Teku Benga had the smell of a farmyard which had not been too cleanly kept and the smell grew stronger as we entered the main gate under the eyes of the glowering guards. Our horses trod irregularly paved streets caked with dung and other refuse. No women were present in those streets. All we saw were a few male children and a number of warriors lounging, with apparent unconcern, by their ponies. We kept going, up the steeply sloping central street, lined with nothing but temples, towards a large square in what I judged to be the middle of the city. The temples themselves were impressively ugly, in a style which a scholar might have called decadent Oriental baroque. Every inch of the buildings was decorated with representations of gods and demons from virtually every mythology in the East. There were mixtures of Hindu and Buddhist decoration, of Moslem and some Christian, of what I took to be Egyptian, Phoenician, Persian, even Greek, and some which were older still; but none of these combinations was at all pleasing to the eye. At least I now understood how it came to be called the Place Where All Gods Preside—though they presided, it seemed to me, in rather uneasy juxtaposition to each other.
“This is distinctly an unhealthy place,” said Jenab Shah. “I will be glad to leave it. I should not like to die here, Captain Bastable. I would fear what would happen to my soul.”
“I know what you mean. Let us hope Sharan Kang keeps his word.”
“I am not sure I heard him give his word, sir,” said the Risaldar significantly as we reached the square and reined in our horses. We had arrived outside a huge, ornate building, much larger than the others, but in the same sickening mixture of styles. Domes, minarets, spiralling steeples, lattice-walls, pagoda-like terraced roofs, carved pillars, serpent finials, fabulous monsters grinning or growling from every corner, tigers and elephants standing guard at every doorway. The building was predominantly coloured green and saffron, but there was red and blue and orange and gold and some of the roofs were overlaid with gold- or silver-leaf. It seemed the oldest temple of them all. Behind all this was the blue Himalayan sky in which grey and white clouds boiled. It was a sight unlike anything I had ever previously experienced. It filled me with a sense of deep foreboding as if I were in the presence of something not built by human hands at all.
Slowly, from all the many doorways, saffron-robed priests began to emerge and stand stock still, watching us from the steps and galleries of the building which was Temple or Palace, or both, I could not decide.
These priests looked little different from the warriors we had seen earlier and they were certainly no cleaner. It occurred to me that if the Kumbalaris disdained land, then they disliked water even more. I remarked on this to Risaldar Jenab Shah who flung back his great turbanned head and laughed heartily—an action which caused the priests to frown at us in hatred and disgust. These priests were not shaven-headed, like most priests who wore the saffron robe. These had long hair hanging down their faces in many greasy braids and some had moustaches or beards which were plaited in a similar fashion. They were a sinister, unsavoury lot. Not a few had belts or cummerbunds into which were stuck scabbarded swords.
We waited and they watched us. We returned their gaze trying to appear much less concerned than we felt. Our horses moved uneasily under us and tossed their manes, snorting as if the stink of the city was too much, even for them.
Then at last, borne by four priests, the golden litter appeared from what must have been the main entrance of the temple. The curtains were parted and there sat Sharan Kang.
He was grinning.
“I am here, Sharan Kang,” I began, “to listen to anything you wish to tell me concerning your raids on our frontier stations and to discuss the terms of a treaty which will let us live together in peace.”
Sharan Kang’s grin did not falter, but I’m afraid my voice did a little as I stared into that wrinkled, evil face. I had never before felt convinced that I was in the presence of pure evil, but I did at that moment.
After a moment he spoke. “I hear your words and must consider them. Meanwhile you will be guests here—“ he gestured behind him—“here at the Temple of the Future Buddha which is also my palace. The oldest of all these ancient buildings.”
A little nervously we dismounted. The four priests picked up Sharan Kang’s litter and bore it back inside. We followed. The interior was heavy with incense and poorly lighted by sputtering bowls of flaming oil suspended from chains fixed to the ceiling. There were no representations of the Buddha here, however, and I supposed that this was because the ‘future Buddha’ had not yet been born. We followed the litter through a system of corridors, so complicated as to seem like a maze, until we reached a smallish chamber in which food had been laid on a low table surrounded by cushions. Here the litter was lowered and the attendant priests retired, apparently leaving us alone with Sharan Kang. He gestured for us to seat ourselves on the cushions, which we did.
“You must eat and drink,” intoned Sharan Kang, “and then we shall all feel more like talking.”
After washing our hands in the silver bowls of warm water and drying them on the silken towels, we reached, rather reluctantly, towards the food. Sharan Kang helped himself to the same dishes and began to eat heartily, which was something of a relief to us. When we tasted the food we were glad that it did not seem poisoned, for it was delicious.
I complimented the High Priest sincerely on his hospitality and he accepted this graciously enough. He was beginning to seem a much less sinister figure. In fact I was almost beginning to like him.
“It is unusual,” I said, “to have a Temple which is also a Palace—and with such a strange name, too.”
“The High Priests of Kumbalari,” said Sharan Kang smiling, “are also gods, so they must live in a temple. And since the Future Buddha is not yet here to take up residence, what better place than this temple?”
“They must have been waiting a long time for him to come. How old is this building?”
“Some parts of it are little more than fifteen hundred or two thousand years old. Other parts are perhaps three to five thousand years old. The earliest parts are much, much older than that.”
I did not believe him, of course, but accepted what he said as a typical oriental exaggeration. “And have the Kumbalaris lived here all that time?” I asked politely.
“They have lived here a long, long time. Before that there were—other beings...”
A look almost of fear came into his eyes and he smiled quickly. “Is the food to your taste?”
“It is very rich,” I said. I felt an emotion of fondness for him. as I might have felt as a child to a kindly uncle. I looked at the others. And that was when I became suspicious for all had stupid, vacant grins on their faces. And I was feeling drowsy! I shook my head, trying to clear it. I got unsteadily to my feet. I shook Risaldar Jenab Shah’s shoulder. “Are you all right. Risaldar?”
He looked up at me and laughed, then nodded sagely as if I had made some particularly wise pronouncement.
Now I understood why I had felt so well-disposed towards the cunning old High Priest.
“You have drugged us, Sharan Kang! Why? You think any concessions we make in this state will be honoured when we realise what has been done to us? Or do you plan to mesmerise us—make us give orders to our men which will lead them into a trap.”
Sharan Kang’s eyes were hard. “Sit down, captain. I have not drugged you. I ate the food you ate. Am I drugged?”
“Possibly...” I staggered and had to force my legs to support me. The room had begun to spin. “If you are used to the drug and we are not. What is it? Opium?”
Sharan Kang laughed. “Opium! Opium! Why should it be, Captain Bastable? If you are feeling sleepy it is only because you have eaten so much of the rich food of Kumbalari. You have been living on the simpler diet of a soldier. Why not sleep for a while and...?”
My mouth was dry and my eyes were watering. Sharan Kang, murmuring softly, seemed to sway before me like a cobra about to strike. Cursing him I unbuttoned my h
olster and drew out my revolver.
Instantly a dozen of the priests appeared, their curved swords at the ready. I tried to aim at Sharan Kang. “Come closer and he dies,” I said thickly. I was not sure that they understood the words, but they gathered my meaning.
“Sharan Kang.” My own voice seemed to come from a great distance away. “My men will march on Teku Benga tomorrow. If I do not appear before them, alive and well, they will attack your city and they will destroy it and all who live in it.”
Sharan Kang only smiled. “Of course you will be alive and well, captain. Moreover you will see things in an improved perspective, I am sure.”
“My God! You’ll not mesmerise me! I’m an English officer—not one of your ignorant followers!” “Please rest, captain. In the morning...” From the corner of my eye I caught a movement. Two more priests were rushing me from behind. I turned and fired. One went down. The other closed with me, trying to wrench the gun from my grasp. I fired it and blew a great hole in him. With a cry he released my wrist and fell writhing to the ground. Now the Punjabis were beside me, their own pistols drawn, doing their best to support each other, for all were as badly drugged as was I. Jenab Shah said with difficulty: “We must try to reach fresh air, captain. It might help. And if we can get to our horses, we may escape...”
“You’ll be fools to leave this room,” said Sharan Kang evenly. “Even we do not know every part of the maze which is the Temple of the Future Buddha. Some say that sections of it do not even exist in our own time...”
“Be silent!” I ordered, covering him again with my pistol. “I’ll not listen further to your lies.”
We began to back away from Sharan Kang and his remaining priests, our revolvers at the ready as we looked around for the entrance through which we had come. But all entrances looked alike. At last we chose one and staggered through it, finding ourselves in almost total blackness.
As we blundered about, seeking a door which would lead us outside, I wondered again at the reasons for Sharan Kang’s drugging us. I shall never know what his exact plans were, however.
Suddenly one of our men gave a yell and fired into the darkness. At first I saw nothing but a blank wall. Then two or three priests came running at us from thin air, apparently unarmed—but impervious to the man’s bullets.
“Stop firing!” I rasped, convinced that this was an optical illusion. “Follow me!” I stumbled down a flight of steps, pushed through an awning, found myself in another chamber laid out with food—but not the same chamber in which we had eaten. I hesitated. Was I already in the grip of a drugged dream? I crossed the room, knocking over a small stool as I passed the table, and dashed back a series of silk curtains until I discovered an exit. With my men behind me I passed through the archway, striking my shoulders painfully as I weaved from side to side of the corridor. Another flight of steps. Another chamber almost exactly like the first, laid out with food. Another exit and still another flight of steps leading downward. A passage.
I don’t know for how long this useless stumbling about went on, but it felt like an eternity. We were completely lost and our only consolation was that our enemies seemed to have given up their pursuit. We were deep in an unlit part of the Temple of the Future Buddha. There was no smell of incense here—only cold, stale air. Everything I touched was cold; carved from rock and studded with raw jewels and metal, every inch of the walls seemed covered in gargoyles. Sometimes my fingers would trace part of a carving and then recoil in horror at the vision which was conjured up.
The drug was still in us, but the strenuous exercise had diminished part of its effect. My head was beginning to clear when at last I paused, panting, and tried to review our position.
“I think we are in an unused part of the Temple,” I said, “and a long way below the level of the street, judging by all those steps we went down. I wonder why they haven’t followed us. If we wait here for a little while and then try to make our way back undetected, we stand a chance of reaching our men and warning them of Sharan Kang’s treachery. Any other ideas, Risaldar?”
There was silence.
I peered into the darkness. “Risaldar?”
No reply.
I reached into my pocket and -took out a box of matches. I lit one.
All I saw were the horrid carvings—infinitely more disgusting than those in the upper parts of the building. They seemed both inhuman and unbelievably ancient. I could understand now why we had not been followed. I dropped the match with a gasp. Where were my men?
I risked calling out. “Risaldar? Jenab Shah?”
Still silence.
I shuddered, beginning to believe in everything I had been told about Sharan Kang’s power. I found myself stumbling forward, trying to run, falling on the stone and picking myself up, running again, insane with terror, until, completely exhausted. I fell to the deathly cold floor of the Temple of the Future Buddha.
I might have passed out for a short while, but the next thing I remember was a peculiar noise—unmistakably the sound of distant, tinkling laughter. Sharan Kang? No.
I reached out, trying to touch the walls. I found only empty space on both sides of me. I had left the corridor, I supposed, and entered a chamber. I shivered. Again that peculiar, tinkling laughter.
And then I saw a tiny light ahead of me. I got up and began to move towards it, but it must have been a very long way away, for it grew no larger.
I stopped.
Then the light began to move towards me!
And as it came closer, the sound of the unearthly laughter grew louder until I was forced to holster my pistol and cover my ears. The light intensified. I squeezed my eyes shut in pain. The ground beneath my feet began to sway. An earthquake?
I risked opening my eyes for a moment and through the blinding white light got an impression of more inhuman carvings, or strange, complicated things which might have been machines built by the ancient Hindu gods.
And then the floor seemed to give way beneath me and I was plunging downwards, was caught by a whirlwind and hurled upward, was tossed head over heels, dashed from side to side, hurled downward again, until my senses left me altogether, save for that sensation of bitter, bitter cold.
Then I felt nothing, not even the cold. I became convinced that I was dead, slain by a force which had lurked below the Temple since the beginnings of Time and which even Sharan Kang, Master Sorcerer of Teku Benga, had been afraid to face.
Then I ceased to think at all.
Chapter III
The Shadow from the Sky
CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED FIRST as a series of vague impressions: armies, consisting of millions of men, marching against a background of grey and white trees; black flames burning; a young girl in a white dress, her body pierced by dozens of long arrows. There were many images of that sort and slowly they became stronger and the colours grew richer and richer. I became aware of my own body. It was colder than ice—colder even than it had been before I had passed out. And yet, oddly, I felt no discomfort. I felt nothing—I just knew that I was cold.
I tried to move the fingers on my right hand (I could still see nothing) and thought that perhaps the index finger rose a fraction.
The images in my head grew more horrific. Corpses filled my skull—brutally maimed corpses. Dying children stretched out their hands to me for help. Bestial soldiers in colourless uniforms raped women. And everywhere there was fire, black smoke, collapsing buildings. I had to escape those images and I made a great effort to move my arm.
At last the arm began to bend, but it was amazingly stiff. And as it bent pain flooded through me so that I cried out—a strange, grating noise. My eyes sprang open and at first I saw nothing but a milky haze. I moved my neck. Again the sickening pain. But the images were beginning to fade. I bent my leg and gasped. Suddenly fire seemed to fill me, melting the ice which had frozen my blood. I began to shake all over, but the pain diminished. And now I saw that I lay on my back staring up at the blue sky. I seemed to be at the
bottom of a pit, for there were steep walls on every side.
After a very long time I was able to sit upright and inspect my surroundings. I was in a pit of sorts—but a man-made pit, for the shaft was of carved stone. The carvings were similar to those I had glimpsed fleetingly before I collapsed. In the daylight they did not look quite so daunting, but they were ugly things nonetheless.
I smiled at my fears. Plainly there had been an earthquake and it had shaken down the Temple of the Future Buddha, The other things I had seen had been caused by the action of the drug on my frightened brain. Somehow I had escaped the worst of the earthquake and was relatively unhurt. I doubted if Sharan Kang and his people had been so lucky, but I had best go warily until I knew for certain that they were not waiting for me up above. Probably poor Risaldar Jenab Shah and the sowars had been killed in the catacombs. But at least Nature had done the work I had been commissioned to do—the earthquake would have ‘pacified’ even Sharan Kang. Even if he were not dead, he would now be discredited, for those of his people still alive would see the earthquake as a sign from the gods.
I got to my feet, staring at my hands. They were caked with dust that was not only thick but which seemed to have been there for ages. And my clothes were in rags. As I slapped at the dust, bits of cloth fell away. I fingered my jacket. The fabric seemed to have rotted! I was momentarily disturbed, but then reasoned that they had been affected by the action of some peculiar gas which filled the deeper chambers of the temple—a gas which had perhaps combined with the drug to make me suffer those strange hallucinations.
When I felt in slightly better shape, I began, as cautiously as I could, to try to make my way up to the top of the pit, which was some thirty feet above my head. I was extremely weak and frightfully stiff and the rock was soft, often breaking away as I tested it for a foothold. But by using the gargoyles as steps, I slowly managed to clamber to the top of the pit, haul myself over the edge and peer cautiously around me.
The Warlord of the Air Page 3
