Sarwat Chadda - Ash Mistry and the City of Death

He missed seeing her in class. Her chair remained empty as if she’d just got up, still warm with her presence so he could fool himself, even just for a second, Gemma was still there. Instead the shadows of the trees outside passed over it as the sun, winter low, crossed the sky east to west. How he wished he could make the shadows reverse their path.

Ash stared at his shadow now as it rose up against Josh’s front door. He stood there, outside his best friend’s house, and raised his fist. He could hear the others inside. There was Akbar’s snorting laugh, and he could smell Sean’s aftershave, and that they had salt and vinegar crisps out, that there was hot chocolate brewing and their takeaway pizza had cheese, olives and anchovies on it, plus some curry powder. Josh burped after a mouthful of Sprite. Sean, Josh and Akbar. His closest, oldest friends who’d known him for years and years. Ash had been just like them, and right now that was all he wanted. To be like them again. Normal, and none of this supernatural, superhuman crap.

Dice fell on the kitchen table and pencils scratched on notepaper. Akbar said something about the sorcerer casting a firestorm spell at the manticore. The game of Dungeons and Dragons was in full swing. Ash knocked.

Josh’s laugh carried all the way to the door until he opened it and saw Ash. Then it froze on his face as he stood there, staring at him. He opened his mouth, but it took a few attempts before words came out. “Ash?”

He’s scared.

Josh’s heartbeat accelerated, the rapid thumping as loud to Ash as a circus drum. Sweat formed across his forehead and upper lip, and the colour faded from his face. His breath was short, shallow and panicky; even his hand trembled on the door handle.

He’s not scared, he’s terrified. Of me.

Ash forced a smile, even though inside his heart was tearing in two. “It’s Tuesday. ‘The Catacombs of Doom’, remember?”

Josh’s gaze shifted down to his feet. “Oh, right. It’s just… we didn’t think you’d come.”

“I’m here now.”

There was no move to let Ash in. But Josh’s heart rate was over a hundred beats per minute. He looked up at Ash, biting his lower lip. He was struggling to speak, to say something, but couldn’t.

Ash’s gaze darkened. Josh shouldn’t be treating him like this. “You going to let me in or what?”

“Or what, Ash? What are you going to do if I don’t?”

“What?”

“What are you going to do?”

For a second, just a second, Ash let his anger, his rejection, show. He wanted to push past. He could do it so easily. Josh couldn’t stop him, he was just a human. How dare Josh judge him, what right did he have? Didn’t he know what Ash had done? Josh was pathetic. Ash raised his hand and—

Stepped back.

The look on Josh’s face said it all. The fear practically dripped off him. He trembled. Ash lowered his hand, wishing he could take that last moment back. He smiled at Josh, but the smile was too harsh, too much like a grinning dead man.

“Look, Josh, there’s nothing to be afraid of. You know me.”

“Do I? Really?”

He couldn’t believe it. Did Josh think he’d killed Gemma? How could he? “I’ve done nothing wrong, Josh. You have to believe me. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Christ, Josh, this is me.”

“I saw you, Ash. I saw you.” Josh winced and put his hand over his face. “I’m still not sure I believe it, but I saw what you did at the park the night Gemma died.”

“And what was that?” asked Ash coldly. “You saw what, exactly?”

“I saw you push Jack out of the way and shove your arm down the throat of some insane monster. I saw you rip its heart out like you were picking apples from a tree. You moved so fast that you practically blurred. No one can move that fast. Not Usain Bolt pumped with rocket fuel. Nobody. It was mad, but I went over to the monster and saw it was real. Jack was screaming and crying and I didn’t know what was going on, but there was some giant dead dog in the grass and beside it was its torn-out heart.”

“It wasn’t like—”

“I am not an idiot, Ash.” Josh looked back at him, sad and lost. “Then I saw you with Gemma. With that thing with a human face and jackal’s body. With a girl with scales and a forked tongue. I watched you throw the knife and watched you as Gemma died. I called the ambulance, did you know that?”

“Thanks.” What else could he say? Deny it? Make his friend think he was insane to believe in monsters?

No, Josh believed. He had one standing right here in front of him.

“What are you, Ash?”

“I really don’t know any more.”

“I think you’d better go.”

Ash looked up at his mate. “You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Not to you or the other guys.”

“Is that what you told Gemma?”

And Josh closed the door.

shoka gazes down the hill. A few fires still burn within the village, edging out the cold desert night. Somewhere in the darkness a bullock grunts and a baby cries.

A dozen or so squat mud-brick dwellings. A fenced-off corral for the cattle. Chickens squawking within the sheds. Fields with dried-out gullies and meagre crops. To the north squat the domed grain stores. How many such villages has he visited? How many fires has he lit? How many cries has he silenced?

Not enough. Not yet.

His band swells with each passing victory. Soon it will be an army. For Ashoka has dreams beyond village raids. This is how kingdoms begin.

He thinks about his father, a king, and his older brothers. They have grand palaces and dine off gold plates while he haunts the desert, eating with his band of brigands. His father laughed when Ashoka demanded his crown. How often was he laughed at, dismissed? Now they laugh no longer. They scream. If he cannot have their respect and love, he will have their fear.

Soon, the old palace will echo with wailing women, he thinks. That crown, and others, will be mine. He wonders how the old man sleeps, knowing his son is out here, carving out a kingdom of his own.

His men wait impatiently, like dogs eager for the hunt. They check their weapons, adjust their armour, ensuring helmets are fixed and there are no loose straps. But Ashoka expects little resistance. This will not be a battle – not against unarmed, unsuspecting villagers. This will be a slaughter.

His horse whinnies and stomps its hoof; it senses the coming bloodletting. Ashoka pats its thick neck. He himself wears a mail coat over his silk tunic and heavy cotton pantaloons. His boots, stiff leather, creak in the stirrups. A bright red sash lies across his waist, a jewelled dagger tucked into the cloth. Hanging from his saddle is his sword, a single-edged talwar with a gold-bound hilt. Which chieftain, which prince, did he slay to possess it? He cannot remember; there have been so many.

The jangle of reins and the snort of another steed snaps his attention back to his men.

A sleek mare with a high arching neck and white mane bound with silver and silk trots up beside him. The rider is clad in scales, and the sabre on her hip is sheathed in green crocodile skin. She doffs her helmet, and her emerald eyes shine in the moonlight.

“The men are ready,” she says.

Ashoka observes her. She leans over the pommel, waiting in anticipation, her forked tongue flicking along her fangs. Her cobra’s eyes do not lower; she defies where others would bow and kneel. Perhaps that is why she has risen so rapidly in his command. And why should she bow? Is she not royalty herself? Was not her father a great king?

“You have done well,” he says.

“My lord.” She bows, almost. “I am but your servant.”