Sarwat Chadda - Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress

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.