Sarwat Chadda - Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress

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.