Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress (19 page)

“Then we die, Ash. We all die.”

hey walked into the departures hall of the local airport. The vast mass echoed with thousands of unhappy voices. There were no queues to the check-ins, just a heaving mass of humanity. An
angry
mass. People jostled and argued as surly security guards tried vainly to keep them in order. Luggage lay scattered and abandoned everywhere. Overhead, rusty fans groaned, but did nothing to lift the stifling heat generated by the volatile crowd.

“Flights to Jaisalmer have all been cancelled,” said Ash, inspecting the old clapperboard overhead. Not just Jaisalmer, but Bikaner, Jodhpur, all of Rajasthan. He headed towards
a guy in an Air India uniform. The man was using his clipboard as a shield to hold off the irate crowd.

“I am very sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” the man said, “but all planes are grounded until we have confirmation from Delhi.”

Ash barged forward, pushing people aside, and grabbed the guy’s arm. “What’s going on?” he asked.

The man glared down at him. “Riots across Rajasthan. All the cities are in chaos. Some say bands of criminals are rampaging across the desert. Some say it is terrorists from Pakistan. No one knows though, so no flights until we get the all clear.”

Ash went back to Parvati. “Do you think we’re too late? That Ravana’s free?”

Parvati shook her head. “This wave of madness precedes my father’s awakening. When people start eating one another, then we know he’s arrived. Right now, it’s only the rakshasas gathering at his tomb.”

“Great. So we’ll be facing an army of demons. Could today
be
any better?” Ash looked up at the long list of cancelled flights. “How are we going to get there?”

“Follow me.”

They made their way out of the main hall and into a labyrinth of offices behind. The rooms were old-fashioned
partitions of dark wood and frosted glass. Signs in Hindi and English proclaimed the names of small independent airlines.

“This is the one,” said Parvati as she knocked on the door of ‘Maharajah Air’ and went straight in, not bothering to wait for a reply.

A man lay across the table, a handkerchief over his face. Cotton wool was stuffed in his hairy ears. He wore a pair of khaki trousers and a shirt, but the shirt wore breakfast and possibly yesterday’s dinner. A thin black tie hung loose round his stubbled jowls. Along one wall stood a line of wooden filing cabinets over which was a yellowing poster of Princess Diana and Prince Charles. An air-conditioning unit rattled above their heads, its filter black with grime.

“Get up, Jimmy.” Parvati nudged the sleeping man.

The man spluttered and lifted a corner of the handkerchief. His small, puffy eyes peeked out and darted from face to face.

“I’m off duty,” he muttered, then let the handkerchief fall back.

Parvati lifted up the side of the desk and the man swore as the entire contents – a small desk fan, the telephone, books, and he himself – slid off. He just managed to avoid
falling on his backside, but the rest of the gear crashed over the bare concrete floor.

The man’s wide black moustache bristled as his face darkened. Then he recognised Parvati and laughed. Even from where Ash was standing he could smell the alcohol.

“My princess.” He glanced over their shoulders out into the corridor. “No Rishi?”

“No. Not any more.”

The man paused and scratched under his chin. “Then what can I do for you?”

“Take us to Jaisalmer.”

“Jaisalmer’s out of bounds. Good grief, all of Rajasthan is out of bounds.”

“Never stopped you before, has it?” Parvati held out her hand.

It was another big diamond from Rishi’s stash.

The man picked up the gem and turned it in the light, admiring the reflected beams that filled the room. “No, I suppose not.”

“And we’re leaving now. Understood?” said Parvati. She looked around. “Oh, and my gear? You still have it?”

Jimmy clapped his hands and wrestled open a locker. “Of course.”

Inside was a large canvas bag. It looked heavy. Jimmy lifted it up and dropped it on the desk with a crash. Then he fished out a pair of green-tinted Aviator Ray-Bans and a baseball cap. “This way.”

“What gear?” Ash asked Parvati as he lifted the bag on to his shoulder. His back bowed under the weight.

“Fashion accessories,” Parvati said.

They emerged on to the tarmac. The ground shimmered in the heat, and the air was thick with the smell of fuel, sharp and sweet. Jimmy pointed past a line of empty luggage trolleys to a hangar plastered with dozens of old and faded advertising boards. Among them was Maharajah Air, its colours bleached out, but still bearing the outline of a gaudy jewelled crown.

Maharajah Air comprised one plane. Jimmy went off to speak to air control, taking a fistful of gems to pay the ‘emergency departure tax’. Ash approached the aircraft warily. The hanger was unlit, but even in the gloom, his first impressions did not fill him with confidence.

“It’s ancient,” he said.

“It’s a classic,” said Parvati.

“A classic piece of junk.”

The wings bore rotund propellers and the windows were
minute portholes. The paint finish was streaked and patched, and an odd odour hung around the whole plane, musty, like a grandmother’s armchair.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t fly it if it wasn’t safe,” said Parvati doubtfully.

Jimmy returned and pulled down the door steps. He handed them a brown paper bag.

“In-flight catering.” He winked. “Only the best for my passengers.”

Inside the bag were broken shortbread biscuits. Ash took it and climbed into the plane.

The interior had been stripped to almost nothing. There was a column of seats down either side, six in total, but the central aisle was clear except for webbing that formed a carpet. Buckles and straps dangled loose from the fuselage, and near the back sat two large steel trunks, firmly screwed to the floor. A thin cotton curtain separated the passengers from the cockpit. Jimmy cleaned his aviators and drew out a packet of cigarettes. He ran his fingers through his hair before flipping his baseball cap back on.

“Like Tom Cruise?” Jimmy asked. “From
Top Gun,
yes?”

“Who? Oh, yes. Just like him,” said Ash. The seats were missing their belts, and he wasn’t surprised. If it came down
to it, seatbelts weren’t going to make much difference on this plane.

Jimmy touched the plastic statue of Ganesha – a plump pink boy with an elephant’s head, patron god of travellers – and whispered a prayer. Ash really hoped the gods were paying attention to this one. They were going to need all the help they could get.

“What if I need to, you know, go?” Ash asked.

“Just stick your pee-pee out the window.” Jimmy set his Ray-Bans in place. “But remember to point it downwind.”

Two men in blue overalls sweated and struggled against the huge steel hangar doors. The screeching of metal as the doors rolled apart was deafening. A blast of light broke along the windows. Jimmy pulled on his headset and began his pre-flight checks, occasionally tapping off his cigarette ash into a small black plastic bowl taped to the top of the flight panel. With a loud cough and a tremble, the engines started up and the propellers whirred into life. The plane rolled forward out into the sun, its body humming.

Ash watched the ground rushing beneath them as the plane bumped its way down the runway. The engines’ drone increased in pitch and then the plane surged upwards, pushing him into his seat with its sluggish power. He kept his eyes
on the scene below, the dense cluster of houses and the endless fields of temples. The Ganges sparkled beneath them as the plane banked westward.

He and Parvati were going to Rajasthan to fight an army of rakshasas, a black magician and possibly the demon king himself. Just the two of them. As missions went, this was beyond stupid – it was suicidal.

But Lucky was in Rajasthan too. And Ash was going to get her back.

He gripped the armrests as the plane juddered through the clouds. But soon the monotonous humming of the engines and the sheer exhaustion of the last few days began to make his eyelids droop. Even as sleep came on, he wondered if this was the last night he’d ever get. Tomorrow he would either save Lucky, or he would be dead.

e is dead,” says Rama. “Ravana is dead.”

He leans forward on his throne and stares at the priest. The others in the court fall silent.

“Ravana is
only
dead,” says the priest. “That is not enough. What prevents his rebirth? Nothing.”

“I used the aastra.”

“Of Vishnu. We gave you the Kali-aastra for a reason, your majesty.”

The priests of Vishnu murmur angrily. One of the saffron-wearing monks stands up and shouts, “Are you saying that Vishnu’s gift was not powerful enough?”

The priest in front of Rama smiles. “That is exactly what I’m saying.”

The court erupts. The monks barge forward and Rama’s soldiers cross
their spears to protect the black-clad man in the centre of the hall. Lakshmana, ever ready at Rama’s side, puts his hand on his sword-hilt, and Rama sees the rage in his younger brother’s eyes. To insult Vishnu here? It is blasphemy.

Rama worships Vishnu. Some say he is an avatar of the god – Vishnu in mortal form. How else could Ravana have been defeated, they say out in the markets and in the fields? Rama cannot be a mortal man; he must be a god.

But the priest standing before the throne cares little for Rama’s devotion. He is a follower of Kali.

Rama observes the silent priest. The man is gaunt, skeletal, and there is cold, deadly power lurking behind his black eyes. His robes are plain cotton, but his prayer beads are of bone. Rama wonders of which animal. In spite of the man’s thin frame, his hands are large and his fingers look powerful. The priests of Kali are said to strangle their enemies.

Rama stands and the court falls silent. He walks towards the window, gazing out over his city of Ayodhya.

They are rebuilding. After years of war, he sees hope in the faces of his people. Men sing as they hammer beams together and children run in the streets, laughing and crying as they chase a poor scurrying dog. Carpenters, builders, farmers and craftsmen from all over the world have come here to reconstruct his war-torn nation. Rama smells the warm bread rising from the bakery at the wall of his palace.

If Ravana returns, then this will be for nothing.

“I have heard there is a metal that resists magic,” Rama says.

Lakshmana nods. “Iron.”

“Then we will imprison the demon king.”

The Kali-priest raises an eyebrow. “An iron prison?”

One of the Vishnu-priests comes forward. He bows low. “My brothers tell me that the metal would prevent Ravana’s spirit from returning to his body. It is a most elegant solution, your majesty.”

Rama looks at the map on the wall. The map, a mosaic of crystals, marks the boundaries of his kingdom. There are the cities, the white-capped mountains, and the wide seas. And to the west is the desert. There are allied kingdoms there too, but sacrifices must be made.

“We shall build it in secret,” says Rama. “Then destroy any mark or memory of it. Men cannot search for what they do not know.”

The Vishnu-priest bows again. “We shall summon the gods to seal it. The tomb will be unbreakable.”

“What of the Kali-aastra?” interrupts the black-robed priest. “What have you done with it?”

Rama hesitates. He left it in the battlefield. But it is one arrow among millions. It is lost for ever.

“I used it to destroy one of Ravana’s generals,” says Rama. “That was why I could not use it against the demon king himself. It had already been shot.”

The ebony eyes of the Kali-priest search Rama’s face. But if the priest thinks he is lying, he does not say. It is unwise to call a king a liar in his own palace. The Kali-priest bows, and retreats.

Rama turns to the Vishnu-priest. “Gather your most powerful magicians. When the tomb is complete, I want the entire city buried and lost. Make sure it is hidden beneath the sands for all of eternity.”