Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress by Sarwat Chadda Read Free Book Online Page B

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 likecrazy. 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 hetries, 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