Ash Mistry and the Savage Fortress by Sarwat Chadda

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