As the words left his mouth, Koschei darted forward with predatory speed. Anthony caught his wrist as the knife dug for his heart. He drove his own blade toward Koschei’s side, and the Russian’s fingers snapped closed on his wrist like the jaws of a wolf trap. They strained against one another like that for a minute, muscle to muscle. Koschei’s head snapped forward, catching Anthony in the face. Anthony felt his nose break, and he fell back, jerking Koschei after him. He released the latter’s wrist and drove the heel of his palm into his opponent’s throat. Cartilage cracked and Koschei reared back, coughing.
They rolled apart. Anthony tasted blood as he slipped and slid to his feet on the rocking compartment. Koschei’s face had turned purple and he hacked and gagged as he stumbled up. His eyes rolled madly as he flew at Anthony again, knife whipping through the air. Anthony moved into the blow, battering aside Koschei’s thrusting hand with his forearm, and sliced a crimson trail across his enemy’s chest. Koschei grappled with him, his blade snaking around.
They slashed and stabbed at one another as the train thundered on. Soon, dozens of lacerations wept freely on Anthony’s chest, back, and arms, and Koschei was similarly bloody. The Russian bared his teeth in a snarl as they rolled across the roof of the car, sliding toward the edge.
Just before they went over, Anthony drove his blade into the roof to anchor himself as he had earlier. Koschei seemed to have no such inclination, however, and he continued to try and gut Anthony, who was forced to defend himself with one hand. Koschei’s knife drove down toward his face. Anthony caught the blade and could not restrain a hiss as the blade sawed into his palm. Blood welled between his fingers and dappled his chest. Koschei, half on and half off of the roof, hunched forward, both hands on the hilt of his weapon, as he tried to force it down. His eyes bulged, and his face had gone a deadly shade of violet. Anthony realized that his earlier blow had crushed the man’s throat. Koschei was slowly suffocating, even as he tried to take his enemy with him. The man was dying, but he apparently refused to do so alone.
Anthony, desperation lending him a burst of strength, kicked out. Koschei hovered in the air for the briefest of seconds, eyes wide, and then he was gone. Anthony hung for a moment, breathing heavily. And then he scrambled back up onto the car and tottered toward the gap between cars.
Quickly, despite the pain of his wounds, he made his way to the engineering car. There was no one occupying it. Perhaps Koschei had been controlling the train. Anthony had enough familiarity with the controls to slowly bring the train to a halt. Brakes squealed and the whistle wailed as the whole car shuddered around him, and finally stopped.
Anthony dropped to the ground as the car carrying Dolores and Gentry rolled to a stop nearby. “Jim!” Dolores shouted, as she ran from the car and leapt into his arms. Anthony caught her and crushed her close, but only for a moment.
“Careful,” he murmured, “I’m awful bloody.”
“And you’re bloody awful at endearments,” she said as he set her down. Gentry ambled toward them, a rifle on his shoulder.
“What happened to our pal Koschei?” he asked.
“He fell off the train,” Anthony said. He gestured. “Back there somewhere.”
Gentry spat onto the ground. “Good riddance.” He looked at the rusted hulk of the boxcar and said, “Is that the gold?”
Anthony hopped up onto the boxcar and wrenched the long sealed door open. Inside were dozens of ammunition boxes, rotted and darkened by their long submersion in their earthy vault. Anthony grabbed the closest one and it came apart in his hands. Its contents spilled out across the floor.
Gentry cursed. Dolores shook her head in incomprehension. Anthony smiled. He sank down and hefted one of the rocks that had come out of the box. “I suspected as much.”
“Rocks,” Dolores said. “All that for rocks?”
“The Mad Baron’s last trick,” Anthony said. He tossed the rock aside. “He wouldn’t have trusted anyone with the location of the gold, let alone a man like Tornovsky. He was too paranoid for that.” He laughed. “Tornovsky said it himself—Ungern-Sternberg was far more canny than his enemies gave him credit for, despite his madness.”
“So where’s the gold then?” Gentry asked, glaring at the rocks.
“Who knows? Maybe he spent it. Maybe the Bolsheviks found it. Maybe Ungern-Sternberg’s fellow Tsarists had it and used it to fund their various operations in the years after the war. Maybe it’s still out there somewhere, buried in caches or under a monastery. Or maybe, like Koschei’s dark Shambhala, it was only ever a madman’s dream.”
He hopped down out of the train and took Dolores in his arms. “It doesn’t matter, in the end. Unlike him, I found what I was after.”
“I do hope that you mean me,” Dolores murmured.
Jim Anthony smiled and bent to kiss her as the sun set over the plains of Mongolia, and on the dreams of madmen, barons or otherwise.
# # #
About the Author
JOSH REYNOLDS is a professional freelance writer. In addition to his own work, he has written for several tie-in franchises, including Gold Eagle’s Executioner line and Black Library’s Warhammer Fantasy line. Josh has also written several stories for Pro Se Productions and will be continuing to bring new life to Jim Anthony in future volumes. You can find out more about him at http://about.me/reynoldsjosh.
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JIM ANTHONY, SUPER DETECTIVE:
RED SHAMBHALA
by Josh Reynolds
Edited by Tommy Hancock and Morgan McKay
Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions—Tommy Hancock
Director of Corporate Operations—Morgan McKay
Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC Chief Executive Officer—Fuller Bumpers
Cover art by Mike Fyles
E-Book design by Forrest Dylan Bryant
Jim Anthony, Super-Detective: Red Shambhala is a work of the PULP OBSCURA imprint
PULP OBSCURA is an imprint of Pro Se Productions and is published in conjunction with titles from Altus Press, collecting the original adventures of lead characters featured in PULP OBSCURA titles.
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The New Adventures of Jim Anthony, Super-Detective Page 10
