by Guy d'Armen
When he came across this dolmen in the course of his travels in 1924, a Dr. Ossendowski had photographed it as a curiosity, but when he went to develop the plate that same evening, he was surprised to find it entirely blank.
Later on, returning by the same route, the doctor took another photograph of the dolmen and, to make certain of the result, repeated it on several plates. But even those precautions were useless. No sooner had the photographic apparatus been packed up and loaded on the horses than the animals suddenly took fright, and bolted, scattering their burden.
When it was picked up, the photographic equipment, including the newly exposed plates, had all been smashed.2
In any event, the natives firmly believed that Abuk Khan’s curse was sufficiently potent to deal with any who dared intrude upon his peace.
Ardan wanted to locate the mythical dolmen and test if there was any truth to the legend.
He had spent four months exploring the region when, thanks to the clues provided by the Tartar Chief, he had finally located the legendary dolmen of Abuk Khan near the banks of Black Lake.
The stone mausoleum was stark, made of blood-red blocks of granite, and the light of the sunset conferred upon it an evil glow. It was no surprise, thought Ardan, that it had generated so many superstitions.
There were carvings that categorically identified it as the tomb of Abuk Khan and warned the unwary traveler of all the curses that would befall him were he to disrespect the dead Khan.
Since it was almost dark, Ardan decided to set up camp at the foot of the sinister monument, despite the warnings. The masses of multicolored flowers, including bushes of truly magnificent Japanese irises, scattered around the banks of the lake, and made for an enchanting contrast with the grimness of the dark cliffs in the distance.
The honeyed perfume of the lilies wafted up to him and he expected to spend a good, restful night in the shade of the mythical dolmen.
Unfortunately, when he woke up, Ardan had the unhappy surprise of discovering that his feet had been shackled, and four Tartar warriors were looking at him with an evil, sardonic glint in their eyes.
He tried to free himself, but that only served to amuse the Tartars. His rifle, gun and knife had been taken away by his captors, so he was defenseless.
Ardan assumed that the men sought to ransom him, and were probably the real cause of the many local tales about strangers disappearing in the region, all conveniently credited to the spectre of Abuk Khan.
He tried talking to them and elicit some kind of response to his queries, but in vain.
Then, he smelled a particularly foul odor.
Not far from him, the Tartars were boiling a liquid in a pot, having relit his fire of the previous night. It was a local concoction made by boiling tarantulas with alcohol, then adding local herbs; it was a powerful sleeping drug that rendered men totally unconscious.
One of the Tartars brought a bowl of it to Ardan’s mouth, and ordered him to drink it.
The young man squeezed his jaws together, but another Tartar pinched his nose while a third pried his teeth open with his knife.
He was forced to swallow the disgusting tarantula liquor and soon fell unconscious, oblivious to the world around him. This was a shame, because he might otherwise have learned that he had been successful, after a fashion, in his secret quest.
The four bandits tied his arms and legs together and threw him across the saddle of one of their horses.
Then, the one who seemed to be the leader said:
“Kyzyl Kaya will be pleased.”
Kyzyl Kaya! The mad scientist who had helped the dreaded air-pirate Captain Mendax build his Citadel on top of Mount Everest! He was the secret behind Doc Ardan’s journey to the Black Lake.
Several months earlier, the young man had overheard Mendax say: “I have another in Upper Mongolia, near the source of the Yenisei... No one will ever find us there!” and, suspecting that the scientist had not perished in the destruction of the Citadel, which he had bombed from the air, he had decided to seek him there.
And he appeared to have succeeded—although not in the way he had envisioned!
“Yes,” replied the other Tartar. “The presence of this westerner in the region made him anxious.”
“Do you truly believe, Abanka,” said a third, “that one as young as he could frighten the likes of Kyzyl Kaya?”
“No, Spirak! I think the Red Wizard fears no one. His science makes him the equal of the gods. But I know that he said that this young man who lies there, bound and unconscious, is the deadliest foe he ever encountered.”
“Well then, he’ll be harmless when trapped in the lair of the Red Wizard,” concluded the leader.
The four Tartars rode away with their prisoner, first alongside the banks of Black Lake, provoking the flight of hundreds of birds, then towards the North, in the forest covered, mountain country.
The Tartars’ minds were not distracted by hunting opportunities; they rode hard for several miles through the dark woods, until they reached a certain spot that seemed no different from any other.
They tied their horses to the trees, and two of them grabbed Ardan while the other two cleared some of the vegetation, revealing a large metal trapdoor.
They opened it and went down a granite flight of stairs, which led to an underground corridor carved inside the rock. They reached a cell with a metal door, and dumped Ardan’s body inside, on a bed of dry grass, after untying him. He was still unconscious.
They then latched the door behind them and left.
Ardan remained unconscious for almost two days. When he woke up, haggard and almost amnesiac, because of the potion he had been forced to swallow, it took him several hours to sort out his thoughts and remember the sequence of events leading to his capture.
Fortunately, someone had left a jug of water and some black bread in the cell while he slept, so he was able to eat and drink a little, careful to not have so much that he became sick.
He tried to fathom the reasons that had led to his capture and suspected the hand of Kyzyl Kaya, but without evidence. He also thought that he might have been captured for ransom, as he had been the year before by Captain Mendax.
Eventually, the door opened and he saw the Tartar leader standing on the threshold, dressed in his boiled leather uniform, bearing his lance and shield.
“Follow me!” he ordered.
Having no choice, the young man complied and followed the Tartar through the underground tunnels.
They then entered an area where the walls were carved and polished like jade. They stopped in front of a door made of dark teak wood, decorated with exquisitely sculpted dragons.
“Enter!” ordered the Tartar.
Ardan obeyed and found himself in the strangest place he had ever seen.
The room he had just entered appeared to be made entirely of red marble, from the walls to the vases, which also contained arrangements of scarlet flowers.
As if the decor was not sufficient to convey the impression of setting foot in Hell itself, in the center of the room, sitting behind a desk of red wood, was a man who looked like the popular image of Mephistopheles from Faust: dressed entirely in red velvet, wearing a black toque with a feather in it, he was extremely tall and thin. His face was ageless, without lines. His nearly phosphorescent blue eyes gleamed in the hollow of their dark orbits. His skeletal face bore a thin, jet-black moustache and a short, pointed beard.
Ardan recognized him at once:
“Kyzyl Kaya!”
The diabolical scientist waved to the Tartar warrior, who left.
“I can’t say that I looked forward to meeting you again, Doctor Ardan,” said Kaya, “but since you were looking for me with such ardor, I had no choice but bring you here, although I apologize for the methods my men employed. A man of science like you deserved better. Please, sit down for we have much to talk about,” he added, gesturing to an armchair also made of red wood.
Ardan did so, still flabbergasted by w
hat was happening.
“Truth to tell,” continued Kaya, “since the demise of the late and lamented Captain Mendax—due entirely to you—I have not had the opportunity to converse with a like mind, so once I found you were in the area, I have been looking forward to this encounter.”
“Really?”
“I tell the truth—always, Doctor Ardan. Besides, I had to, er, remove you from the chessboard because there are, er, things in this section of Mongolia which, as I’m sure you have noticed, is abundantly rich in all kinds of minerals and rare metals, that I am not yet prepared for the world to learn about.”
“Things? What things?”
“All in due time, Doctor.”
At that point, Kyzyl Kaya took an 18th century snuff box from his desk, one decorated with Fragonard motifs reminiscent of the Court of King Louis XV, and delicately snuffed a pinch of tobacco.
“Tell me, Doctor,” he asked suddenly, “how old do you think I am? What age would you give me?”
Ardan was taken aback by the question, but saw no harm in answering it truthfully:
“Well, er, Mid-forties... Fifty perhaps?”
“Wrong, Doctor!” replied Kyzyl Kaya laughing. “I’m over two hundred fifty years old!”
CHAPTER II
The Immortal Man
I’m dealing with a madman, was Francis Ardan’s first thought upon hearing Kyzyl Kaya’s incredible statement.
But he was careful to not let his face reflect that thought, and only nodded politely.
“My name is not Kyzyl Kaya,” continued the scarlet-clad villain. “This is merely what the locals call me in their tongue; it means ‘Red Wizard.’ I’ll tell you my real name in a few minutes. I presume that you must think me mad, but that would b a mistake...”
“You must admit that such a thing is difficult to believe,” said Ardan. “The oldest man I’ve heard of was a Persian who passed away recently at age 122.”
“So you are of the opinion that men can’t live much longer than 120 years, but why should that be?”
“Well, to begin with, all the medical studies show that...”
“Forget the medical studies!” said Kyzyl Kaya, playing with a scarlet letter opener. “Besides, as you well know, every study makes room for a few exceptions... well, I am that exception.”
“So you claim, yes.”
“I’m not just claiming it, Doctor Ardan, I shall prove it to you. And no, I won’t pretend I made a pact with the Devil or any such nonsense. I discovered a scientific secret, or rather secrets, the mastery of which has enabled me to prolong my life almost indefinitely. Yes, I am truly the Immortal Man!”
Suddenly, the room was bathed in a reddish light that only added to the impression of being in the antechamber of Hell, talking to the Devil himself.
Ardan had not seen Kyzyl Kaya press a secret switch with his boot, plunging the room into this sinister, but man-made, atmosphere, thanks to a number of spotlights hidden behind the walls, but the young man remained unimpressed.
“Very well,” said Kyzyl Kaya, sighing. “I see that I shall have to prove the veracity of my words in order for you to believe me...”
He got up, walked to the wall and pressed his palm against it. A hidden compartment silently slid open, from which he took a tube made of silver.
He opened the tube and pulled out a roll of parchment, which he carefully unrolled and showed to Ardan.
“As you can see, this is an authentic document—I can prove that as well—recording that in the Year of Our lord 1695, the title of Doctor in Medicine was granted by the Faculté of Paris to Eliacin Arthur Helion de Bertheville, Seigneur of Cassis and Co-Seigneur of La Motte. And this is the seal of King Louis XIV himself at the bottom...”
After a silence, he continued:
“As you may have surmised already, I am Comte de Bertheville. And I will prove that as well...”
The scarlet-clad villain took a miniature portrait from his desk, which he showed Ardan. It looked exactly like him.
“This is my portrait painted by the famous Louis-Abraham van Loo in 1699 in Nice—signed, as you can see. Perhaps you have seen his painting of Sainte Genevieve?”
“Hum... It could be one of your ancestors who looked just like you,” chanced Ardan.
But the Comte seemed to take no offense at that statement; on the contrary, he appeared to enjoy the verbal fencing.
“Yes, that is possible, but you will concede that there was only one Comte de Bertheville who left France for the Far East in the 18th century. Here is an article from 1715 recording my departure. And here is a letter dated 1844, from the Abbé Huc, whom I met during his visit to Mongolia, talking about me. Note the physical description he makes of me...”
Now, Ardan’s conviction had been shattered. The sheer amount of evidence produced by the Comte was truly overwhelming. Could it be that this incredible man had found what the Alchemists had sought for so long, and taken refuge from the world in the isolation of Central Asia in order to carry out his research in peace?
“I will show you more incredible sights, Doctor Ardan,” continued the Comte. “You stand right now in an underground city built by an ancient civilization totally unknown to us. I discovered it long ago, explored it, and decided to make it my home. Even the dreaded Chinese Emperor Yung-Lo who ravaged this region in the 15th century failed to find it.
“I bent the local tribes to my will, and made them my servants. They’re the ones who called me Kyzyl Kaya, the Red Wizard, and the day will come when I will raise the people of this region under my standard and, armed with weapons of my own design, we will march against China and India and conquer the Far East...”
At that moment, the Tartar chief returned and bowed deeply.
“Yes, what do you want, Chakar?” asked the Comte.
“I have a report to make, O Most High.”
“What is it?”
“There is a horse missing from the stables.”
“Do you suspect anyone in particular?”
“Yes, Cham Bazlik—because it’s the black stallion which he favored.”
“Send a messenger to his tribe on the fastest horse and let them know that if, by tomorrow’s sunset, the thief has not returned with my horse, I will dispatch those who strangle bears as if they were rabbits and walk seven leagues in an hour.”
“It shall be done.”
After the Tartar had left, the Comte explained:
“My herd of horses is as sacred as the Emperor of China’s. They are the finest ever raised or captured by my warriors. That black stallion, in particular, is the prize stallion of the herd.”
“What did you mean by threatening Cham Bazlik with those who strangle bears as if they were rabbits?”
“Patience, Doctor Ardan! You will find out soon enough—especially if you are foolish enough to leave my city without my permission.”
“You mean, I’m a prisoner here?”
“Certainly. I’ve seen you at work against Captain Mendax and I won’t take the risk of you doing the same to me. Besides, I need you for a certain project of mine...”
Ardan tried to leap forward to catch the villain by surprise, but was caught from behind by another Tartar who had surreptitiously entered the room.
Trapped in a bear-like hug, the young man was totally powerless.
“I see you haven’t changed,” snickered Kyzyl Kaya. “You’re as treacherous as ever, Doctor Ardan. But understand that your situation here is hopeless. You have no idea of the true extent of my power. I’m going to have you taken back to your residence—note that I say ‘residence’ and not ‘prison!’—and you should rest, because I will soon need to take some of your blood...”
Seeing the look of utter amazement that appeared on the young man’s face, the Red Wizard explained:
“Yes, I use blood transfusions as part of my immortality process. You’re young, supremely healthy and ideal for my needs. But you will understand that I don’t want you to get out and spread the word ab
out immortality to the rest of the world. I will tell you more later.”
Kyzyl Kaya then gestured to the Tartar who took Ardan away.
While he was being carried through a maze of corridors, the young man saw an underground garden lit by hidden electric lights that bathed it in something resembling natural daylight. At the center of it was a white cottage of French architecture, surrounded by rose bushes and a fountain. The effect was if a small patch of rural France had been magically transported here.
The Tartar opened the wooden door and pushed Ardan inside, before locking it behind him. The furniture was also French in style, and extremely opulent and comfortable. After a cursory inspection, Ardan determined that the walls were impenetrable and the glass of the windows looked at least ten centimeters thick. The cottage may have looked like a nice place to live, but it was still a prison!
Still tired by the aftereffects of the potion they had forced him to ingest, Ardan soon collapsed onto a beautiful bed covered with red velvet brocade and fell asleep.
When he finally awoke, after a series of horrible nightmares, he had no idea what time it was because of the perpetual daylight that reigned outside. He could not get out of the cottage, but when he went to the back to look at the other side of the “garden,” he experienced a shock.
There, in the backyard, not far from the cottage, stood a huge basin made of jade—darkened with blood!
CHAPTER III
The Blood Sacrifice
What was the significance of those blood stains?
Ardan remembered what Kyzyl Kaya—the Comte de Bertheville—had said: “I use blood transfusions as part of my immortality process.” He believed that what he beheld was—human blood!
Half an hour later, the young man saw a Tartar arrive at the basin. The warrior washed it thoroughly, then left.
Another half-hour passed, then Ardan saw a group of eight men enter the courtyard. Four were Tartar warriors, dressed all in red and armed with scimitars; the other four Chinese prisoners, their hands tied behind their back, their chests bare.
