abilities. Which sucks. Big time.
So, those were the cons. What about the pros?
Ash frowned. There had to be some. Hmm …
I’m still alive. That counts.
Refreshed, belly filled, and wearing clean clothes, Ash looked around his room. All over the walls were indistinct images of gods and monsters and legendary heroes that could be seen as faded outlines on the worn plaster. The beams had once been painted, but now they too were bowed with age and rotten. Thin, moth-eaten carpets covered the uneven wooden floor, and the wind blew in around the ill-fitting window frames. Coals burned in tall bronze braziers, but it wasn’t enough to keep him warm. Ash found a long Tibetan coat in a wardrobe. The inner lining was fur, maybe goat or yak, and the outer dark red Chinese silk embroidered with dragons. He slung it on over his woollen outfit and leather boots, also lined with fur. His breath steamed in the cold air.
The door swung open and there was Savage. “Rested?” he asked.
“What do you want with me? Why all this?”
Savage stepped aside. “Let me show you, Ash.”
Reluctantly Ash stepped out. Savage led the way and they passed along corridors deep into the mountain. The lighting came from small oil lamps and the walls danced with sinister shadows.
“This is something only the Eternal Warrior would understand. That is why I want you here. To be witness to my legacy,” said Savage as he tapped his cane along the flagstones.
Legacy? Ash didn’t like the sound of that.
“Here, my sanctuary,” said Savage, stopping before a pair of doors. Each was encased in bronze and ornately carved with mythological animals. They seemed to stir as Ash approached, but that was probably just a trick of the light. Probably.
Savage pulled the bronze doors open and a sigh of air escaped, gently stirring torch-lit motes into a dance about them. Beyond the doors was a gloomy chamber of bare, crudely chiselled stone, inhabited by vague shapes.
“This is all I have been, Ash,” said Savage as he lit a heavy iron candelabrum from an oil lamp and held it ahead of him. “Not many have ever been down here, but you, of all people, should see this.”
Ash followed him in.
Savage put the candelabrum down and let its light swell.
It shone upon barrels of muskets, upon the keen edges of swords and on moth-eaten fabrics of old uniforms. There were flags, smoke-stained and bullet-ridden, hanging from banner poles above them. The chamber reached upwards ten or fifteen metres, and was perhaps the same in diameter, a roughly hewn circle with dusty carpets and faded drapes upon the walls. A stool, ornately carved from some dark wood, sat in the centre and Savage offered it to Ash. Ash refused.
He lifted down a long-barrelled musket with a curved stock, inlaid with a vine design in mother-of-pearl. The barrel must have measured almost two metres.
“An Afghan
jezail
,” said Savage. “I got that when we stormed Kabul back in 1842.”
Ash breathed deep. Despite the thin air he collected the scent of oil, of wood and steel, and of blood and gun smoke. Sweat stained the leather sword hilts black and the edges of the bindings were wrinkled with wear. One mannequin wore a grey uniform; its buttons still shone bright gold, but the shoulder braid was frayed. Ash put his finger in one of the holes in the cloth. “That must have hurt.”
“Gettysburg. I was a colonel. Now that was a battle. A slaughter.”
Ash wasn’t much up on American history, but he knew Gettysburg had been the bloodiest battle of the Civil War. “You fought for the South? Why am I not surprised?”
Savage picked up a pair of iron manacles, shaking the chains. Each link was at least three centimetres thick. “You think slavery is wrong, is that it?”
“You even need to ask?”
“I owned slaves. I spent years involved in that ‘peculiar institution’. I shipped them from Africa to the cotton fields of the South and the sugar plantations of the West Indies. Slaves
So, those were the cons. What about the pros?
Ash frowned. There had to be some. Hmm …
I’m still alive. That counts.
Refreshed, belly filled, and wearing clean clothes, Ash looked around his room. All over the walls were indistinct images of gods and monsters and legendary heroes that could be seen as faded outlines on the worn plaster. The beams had once been painted, but now they too were bowed with age and rotten. Thin, moth-eaten carpets covered the uneven wooden floor, and the wind blew in around the ill-fitting window frames. Coals burned in tall bronze braziers, but it wasn’t enough to keep him warm. Ash found a long Tibetan coat in a wardrobe. The inner lining was fur, maybe goat or yak, and the outer dark red Chinese silk embroidered with dragons. He slung it on over his woollen outfit and leather boots, also lined with fur. His breath steamed in the cold air.
The door swung open and there was Savage. “Rested?” he asked.
“What do you want with me? Why all this?”
Savage stepped aside. “Let me show you, Ash.”
Reluctantly Ash stepped out. Savage led the way and they passed along corridors deep into the mountain. The lighting came from small oil lamps and the walls danced with sinister shadows.
“This is something only the Eternal Warrior would understand. That is why I want you here. To be witness to my legacy,” said Savage as he tapped his cane along the flagstones.
Legacy? Ash didn’t like the sound of that.
“Here, my sanctuary,” said Savage, stopping before a pair of doors. Each was encased in bronze and ornately carved with mythological animals. They seemed to stir as Ash approached, but that was probably just a trick of the light. Probably.
Savage pulled the bronze doors open and a sigh of air escaped, gently stirring torch-lit motes into a dance about them. Beyond the doors was a gloomy chamber of bare, crudely chiselled stone, inhabited by vague shapes.
“This is all I have been, Ash,” said Savage as he lit a heavy iron candelabrum from an oil lamp and held it ahead of him. “Not many have ever been down here, but you, of all people, should see this.”
Ash followed him in.
Savage put the candelabrum down and let its light swell.
It shone upon barrels of muskets, upon the keen edges of swords and on moth-eaten fabrics of old uniforms. There were flags, smoke-stained and bullet-ridden, hanging from banner poles above them. The chamber reached upwards ten or fifteen metres, and was perhaps the same in diameter, a roughly hewn circle with dusty carpets and faded drapes upon the walls. A stool, ornately carved from some dark wood, sat in the centre and Savage offered it to Ash. Ash refused.
He lifted down a long-barrelled musket with a curved stock, inlaid with a vine design in mother-of-pearl. The barrel must have measured almost two metres.
“An Afghan
jezail
,” said Savage. “I got that when we stormed Kabul back in 1842.”
Ash breathed deep. Despite the thin air he collected the scent of oil, of wood and steel, and of blood and gun smoke. Sweat stained the leather sword hilts black and the edges of the bindings were wrinkled with wear. One mannequin wore a grey uniform; its buttons still shone bright gold, but the shoulder braid was frayed. Ash put his finger in one of the holes in the cloth. “That must have hurt.”
“Gettysburg. I was a colonel. Now that was a battle. A slaughter.”
Ash wasn’t much up on American history, but he knew Gettysburg had been the bloodiest battle of the Civil War. “You fought for the South? Why am I not surprised?”
Savage picked up a pair of iron manacles, shaking the chains. Each link was at least three centimetres thick. “You think slavery is wrong, is that it?”
“You even need to ask?”
“I owned slaves. I spent years involved in that ‘peculiar institution’. I shipped them from Africa to the cotton fields of the South and the sugar plantations of the West Indies. Slaves
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