First published in 2024 by Hachette India

(Registered name: Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd)

An Hachette UK company

www.hachetteindia.com

This ebook published in 2024

Text copyright © 2024 Eoin Redahan

Illustrations copyright © 2024 Mehnaaz Husain

Eoin Redahan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Cover design and illustrations by Meforya (Mehnaaz Husain).

All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system (including but not limited to computers, disks, external drives, electronic or digital devices, e-readers, websites), or transmitted in any form or by any means (including but not limited to cyclostyling, photocopying, docutech or other reprographic reproductions, mechanical, recording, electronic, digital versions) without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental. Certain place names have been used to retain the historicity and/or character traits in the text as far as possible.

Paperback edition ISBN 978-93-5731-756-6

Ebook edition ISBN 978-93-5731-605-7

Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd

4th & 5th Floors, Corporate Centre

Plot No. 94, Sector 44, Gurugram – 122003, India

Typeset by Manmohan Kumar, Delhi

Printed and bound in India

by Manipal Technologies Limited, Manipal

This book is dedicated to my family, and to Chrisma.

Thank you (with everything I’ve got) for your love and support.

CHAPTER 1

THE DEVIL’S ARMREST

Arun daydreamed as he fluffed the straw… He led his people into battle on a white horse, his quiff quivering in the wind (Arun’s, not the horse’s). The stallion reared on its hind legs as he shouted, ‘Do this for your families and your missing queen, but, above all, do this for FREEDOM. And then, everyone roared and charged. Arun promptly beat up a few muscly baddies, saved three of his fellow warriors’ lives (‘You owe me one, big guy’), parried seven flying arrows with the blade of his sword and burst through the palace doors…

In these dreams Arun forgot about real life for a while, but he was reminded of it when he threw the door open to the wilds of the world. And what a world it was: a mountain ledge, thousands of feet above the valley floor, with jagged, snow-tipped peaks gleaming across the horizon. But Arun didn’t notice the view that morning. He was too busy burrowing into his scarf and praying his fingertips wouldn’t stick to the bucket handle again. He rubbed his hands together. His fingers, so cold, barely felt like his fingers at all. Two coils of wind-whipped snow danced by the inn and the path. They whirled along the ledge that clung to the mountain’s edge before disappearing into nothing. ‘Even the snow doesn’t want to stay here,’ muttered Arun, as he cracked icicles from the eaves and dropped them into the pail. The inn’s faded lettering stared back at him. The Devil’s Armrest – The World’s Highest Hotel, with a notice nailed below it: See inside for group discounts. ‘We’re halfway to heaven,’ his uncle would say to each guest, with a wink. Arun put down the pail and gazed at the rocky mountain pass. People didn’t come here for the scenery. They came because they had something to hide. The inn was awfully remote – so bleak and high up that most people didn’t know it existed. That, he supposed, was the reason. His mother knew they would be safe there. Halfway to heaven? Arun scoffed. More like halfway to hell.

Arun returned the bucket to the slightly less freezing barn. As he plopped the icicles into the animals’ water bowls, he caught sight of their feeding trough. His stomach grumbled. Surely, the creatures wouldn’t miss a bite or two. Within a minute, he was trawling his hand through the cold mush in the animals’ feeding trough. He studied each half-eaten vegetable like a jeweller inspecting a diamond. In this barn, he was a parsnip fisherman, an onion pincher and a dreamer. His little brother, Sai, leaned on a rake and watched his big brother. Like almost everything else, the rake towered above the lad.

‘I heard he eats his enemies in sandwiches,’ Sai said.

‘What? Who?’ asked Arun.

‘The king. Lalu.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘One of the guests. He eats them with lettuce, tomato and chutney.’

‘That’s rubbish. He always hated chutney.’

‘Maybe he learned to like it,’ said Sai. ‘I didn’t eat these mushy carrots before, but I like them now, sort of.’

Arun sighed. ‘Don’t believe everything these people tell you. Travellers tell each other all sorts of silly stories just to pass the time.’

‘Find anything yet?’

Arun spotted a piece of parsnip floating in the swill – tan and wrinkled like their uncle’s forehead, but sweet, unlike Uncle.

‘So, what else did the guest tell you?’ Arun asked, lobbing half of the parsnip to Sai.

‘He banned dogs with tails that stick up, he started a war with the Peace Islanders because they said one of his legs was shorter than the other, and he’s turning anyone who doesn’t laugh at his jokes into triangle-shaped sandwiches, without any crusts.’

‘You see. He always ate the crusts. It’s all rubbish. Although, I can see why you’d ban dogs with tails that stick up. There’s something disturbing about their b—’

The barn door swung open, and a figure appeared in the rectangle of light. The wind whistled and whispered around the shape and coated it with its snowy words.

‘Is it ready yet?’ the figure said, stepping inside.

Arun stood up from the trough and curtseyed before fanning his hand at the beds of straw and a lone piglet sleeping in its stall. ‘Uncle, I present to you our pig’s palace, goat’s getaway, sheep’s chalet and rat’s retreat. I presume you’ve come with the towel bathrobe and mints for their pillows?’

The boys’ uncle squinted in the half-light and grunted. He looked less mysterious when the door closed away the bright light of morning. Middle-aged. Worry-worn. Tired. ‘That trough looks light. Have you been eating from it again?’

‘Me?’ Arun said, wearing his best innocent face.

The man looked from one nephew to the other – the younger one as thin as the rake he held, the elder as pudgy as bread dough.

‘Sai, has he been eating from the trough?’

‘No, Uncle.’

‘Because we’re expecting guests. Special guests.’

‘By special, do you mean especially dangerous?’ Arun asked. ‘Who are they this time? Smugglers? Bandits? An escaped prisoner perhaps?’

‘Oh, living legends, that’s all,’ Uncle said, looking into a cracked pocket mirror and rearranging the wisps on his crown. ‘Famous throughout Asamana for their valour – and hair.’

‘Yeah, but do they have names?’

‘The woman who stayed here last night said the Famous Shahs are passing this way.’

‘Who?’

‘What do you mean who? The Famous Shahs. Crusaders of justice. Champions of the weak and shy. Saviours of the little guy.’ Uncle dipped his face towards theirs. ‘The good see them in their dreams. The wicked in their nightmares.’

Arun yawned. ‘Never heard of them. You, Sai?’

Sai shrugged.

‘How could you not have heard of them? I’m talking swords, shields, headbands… They even have their own flag.’

The boys stared back at their uncle.

‘They feature in firelight stories at the inn all the time and not always the later ones when everyone’s asleep. You must know them. People sing songs about their leader’s deeds all the time… What else? They have necklaces made out of their enemies’ teeth but done in a really tasteful way.’

‘Do they have to brush them too?’ Sai asked.

‘What?’

‘Do they have to brush their tooth necklaces before they go to bed?’

‘What? No, of course not. Anyway, they’re famous – that’s all you need to know,’ Uncle said, tightening his scarf and buttoning his coat in that herky-jerky way of his. ‘I want this place perfect. I’m talking fluffed straw, snow melted for fresh water… and get rid of that smell.’

‘The smell will be gone as soon as you go, Uncle,’ Arun said.

‘Less of your cheek, boy. These heroes will need a place for their horses.’

The two boys gaped at each other. Did he say horses? No one dared ride a horse these days – not since the king banned them when one bucked him in the teeth after he pulled its tail. Now, horses appeared only as wine gums, glue or false teeth. But the boys’ mother had told them stories about heroes on horseback, and Arun still remembered their steeds’ noble names: Lightning Nag, Pinky Long Nose, Prominent Tooth Jonesy, Shadowcaster, Steve… But those days were gone, and Prominent Tooth Jonesy was being used to stick art projects to a classroom wall somewhere.

Who are these maniacs? Arun wondered. Slipping over the border was dangerous enough for the thieves who scuttled from shadow to shadow. For a group of warriors to try the same on horseback was brave. Rash. Stupid. King Lalu wasn’t exactly fond of warriors who weren’t his own soldiers.

‘Wait, Uncle,’ Arun said just before the barn door closed behind him. ‘What about these supposedly Famous Shahs?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know, Mottu,’ his uncle said, using Arun’s pet name to annoy him. It meant plump in a cuddly way when his mum or Sai said it, but it sounded different coming from his uncle. Annoying. Needly.

‘Yeah, that’s why I asked.’

‘Pity I don’t have time to tell you. I want this place spotless for their steeds. It looks like a pigsty in here.’

‘Uncle, it is a pigsty.’

‘Just do it, Arun.’

As soon as Uncle left, Arun sighed and returned to the trough. He raked his fingers through the ooze, fished out a blob of something and grimaced as it squidged between his teeth. I am not made for this, he thought. Sai watched on, his eyes never leaving the food.

‘Would my lord care for a delicacy?’ Arun asked, handing over the blob. ‘The finest leftovers served in a mystery sauce. Best served at winter barn temperature.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ Sai said, gobbling it down.

Arun watched his brother lick his fingers, one by one. The lad couldn’t remember the world they left… Feasts with a dozen dishes set before them. Bowls of rajma and chana on beds of rice steaming next to soft naan. Fried, crispy onion bhajis. And burfi – so creamy and sweet. A chorus of aromas that made the heart swoon. On second thoughts, maybe not knowing was better.

‘Hey, Mottu,’ Sai said, wiping his hand on his trousers, ‘we don’t actually have dressing gowns and pillows for the animals, do we?’

Arun wanted to play it cool just to annoy his uncle, but he needed to see what all the fuss was about, so he joined him on the mountain ledge as soon as he spotted the riders winding their way towards the inn.

‘You see them there in the distance?’ his uncle said, pointing at a group of travellers on horseback. ‘Look at those manes – such magnificent creatures. And the horses aren’t bad either,’ he added with a smile and a nudge.

Arun nodded along to his uncle’s jabbering as a dozen figures shuffled along the path, each but a hoof slip away from falling all the way down the mountain. Down there, somewhere, lay countryside. And beyond that… Home.

‘Kingly folk, they say. Tough as old bread. Their leader is so precise with a sword he could cut your name in the bark of a tree from five feet away in that fancy joined-up writing, with a personalized note – Stay in school, little guy.’

‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘You know I was quite the horseman back in the day.’

‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘Used to ride with your father – back when he was, well, alive, of course. We wore these jean shorts, which were very fashionable in those days…’

‘Yes, Uncle.’

Step by step, the riders grew in detail. Through the clouds of breath, Arun saw leathery cheeks and bodies stooped in their saddles. They wore a mishmash of furs as blankets and coats with animal hides stitched together. Arun even saw feathers on one of their shoulders. They looked less like the fairy tale–types Uncle described and more like the reason why Sai woke up screaming in the night.

All except the one at the front of the group. This fellow rode stiff-backed, with his cloak fluttering behind him, swishing his mane like a shampoo model. Arun couldn’t help himself from making an impressed sound (whuph). To ride a horse in these parts was courageous enough but to do so with glossy, dyed blond hair was nothing short of daring. No one risked a styled, conditioned mop in those parts – not if they knew the characters that lurked along the path. Oily-headed thieves saw nice clothes and stylish hair as signs of wealth and mugged accordingly. Yet there he was, brushing his hair in plain sight. Arun squinted. Did he actually have a holster for his hairbrush?

This was not what Arun expected from a hero. But then, they were all different from what he expected. The rest looked like the other bandits and smugglers who passed through, with their shifty eyes and hands hovering by their weapons. Everything seemed second-rate, from their stained teeth to their stumpy horses. Actually, you couldn’t even call them horses. On closer inspection, they were ponies – ponies so short that one of the riders’ toes brushed the snow as they passed. Foul-tempered, bitey creatures with scars gouged into their faces and flanks. One sported an empty, winking eye socket. Another missed an ear. Even the swanky-haired fellow’s black pony looked like it wanted a fight.

Not that Arun’s uncle noticed any of that. The joy of seeing warrior types always made him, well, pathetic. ‘Welcome, welcome, Famous Shahs,’ he said, clasping his hands together as he approached the riders. ‘I must say, it is an honour to meet such brave—’

‘Food, bed and a bath,’ the blond one said, flicking the reins at Arun’s uncle as he dismounted. ‘Your payment shall be three stories of my heroic deeds – as long as there’s a fire and extra snacks. If you want more stories, it’ll cost you.’

Arun noticed the strain in his uncle’s smile. They didn’t survive on much as it was. Feeding a dozen riders for free would take the food right out of their bellies.

‘Well, I’m sure we can come to some sort of an arrangement,’ Uncle said. ‘You understand that I have two boys to feed?’

The blond one stepped forward and pushed his cloak back so everyone could see his fingers dancing on a dagger. The man was stocky and powerful-looking – the sort of person who is thick everywhere. Arun should really have been focusing on the dagger, but he dwelt instead on the hair. What thirty-year-old man dyes his hair blond? It looked… off.

‘You are from Asamana, are you not?’ the blond one said, placing a hand on Uncle’s shoulder and pinching it as he spoke.

‘Em, well, from near the Lake of Sky.’

‘I’m guessing you fled here. You are a refugee?’

‘I… we… Yes.’

‘Well, I have come to save you from the Crazy One – to free everyone from his wicked rule. Is that not worth a bed and a bite?’

Arun’s chest clenched at the mention of the king. What did he mean by save? The man relaxed his grip on Uncle’s shoulder but pushed his glare closer – so close that their noses almost touched. ‘Well, my friend, what do you say?’

The other riders stayed as quiet as wolves watching their prey.

‘I need something,’ Uncle said with a wobbly voice. ‘Winter is hard here, and we need to eat.’

The blond-haired one stared until Uncle’s skin paled. ‘All right,’ the man said, smiling at last. ‘I shall give you the girl’s horse. Ride it. Eat it. Do whatever you like with it.’

Arun’s uncle sighed at the sorry-looking pony with one eye. It wouldn’t make much of a worker – wouldn’t make much of anything. ‘Okay, deal,’ he said, rubbing his hands together and pretending to be jolly. ‘Now, let’s get you lot inside.’

However, a wild-looking girl clutched the pony’s mane and held it close. Arun hadn’t seen her at first amid the jumble of adults and animals. The curl of her claws, the crinkling of her face and the hunch of her shoulders reminded Arun of a cornered cat.

‘No,’ she said, driving the words through clenched teeth. ‘He’s mine.’

‘Give it to the lad,’ the blond one said, nodding towards Arun. ‘I won’t ask you twice, Krishma.’

The wild-looking girl glowered at him. As Arun took the reins, the creature snapped at him, its teeth clacking the air. The girl let out a cruel laugh as Arun flinched. If these are heroes, Arun thought as he led the beast to the barn, I don’t fancy meeting any villains.

‘What are they like?’ Sai asked when Arun returned.

‘Not what I expected. They say they’re going to save the people from the king.’

‘How?’

Arun stroked the one-eyed horse – patted the meanness right out of it. ‘I don’t know, Sai, but I have a bad feeling about this.’