The Warlord of the Air Read online

  Bastable’s opium-filled eyes stared at me so hard that I shuddered.

  “Would you really care to hear?” he said in a cold, small voice.

  My mouth felt dry and I wondered if he were about to become violent. I moved toward the bell-rope. But he knew what was in my mind because he laughed again and shook his head. “I won’t attack you, sir. But you see now why I smoke opium, why I know myself to be mad. Who but a madman would claim to have flown through the skies faster than the fastest ocean liner? Who but a madman would claim to have done this in the year 1973 A.D?—nearly three quarters of a century in the future?”

  “You believe that you have done this? And no one will listen to you. Is that what makes you so bitter?”

  “That? No! Why should it? It is the thought of my own folly which torments me. I should be dead—that would be just. But instead I am half-alive, hardly knowing one dream from another, one reality from another.”

  I took his empty glass from his hand and filled it for him. “Look here,” I said. “If you will do something for me, I’ll agree to listen to what you have to say. There’s precious little else for me to do, anyway.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to eat some lunch and try to stay off the opium for a while—until you’ve seen a doctor, at least Then I want you to agree that you’ll put yourself in my care, perhaps even return with me to England when I go back. Will you do that?”

  “Perhaps.” He shrugged. “But this mood could pass, I warn you. I’ve never had the inclination to speak to anyone about—about the airships and everything. Yet, perhaps history is alterable....”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “If I told you what I know, what happened to me— what I saw—it might make a difference. If you agreed to write it down, publish it, if you could, when you got back.”

  “When we got back,” I said firmly.

  “Just as you like.” His expression altered, became grim, as if his decision had a significance I had not understood.

  And so the lunch was brought up and he ate some of the cold chicken and the salad. The meal seemed to do him good, for he became more coherent.

  “I’ll try to begin at the beginning,” he said, “and go through to the end—telling it as it happened.”

  I had a large notebook and several pencils by me. In the early days of my career I had earned my living as a Parliamentary Reporter and my knowledge of shorthand stood me in good stead as Bastable began to speak.

  He told me his story over the next three days, in which time we scarcely left that room, scarcely slept. Occasionally Bastable would revive himself by recourse to some pills he had—which he swore to me were not opium—but I needed no other stimulant than Bastable’s story itself. The atmosphere in that hotel room became unreal as the tale unfolded. I began by thinking I listened to the fantastic ravings of a madman but I ended by believing without any doubt that I had heard the truth—or, at least, a truth. It is up to you to decide if what follows is fiction or not. I can only assure you that Bastable said it was not fiction and I believe, profoundly, that he was right.

  Michael Moorcock. Three Chimneys, Mitcham, Surrey. October 1904.

  Chapter II

  The Temple at Teku Benga

  I DON’T KNOW if you’ve ever been in North East India (began Bastable) but if you have you’ll know what I mean when I say it’s the meeting place of worlds both old and immeasurably ancient. Where India, Nepaul, Tibet and Bhutan come together, about two hundred miles north of Darjiling and about a hundred west of Mt. Kinchunmaja, you’ll find Kumbalari: a state which claims to be older than Time. It’s what they call a ‘Theocracy’—priest-ridden in the extreme, full of dark superstitions and darker myths and legends, where all gods and demons are honoured, doubtless to be on the safe side. The people are cruel, ignorant, dirty and proud—they look down their noses at all other races. They resent the British presence so close to their territory and over the past couple of hundred years we’ve had a spot or two of trouble with them, but never anything much. They won’t go far beyond their own borders, luckily, and their population is kept pretty low thanks to their own various barbaric practises. Sometimes, as on this occasion, a religious leader pops up who convinces them of the necessity of some kind of jehad against the British or British protected peoples, tells them they’re impervious to our bullets and so forth, and we have to go and teach them a lesson. They are not regarded very seriously by the Army, which is doubtless why I was put in charge of the expedition which, in 1902, set off for the Himalayas and Kumbalari.

  It was the first time I had commanded so many men and I felt my responsibility very seriously. I had a squadron of a hundred and fifty sowars of the impressive Punjabi Lancers and two hundred fierce, loyal little sepoys of the 9th Ghoorka Infantry. I was intensely proud of my army and felt that if it had had to it could have conquered the whole of Bengal. I was, of course, the only white officer, but I was perfectly willing to admit that the native officers were men of much greater experience than myself and whenever possible I relied on their advice.

  My orders were to make a show of strength and, if I could, to avoid a scrap. We just wanted to give the beggars an idea of what they would come up against if we started to take them seriously. Their latest leader—an old fanatic by the name of Sharan Kang—was their King, Archbishop and C-in-C all rolled into one. Sharan Kang had already burned one of our frontier stations and killed a couple of detachments of Native Police. We weren’t interested in vengeance, however, but in making sure it didn’t go any further.

  We had some reasonably good maps and a couple of fairly trustworthy guides—distant kinsmen of the Ghoorkas—and we reckoned it would take us little more than two or three days to get to Teku Benga, which was Sharan Kang’s capital, high up in the mountains and reached by a series of narrow passes. Since we were on a diplomatic rather than a military mission, we showed great care in displaying a flag of truce as we crossed the borders into Kumbalari, whose bleak, snow-streaked mountains lowered down at us on all sides.

  It was not long before we had our first glimpse of some Kumbalaris. They sat on shaggy ponies which were perched like goats on high mountain ledges: squat, yellow-skinned warriors all swathed in leather and sheepskin and painted iron, their slitted eyes gleaming with hatred and suspicion. If these were not the descendants of Attila the Hun, then they were the descendants of some even earlier warrior folk which had fought on these slopes and gorges a thousand or two thousand years before the Scourge of God had led his hordes East and West, to pillage three quarters of the known world. Like their ancestors, these were armed with bows, lances, scimitars, but they also had a few carbines, probably of Russian origin.

  Pretending to ignore these watching riders, I led my soldiers up the valley. I had a moment’s surprise when a few shots rang out from above and echoed on and on through the peaks, but the guides assured me that these were merely signals to announce our arrival in Kumbalari.

  It was slow going over the rocky ground and at times we had to dismount and lead our horses. As we climbed higher and higher the air grew much colder and we were glad when evening came and we could make camp, light warming fires and check our maps to see how much further we had to go.

  The respective commanders of the Cavalry and the Infantry were Risaldar Jenab Shah and Subadar J. K. Bisht, both of them veterans of many similar expeditions. But for all their experience they were inclined to be warier than usual of the Kumbalaris and Subadar Bisht advised me to put a double guard on the camp, which I did.

  Subadar Bisht was worried by what he called ‘the smell on the wind’. He knew something about the Kumbalaris and when he spoke of them I saw a glint of what in anyone but a Ghoorka’s eyes I might have mistaken for fear. “These are a cunning and treacherous people, sir,” he told me as we ate together in my tent, with Jenab Shah, a silent giant, beside us. “They are the inheritors of an ancient evil—an evil which existed before the world was born. In ou
r tongue Kumbalari is called The Kingdom of the Devil. Do not expect them to honour our white flag. They will respect it only while it suits them.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “But they’ll have respect for our numbers and our weapons, I dare say.”

  “Perhaps.” Subadar Bisht looked dubious. “Unless Sharan Kang has convinced them that they are protected by his magic. He is known to draw much power from nameless gods and to have devils at his command.””Modern guns,” I pointed out, “usually prove superior to the most powerful devil, Subadar Bisht.”

  The Ghoorka looked grave. “Usually, Captain Bastable. And then there is their cunning. They might try to split up our column with various tricks—so they can attack us independently, with more chance of success.”

  I accepted this. “We’ll certainly be on guard against that sort of tactic,” I agreed. “But I do not think I fear their magic.”

  Risaldar Jenab Shah spoke soberly in his deep, rumbling voice. “It is not so much what we fear,” he said, “but what they believe.” He smoothed his gleaming black beard. “I agree with the Subadar. We must understand that we are dealing with crazy men—reckless fanatics who will not count the cost of their own lives.”

  “The Kumbalaris hate us very much,” added Subadar Bisht. “They want to fight us. They have not attacked. This I find suspicious. Could it be, sir, that they are letting us enter a trap?”

  “Possibly,” I replied. “But there again. Subadar Bisht, they may simply be afraid of us—afraid of the power of the British Raj which will send others to punish them most severely if anything should happen to us.”

  “If they are certain that punishment will not come—if Sharan Kang has convinced them thus—it will not help us.” Jenab Shah smiled grimly. “We shall be dead, Captain Bastable.”

  “If we waited here,” Subadar Bisht suggested, “and let them approach us so that we could hear their words and watch their faces, it would be easier for us to know what to do next.”

  I agreed with his logic. “Our supplies will last us an extra two days,” I said. “We will camp here for two days. If they do not come within that time, we will continue on to Teku Benga.”

  Both officers were satisfied. We finished our meal and retired to our respective tents.

  And so we waited.

  On the first day we saw a few riders round the bend in the pass and we made ready to receive them. But they merely watched us for a couple of hours before vanishing. Tension had begun to increase markedly in the camp by the next night.

  On the second day one of our scouts rode in to report that over a hundred Kumbalaris had assembled at the far end of the pass and were riding towards us. We assumed a defensive position and continued to wait. When they appeared they were riding slowly, and through my field glasses I saw several elaborate horsehair standards. Attached to one of these was a white flag. The standard-bearers rode on both sides of a red and gold litter slung between two ponies. Remembering Subadar Bisht’s words of caution, I gave the order for our cavalry to mount. There is hardly any sight more impressive than a hundred and fifty Punjabi Lancers with their lances at the salute. Risaldar Jenab Shah was at my side. I offered him my glasses. He took them and stared through them for some moments. When he lowered them he was frowning. “Sharan Kang seems to be with them,” he said, “riding in that litter. Perhaps this is a genuine parley party. But why so many?”

  “It could be a show of strength,” I said. “But he must have more than a hundred warriors.”

  “It depends how many have died for religious purposes,” Jenab Shah said darkly. He turned in his saddle. “Here is Subadar Bisht. What do you make of this, Bisht?”

  The Ghoorka officer said: “Sharan Kang would not ride at their head if they were about to charge. The Priest-Kings of Kumbalari do not fight with their warriors.” He spoke with some contempt. “But I warn you, sir, this could be a trick.”

  I nodded.

  Both the Punjabi sowars and the Ghoorka sepoys were plainly eager to come to grips with the Kumbalaris. “You had better remind your men that we are here to talk peace, if possible,” I said, “not to fight.”

  “They will not fight,” Jenab Shah said confidently, “until they have orders to do so. Then they will fight.”

  The mass of Kumbalari horsemen drew closer and paused a few hundred feet from our lines. The standard-bearers broke away and, escorting the litter, came up to where I sat my horse at the head of my men.

  The red and gold litter was covered by curtains. I looked enquiringly at the impassive faces of the standard-bearers, but they said nothing. And then at last the curtain at the front was parted from within and I was suddenly confronting the High Priest himself. He wore elaborate robes of brocade stitched with dozens of tiny mirrors. On his head was a tall hat of painted leather inlaid with gold and ivory. And beneath the peak of the hat was his wizened old face. The face of a particularly malicious devil.

  “Greetings, Sharan Kang,” I said. “We are here at the command of the great King-Emperor of Britain. We come to ask why you attack his houses and kill his servants when he has offered no hostility to you.”

  One of the guides began to interpret, but Sharan Kang waved his hand impatiently. “Sharan Kang speaks English,” he said in a strange, high-pitched voice. “As he speaks all tongues. For all tongues come from the tongue of the Kumbalari, the First, the Most Ancient.”

  I must admit I felt a shiver run through me as he spoke. I could almost believe that he was the powerful sorcerer they claimed him to be.

  “Such an ancient people must therefore also be wise.” I tried to stare back into those cruel intelligent eyes. “And a wise people would not anger the King-Emperor.”

  “A wise people knows that it must protect itself against the wolf,” Sharan Kang said, a faint smile curving his lips. “And the British wolf is a singularly rapacious beast Captain Bastable. It has eaten well in the lands of the south and the west, has it not? Soon it will turn its eyes towards Kumbalari.”

  ‘”What you mistake for a wolf is really a lion,” I said, trying not to show I was impressed by the fact that he had known my name. “A lion which brings peace, security, justice to those it chooses to protect. A lion which knows that Kumbalari does not need its protection.”

  The conversation continued in these rather convoluted terms for some time before Sharan Kang grew visibly impatient and said suddenly:

  “Why are so many soldiers come to our land?”

  “Because you attacked our frontier station and killed our men.” I said.

  “Because you put your ‘frontier station’ inside our boundaries.” Sharan Kang made a strange gesture in the air, “We are not a greedy people. We have no need to be. We do not hunger for land like the Westerners, for we know that land is not important when a man’s soul is capable of ranging the universe. You may come to Teku Benga, where all gods preside, and there I will tell you what you may say to this upstart barbarian lion who dignifies himself with grandiose titles.”

  “You are willing to discuss a treaty?”

  “Yes—in Teku Benga, if you come with no more than six of your men.” He gestured, let the curtain fall, and the litter was turned round. The riders began to move back up the valley.

  “It is a trick, sir,” Bisht remarked at once. “He hopes that in separating you from us he will cut off our army’s head and thus make it easier to attack us.”

  “You could be right, Sabadar Bisht, but you know very well that such a trick would not work. The Ghoorkas are not afraid to fight.” I looked back at the sepoys. “Indeed, they seem more than ready to go into battle at this moment.”

  “We care nothing for death, sir—the clean battle-death. But it is not the prospect of battle which disturbs me. In my bones I feel something worse may happen. I know the Kumbalaris. They are a deeply wicked people. I think what may happen to you in Teku Benga, Captain Bastable.”

  I laid an affectionate hand on my Sabadar’s shoulder. “I am honoured you should feel
thus, Sabadar Bisht. But it is my duty to go to Teku Benga. I have my orders. I must settle this matter peacefully if it is at all possible.”

  “But if you do not return from Teku Benga within a day, sir, we shall advance towards the city. Then, if we are not given full evidence that you are alive and in good health, we shall attack Teku Benga.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that plan,” I agreed.

  And so, with Risaldar Jenab Shah and five, of his sowars, I rode next morning for Teku Benga and saw at last the walled mountain city into which no stranger had been admitted for a thousand years. Of course I was suspicious of Sharan Kang. Of course I wondered why, after a thousand years, he was willing to let foreigners defile the holy city with their presence. But what could I do? If he said he was willing to discuss a treaty, then I had to believe him.

  I was at a loss to imagine how such a city, rearing as it did out of the crags of the Himalayas, had been built. Its crazy spires and domes defied the very laws of gravity. Its crooked walls followed the line of the mountain slopes and many of the buildings looked as if they had been plucked up and perched delicately on slivers of rock which could scarcely support the weight of a man. Many of the roofs and walls were decorated with complicated carvings of infinitely delicate workmanship set with jewels and precious metals, rare woods, jade and ivory. Finials curled in on themselves and curled again. Monstrous stone beasts glared down from a score of places on the walls. The whole city glittered in the cold light and it did, indeed, seem older than any architecture I had ever seen or read about. Yet, for all its richness and its age, Teku Benga struck me as being a rather seedy sort of place, as if it had known better days. Perhaps the Kumbalaris had not built it. Perhaps the race which had built it had mysteriously disappeared, as had happened elsewhere, and the Kumbalaris had merely occupied it.

  “Ooof! The stench!” With his handkerchief. Risaldar Jenab Shah fastidiously wiped his nose. “They must keep their goats and sheep in their temples and palaces.”