Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon (Burton & Swinburne) (21 page)

“I say!” Swinburne screeched. “What the dickens do you think you're playing at? Unhand me at once, you scoundrels!”

A heavily built warrior strode over. He sneered down at the diminutive poet and spat:
“Kafir!”

“Bless you!” the poet replied. “Do you not have a handkerchief?”

The big man cast his eyes from Swinburne to Honesty, then to Trounce, Burton, and Krishnamurthy.

“Who leads?” he demanded.

“I do,” said Burton, in Balochi.

The man moved to stand in front of him.

“Thou has knowledge of my language?”

“Aye, and I say to thee that there be no majesty and there be no might save in Allah, the Glorious, the Great, and in his name we ask for thy mercy and thy assistance, for we have suffered severe misfortune and have a long journey before us.”

The Baloch threw his head back and loosed a roar of laughter. He squatted and looked into Burton's eyes.

“Thou speakest very prettily, Scar Face. I am Jemadar Darwaas. I lead the Disciples of Ramman. Who art thou?”

“Some call me Abdullah the Dervish.”

“Is that so?” Darwaas pointed at Herbert Spencer. “And what is that?”

“It is a man of brass. A machine in which a human spirit is housed.”

“So! A whole man in a whole mechanism this time! Like Aladdin's djan?”

“Like that, aye. He is concealed within material that protects him from the sand, for if grains of it got into him, he would die.”

While he spoke, Burton took stock of the men into whose clutches his expedition had fallen. He judged there to be about sixty of them—all hardened desert warriors—marauders from Belochistan a thousand miles to the northeast.

“Thou art a storyteller, Abdullah.”

“I speak the truth.”

“Then I would cut through the material and look upon this miraculous brass man of thine.”

“In doing so, thou shall kill him,” Burton advised, “and what would he then be worth?”

Jemadar Darwaas grinned through his beard. “Ah,” he said. “Now, O Abdullah, thou art truly speaking my language! He has value, eh?”

“The British government would pay a substantial ransom for him, and for these others, too,” Burton said, indicating his companions with a jerk of his head. “Especially for the women, if they are unharmed.”

Darwaas grunted. He drew his dagger and held it up, examining its sharp point. His eyes flicked from the blade to Burton's dark eyes. With a fluid motion, he stood, paced away, and began to speak in low tones with a group of his men.

William Trounce leaned close to Burton and whispered, “What was all that about?”

“I'm trying to talk him into holding us for ransom.”

“Why do that?”

“Because it'll buy us some time,” the king's agent replied.

Less than half an hour later, the brigands finished setting up their camp on the edge of the oasis, and the two women were taken to it and placed in a guarded tent.

Darwaas returned to the remaining captives, drew his scimitar, and levelled the point at Burton's face. “Thy people will be held until the British consul in Jeddah pays for their release,” he said. “But thee, Abdullah the Dervish, thee I shall fight.”

“Fight? For what purpose?”

“For no purpose other than I desire it.”

The Jemadar ordered his men to clear a circular area. The prisoners were dragged to its boundary and the bandits gathered around. Burton was yanked up and pushed forward. A warrior threw down a scimitar. It landed at the explorer's feet, and he bent, picked it up, and noted that it was a well-balanced blade.

Sir Richard Francis Burton was a master swordsman, but he much preferred fighting with a point than with an edge. The point demanded skill and finesse; the edge required mainly strength, speed, and brutality, though there were also a few techniques associated with it, in which, fortunately, he was well schooled.

He held the blade, narrowed his eyes at his opponent, and sighed.

Before leaving the wreck of the
Orpheus
, he'd attached to his belt a leather holster, and in that holster there was a very odd-looking pistol. It was green and organic—actually a eugenically altered cactus—and it fired venomous spines that could knock a man unconscious in an instant. His captives had not removed it, and he wished he could draw it now, for he would far prefer to render the leader of the Disciples of Ramman senseless than to hack at him with a blade. Sword cuts, unless they were to the head, neck, or stomach, very rarely killed quickly. Instead, they condemned the victim to hours—even days—of excruciating agony, often followed by infection and a lingering death. He knew, however, that the moment he went for his gun, matchlocks would be jerked up and fired at him.

Jemadar Darwaas stepped closer and brandished his scimitar. “How didst thou come by that scar on thy face, Abdullah?” he asked.

“A spear,” Burton responded. “Thrust by an Abyssinian.”

“Didst thou kill him?”

“No.”

“That was a mistake. My people say: ‘When thy enemies attack—’”

“'—bathe in their blood,'” Burton finished.

“Ha! Thy knowledge is impressive. Hast thou lived among Allah's children?”

“I am
Hajji.”

“What? A pilgrim? A believer? I did not know. Now I shall honour thee doubly after I have spilled thy guts.”

Darwaas suddenly lunged forward and swung his sword at Burton's head. The king's agent deflected it with ease and slashed back at his opponent, slicing through the front of Darwaas's robe. The Baloch jumped back and exclaimed, “Thou art practised with the sword, then?”

“Aye,” said Burton, circling slowly. “And these are designed for fighting from horseback, not for face-to-face combat. Nevertheless, there are tactics that a man can employ with them when on foot. For example—” He paced forward, ducked, and, balancing on one heel, whipped around in a full circle, using his momentum to sweep his scimitar upward at a twenty-degree angle. Darwaas barely had time to react, only just managing to place his weapon between himself and Burton's blade, and when the two scimitars clanged together, his own was forced back hard against him, sending him staggering.

Burton immediately pressed his advantage, striking at his opponent's right side—a blow that was, again, turned aside with difficulty.

Darwaas teetered off balance, stumbled, and gasped, “By Allah! Thou art considerably more than I expected!”

“A man should not be precipitous in his choice of enemy,” Burton advised. “And I am puzzled that thou hath chosen me. Wert thou paid to do so?”

“Aye, 'tis the case.”

“When I told thee of the man of brass, thou didst exclaim, ‘A whole man in a whole mechanism this time!’ Perhaps, then, thou hast seen a man partially of metal? Mayhap it was his head that was half of brass, and this man was your paymaster?”

John Speke.

“I do not deny it. Enough talk. Let us fight.”

Burton transferred his scimitar to his left hand. “Keep thy body loose, Jemadar, and control thy blade with the wrist, not with the entire arm. Now, strike at me.”

“Art thou so confident?”

“Strike!”

The Jemadar gave a grimace. The duel wasn't going at all the way he'd have liked. He spat onto the sand and crouched a little, his sword arm held out. The two men moved around one another, their dark eyes locked.

With such speed that the movement was almost a blur, Darwaas launched himself at Burton and sliced sideways. His blade hit his adversary just below chest level, but Burton was braced against it, with his own weapon shielding him closely, held point downward, tight against his body from shoulder to mid-thigh. He immediately swept it out, up, and around, hooking it beneath the bandit's scimitar. He stepped in with knees bent and pushed upward. Darwaas's sword was instantly levered right out of his hand.

The gathered Baloch men cried out in amazement as their leader's weapon went spinning away, landing at the edge of the arena.

Darwaas stood stunned.

“The sword should be held against the body in defence,” Burton stated, “else, as thou saw, in being knocked backward, it can do as much damage as the attacking blade. Also, this means that, for the defender, the muscles of the shoulders, arms, and wrists are relaxed—are not employed in resisting the offensive—and are thus free to fully power the counterattack.”

Darwaas's face blackened. “Dost thou mean to humiliate me, dog?”

Burton shook his head. “I did not seek to fight thee, Jemadar. I desire only to—”

“Richard!” Swinburne shrieked.

Something impacted against the back of Burton's head. The world reeled around him and vanished.

A conflagration raged in his skull, needled his eyelids, clawed at his skin. He tried to move and found that he couldn't. Thirst consumed him.

He forced his eyes open and squinted up at the pitiless sun. Turning his head, he saw that he was on his back, with limbs spread out, his wrists and ankles bound with cord to wooden stakes driven deeply into the ground.

Dunes rose to either side.

He opened his mouth to shout for help but only a rattle emerged.

Grains of sand, riding a hot, slow breeze, blew against the side of his face.

He experienced a strange sense of déjà vu.

Is this a dream?

Jemadar Darwaas entered his field of vision.

“Art thou comfortable?” he asked. “Thy head aches, I fancy? My
moollah
—lieutenant—struck thee with a knob stick.” The bandit chuckled. “By Allah, he knows how I hate to be bested! Thou art a fine swordsman, Abdullah! Mayhap the tales told of thy race are true, for it is said that the British are undefeated in battle. Praise be to Allah that the lands of my people have no resources that thy people covet!” Darwaas held his arms out wide as if to embrace the entire desert. He grinned wickedly. “Let us see,” he said, “how that land now judges thee, Britisher.”

He turned away and climbed to the top of a dune, looked back once, spat, then descended the other side of the mound and passed out of sight.

Burton felt his flesh cracking.

It was mid-afternoon and the heat wouldn't abate for at least another three hours. If he survived it, he'd then have to endure the severe chill of night.

He moved his tongue in his mouth. It felt like a stone.

There was a spell of nothingness.

He sucked in a burning breath and realised that he'd been unconscious.

Think. Think, and hang on to the thoughts. John Speke and Count Zeppelin obviously stopped here and warned the bandits to look out for a crashed rotorship and to kill any survivors. How far ahead are they? Already at Aden, perhaps?

Think, and keep thinking!

Awareness slipped to one side and skidded into oblivion.

Awake.

Where?

He tried to form words, to call for help, but the slightest movement of his mouth increased the pain a thousandfold. The agony flared; an unbearable brilliance.

He sank into the centre of an inferno.

Flames.

Flames in a stone bowl hanging by chains from a ceiling so high that it is lost in shadows. Columns. A monolithic temple. It is on a hill in the centre of Kantapuranam, the capital city of Kumari Kandam, the land of the reptilian Nāga.

A man steps forward.

He is Brahmin Kaundinya, and he is wedded to the monarch's daughter, their union a symbolic pact to mark the end of conflict between the lizard race and humans. He has lived a year among them, and is now standing before K'k'thyima, the high priest.

Thin blue smoke from burning incense curls around the human's legs. Onlookers watch attentively. There are at least a thousand of them gathered in the temple, and many millions more in attendance mentally but not physically.

The man bows his respect to the priest.

“Not to me, soft skin,” K'k'thyima hisses. “To the Joined.” With a three-fingered clawed hand, he gestures to his right.

Kaundinya turns to a huge black diamond, which rests on a plinth of gold.

One of the three Eyes of Nāga.

Kaundinya bows again.

K'k'thyima says: “Thy wife may step to thy side.”

The man turns around to look at his mate. “Come, and speak for me, that all may know my character,” he says, following the ritual.

She moves to him. Like all of her race, she is about half his height; her skin segmented into a mosaic of leathery black, yellow, and green; her limbs short and thick; her head confusing to the human, for sometimes it seems to be one of seven heads, other times one of five, and occasionally the sole one. She is wearing extravagant jewellery and a chain-mail tunic.

“Husband,” she says, “I am willing to speak.”

The high priest, who also appears to have multiple heads, orders a human prisoner to be brought forward. As the man is escorted to the plinth, Kaundinya is addressed.

“Thou came as an emissary, O Kaundinya. Thou came to broker peace between the race of soft skins and the race of Nāga. Thou hast lived among us as one of us, and thou hast been husband to Kuma K'sss'amaya.”

He turns to the female.

“Hast thou, my Kuma, been satisfied with the conduct of thy husband?”

“I have,” she answers. “With intervention from our wise ones, that which divides our species was bridged, and the human gave to me a child. He is an attentive and dutiful father. He has respected our ways. He has learned much and has not judged. He brings peace.”

The crowd emits an approving sibilance.

Kaundinya watches the high priest. A single head swims into focus. Its yellow eyes blink, their membranes sliding sideways: a sign of satisfaction. The head blurs. There are seven heads. There are five. There is one. There are seven.

“Pay honour to the Joined,” K'k'thyima orders.

A blade slices through the prisoner's neck and his blood spurts over the irregular facets of the giant gemstone. He convulses and dies and his corpse is dragged out of the chamber.

“A sacrifice is always necessary, O Kaundinya, but the essence of he who gave his life will live on in the Eye.”

The priest performs a number of ritualistic gestures, almost a dance, and intones: “The multitude are one. Individual thoughts are one thought. Separate intentions are one intention. The words of one are the words of all. The days that have been and the days that will come are eternally now.”