One horn was missing. It sat serene and relaxed while all around it scooters, cars and irate motorists yelled and swore.

Uncle Vik huffed loudly. “This is very bad. We will be late.”

“Why can’t I just go back to the house?” Ash asked. “I don’t see why I have to go to some boring party.”

His aunt, Anita, sighed. She’d put on her best sari and was struggling to keep it dust free. “Lord Savage is a most important gentleman,” she said. “We have been invited especially.”

Lord Savage was a rich English aristocrat who sponsored archaeological digs all over India, all over the world, in fact. Uncle Vik lectured on ancient Indian history at Varanasi University, so sooner or later their paths were going to cross. Working on one of Savage’s projects could do wonders for Uncle Vik’s career.

“This is your heritage too, nephew.” His uncle’s deep brown eyes shone as he put his hand on Ash’s shoulder. “This is where we come from.”

“I come from West Dulwich, London,” Ash answered.

“Why can’t you just try and enjoy your time here, like Lucky?”

His sister was waving at the cow, trying to get some reaction. It gave her an imperious snort.

“She’s enjoying it because she’s only ten, and she’s stupid.”

“I am not stupid!” Lucky poked her elbow into his ribs.

“Oh, was that meant to hurt?” said Ash. “I didn’t notice.”

“That’s because you’re so fat.”

“I am not fat!” fumed Ash.

“For God’s sake, just stop it, both of you,” said Aunt Anita. “It’s too hot.”

Uncle Vik folded his handkerchief away. “I thought coming to India was your idea, Ash.”

Ash shut up. His uncle was right.

Ash’s love for history and ancient culture had come from his uncle. They’d never met face to face until this year, flights were prohibitively expensive for a man on a teacher’s salary, but ever since Ash could remember there’d been letters, books, photos and emails from Uncle Vik telling him all the grand tales of India’s past. Stories of maharajahs, of tiger hunts and of legendary wars between heroes and terrible demons. Ash’s room back home was full of books on Indian weaponry and myths, most of them presents from his uncle.

So when the summer holidays had come round and his parents, both of whom worked full time, had suggested he and Lucks go over and visit their relatives, Ash had practically packed his bags there and then.

But that had been before the infernal heat, the flies and the cobras.

How was he going to survive another four weeks here?

“There he is. At last.” Vik pointed along the road. Somewhere in the hazy heat Ash spotted an old black and yellow Ambassador taxi.

But the car couldn’t move. The cow had brought the traffic to a complete stand-still. A couple of men pulled at the rope round its neck, but the white beast remained stubbornly immobile.

The old man, the snake charmer, ambled up to them, hands cupped.

Uncle Vik handed him a ten-rupee note. “You can have a hundred if you get that cow moving.”

The sadhu nodded his thanks and strolled off towards the cow.

“What’s he doing?” said Lucky.

The sadhu swished his bamboo stick back and forth in front of the beast. It blinked, then began to sway its head side to side, watching the stick as it swung wider and wider.

Then he smacked the cow’s nose.

The cow bellowed and jumped to its feet. The sadhu smacked it again and the beast stumbled backwards. Seconds later engines started up, horns honked and the traffic got moving.

The sadhu returned, grinning broadly.

Vik prodded Ash and put a hundred-rupee note in his hand. “Give it to him, quickly.”

Ash frowned, but passed the note over. Their eyes met and Ash froze. Beneath the thick bushy eyebrows the old man’s eyes were startling blue.

He drew the note from Ash’s stiff fingers.

Ash looked back as they climbed into the taxi and saw the old man staring back at him, staff resting on his shoulder. Then the crowds spilled on to the now open street and the sadhu disappeared.



Ten minutes later they were out of the city and rolling along the dusty country road. Ash closed his eyes, leaned out of the window and let the dry breeze wash over his face. The heat still hung over the arid countryside, but the sun would be gone in an hour and he’d have a little relief from the otherwise inescapable furnace-hot temperatures.

Right now his mates would be out and about in London. If he were there, he, Akbar and Sean would hook up their computers for all-day sessions – all week, in fact. They’d spent last summer holed up in Sean’s basement, which, thanks to his dad who was head of IT at some bank, was a gamer’s paradise.

All day gaming sessions. McDonald’s. Going down to the multiplex on Friday. These were the best things in life.

Oh, and Gemma. Gemma was a new addition to the list.

Ash had to face it, India wasn’t for him. The sooner this trip was over, the better. It wasn’t worth all the sweat and heat and flies.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. He did think the castles were cool. England did castles, but not like India did castles. India’s castles could have come straight out of The Lord of the Rings. They were vast and intricate. Halls filled with statues and fountains and gardens of wandering peacocks. The fortresses weren’t built for horses, but elephants. India didn’t do small, intimate and quiet. From the castles through to the palaces, and the Himalayas to the north and the Thar Desert to the west, India was all big-screen cinema, trumpets and deafening noise.

“You OK?” Ash asked Lucky. She looked pale. “Sit here,” he said, and swapped places with her so she could sit next to the window and get some fresh air. She hadn’t adjusted to the food the way he had and all this jumping up and down surely wasn’t helping her digestion.

The sun left a bloody smear across the sky as it sank below the horizon. Their driver, Eddie Singh, took them off the main road and they bounced down a winding track. The car seemed to have a supernatural knack for finding the largest rocks and deepest pot-holes. The old Ambassador wasn’t designed for off-road. It barely managed on-road.

“Taxi service and full body massage, no extra charge,” laughed Eddie as he wrestled with the steering wheel.

“Is this really necessary?” asked Auntie Anita, struggling to keep her sari in place. “I thought the main road led to the bridge.”

“The bridge is down. Loose foundations or something,” said Vik. “Lord Savage has made arrangements.”

“What arrangements?” asked Ash.

“There.” Lucky pointed ahead.

Cars lined the river’s edge, their drivers chatting and smoking. A woman in a white cotton suit directed guests into a flotilla of rowing boats, tied up along a rickety wooden platform on the bank. A steady stream of guests were being rowed to the opposite bank while boys ran back and forth with lanterns. Eddie parked up beside the other cars.

Dammit, that hurts. Ash stretched as he got out, uncurling his spine and hoping no permanent damage had been done. His bum felt as if the seat springs had left deep impressions in both buttocks.

Brittle leaves rustled in a nearby bush and something moved within it. Lucky grabbed Ash’s sleeve as a scrawny vulture, stringy red intestine trailing out of its beak, raised its head out of the bush to watch them. It twisted its neck back and forth and the guts tore free.

Ash stepped closer to inspect the feast. A dead water buffalo lay on the muddy bank, its hind legs gone. Its eyes were open and big, shiny and black. The vulture dipped its beak into the socket and drew out the plump ball. Ash thought he heard it pop as the vulture swallowed.

“That is totally pukey,” Lucky said, her nose wrinkling.

“Professor Mistry?”

The woman in white approached them, smiling in greeting. She was Caucasian and very tanned, and despite the oncoming darkness, she still wore a pair of sleek sunglasses. Her thick unkempt blonde-streaked hair was loosely held in place with ivory pins. She pressed her palms together. “Namaste. I’m Jackie, Lord Savage’s personal assistant.” Her accent was English, and posh.

“Vikram Mistry, at your service.” He took Aunt Anita’s hand. “And this is my wife.”

“Namaste, Mrs Mistry,” said Jackie.

“Call me Anita,” she replied, smoothing out the creases in her silk sari. The cloth was a shimmering pearly silver embroidered with gold. She only wore it for special occasions, like visiting rich aristocrats.

“What a perfectly beautiful child,” said Jackie, catching a glimpse of Lucky. She knelt down and stroked Lucky’s cheek with a long nail, her smile widening. “Why, you look good enough to eat.”

Lucky cringed and took a step behind Ash. Jackie’s smile thinned, then she slowly straightened up and faced Uncle Vik.

“Lord Savage is very keen to meet you,” Jackie said. “He’s a great admirer of your work.”

“I am flattered.”

Jackie gestured at the boats. “I’m so sorry about this, but I hope you’ll be OK. There’ve been a lot of heavy trucks crossing back and forth because of the excavations. This morning one of them went over the side. A bad business.” She snapped her fingers and a local boy ran up bearing a kerosene lantern. “The bridge will be out a while for repairs.”

“Excavations?” asked Vik. “I didn’t realise there were any digs in Varanasi.”

“In Varanasi and elsewhere,” said Jackie. “The Savage family have been staunch supporters of Indian archaeology for many centuries. Lord Savage’s weapons collection is one of the finest in the world.”

Weapons collection? thought Ash. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be a total loss.

“Is this why Lord Savage wants to meet me?” his uncle asked.

“All in good time, Professor.”

“What happened there?” said Ash, pointing at the half-devoured buffalo.

“Marsh crocodile. The river has a few,” said Jackie. “Not the place for a dip.”

Ash couldn’t help but notice how her gaze lingered on the dead buffalo. And was she licking her lips? The woman was pure freak show. That’s probably what happened to Brits if you stayed out here too long.

Jackie led them to the pier, a rickety row of mouldering planks held together by near-rotten rope. The only thing solid about it was the pair of stone pillars that stood at the end, each carved in the shape of an elephant. A boat and boatman waited for them.

The boat looked like one of the punts Ash had been in during a day trip to Cambridge; shallow and low in the water. Not very crocodile-proof.

“This does not look entirely safe,” said Ash. “Where are the life-jackets?”

Aunt Anita shook her head. “Just get in the boat.” It wobbled as she stepped in. “And keep your fingers out of the water.”

The boatman pushed them off with his oar and they drifted away from the bank. Ash peered back at the scattered vehicles until their shining headlamps dwindled to mere spots in the darkness.

“Look!” Lucky jumped to her feet and the boat rocked perilously.

“Sit down!” snapped Aunt Anita.

A path of lanterns shone along the wide stone steps that lined the opposite bank. A cliff-like mass stood on the riverside, rising high straight out of the water. Torches flared, one by one, along its battlement walls. Polished marble and the soft egg-curve shape of a roof glistened in the torchlight. Vines and climbers were as much part of the immense walls as the marble and sandstone. Black glass sparkled like ebony diamonds from the balcony windows.

Uncle Vik had told them the building had once belonged to the maharajah of Varanasi, but had been abandoned and left to rot for decades. Now the monolithic palace would be grander than ever. It had a new owner and a new name.

The Savage Fortress.



The torch-lit battlements loomed over their boat as it drifted towards the bank. Apart from the fortress, the land was empty of any other buildings or life. It was as if the Savage Fortress had devoured everything, leaving only dried-out streams, a few stunted trees and, in the distance, what looked like a small shanty town of tents and crude hovels. Lorries lined the road and Ash could see a few big bulldozers, presumably from the excavations Jackie had mentioned.

“Wonder what’s out there,” said Vik. He wiped his glasses and cast a critical eye over the wide field. “Whatever he’s doing, he’s serious about it.”

The boat touched the broad steps that led to the water gate. As they ascended the steps Ash spotted a large stone shield over the main entrance. It was carved with three bulbous flowers and a pair of crossed swords.

“What’s that?” he asked. “Are they thistles?”

Uncle Vik adjusted his glasses. “No, poppies. The Savage family made its first fortune in the Opium Wars with China.”

“And the motto?” Ash read the scroll under the shield. “Ex dolor adveho opulentia?”

“Through misery comes profit.”

Nice.

They clambered up the steep, damp passageway and soon emerged into a crowded courtyard, decorated for a party. Servants, dressed in white and wearing golden turbans and sashes, carried silver trays of drinks and food among a field of colour. Silken pavilions dotted the large grass-covered square.

There were maybe a hundred guests, and soon Ash’s uncle and aunt lost themselves in the crowd. Lucky spotted a gang of younger kids and ran off to play.

Ash decided to explore.

Classical Indian music played from one of the hidden galleries. The dream-like sound suited the palace. Marble statues dotted the corners of the courtyard and the walls bore vast carvings of heroes and monsters, which Ash recognised as images from Indian mythology. One wall was filled with a battle scene taken from the epic tale of the Ramayana, probably the most famous of Indian legends and Ash’s favourite.

A giant golden warrior dominated the picture, his eyes blazing with fury, his mouth open in a silent roar of rage. He swung a pair of massive swords, reaping men left and right.

All around him lay corpses, and behind him stood his army of demons: hideous human-animal hybrids with scales or fur-covered bodies, tails or wings.

It was Ravana, the demon king.

To the far left of the wall, almost off it, was a warrior with his bow raised and an arrow pointed at Ravana. The artist had painted the arrow with obvious care, surrounding it with flames and inlaying its centre with gold leaf. This wasn’t just any arrow. It was an aastra, a weapon charged with the power of a god.

The scene caught the demon king’s last moment. Any second now the arrow, the aastra, would be launched and penetrate his heart, shattering him. And only one hero could shoot it: the hero Rama.

“What do you think?” said a voice from behind him.

A figure stepped out of the shadows and approached Ash.

“Namaste,” he said.

English for sure, the man wore a fine white linen suit with a pale silk shirt, so the only points of colour were his blue eyes, two brilliant chips of the coldest ice. Ash caught his breath as the man came into the glow of a nearby forest of candles.

It was as though his face had been shattered, then crudely recast. Deep irregular grooves covered his skin, which shone with waxy transparency, revealing a fine network of veins beneath. Limp clumps of brittle white hair hung from his liver-spotted scalp.

His gloved hand tightened round the silver tiger-headed handle of his cane. The ruby eyes of the beast sparkled as they watched Ash. The man inclined his head.

“I am Alexander Savage.”













sh Mistry,” Ash said.

“Beautiful, isn’t he?” said Savage. He drew his fingers over the outline of the demon king’s face. “Even with his destruction at hand, defiant to the last.”

“He’s horrific.” Ash wasn’t sure if he was talking about the gruesome frieze or Savage himself.

“You think so? Why?”

“He was the demon king. He threatened the entire world.”

“And the world is such a pleasant place now, is it?”

Ash looked again at the glaring eyes of Ravana. The face seemed alive, a mask of arrogant fury and pure hate. “At least it’s not a hell. That’s what Ravana wanted, a world fit for demons.”

Savage looked at him inquisitively, tapping his walking stick against the flagstone. “Well said, lad, well said.”

A woman broke from the crowd and joined them. Dressed in a white silk sari embroidered with spider webs she towered above Ash like a willowy goddess, but close up he saw that the make-up had been laid on heavy; her face was smooth and rigid from a layer of powder, as lifeless as a mannequin’s, her jet-black hair arranged in eight, curving tresses. The woman’s gaze paused on him and there was a flicker of a condescending smile. Ash saw himself reflected in her big, wrap-around sunglasses. He looked small and insignificant.

“Sir, the board of directors are here,” she said.

“It’s been interesting talking with you,” he said to Ash. “Enjoy the party.” He took the woman’s hand and entered the gathering. But even as the sea of people began to swirl and circle around him, Savage briefly looked back at Ash, his smile locked rigidly in place.

“Where’s your sister?” Anita appeared beside him.

“She’s probably just gone off to the loo.”

Everyone got some stomach problems when they hit India, the “Delhi Belly” – it was inevitable. Well, everyone but Ash. Vik had joked that Ash could do with a dose as he could afford to lose a few kilos. But Ash wasn’t fat. He was just… well-covered.

Anita glanced at Vik, who was gesturing at her. He was talking to Savage, and clearly needed her.

Ash sighed. “I’ll find Lucky.”

It was weird, half the time they were winding one another up, but when it came down to it, he and his sister were close. True, they didn’t play much together any more – he was thirteen, after all – but he had read her all the Harry Potters when she’d been younger. He was the eldest and it was his job to look after his little sister. It was the Indian way.

Anita’s wrinkled brow flattened and smoothed. She smiled at him and ruffled his hair. “You are a good boy.”

Ash stopped one of the waiters and asked him where the toilets were. The guy, trying to keep a tray of martinis from spilling, just waved over his shoulder, then hurried off.

Ash wandered towards the main building and peered through the half-open doors that led into a dimly lit hallway.

“Lucks?” His voice vanished into the marble-clad hall, bouncing between the walls until it was swallowed by the darkness. Ash proceeded in.

Light shone from within an ancient bronze pendant lantern high above him, its coloured glass walls casting a jigsaw of amber, red and green over the peeling and broken plaster. Mounted on opposite walls were two huge mirrors with elaborate gilt frames. Their backing silver had long since tarnished to black, so the reflections were tainted, dark and faint, like shadowy ghosts.

“Lucks?” Ash’s heart beat rapidly in his chest as he crept among the swaying shadows.

Then he spotted the steps.

Climbing up, Ash soon came to a stout, iron-studded door. He turned the door handle and pushed. “Lucks? You in here?”

Oil lamps flickered, spreading warm orange patches of light along the walls. The room was double height, with row upon row of glass cabinets filling the main floor. The upper floor was a balcony with shelves stuffed with books and scrolls. Ash took a deep breath and went in.

He peered at the nearest shelf – and gasped. Shrunken heads, their eyes and mouths sewn shut, sat serenely dumb, blind and dead within the nearest cabinet. A snake, its skin albino white, floated in a jar beside them, wrapped round and round itself in its yellow liquid. Ash leaned closer.

The snake had a small, utterly human face. A baby’s face. Its mouth was partially open, revealing a pair of tiny fangs.

Beyond creepy. Ash backed away, chilly in spite of the day’s lingering heat. A shiver crept across his skin as he felt the creature’s eyes upon him.

The cabinets were of dark highly polished wood, with rows of drawers beneath them. Ash hooked his fingers through an iron ring and drew one open.

Knives. Claws. Daggers.

Very cool.

He picked out something that looked like a pair of brass knuckles, but had a row of four steel claws jutting out from it. Ash put it over his fingers and admired the deadly spikes. He read the tag. “Bagh nakh”: Tiger claws. This had to be part of Savage’s famous weapons collection.

EXTREMELY cool.

He so wanted the claws, but if he stuffed them in his pocket, they’d tear a hole in his thigh. Reluctantly he put them back and slid the drawer shut.

He wandered around the cabinets, then stopped at a desk that sat in front of a half-open window. He hadn’t seen it from the door since it was behind all the displays. A set of moth-eaten velvet curtains hung on either side of the window, their loose threads fluttering in the desert breeze.

A scroll was unrolled over the red leather desk top. Its edges were burnt black and much of the writing obscured with soot, but Ash recognised some of the symbols. Didn’t Vik have hundreds of scrolls like this littering the house? He was obsessed with translating Harappan, the ancient language of India. Beneath each line of Harappan pictograms there were another two rows of writing. One set comprised rows of vertical dashes and sloping slashes, and the line beneath that was Egyptian hieroglyphs. The scroll was held in place by small bronze statues, one standing on each corner. Ash picked one up.

About ten centimetres tall, the statue was of a long-limbed girl, her arms encased in bracelets. Her chin was up, haughty and proud, with wide almond-shaped eyes. Her hand was on her hip, like she was resting after a dance.

Ash put her down and traced his finger lightly over the thin yellow parchment. It felt like the softest leather, old and wrinkled. Then he noticed that the parchment was marked with dark spots, old blemishes like freckles.

Freckles?

Ash froze. He stared at the scroll and suddenly noticed the minute wrinkles and almost invisible crosshatching. He turned his hand over in the flickering firelight, looking at the pattern of lines over the knuckles and fingers.

The scroll was made of human skin.

Footsteps tapped just outside the door. The handle turned and the hinges creaked. Ash darted behind the curtain.

I’m so busted. But only if they found him. Ash forced himself to stand utterly still and breathe in the smallest, quietest sips.

“Thank you for accepting my invitation at such short notice, Professor Mistry.”

I’m beyond busted. Way beyond.

Ash could picture the rest of his life. Grounded for ever. Before leaving England his dad had warned him to be on his best behaviour, and breaking and entering did not fall under the heading of ‘best behaviour’, no matter how he tried to spin it. But in spite of himself, he wanted to know why his uncle was here. Ash peeked through the gap in the heavy drape.

Uncle Vik entered alongside Savage and someone else. This new guy was a giant, as wide as the doorway. His skin was tough and weathered, deeply grooved like bark, or scales. He was dressed in the same white linen as Savage’s servants, but the suit strained over his hugely muscular body. His arms were thicker than Ash’s waist, and Ash wasn’t slim. A pair of large sunglasses hid his eyes.

“I must admit,” said Uncle Vik, “your invite was a surprise. I wasn’t aware you knew of my work.”

“Few people have your dedication to ancient Indian history.”

The big man went to a cabinet and poured out two big tumblers of whisky.

Savage picked up the dancing girl statue and gave it to Uncle Vik. “What do you think?”

Uncle Vik stared at it like he’d just been given the Holy Grail. “Is this authentic?”

“Found at the new site, out in Rajasthan.” Savage stepped away from his desk and put his hand on Uncle Vik’s shoulder, leading him around the desk. Ash’s uncle fumbled in his breast pocket for his glasses. He leaned over the scroll, his nose just a few centimetres from the writing.

“As you know, no one has succeeded in translating the Harappan language,” said Savage. “The problem is there’s no Rosetta Stone.”

Rosetta Stone? Oh, yes. Ash remembered being dragged around the British Museum for hours and hours during a school trip last year. The Rosetta Stone was a big black slab with the same message on it in three languages: Egyptian hieroglyphs, Demotic and ancient Greek. At the time the Rosetta Stone had been discovered, no one knew what Egyptian hieroglyphs meant, but because Greek and Demotic were already understood, the historians were able to compare words and translate the hieroglyphs, turning them from a bunch of mysterious symbols into a language. The Stone had been the key to understanding ancient Egypt.

Uncle Vik nodded. “Yes. The only way to translate an unknown language is to have an example of it in another, already-known language. That’s why we know almost nothing about the Harappans. We have so much writing from their culture, but no key to unlock it.”

“Until now,” said Savage. He put his hand down on the scroll. “This is that key. An identical message in Harappan, Sumerian cuneiform, and Old Kingdom Egyptian. And since we know cuneiform and Egyptian…”

“We should be able to translate the Harappan.” Vik stared at the scroll. “My God, you’re right.” He straightened, his face glowing with delight. “Lord Savage, you’ve achieved a miracle.”

“No, Professor Mistry. The miracle will be yours. I would like you to complete the translation.”

Uncle Vik brushed his fingers along the edge of the scroll. “This fire damage is recent. What happened on the dig?”

Ash saw how Savage’s gaze cooled as he and the big guy exchanged a brief look. The Englishman stroked his chin before speaking.

“Trouble at the site,” Savage said. “Are you a superstitious man, Professor?”

“Why?”

“The local villagers believe the site to be home to evil spirits. There have been several attempts to sabotage the excavations.” Savage reached into his jacket and drew out a slip of paper. “Consider my offer.”

Uncle Vik took the slip: a cheque. His eyes widened as he read the figure in the box. Ash squinted – he couldn’t make out the number, but there were a lot of zeroes. A lot.

“You’re joking. I can’t accept this.” Vik shook his head and tried to hand the cheque back. “It’s two million pounds.”

Oh My God.

“I am happy to double it.” Savage opened his fountain pen.

“No. No.” Uncle Vik put his hand on the desk to steady himself.

“We will change the world with this knowledge, Professor Mistry. The Harappans were a thousand years ahead of their time. They used technologies that weren’t seen again for many centuries. What other knowledge did they have that we’ve lost? The answers are in this scroll,” said Savage. “And I’m willing to pay any price to find them.”

Savage’s eyes shone with desire. A spider of fear crept along Ash’s spine and rested its cold legs against his neck as he watched the Englishman lick his lips. He was telling the truth, and it was terrifying. Savage was a man capable of doing anything to achieve his goal.

“Do we have a deal?” Savage carefully peeled off his glove. Wrinkled skin hung loosely round bone and stringy flesh. It was the hand of a dried-out skeleton. Uncle Vik looked at the hand.

Two million. TWO MILLION. What couldn’t the family do with that sort of cash?

But why did it feel so wrong?

No. Don’t. Ash wanted to cry out but couldn’t. He was frozen. And the look in Savage’s eyes told him that if his uncle refused, Savage would smash his head open with his silver-topped cane.

“A deal.” Uncle Vik took Savage’s hand.

A feral smile spread over Savage’s lips. He put his glove back on. The big man handed out the drinks.

“Thank you, Professor.” He tapped his glass against Uncle Vik’s. “I will arrange for all the paperwork to be brought here.”

Uncle Vik gulped down the whiskey. “You don’t want me out in Rajasthan?”

“No, not yet. The translations refer to some important artefacts buried here in Varanasi.” Savage emptied his glass. “Now, if you would return to the party. I have some business to discuss with Mayar.”

Oh no. How long were they going to stay here? Ash wasn’t sure he could stand still much longer. If he just ran out to Vik, they couldn’t do anything, could they? But before he could act his uncle left, closing the door behind him.

Savage sighed with relief. “The excavations here are going too slowly, Mayar,” he said.

“The men are suspicious. They will not venture near the Seven Queens.”

“I do not pay them to be suspicious. See to it tomorrow.” Savage walked to the window. He rested his hands on the balcony and looked out, standing only a few centimetres from Ash. Ash’s heart beat so loudly he was sure Savage would hear it.

“Why not send him to Rajasthan now?” asked Mayar.

“The work there is nearly complete; the Iron Gates have been found. What I want is the key to open them, and the key, my dear Mayar, is buried here in Varanasi. Once the scrolls have been translated, I’ll know exactly where.” Savage’s fingers traced the grooves that crisscrossed his face. “I’m running out of time.”

“I will encourage the men to greater efforts.”

Ash didn’t like the way Mayar said ‘encourage’. It sounded painful.

“One more thing,” said Savage. “What did I tell you about feeding near the fortress?”

Mayar laughed so deeply that the cabinets rocked. It was a laugh full of cruel mockery.

“Forgive me, Master,” Mayar said, clearly not meaning any of it. “But the bullock was too tasty to waste. Or would you rather we ate among your guests?”

Savage spun round and smashed his cane into the man’s head. Mayar crashed backwards, shattering the nearest cabinet. Ash clamped his hand over his mouth as the shrunken heads and the bottles of monsters tumbled across the floor. As Mayar fell, his sunglasses bounced off, landing at Ash’s feet.

Oh, no. Ash’s feet were visible right at the bottom of the curtain. If they found him now, he was dead. Instinctively he kicked the glasses away.

Oh, please don’t see me. Please.

Mayar was big and muscular, far larger and stronger than Savage. But he grovelled on the floor as Savage pressed his foot against the man’s throat.

“Do not try my patience, rakshasa,” warned Savage.

Rakshasa? Why did that word ring a bell? And why did it make Ash cold?

“I… meant no disrespect, Master.”

Savage lifted his foot. “Get up.” He turned and stepped out the door. “And put on your glasses. I don’t want you scaring the mortals.”

Mortals? What’s going on?

Mayar stood up and straightened himself. He muttered something that probably wasn’t complimentary about Savage, then picked up his glasses with a grunt.

As he raised them to his face, Ash saw his eyes and gasped. They were yellow, and the pupils were a pair of black, vertical slits.

The eyes of a reptile.

Mayar slipped the glasses back in place and the two of them left. Ash suddenly remembered what a rakshasa was. The old Indian legends were full of them, but they had a different name in English.

It was demon.













sh stayed paralysed behind the curtain. The formaldehyde from the broken bottles stank out the room and his eyes watered, but any second now the door would open and Savage – or worse, the rakshasa – would burst back in. No, he couldn’t move; too dangerous.

Ash blinked, staring past the fog that rose from the spilt chemicals. The snake with the baby’s head had unravelled from its jar, and Ash saw it had two tiny arms tucked across its chest.

What was going on? Did that man really have those reptile eyes or had Ash just imagined it? Savage had called him a rakshasa, or had he misheard? Yes, that must be it. This was the real world. Maybe the man had some sort of disease. There was a lot of that in India. He wasn’t a demon. Just a man.

Just a man with crocodile eyes.

Ash slowly drew back the curtain. He held his breath, ears attuned to any noises from outside, then stepped cautiously into the room. He had to get out, right now. There was the door but what if Savage and Mayar were still there?

Ash peered out of the window. Bloody hell, it was a long way down. The stones were coarse and weathered. Easy. But as he leaned over, his head swam with vertigo. Yes, easy if you were a ninja. No way was this going to work.

Think think think!

Ash went to the door. He tried not to panic, tried not to imagine either Mayar or Savage just outside the door, silently waiting for the thief to emerge. Heart thudding, Ash drew it open.

The corridor ahead was dark, silent and empty.

Thank God.

That was bloody close. Ash wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve. Just get out. That’s all. Find the others and get out.

He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the big, dusty mirrors. He looked like death: pale, sweaty and if his eyes had been any wider they’d have fallen out of their sockets.

Then he saw a man standing right behind him.

Ash screamed as he was spun round and thrown against the mirror. Bony fingers tipped with jagged, talon-like nails dug into his cheeks.

“What have we got here?” the man hissed. “A spy? A thief?” Tall and exceedingly gaunt, the man was twice Ash’s height but so hunch-backed they were face to face. A long, hooked nose dominated the thin face and the man was bald, utterly hairless in fact, with no eyebrows. His eyes were obscured behind a pair of round, pink-lensed glasses.

“No, I was just looking for the loo.” Ash pleaded.

The man shook his head and his skin, two sizes too big for his body, flapped under his chin. “You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes.” He pushed his thumb nail into Ash’s face until it pierced the skin. “Those plump, juicy eyes—”

“Hello? Ash? Are you there?” It was Uncle Vik.

The man dropped Ash instantly. Ash ran straight into his uncle’s arms. He’d never been happier to see anyone in his entire life.

The bald man cleared his throat. “The poor boy was lost. I was just bringing him to you, Professor Mistry.”

“Thank you, Mister…?”

“Jat. My name is Jat.”

With his uncle beside him, Ash faced the man who’d grabbed him. Another one of Savage’s bizarre white-suited servants. Ash tightened his hold on Uncle Vik’s hand.

“I really want to go home,” he said.



Of course Lucky was right there, playing catch with a couple of other kids. Ash and his uncle joined his aunt as she chatted with another guest.

“Auntie, I feel really sick.”

It was true. Extremely sick. With fear.

“Very well, Ash.” She broke off from the conversation, her eyes bright. “You won’t believe what’s just happened.”

“I’ve some amazing news, Ash,” said Uncle Vik. His free hand tapped his breast pocket, where he’d put the cheque.

“Great. Let’s go.” Ash glanced back at the hallway door.

Jat was there, talking to the big man, Mayar, and Jackie.

“Freaks,” Ash whispered to himself.

Jackie snapped round and looked straight at him. Had she heard? From way over there? She grinned, then returned to the conversation.

“No. No. Wait.” Uncle Vik carefully drew out the cheque and, using only his forefingers and thumbs, gently unfolded it. “Look what Lord Savage just gave me.”

Up close Ash saw the cheque was from Coutts Bank and a larger size than normal. It would be, wouldn’t it? The Queen banked there. Savage’s handwriting was copperplate, old fashioned and elegant, his signature a gracefully drawn series of narrow loops and swirls.

Ash looked back to the door: the three were gone. “Can’t we talk about this later? I want to go home.”

Uncle Vik waved the slip in front of Ash. “This is two million pounds, nephew. Two million.”

“But why?” Ash glanced around. He couldn’t see them anywhere. But they had to be quick. “It’s not right, is it? He could employ a whole university with that. Why just you?”

“He needs my expertise. You don’t understand, Ash. There are some translations that he wants done and I’m the only one who can do them. We’ll be making history.”

“A man just gives you two million quid. Don’t you think that’s strange?” Ash checked over his shoulder, but none of Savage’s white-suited henchmen, or the man himself, were near. “Savage is a freak. He surrounds himself with freaks. Give the money back, Uncle.”

“Lord Savage is an… unusual man.” Vik took off his glasses and turned them over, looking at them. “But his reputation, Ash, his reputation is second to none.”

“He’s a freak. Are you blind or just stupid?” Ash shouted it out and a few guests turned his way. He wanted to shake some sense into his uncle.

Aunt Anita glowered at Ash. “Ashoka Mistry, how dare you speak to your uncle like that.”

Ash was angry, and scared. He looked up at his uncle. “That’s not what I meant.” But it was too late, he’d struck a nerve and saw the hurt in his uncle’s eyes.

“You don’t understand, Ash. This is a golden opportunity for me to prove myself.” Uncle Vik nodded as if he was accepting Ash’s apology, but he wasn’t really listening. “Don’t you think we all deserve some recognition? Some small proof that our lives meant something?”

Ash looked down at his Converse, unable to meet his uncle’s gaze.

“My dad thinks a lot of you,” said Lucky, taking her uncle’s hand. “He’s always talking about you and what you did for him.”

Uncle Vik cleared his throat. “Lord Savage wants me to start immediately. He’ll have our belongings transferred here. Everything will be taken care of.”

“Here?” gasped Ash.

Aunt Anita glared at Ash. She certainly hadn’t forgiven him for insulting Uncle Vik. “And what exactly is wrong with that?”

“I… I just wanted to stay in Varanasi.”

“You hate Varanasi.”

“No. No, I don’t.” He had to think quickly. Tell them the truth? That Savage employs demons? No. Lie. “I’m really interested in looking at the temples. And stuff.” Ash smiled at his uncle. “You know, to find out more about my heritage.”

Just keep smiling, Ash. Keep smiling.

Aunt Anita looked at Uncle Vik. Uncle Vik looked back at Ash.

They don’t believe me. Keep smiling.

“All right,” said Uncle Vik, slowly drawing out the word as though testing it. “If you’re that keen—”

“I am. Very keen.”

“It’s not far,” Uncle Vik said to Aunt Anita. “I could just drive out here in the morning. Back for dinner. It’ll be normal office hours.”

“What’s he want you to do, exactly?” asked Aunt Anita.

“Translations. He’s found parallel texts for the Harappan pictograms. Think about it, Anita.” Uncle Vik’s voice was high with passion. “A hundred years ago, no one even knew this civilisation existed. Now we’ll unlock their language and who knows what we’ll find.” His eyes shone. “Plus there’s a big dig out in Rajasthan.”

“Rajasthan? But that’s a thousand miles away,” said Aunt Anita.

“I suppose I might have to go there sooner or later. But he’s got plenty of work for me here first.”

That’s because Savage is looking for something. Something to do with…

“What are the Iron Gates, Uncle?” Ash asked.

Uncle Vik frowned. “No idea. Nothing to do with the Harappans. They were a Bronze Age culture. Iron technology didn’t come along until well after they’d gone. Why?”

Ash shook his head, but said nothing. Savage had said something about opening the Iron Gates. And a key, buried here in Varanasi.

Two archaeological digs. One way out in the desert, the other right here. Rakshasas. Scrolls written on human skin and freaky servants and serpent babies in jars.

What did it all mean?

“Ash, are you sick?” Anita put her hand against his forehead. “You look pale.”

“The boy’s not well,” said Vik. “Perhaps we should go home.”

Ash sighed with relief. He stayed with his aunt and Lucky while Vik said goodbye to the woman in the spider-web sari.



They drove back in silence. Eddie Singh had barely turned on the engine when Lucky fell asleep, her head resting on Anita’s lap.

Ash leaned back into the creaking leather, his eyes closed.

What an insane evening. He just wanted to get back and leave Savage, his strange henchmen and tales of Harappans all behind him.

“What do you think?” whispered Uncle Vik. “Do you think the boy is right?”

Ash opened one eye, just a slit.

Uncle Vik unfolded the cheque and held it out to Aunt Anita. She peered at it, but seemed afraid to touch it.

“I don’t know, Vikram,” she said. “It is a lot of money.”

“I’m tired of being poor, Anita,” said Uncle Vik. “Tired of accepting charity from my younger brother. Tired of all the hard work I’ve done and tired of having nothing to show for it.”

Aunt Anita touched her husband’s hand. “Sanjay loves you very much.”

Ash’s ears pricked at the mention of his dad’s name. He knew his father sent Uncle Vik money every month, but not as charity – as thanks.

They’d lost their parents early on so Uncle Vik had raised Sanjay. He’d worked from childhood to support Sanjay, to make sure his younger brother had an education, had clean clothes for school and a full belly every morning, even if it meant Uncle Vik going hungry.

That’s how Sanjay had ended up with a scholarship to a British university, a job, family and life far from the struggles of India. Meanwhile Uncle Vik and Aunt Anita had grown old without children of their own, barely managing on a lecturer’s wage.

Uncle Vik had made huge sacrifices for his younger sibling. Ash’s father had often said that was a debt he could never repay.

Ash’s gaze fell on Lucky. Could he ever be that sort of brother to her? No, life was too easy nowadays. He’d never been homeless or hungry, he’d never missed a meal in his entire life. Part of him wished he could be better, part of him was pleased he didn’t need to be.

Uncle Vik folded the cheque and put it back in his breast-pocket.

The rhythmic rocking and constant drone of the engine was making Ash soporific. His eyelids drooped and soon he was dreaming of walking crocodiles and broken men.













sh, you have got to see this.”

“Go away. I’m dead.”

“No. Get up.”

“Go away. Now.”

Lucky began cranking open the metal window shutters. Ash groaned as the rusty steel plates screeched.

“A real sister would let her elder brother sleep.” He checked his watch. Seven. Seven! On his so-called holidays. “But I suppose you can’t help it. Being adopted and all.”

“I was not adopted.”

“It’s true. Found in the dustbin. Mum and Dad wanted to sell you to the organ traffickers. I stopped them. You should be grateful. Now go away.”

“Look, Ash!” Lucky pulled off his sheet. “Look!”

She never listened to him. Ash crawled off the bed and joined her at the window.

There was a car in the driveway. Which was weird since they didn’t own a car. Weirder still, it was a brand-new mirror-bright silver Mercedes S-Class Saloon.

“Savage,” said Ash.

“Can you believe it?” Lucky was at the door. “Come on.” She dashed out. Reluctantly, Ash followed.

Uncle Vik had a pink-walled bungalow in the grounds of Varanasi University. It was a staff perk. It was also an insect-infested concrete box with no air-conditioning. As Ash came out he saw there were dozens of students at the low garden wall. More than a few were taking photos of it with their mobiles. Most of the lecturers at the university still rode bicycles and here was a bank-breaking Mercedes.

“It’s amazing,” said Uncle Vik from the driver’s seat. The dashboard was all walnut trim with a 3D-map display, multimedia system, all the bells and whistles. There were TV screens on the back of the front seats. Any more gadgets and it would have had a NASA logo on it. “It was here when I woke up.”

Ash tensed. Savage had been here while they’d slept. “Did… did you see anyone?”

“No. But the guard said it was the Englishwoman who dropped it off.”

Jackie. At least she hadn’t come in.

“Isn’t this all too much?” said Aunt Anita. She sounded worried. “Maybe you should give this back, Vikram.”

“The only way they’ll get this off me,” Uncle Vik’s grip tightened round the steering wheel, “is from my cold, dead hands.”

Lucky opened the rear passenger door and started bouncing on the white leather seats.

“Ash, what’s wrong?” asked Uncle Vik.

This wasn’t right. The car. All that money. Savage had bought his uncle. It made him sick. “I just want some breakfast.”

Back in the kitchen, Ash poured out some cornflakes while Aunt Anita put on the kettle and toast.

“He’s dying, you know that,” said Uncle Vik.

Ash paused, the spoon a few millimetres from his mouth. “Who?”

“Lord Savage. A skin disease. Cancer. One of the guests told me last night.”

Aunt Anita filled up the white china teapot. “You think this business has something to do with his illness?”

“He wants to leave a legacy. See something done in his name,” said Uncle Vik, his gaze roaming to the window and the car outside. “He can’t take it with him, can he?”

“Still, two million pounds, Vikram. It’s not normal.”

Uncle Vik kissed his wife’s forehead. “Who knows what is normal to a man like him? Lord Savage wants immortality. If these excavations are a success, he’ll have it. He’ll be the one who unlocked the secrets of an entire culture. Two million doesn’t seem much for immortality.”

“And you’ll be rich and famous too, Uncle,” said Lucky. She shook her head at the toast and picked a banana from the fruit bowl. “Can I have a pony?”

Uncle Vik laughed. “What’s mine is yours. We’re family.”

“What about those freaks he has working for him?” asked Ash. “That skinny guy, Jat? Now you can’t tell me he’s normal.”

“Bodyguards,” said Vik. “Lord Savage is immensely rich, and India is not like London, Ash. He needs protection.”

That made sense. But things were clearly not right with Savage. Ash chewed his cornflakes as he went over last night in his mind. Memories of rakshasas and men with reptile eyes didn’t last long in the sunlight. If Jat was a bodyguard it was his job to scare intruders, and he’d certainly done that. It didn’t mean he really wanted to eat Ash’s eyeballs. Savage had called Mayar a demon, but that didn’t have to be literally true. Uncle Vik often called Lucky his little monkey, but that didn’t mean she had a tail.

Perhaps his mum was right and he should cut down on all those computer games. They were giving him an over-active imagination.

What was real? Believable? That Lord Savage was a terminally ill man with strange servants living in a rundown palace, trying to get his name in the history books – or that he was an evil monster, served by demons?

Well, put like that…

Ash was being stupid. If he carried on like this he’d be checking for monsters under his bed next.

After breakfast, Ash joined Uncle Vik as he prepared to drive over to the Savage Fortress. His uncle popped open the trunk and dropped in his briefcase.

“Be careful.” Despite everything, Ash couldn’t get rid of the fear he’d felt last night. “You know. Drive carefully.”

“You think I’m going to risk a dent on this beautiful car?” There was even a pair of leather driving gloves lying on the dashboard. Uncle Vik put them on with a sigh of satisfaction. “Our luck’s changing, Ash.”

The guard cleared the students away from the gate as Uncle Vik reversed out. Ash waved until the car could no longer be seen.

Aunt Anita handed Ash some suntan lotion.

“Put this on.”

“We’re going out? Where?”

“We’ve just been given two million pounds.” Anita smiled. “We’re going shopping.”



While Anita was busy buying up the entire stock of the silk emporium, Ash and Lucky settled in at the Cyber Café to surf the web and catch up on emails.

The emporium was part of a grand old government office built by the Victorians but now divided up into a thousand private stalls. Ash got himself a booth facing the main street, completely open to the traffic outside and the mass of humanity making its way towards the old city, the temples and the cremation sites, like an endless river of prayers.

Ash Googled ‘Lord Alexander Savage’ and came up with a long list of charities, foundations, business ventures and offices all over the subcontinent and the Far East. There was a photo of the current Lord Savage having tea with the Dalai Lama up in the Himalayas. Ash had even found a portrait of the first Savage: a pirate, drug dealer, slave dealer and member of the Hellfire Club. The original mad, bad and dangerous to know. The ice-cold blue eyes stared at Ash from all those centuries ago, filled with cruel indifference and contempt.

Ash logged into his webmail account and found messages from Josh, Sean and Akbar. They’d had an all night multi-gamer and were wondering if he wanted to hook up when he got back. A big fat ‘yes’ to that. If Lucky was getting a pony, then he was getting all the gaming hardware now money was no object. Like Uncle Vik had said, they were family and Ash’s uncle was keen, desperate even, to pay his brother back for all the support he’d given. Uncle Vik seemed a new man, raised by Savage’s patronage. Maybe Uncle Vik was right, their luck was changing.

Ash could picture his room now. New console. Huge flat-screen. Cinema surround-sound system. The guys would go mental when he told them what he was planning.

Josh added that he’d bumped into Gemma at the lido pool. Ash should have seen her, he wrote, all tanned and in a flower-patterned bikini. Josh, as his best friend and on his behalf, had admitted to her that Ash totally fancied her. Josh also added that she hadn’t been violently sick when he’d told her. So that was good.

Gemma. In a bikini. Ash couldn’t think about that without blushing. She was going to the top of his ‘Things I Like’ list. Josh was going on his ‘To be killed as a matter of urgency’ list.

Ash didn’t venture much near any swimming pools. He was worried some Japanese fisherman might harpoon him.

Lucky nudged him.

“What?”

“That girl. She’s so totally checking you out.” Lucky stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth, pointing in what she thought was a discreet manner.

“Shut up.”

“No, she is. Honestly.”

Ash looked slowly sideways. “Which one?”

“Green.”

Ash made an extravagant motion for the waiter to bring him another Coke. He used the move to scan the other people at the café, looking for someone in green.

Wow.

An Indian girl in a green top and trousers sat at the edge of the café – tall, slim and ultra-cool. She was about the same age as him, maybe a year or two older. Her long black hair was loose and hung down over her shoulders, shimmering like oil on water, and her lips glistened with pale gloss. She rested her pointed chin on her fist, and it did seem as if she was looking straight at Ash, but her eyes were hidden behind a pair of big sunglasses so he couldn’t be sure. She could be asleep for all he knew.

“She’s not looking at me,” Ash said.

“Go and say something.” Lucky nudged him again. “Go on.”

“She’s not looking at me,” he repeated.

“Your loss. She’s going anyway.”

Ash spun round. The stool was empty. He caught a glimpse of green silk enter the busy crowd, then the girl disappeared into the ever-moving river of people.

He could have said something.

Ash turned back to his computer again. And said what? Nothing. Girls like that weren’t interested in guys like him.



Over the next few days the mood in the house changed. Uncle Vik was busy and excited by the translations and reckoned he’d be finished within two weeks. There was talk of a new house, holidays abroad, even a pony for Lucky. Everyone was happy.

Except Ash.

Something still niggled at him. It was like a mosquito bite just under the skin. He could scratch all he liked, but it wouldn’t go away.

“Ashoka!” Aunt Anita called from the front door.

“What?”

“You coming or not?”

Drat. He’d forgotten they were going to meet Uncle Vik at the dig for a picnic.

“Do I have to?”

He’d planned to go do some more research online down at the Cyber Café. Check out the best prices for the computer hardware. And she might be there, the girl in green. But that wasn’t why he was going. Honestly. Just research. He slipped into his Nike T-shirt and checked himself again. It was his lucky T-shirt and if he held his stomach in a bit, it wouldn’t sit over his belly like a tent.

And if she did just happen to be there, this time he’d speak to her. See if she wanted to hang out or something. But not a date. Definitely not a date.

Ash went to the door.

“I’ve got stuff to do. I’ll go next time.”

Anita glanced at her watch. “The taxi’s waiting. You’ll be OK?”

“He’s going to look for his girlfriend,” said Lucky, sucking orange juice from a large curly straw.

“You have a girlfriend?”

“No. Lucky’s being an idiot. As usual.”

“Then why are you wearing the Nike, then?” Lucky turned to her aunt. “He thinks it makes him look athletic. As if.”

“What’s her name?” asked Aunt Anita.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

The taxi horn honked outside and Aunt Anita picked up a large wicker picnic basket. “Well, I hope you are not mixing with bad girls, Ashoka. I’m sure when the time comes, your mother will pick a most suitable girl for you from a good, respectable family.”

Lucky made smooching motions from behind Aunt Anita’s back. Ash glowered, but forced himself to keep quiet.

You just wait, Lucks.

He went back to his room and picked up his wallet. He tossed it aside. He should just face it, she wasn’t going to be there at the café. He tossed it aside.

He didn’t want to go with them and there was only one reason why: he was scared. Scared of Mayar, Savage, all of them. Even now, days later, when his uncle had been back and forth and everything was going right, all Ash wanted to do was hide.

What was he afraid of? Rakshasas that didn’t exist?

Stupid. You’re being stupid.

And why would any girl want to go out with a guy who couldn’t even leave his house? Best face up to it now.

Ash ran back out. “Hold on!” he shouted. “I’m coming!”



Uncle Vik was waiting for them on the riverbank, collecting a lantern from the boot of the Mercedes.

“The bridge still down?” asked Aunt Anita as she saw the rowing boat up on the bank.

“Welcome to India,” said Uncle Vik.

Ash looked at the boat, then at his uncle. “You can row?”

“Just get in.” Uncle Vik waved at Eddie, calling out, “You go. I will bring them home.”

Vik pushed off with the oar and, after a few seconds of faffing, found his rhythm and took them across the Ganges.

The far bank was about half a kilometre away, but the river flowed at a languid speed, like it knew it was too hot to hurry. Ash peered into the water and watched his face ripple and part in the black, shiny waters.

“See anything?” asked his uncle.

“Just me.” Ash leaned back. “How can anyone be so ridiculously good-looking?”

“So modest also,” said Uncle Vik mockingly. “Just like your father.”

“What’s that?” Lucky pointed at something upstream.

It looked like a half-submerged log, wrapped up in cloth. The current brought it closer and Ash swung the lantern towards it.

A woman’s face gazed at him. Her mouth was partially open and filled with weeds. The skin was sallow and waxy, her eyes misty, and a damp thread of white hair hung over her wrinkled skin. She’d been wrapped in a rice sack: Ash recognised the Elephant logo of the Varanasi Best Rice Company.

Anita turned Lucky’s face away from the corpse, but Ash just stared, in spite of the tightness of his throat and the accelerated beating of his heart.

“Why didn’t they cremate her?” Ash asked. His uncle grunted as he strained with his strokes, eager to get them away from the dead woman.

Vik sighed. “Not everyone can afford the wood, Ash.”

So they just dumped her in the river. Ash watched the woman float away until she was lost in the darkness.

The boat bumped against the bank. Trousers rolled up, Ash helped his uncle haul the boat out of the water. Uncle Vik pointed up the slope. “We’ll head up to the Seven Queens. It’s a good place for a picnic. You’ll have a great view over the countryside.”

Ash stopped as a sudden rush of coldness spread over him. “The Seven Queens?” What had Savage said about them?

“You’ll see,” said Uncle Vik.

The four of them clambered up the slope and on to the flat terrace of fields. The countryside was divided by shallow dried-out riverbeds that would only fill during the monsoon. A few bare trees dotted the landscape, and ahead were huts and tents, a few parked vehicles. They were all white Humvees, bearing the poppies and crossed-sword emblem of the Savage Foundation.

“The Seven Queens,” said Uncle Vik.

A row of seven white marble platforms glowed like pale bone in the bright moonlight. Over each stood a gently sloping marble canopy held up by slim columns.

“They’re beautiful,” said Aunt Anita. She stroked the marble with her fingertips. “Why are they called the Seven Queens?”

Uncle Vik gestured down-river, towards the palace. “They were the wives of the old maharajah. This marks the spot where they were cremated.”

Aunt Anita stopped and looked around. “You do pick the most romantic places, Vikram.”













hat are you working on, Uncle?” asked Lucky. “And when can I have my pony?”

“We’ll see about that,” said Aunt Anita.

“I want a black and white one.”

“Lucky…”

Uncle Vik took something from his pocket. As he held out his hand, Ash saw the glimmer of what looked like small square silver and gold coins.

“Get the magnifying glass and have a look,” Uncle Vik said, pointing at the tool-kit.

Using the glass Ash inspected the minute images stamped on the coins: long-horned cattle, bearded men, lithe women, and shapes that seemed either distorted or a weird combination of human and animal.

“These are seals from a new dig out in Rajasthan,” Uncle Vik said.

Ash picked one up. “Where, exactly?”

“Savage is keeping most quiet about that, but I suspect Jaisalmer, in the Thar desert. There’ve been a few Harappan finds there over the years.”

“What finds?” Lucky asked as she arranged the seals on the picnic rug, checking them out with the big lens.

Vik took off his glasses and rubbed them with his shirt. He coughed as he put them on, going into professor mode.

“The Harappans were an incredibly advanced civilisation that prospered between six and four thousand years ago. They traded with the other civilisations of the age, the Old Kingdom Egyptians and the Mesopotamians. Then, overnight,” Vik snapped his fingers, “they disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Lucky put the seals down and wrapped her arms round her knees, her attention now on her uncle’s story.

Vik continued. “It was like they wanted to be forgotten. India went from being a great kingdom with links to all corners of the world to a cluster of illiterate villages, just like that. The cities were consumed by the sands within a few decades. Uncanny.”

“War, then?” said Ash.

“No,” said Uncle Vik. “From the places we’ve excavated we’ve found no signs of weapons, burned buildings or broken walls, the usual signs of military conquest. The Harappans simply vanished from history. It’s only in the last hundred years that we’ve started uncovering their cities. Now Savage believes he’s found the capital.” Uncle Vik’s smile broadened. “Think what we might find there.”

“Maybe more treasure?” said Lucky.

Ash laughed to himself. She was no doubt hoping there would be an entire stable of ponies on offer if there was.

“To be sure there will be palaces, libraries, royal tombs and temples. Treasures in gold and in knowledge. The city hasn’t been disturbed for thousands of years. Whatever was buried there, still remains.” He picked up one of the seals. “I’ll probably go out there once I’ve finished Savage’s translations.”

“What are you translating?” asked Ash.

“An ancient royal treasury list,” said Uncle Vik. “Savage believes there’s treasure buried here, near Varanasi. It has some connection to the works out in Rajasthan, I just don’t quite know what yet.”

“Enough work. Eat,” said Aunt Anita as she opened a box and handed out fresh samosas. Uncle Vik fiddled with his old radio. The plastic box was held together by tape and elastic bands, but eventually he got some kind of Indian music station. The soft chords of a sitar strummed out, rising above the crackle of static and the whispers in the wind.

“Come on, Lucks.” Ash got up. He picked up one of the spare torches and flicked it on. “Let’s have a nose around.”

“Ash—”

“We’ll be careful, Uncle.”

They climbed about the ruins that dotted the northern fields of the old palace grounds. The walls were in poor condition. Local people had been steadily pilfering the bricks over the years to help assemble their own houses. There were rows of pits too, each neatly marked out with red string. Vik had told them how sites were searched: each area was divided into neat ten-metre-square packages and dug to an agreed depth, usually between three and five metres deep. Picks, shovels and trowels were neatly stacked up against the various huts and temporary offices, little more than awnings, with light and power fed by thick black electric cables that branched out from a rusty generator like a network of tentacles.

No one’s here, Ash realised. That was strange. Once word got out there was a dig going on you got amateur treasure hunters, thieves, who’d creep over the site at night, hoping for some gold or artefacts to sell on the black market. So why no guards?

And no workers either. There were tents, cooking equipment and all the signs of a large workforce, but no one around. They must commute in every day. That too was unusual. What was it about this place that frightened everyone?

And what was Savage looking for?

He couldn’t get the worry out of his head. There was more to this than merely translating the Harappan language and opening some ancient tomb.

“Look, Ash.” Lucky had a stick and was poking it under a rock. “I can hear something.” She put her foot against the stone and heaved. The big lump rocked a bit, and then some more as Lucky worked it back and forth.

“Lucks, I wouldn’t—”

It tipped over and cracked in two.

Scorpions poured out.

Shiny and black, they scuttled rapidly out of their now exposed hole under the rock.

Lucky screamed and jumped back on to one of the yellow transformers. Ash backed away, kicking sand at the cluster of black shapes spilling over the ground towards him.

“Ash! Look out!”

Twine caught the back of his leg. Ash lurched, spinning his arms as he tried to keep upright. The thick cord tangled round his ankles as he tottered on the edge of one of the excavation pits.

Lucky reached out, but she was too far away. Ash fell backwards as the sandy earth beneath his feet collapsed.













sh hit the bottom hard, backside over elbow, banging the back of his head. A supernova of stars erupted behind his eyes as he lay there, coughing in the dust.

“Ash, are you OK?”

Ash winced as he touched the scratches on his face.

“Ash, say something. Please,” she said.

“This is all your fault.”

Lucky by name, lucky by nature. It was her that had upset the scorpions, but it was him at the bottom of the pit.

Scorpions. Oh, crap.

“Where are the scorpions?” he asked. He didn’t dare move. They could be sitting on him right now. In fact, he could feel something there – oh, God, were they all over him? “Can you see them?”

“No.” But she didn’t sound that sure. “Dunno. Maybe they ran away. You don’t have any down there, do you?”

“Bloody hope not.”

Cautiously Ash pushed himself up, expecting a sharp stab in his back and the sudden injection of hot poison into his body at any moment. But nothing. He shook the dust off and waited until the dizziness passed. Then he looked around his hole. The pit was four, maybe five metres deep. But when Ash tried to clamber up the sides, the soft, sandy walls crumbled under his fingers.

“Can you see a ladder or anything?” he asked.

“No.” Lucky knelt over the edge. “I’m so sorry, Ash.”

“Just go and get Uncle Vik.”

“OK.” She stood up. “Don’t go anywhere.” Then she ran off, shouting.

Ash brushed himself down. Apart from the lump on the back of his head, he just had a few bruises and scratches, and a soft spot on his butt where he’d landed. He found the torch and, with a shake, a dim glow rose from the bulb. He searched the rest of the pit: there was a pick down here and a plastic water bottle filled with a yellow liquid that probably wasn’t lemonade.

“Lucks?”

Nothing. He couldn’t even hear her shouting. How far had they wandered? No idea. Would Lucky even recognise his hole? There were hundreds. He could be down here ages!

Ash lifted the pick. Maybe if he jammed it into the wall halfway he could use it like a step. He drew it over his head and swung with all his might. Dust and chunks cracked and fell off after a few hefty wallops.

What’s this? He put his finger against a piece of rubble.

It was a brick. The corners were square and even. He saw that behind a few centimetres of the compact, hard sand was a brick wall, definitely man-made. He tapped it – it gave a dull, hollow sound.

That means there’s an open space on the other side. He lifted up the pick and struck the wall, his muscles reinvigorated with excitement. He hit it again and again, breaking up the earth, knocking out bricks. Each blow sent a bone-jarring tremor right through him. A brick fell back with a sharp crack. Then another fell away until he was deafened by an avalanche of dust and sandstone.

Coughing harshly, Ash waved his arm at the dense cloud of dust until it cleared enough for him to see what had happened.

The wall had collapsed, showing a space beyond. Even in the weak torchlight Ash sensed the space was large. He dropped the pick and crawled through the hole, torch in hand.

He had to duck; the ceiling was just too low, dangerously bowed by the weight of sand above it. The ground above groaned and dust showered down over him. Not good.

The chamber was rectangular and as he swept the beam of light across the room it fell on a dusty, cobweb-covered statue.

Ash pulled away a handful of cobwebs. Roughly life-sized, the statue was bronze and of a muscular, blue-skinned man. In his right hand he held a curved bow, in his left an arrow.

Rama. India’s greatest mythological hero.

Light shone off the arrow, attracting Ash’s gaze. The shaft was ivory and the fletching white. But the light came from the arrowhead, a broad triangle of gold.

It looked like gold. Real gold.

Ash reached out with trembling fingers.

The ivory shaft crumbled as soon as he touched it. The arrowhead fell away and instinctively Ash grabbed it.

“Ouch!”

He felt the splinter go into his thumb and it stung like crazy. The tip of the arrowhead had broken off, only a few millimetres of metal, and lodged itself deep in his flesh. Bloody hell, it stung like a scorpion.

How could it hurt so much? His head pounded like there was a drum behind his eyes. The statue seemed to sway, to come alive. Rama’s chest rose as he took a deep breath and he tore the cobwebs off his face.

Ash’s blood went cold. The face was his own.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Each blow threatened to shatter him. Ash sank to his knees, clutching his head as waves of nausea engulfed him. The drum beat grew louder and louder until Ash could hear nothing more. He closed his eyes and screamed, but his cries vanished in the echo of the drum.













ama!”

He blinks. The pain in his head recedes, but his vision is blurred and all he sees is a vague shadow standing over him.

Rama? Why do they call him Rama? His name isn’t Rama. It’s…

He shakes his head. It is full of sand, obscuring his thoughts and memories. What is his name? He lies on the ground, armoured warriors looming over him, their shadowed faces marked by fear and concern. He tries to rise, scraping his fingers over the hard, dusty earth. No, it is not dust that covers the earth.

“Ash…” he mutters. Why is that so familiar? The word cries up from a distant place, from a deep cavern. Is it some forgotten memory?

Ash. Is he Ash? Or is he—

“Rama.” A hand reaches down and touches his shoulder. “My brother.”

Brother? He doesn’t have a brother. Does he? He turns his attention to the man standing over him. The face is slim, handsome but careworn. He wears armour, ornate, princely, but battered and covered with patches of dried blood. The man’s brown eyes are bright with love, with worry. It is a face he recognises.

“Lakshmana, is it you?”

“Aye, brother.” Lakshmana tightens his grip and puffs hard as he lifts him back on to his feet.

Rama rises. He sways momentarily, but steadies himself. Beside him stand a few of his generals and he smiles to them. Their relief is clear. If Rama had died, then all hope would be lost.

“You fell, my prince,” says Neela, his most dedicated general. The old warrior passes him a skin filled with lukewarm water. Rama guzzles it down, then pours the remainder over his head and torso. The armour steams as the water evaporates on the burning metal plates.

“You have been fighting seven days without sleep. You must rest,” says Lakshmana.

Rama – yes, he is Rama – breathes deeply, settling the whirling confusion in his head.

There was a pit, and a chamber beyond. He couldn’t see clearly: it was dark. He closes his eyes, trying to recall the details, but the harder he tries, the vaguer the memory becomes. All he remembers is he hurt his thumb.

He looks down at his thumb, but sees nothing. What was that name? He has forgotten already as he brushes the ash off his fingertips. No matter. He is Rama, prince of Ayodhya, and he is here.

At war.

The sky blazes red, as though the clouds themselves are on fire. The four winds howl across the endless battlefield, adding their cries to the cries of a million soldiers, to the din of clashing blades and battered shields, the screams of the rakshasas.

The world is aflame and Rama stands in the heart of the inferno.

“Look!” cries Neela. Neela has stood and fought beside him in countless battles, proved his courage and bravery a thousand times over, but Rama sees fear in the old warrior’s eyes, hears how the voice trembles.

Rama’s heart quickens and his breath is hotter than the desert wind. He looks out across a sea of blood and death at the thing that terrifies even the heroic Neela.

A giant, made of gold, ploughs through Rama’s army. In each fist he carries a bronze sword, and he laughs as he swings them back and forth across the battalions, reaping the lives of dozens of men with each stroke. His armour bristles with spears, arrows and broken swords. Any mortal creature would be dead a hundred times over from such injuries, but he is anything but mortal.

Behind him his army roars with glee and savage delight. A hundred thousand rakshasas follow on the heels of their king. He is beautiful, golden-skinned and shining like the midday sun; bright flames lick his body, and he radiates such light it hurts to look upon him. Brightest of all is the brand upon his forehead, the circle of ten heads, glowing like a third eye. The mark proclaims his mastery of the ten forms of sorcery, his mastery over reality. He has such power that even the gods are afraid.

“Ravana,” whispers Rama. The demon king.

How many years have they fought? How many lives have been lost in this war? It comes down to this. Rama gazes across the field of death, stares at the white-limbed corpses of friends, cousins, countrymen, tangled in their death throes with the demonic forms of the rakshasas, with their tusks, claws and hideous, shark-like teeth. A black emptiness swells in Rama’s breast, a despair. So much death. Is this to be his kingdom? A land of broken men, of widows and fatherless children?

But even that world is better than the one Ravana seeks to build.

“The Carnival of Flesh,” whispers Neela, his voice almost gone by the horror of what approaches.

Men, what were once men, parade and gibber, driven by the whips and howls of the rakshasas. These were the ones who surrendered to Ravana, who broke under his threats and who thought to make treaties with the demon king and live under his rule.

Some drag themselves forward on stumps, blind eyes staring wildly, wailing in endless torment. Skin flayed from their bodies, their bones exposed and organs trailing through the dirt and filth yet still alive and suffering. Some scavenge about the dead, tearing flesh off corpses and lapping up the blood of the dying. They have been driven beyond mere insanity by the tortures they’ve suffered.

Creations more monstrous than any rakshasa trample across the fields, huge lumbering giants built from the whole populations, tumbling creatures of hundreds of arms, legs and screaming mouths. Each still alive, but for ever trapped in a waking nightmare by Ravana’s magic.

Neela’s hands tighten round his sword. “How can such things exist?”

“Ravana is the master of reality,” says Rama. “He can make anything possible.”

Then how can he, a mere mortal, defeat him? Rama steps back.

“Steady yourself, brother.” Lakshmana grips his arm, meeting his gaze with determination. “You can end this. Only you.”

Tears fill his eyes, and Rama’s knees weaken. All strength pours from him, and but for Lakshmana’s support, he would fall. He stares at the golden warrior, bright as a funeral pyre, the centre of the carnage.

“How?” he asks. “How?”

“It is your destiny, Rama. What can you do but follow?”

It takes all his remaining energy to make his lips curl into a smile. He sees himself reflected in the breastplate of his brother. It is not the smile of a living man, but the rictus grin of the dead. Yet all men die. Better here, surrounded by his generals, beside his brother, fighting the greatest evil the world will ever know.

Today is a good day to die.

“Give me my bow.”

Rama holds out his hand. The weapon is as tall as he and only he is capable of bending it. Brilliant white, the bow is engraved with the blessings of all the gods. He plucks the string.

The air trembles with its vibration. The winds fall silent. The storms still, and each man lowers his sword and looks towards Rama. Even the rakshasas falter in their charge.

Ravana, his golden armour covered in blood and gore, looks at him, grinning.

“Surrender, Prince Rama.” He does not shout, but his words carry across the battlefield. “And I will be generous.”

Rama’s hands tighten round the bow and he feels the hot rush of blood pounding in his temples. He conquers his fear, burying it deep under a mountain of rage. “My aastras, where are they?” he says to his generals.

Each of the gods has armed Rama for this battle. Each has given him a divine weapon, an aastra, to use in this final conflict. But how many has he already cast against the armies of rakshasas? How many swords has he broken on the endless sea of demons Ravana sent before him?

“My lord,” says Lakshmana. “There are but two left.”

Rama takes the two arrows, one tipped with gold, the other of silver: aastras of the greater gods. Ravana roars and the earth shakes as he charges. Rama’s generals run ahead to protect him, but they fall like wheat beneath the scything blades of the demon king.

He has time for only one shot. Rama raises his bow.

But which arrow?

The first was a gift from his patron god, Vishnu. He gazes at the bright arrowhead of silver with a shaft of deepest ebony.

Each aastra demands a sacrifice of its wielder to awaken its power. To Vishnu, he will offer his crown, his mortal power. He will serve Vishnu till the end of his days, and will serve willingly.

But the other aastra?

The second arrowhead is of the brightest gold, the shaft bone white. It hums in his fingers. The power within slumbers, and there is only one way to wake it.

“Use it,” urges Lakshmana. “I am ready, my brother.”

To awaken this aastra, the highest price must be paid, greater than any kingdom or crown. Rama looks into his brother’s eyes. “No, I cannot.”

“I am ready,” repeats Lakshmana. He unbuckles his breastplate and pulls open his silk shirt. “Strike now. Awaken the aastra.”

“No, I cannot,” Rama says again. The price is too high, even for him. And what would he become if he paid it?

A monster. A creature more terrible even than the demon king. One that would devour the universe. No, the price is too high.

He tosses the arrow, the golden aastra, into the blood-soaked sand.

Rama notches the Vishnu-aastra and draws the bowstring. He peers along the ebony shaft at the demon king. Their eyes meet across the battlefield.

“My Lord, Vishnu,” whispers Rama. “I am yours.”

He releases the aastra.













sh!”

Ash tried to move, but he was pinned to the ground. Dirt stuffed his mouth and clogged his ears.

“Here, I’m here,” he groaned. Spots of light slid over the rubble.

He glanced around him, half expecting to be surrounded with dismembered demons. The ground trembled, and he gulped. Ravana’s footsteps? No. It was just his heart, running overtime.

It had been so real. The war. The slaughter. He closed his eyes again and out of the blackness he saw him, Ravana, the demon king. Ash knew how the story ended. Rama fired the aastra and destroyed Ravana. The story. End of.

And demons. They weren’t real, none of it was. But still…

He’d been Rama. He’d felt the hot wind, he’d smelt the awful stench of war and death. It had seemed so real. More than a dream: a vision. Or a memory.

I am not Rama. I am Ash Mistry. I am thirteen and this is turning out to be the worst day of my life.

“I see him!” Feet scrabbled over the collapsed chamber roof and Ash tried again to move, but the fallen ceiling had him pinned. His breath came in shallow pants; he felt trapped in a giant’s fist. He ached all over, but it was his left hand, his thumb, which felt like it had been dipped in acid. It was as if that splinter was burrowing itself deeper into his flesh.

Ash saw his uncle climb down towards him, white with fear. Then torchlight blinded him.

“Get that out of his eyes,” Uncle Vik snapped. He brushed the dust from his face. “Are you hurt, Ash?”

Nothing felt broken and he could still wiggle his toes. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? “I’m fine. I think.”

“You men take hold of the slab. On three we’ll lift.” A figure moved across the beam, taking command. Ash caught a glimpse of a pair of highly polished black shoes. Lord Savage put a hand on Uncle Vik’s shoulder. “When we lift, Professor, you’ll draw the young lad out.”

Uncle Vik nodded and took hold of Ash’s wrist.

“One. Two.” The slab across Ash shed some loose dirt and sand. “Three!”

Men groaned and stone scraped against stone. Ash took a deep breath and kicked with his feet. Uncle Vik locked his grip and pulled hard. Ash’s knees tore across the hard clay-packed floor, but he didn’t care. He kicked again and slid free.

“Drop it!”

Uncle Vik clung to Ash as the three men released their grip on the heavy stone. It smashed down, breaking into four huge lumps.

“Ash…”

Uncle Vik was crushing him more than the collapsed ceiling. His uncle then stepped back, to look him over.

“Ash, are you all right? Anything broken? Pain anywhere?”

“I’m OK.” Ash coughed again and someone handed him a water bottle. He poured half the lukewarm water down his throat. The rest he tipped over his head.

People and torches clustered all around him. He was half-pulled, half-carried out of the collapsed pit. Head still spinning, Ash could see that the chamber he’d been in had fallen in on itself. Maybe he shouldn’t have bashed a hole through a supporting wall.

Ash climbed up a short ladder and found himself in a small semicircle of people. They were just dark shadows, but one stepped forward and entered the ring of torchlight.

“The boy looks fine to me,” said Lord Savage.

Ash turned away. Where was his uncle? In the flashlight, the men around him didn’t seem human, but grotesque distortions of man and beast, and… something else. The teeth were too large, the eyes too big, the smiles too hungry. Ash stumbled back, his heart pounding with panic. Was it the dream, still?

No, no, no. He covered his face. The rakshasas weren’t real. Still, even with his eyes closed, a smell lingered, stuffing his nostrils. Blood and sweat.

“Maybe we should take him back to the palace?” Mayar came forward, wearing a new pair of black sunglasses. “We could take care of him.”

“Uncle?” Ash said.

His heartbeat doubled as Jackie, the Englishwoman, blocked his way. In the semi-darkness her hair seemed denser, like a mane or a pelt of fur. “Poor boy,” she said with mocking sympathy, “he looks dead to the world.”

“Uncle?” Where is he?

“Yes, Lord Savage,” said the tall, hook-nosed man, Jat, as he tapped his nails together. “Let us deal with this boy.” Was it Ash’s imagination or had those nails grown? They looked like the curved talons of some hideous bird.

Hands grabbed Ash’s shoulders and he almost screamed. But it was only Uncle Vik. He smiled and drew Ash close beside him.

“I think we should go home,” Uncle Vik said.

“Really, Professor Mistry, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Savage snapped his fingers. “I’ll have my staff prepare a place for the boy to rest and have one of my doctors visit him here. Far easier than travelling all the way back to Varanasi.”

“Mr Savage, I know how to look after my nephew.”

“Lord Savage, if you don’t mind, Mistry,” said Jackie.

“That’s Professor Mistry, if you don’t mind,” replied his uncle.

Savage waved his hand. “No, it’s fine. Professor Mistry is just a bit upset.” He set his gaze on the two of them. “Be sensible, Professor. It’s a long way back to Varanasi and the roads can be… unsafe. Stay here.”

“Are you ordering me, Lord Savage?”

“If that’s how you want to put it, yes, I am.” Savage licked his dry, cracked lips and reached out for Ash. “The boy will remain with us.”

Uncle Vik stepped between them. “Ash is going home, with me.”

Savage thrust his tiger cane into Uncle Vik’s chest. “I’ve paid good money for you, Professor Mistry. I expect obedience. I demand obedience.”

Uncle Vik knocked the cane away. “I am not a slave, Lord Savage.”

Savage wiped dripping saliva from his lips. “Is it more money that you want? I know what you Indians are like. Always begging. Very well. I will have another cheque drawn up in the morning.”

Savage looked Uncle Vik up and down, making no attempt to hide his contempt. It was the same look Ash had seen in that portrait of the first Lord Savage – arrogant, superior and cruel. “Do we understand one another, Mistry?”

Uncle Vik lowered his gaze. “I understand, Lord Savage. Perfectly.”

Savage smiled and summoned Mayar. The huge servant lumbered over, the ground shaking with each footfall. “Prepare the spare rooms—”

Uncle Vik pulled out a folded piece of paper: Savage’s cheque. He hadn’t banked it. He slowly tore it in half, then in half again. He gazed up at Savage. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I must decline it.”

Ash gasped as Uncle Vik threw the pieces into the air and two million pounds fluttered away in the desert wind. This was all Uncle Vik’s dreams. This was flash cars, big houses, exotic holidays, the respect of being his own man, at last. It was all that anyone could ever want.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sarwat-chadda/ash-mistry-and-the-savage-fortress/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.