# The Temple of the Ten/Chapter 6

pp. 148-150

### CHAPTER VI
#### THE ABODE OF ESRUN

AS HE rode away from the temple beside Sir Fandi Singh, in the early light of dawn, Severn fully understood that their errand was to be a scouting expedition as much as a blow at Esrun. The unknown Esrun must be destroyed, yes; but there remained the question of his fabulous wealth—which, according to Kilgore, supported the priests.
The members of the expedition had suffered a sea change; more correctly, a desert change. Severn recognized this, admitted it in himself, but dared not speak the thought. Twenty-four hours previously he, like the others, had been buoyed up by the idea of destroying a tremendously evil thing. They had looked forward to it as a labor of Hercules which would employ every atom of energy and strength.
Instead, the Ten had been wiped out almost in a moment. Their jeweled trappings remained as symbols of loot—these, and Severn's discovery of the inscription.
What a power lay in the name of Prester John! Imaginations were inflamed. Thoughts arose of some huge store of gems and gold, ancient treasures over which squatted the loathsome spider Esrun. If Severn and Fandi Singh discovered Esrun and the treasure——
“It was the gold of Fafnir that doomed Sigurd,” said Severn moodily.
“Eh?” The Rajput glanced at him curiously, not catching his train of thought. “Well, one can always use gold! If we are lucky, we shall find some fine dromedaries today. When we were here before, the priests kept fine stock in the valley by the lake—none of your shaggy Bactrian, but blooded racers, clipped and limbed like race-horses.”
They drew up on a sand-crest and glanced back, waving to those who stood in the temple gateway. The camels of the captured caravan had just arrived and were crowded into the courtyard; the five-barred flag of China had been mounted above the gate; the scene was one of activity and bustle.
Then the horses went on. The two men rode in silence under the craggy cliffs, toward the right-hand fork of the great Y which formed the valleys. Armed and provisioned, they had only Esrun to fear—for in the place to which they went no man but the priests had ever ventured.
Before them the sands lessened. Ere an hour had passed they were riding in a narrow defile enclosed by high rock walls; a winding, forbidding gorge which appeared to lead on interminably. Two hours later they were still following its windings, and according to Fandi Singh they would not sight their objective until nearly noon.
“There are no buildings at the lake, no ruins?” asked Severn.
“None,” returned the Rajput. “It is no place where men would willingly live. Near by are the hell-pits into which the accursed priests throw the women ten times a year. We will come upon a sulfur spring before long.”
Severn eyed the gorge without great liking.
“A strange combination of natural wonders!” he observed. “And a stranger combination of human wonders. Think of those Russians, absorbed into some Mongol tribe, settling here! And according to the inscription it might have been the same tribe of Krits, or Christians, which Ung-khan ruled. Perhaps this Esrun is the last of some forgotten race of lamas—well, no use wasting words in speculation.”
Sir Fandi Singh shrugged his wide shoulders in assert to this last.
“There are strange things in these hills,” he said thoughtfully. “Stranger than we have seen, stranger than we shall see. That is, Severn, if one can trust legend.”
Severn laughed shortly.
“It seems that legend has led us aright so far.”
“Aye, true enough. And yet I have heard tales.” The Rajput plucked at his beard. “It is said that the Darkan tribe and others, employ such vapors as this lake gives off; draw them into huge bellows and seal them, for future use in warfare.”
“What? A primitive gas?”
“Exactly. But who knows? There is the sulfur spring—the water is good.”
The gorge was widening. They rode up to a huge jet of water which leaped from the rock, discoloring everything around, and was gone again within twenty feet. The water was strongly impregnated, highly charged, but was excellent in taste.
The two rode on again, the oppressing walls of rock growing imperceptibly wider. Here was no great erosion, as Severn could perceive; in this bowl among the hills the elements had been futile. The place was primitive, volcanic. The way became strewn with blocks of shiny black obsidian fallen from the high cliffs. The walls were stratified with garish streaks of color from molten metals, intermingled ores. Presently another wayside spring appeared, this time of streaming water that jetted and hissed over the rocks.
Forward again. About them reigned a terrible and unearthly silence. There was no other token of human presence. The click of the horses' hoofs fled out upon the windless air and returned again from the high walls; a volley of echoes accompanied them, rose all about them, until it seemed that upon their heels marched a cavalry of thousands, a ghostly company of shadows. When they spoke, the walls threwback the words in a storm of sibilant whisperings which smote them into silence.
How long a time passed, Severn did not remember; but it was long enough. Presently a burst of sunlight, and they were riding in the undiluted glory of midday—and now Fandi Singh drew rein and pointed ahead.
“The purple grass, the lake. The abode of Esrun.”
Severn looked, and ahead of him, on a gentle declivity, made out stunted brush and the green of grass. Yet it was not the livid green of true chlorophyl, but a strange purplish-sheened green. Several dromedaries were in sight, grazing quietly; they inspected the two horsemen without fear. Toward the lake appeared low trees. The entire opening was truly a bowl among the mountains, walled in by inhospitable peaks and shut out of the world.
Beyond the trees came the shimmering glint of water. As he rode nearer Severn made out to the left a long flat overgrown with parasitic reeds which bore flowers of that very intense scarlet which nature often associates with danger.
“I think those reeds have something to do with the poisonous mists,” said Sir Fandi. “The flowers are oddly marked with a cross in black.”
“So? It is a botanical fact,” answered Severn thoughtfully, “that no plant bearing a cross is injurious to man. Obviously the lake is receding from that flat. The mist may come from the mud, or from minute animalculæ. What's the program?”
“Camp among the trees, turn the horses loose and await what happens.”
Now, to the right and on the opposite side, Severn perceived that the lake was enclosed by walls of rock. It hardly deserved the name of lake, being a scant quarter-mile in diameter. The crags which arose straight out of the water were tortuous, twisted in mad shapes, and seemed to have been poured from molten stone. So, indeed, they had.
“This was once the maw of a volcano,” said Severn when they dismounted. “A minor outlet, perhaps, of some ancient cone farther up in the peaks. Where are the steamy fissures you mentioned as being used for—er—burials?”
Fandi Singh, busy with his saddle-girths, waved his hand toward the right.
“Over there among the rocks.”
The air was windless, hot, unstirred. When the horses were turned free to crop at the grass Severn strode down to the lake-side. Here were no shallows nor reeds, but a sandy shore and quick depth; the water was clear, cold, entirely innocuous.
Severn rejoined his companion. They lunched beneath the low trees, and Sir Fandi, who was still feeling the effects of his long and hard ride to catch the caravan, proposed that one watch and one sleep. Severn was in no mood for sleep and gladly chose the first watch. The Rajput was lustily snoring within five minutes.
Pipe alight, Severn strolled along the shore to the right. There had been no attempt to conceal their presence. Hiding-places there were none; they must chance the possibility that Esrun was on guard and would see them. Yet in all this place was no hint of habitation, no token or evidence of any human presence besides their own. If Esrun were indeed here, he must himself be well concealed.
Severn realized suddenly that he was walking past an ordered series of plants. He halted, staring down. A little plot had been fenced about with boulders, and in this plot were growing leafless shoots to a height of six inches. Each shoot held half a dozen buds, none of which were open. Severn stooped and broke off one of the shoots. Studying it, he saw suddenly what it was.
“Crocus sativus—the saffron flower!” he exclaimed when he had opened one of the buds and found the three yellow stigmas. “Why is this being grown here, and nothing else?”
He passed on, wondering not a little.
After a little he found himself in a path, lightly beaten amid the purplish grass, and he followed it. This scarcely discernible trail led him to rocky ground, away from the lake and to the right. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he started back; a step farther and he would have gone into an orifice in the earth—a hole six feet wide, extending across the path in a long crack. Then he saw that the path ended here.
He peered down over the edge and saw nothing. A choking sulfur-fume filled his nostrils and he stepped hastily backward. Then he stooped and from a rock where it clung picked up a wisp of torn silk. He understood now—he understood why that recently made path had led him here, and the manner in which the Ten disposed of their wives. He had not credited all Kilgore's tale, but now he credited everything.
The hours passed. Through the afternoon Severn sat beside the sleeping Rajput or strolled about. He found no indication of any human presence in the valley. Everything was deserted, empty, utterly ignoring the intrusion of man. The dromedaries were tame, and they were fine beasts, as Fandi Singh had said—blooded creatures such as were rarely seen in this part of Central Asia, racers of a fine breed.
The afternoon was waning when the Rajput wakened.
“Nothing has happened; Severn extended the saffron buds he had plucked. “You know what this is?”
The dark features of Sir Fandi lightened.
“Ah—the saffron fields of Pampur! I have not seen this outside Kashmir; you say it is growing here?”
Severn told of finding the bed of saffron roots. The Rajput frowned.
“That is singular! Well——”
“I have a plan,” said Severn quietly. “We can not stay here indefinitely, waiting for something to happen. We know that Esrun communicates with his followers by telepathy; well, then let us communicate with him by the same means. We must bring him out to a meeting, as I understand the priests always did. In other words, will him here to us!”
“But he will know it is fradulent——”
“I think not. He is some primitive creature like the rest, who has fallen heir to a power greater than his control or knowledge. He will not be able to read our minds. If we get the message to him, he will come.”
“But I can not think in Mongol!” and the Rajput smiled. “I do not know the tongue.”
“I do. Besides,” added Severn, “this is a matter of thought-impulse, not of words. If we reach him with the impulse, I believe we can effect something. Remember, he's waiting for word from his priests. He'll think we are——”
“I think it is all folly,” said Sir Fandi with an air of resignation. “But let us try, by all means. En avant! Forward, my thoughts—charge!”
Severn smiled, and they sat silent.