Steamoon Episode 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Road to Kafiristan

Gong found himself staring at the bronze disc hanging on the wall. It looked indescribably old. Strange markings were scattered, seemingly at random, across it’s dully gleaming surface. It felt malevolent, somehow, like an ancient blood-stained weapon.

“We’d better take this, or maybe it get used again.” He hefted the thing, careful not to sound it, and slung it cautiously on his back.

Rufus had collected two strange-looking daggers from among the fallen cultists. He slid them into his belt. At his feet was an obscene-looking pottery object that looked as if it was out of a pharonic tomb. Seeing finger-holes he realised it was some sort of flute. Gingerly, he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

There was a distant shout from above and the sound of feet on the spiral staircase. Rufus turned and slammed shut the ancient double-doors behind him.

“Get something to jam these with!” He called.

Tolly was being swept down into the freezing darkness of the deep. His head was filled with the colossal bubbling of the Dread One’s slumbering thought. Rufus’s call came from a great distance, like words on the wind. Somehow he forced his eyes to see the room in front of him. With trembling hands he reached for a wooden torch he saw there and extinguished it in the pool of water. He threw it to Rufus who jammed it between the brackets on the doors.

Gong pushed open the door through which the masked figure had emerged. He caught a trace of fresh air.

“This way.” He called softly. Carrying his namesake, Gong slipped through the door.

“Leave us with the bloomin’ loonies, why dontcha?” Grumbled Rufus, putting Walter’s arm over his shoulder and hauling him to his feet.

Tolly was still staring at the water. That was the road, he realised, that led to the depths of R’lyeh. He could see it now in the dark surface, a colossal tomb of irregular green stone…

“C’tha-lag-kush! mua-sayakal…”

A harsh, discordant voice burst in upon his thoughts. He turned to see Thaddeus staring wildly at him, his hands tearing at his own shirt.

“Shut it!” Tolly slapped Thaddeus across the face.

“Come on Professor.” He said more gently. “Let’s get you home.”

Taking a firm grip on his jacket, Tolly steered his friend to the door and into the corridor beyond. There were no sounds of pursuit from the stairway. Whoever had come down to the chamber must have thought better of forcing open the heavy doors.

The room Gong came to was lit by electric light. Around the walls stood steel lockers, doors ajar. One was large enough for the gong to fit in, he realized, and the others must be for the smaller ritual objects. Fixed to the far wall was a small open safe. Inside he saw a polished wooden case lined with velvet in the shape of a mask. He noticed a small German maker’s mark on the clasp. By the door he saw a doctor’s bag, spattered with curious dark stains.

“Come on.” Gritted Rufus. Still half-carrying Walter, he led the way through another doorway and up a long flight of unlit steps. He pushed open the door at the top to find himself in the tiny hallway by the stage entrance of the Opera House. He opened the outer door and stepped out onto the pavement.

Tolly pushed Thaddeus before him and staggered onto the street to stand gasping in the fresh night air. He spotted a rapidly approaching Clarence carriage.

“Hey there. Cab!” He called.

As the driver checked his horses Tolly realised, with a pang of dismay, that this was a police carriage, perhaps answering a summons to the opera house. A sergeant stuck his head out of the window.

“What’s all this then?”

“Hurry sergeant!” Snapped Rufus. “We must get these wounded civilians to hospital.”

Such was the command and confidence in his tone that the policeman actually saluted. Whether the police were expecting to meet some undercover officer or not was never clear to them, but the Five were only too happy to find themselves driven rapidly to the Embankment where the police sergeant collard a cabbie.

“Take these men to the hospital, pronto.” He instructed.

“Good work sergeant.” Said Rufus. “You best get back to the opera house now.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

Walter could hear them singing in the inky blackness. Hymns of praise; of longing for his coming. It was unbearable, and at the same time enrapturing… he would go mad. But he knew he already had.

He heard shrieking. He dimly realised it was his own voice. Someone stuffed something woollen into his mouth to muffle the noise. He noticed that he could see. He was in a carriage. There were tall gates he recognised… but he could not say from where.

Suddenly, as if illuminated by a beam of sunlight, he saw his own insides. An embryo lay there; ghastly, alien, the size of rat, pulsating slightly in its own green sack of fluid.

Then he understood. He had put it there, as a punishment. It would consume him from within. Slowly, sickeningly, unbearably. Then the godchild would out; and it would devour all.

He must be calm, he realised. He must act soon, before the thing got a grip on his mind. He must cut it out. His friends would try to stop him, thinking they could help. But that would mean disaster.

He was being helped up some stairs now. He recognised the room somehow. There was a table with food and… and a brown bottle. Made of glass. Very sharp when broken.

He allowed himself to be sat in the chair. Others were eating and drinking. He chose his moment. He took the bottle, poured a drink… and slipped it under the table.

Time passed. He was not sure how long. The hymns made him lose track of time. But he waited until they were looking away from him. He leapt towards the door.

They lunged after him, as he knew they would. Gong shot out a hand like lightening, but somehow Walter slipped to one side, Rufus made a grab for him but he dodged and sped along the corridor, smashing the bottle on the door frame as he passed it. If he could get to a room and slam the door – he just needed a couple of seconds.

Something hit him in the back knocking the wind out of him. Walter was flung face-down on the floor, the arm with the broken bottle was twisted into the small of his back and pinned there.

“Stay put Walter.” Said Rufus, slightly out of breath. “You don’t need that bottle.”

He saw Gong’s foot by his head.

“Time to sleep.” He said.

 \* \* \* \* \*

48a Aspidistra Crescent London
5th November 1886

Dear Mr Holmes,

Having brought to an end the horrors of Whitechapel, at some considerable risk to life, limb and sanity, it was disturbing to note the involvement, yet again, of the Germans.

I might suggest that rather than continue to react to the Hun and his perfidious plottings, we go on the offensive.

My chance viewing of a document at the German embassy indicates that an Operation Lysander is already in progress, with a dread conclusion due for Christmas Day, the 25th December. This operation is clearly wide ranging in its scope, with its grim tendrils felt from Port Victoria on Mars to the heart of the Empire.

One other part of their plan that we know of lays in far off Khaffiristan, a land of which I am only too familiar. I have been invited to participate in an expedition back to the country, funded by the Germans and accompanied by a band of mercenaries culled from the worst dregs and leavings of the British Army, as well as German ‘military advisers’.

As told, the object is to turn Khaffiristan into a German protectorate in all but name, with myself as its puppet ruler. A win for the German Empire in the Great Game played out across the Middle East. But I would surmise there is another reason for this expedition, a reason that as yet we are unaware. A map of the country, again only briefly seen, showed an initial landing site for the airbourne incursion, as well as four other sites leading off into the North East.
I think it in our best interests that I join this expedition with all haste. My currency with the Germans will have only limited value, and though I have, by means of feeding them dubious intelligence extended my time, they are running to a tight schedule. If they truly require me, then I may find myself going involuntarily, which would undermine my abilities to influence matters to our advantage.
As for my colleagues in the League, it may be possible, with relative ease, to inveigle Rufus Ward into my party. It would be no great leap, even for a Hunnish imagination, to imagine him a one-time brother in arms. I might suggest that getting anyone else in would raise suspicions to an undue height, and thus they should follow closely using such means as only they have available. What we sorely lack is a means of communication. Is there not some experimental means of sending messages across the ether that we might take advantage of?

Any support that the government and its agents can provide would be truly welcome. I think it is not an exaggeration to say that the very Empire, if not the world entire, is at stake.

Yours,

TollyCarnehan

Toliver Carnehan Esq

Tolly put down his pen, folded the letter and placed it into an envelope. There was a soft knock on the front door and he started, suddenly apprehensive. The door to the hallway was open and for a moment he seemed to see tentacles sliding over the tessellated floor. But no, he blinked, it was just the shadow of his aunt’s pot-plant.

The knock came again. Tolly rose, picked up the letter and the small case he had packed and moved to open the door. But as he approached it the blackness outside seemed to press against the tissue-thin surface of the wood, threatening to burst through. If he opened it, surely the darkness would flood in like an ocean, would sweep him into the depths…

There was a click. The door opened and Gong stuck his head around it.

“Torry! Come on! I had to pick your lock. We gotta get to spaceport.”

“Sorry. I’m not myself.” Tolly managed to say, swallowing hard.

With a tremendous effort of will Tolly placed one foot in front of the other. The darkness was all around him now. A few steps later and he was boarding the Growler carriage where Rufus sat in the driving seat. Walter and Thaddeus were inside, both sedated, with Biggins keeping an eye on them.

“Here, Biggins.” Tolly fumbled for a half-crown. “Deliver this for me, lad.” He handed over the letter and coin and collapsed into the seat next to Thaddeus, screwing his eyes tightly shut. He saw it again, the colossal tomb in R’lyeh… he could to hear them calling him. Come! Come into the deep.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Dawn was breaking across Bodmin Moor; thick low cloud was reluctantly brightening and the moorland slowly changing colour from black to dull green.

Seated in the cockpit of The Appleby, Rufus steered the craft towards the grey dot of De Lank House that stood above the disused lead-mine the League had purchased. He circled, looking for a place to land, avoiding the large sink-hole near the house where the mine workings must have collapsed long ago. A thought struck him. He brought the nose of the spaceship up until it was pointing towards the sky.

“What you doing, Lufus?” Asked Gong.

The anti-gravity field of the ship also created artificial gravity inside it, so although the passengers could feel the vessel tilting upwards, they did not slide backwards out of their seats.

“Trying somefing.” Rufus gently let the craft slip downwards.

The tail slid into the dead centre of the sink-hole. Tolly peered out of a porthole to see the rock slowly passing by.

There was a soft bump and they stopped.

“Better get out now, while the gravity’s on.” Rufus said.

Gong had already thrown open the upper hatch and flung his grappling hook onto the grass above. A moment later he had climbed out and with his help the others clambered up the rope. Rufus came last, having shut down the engines and climbing the vertical deck.

“Impressive flying Rufus.” Said Tolly. “You’ve hidden a thundering great spaceship in the middle of a featureless moor.”

“A pond!” Said Thaddeus, suddenly coming to his senses. “We should put a pond on top of it… and it could slide aside on rollers.”

“Still barmy then.” Muttered Rufus.

 \* \* \* \* \*

As he descended the steps into the lead mine Walter began to be aware of his surroundings. The echoing depths of darkness, the hymns of the Deep Ones, were receding, fading. He was able to look around him. Darwin led the way, holding a lamp, the others following. His hands were not tied, but Walter could see no sharp objects, no way to remove the ghastly implant that lay in his guts.

As they stepped into the lead-lined room the voices ceased completely. Walter felt as if he had awoken from a vivid nightmare; haunted but awake. Here, surrounded by several inches of lead sheeting, he was at last free of the psychic emanations of the Old Ones and their ghastly spawn. He looked around to see Thaddeus blinking in relief beside him.

“Thank God for that.” He said.

In the centre of the room a heavy lead box stood on a table.

“Can we see the Orb?” Walter whispered. The others looked at him in surprise.

“Good idea.” Said Darwin. He opened the box and took out the shining globe within.

Walter was astonished, once again, at the beauty of the golden sphere, the warm flawless golden light that flowed gently over its surface. Looking up he saw five other faces glowing, enraptured.

“I never tire of watching it.” Said Darwin.

Without being able to say why he did so, Walter reached out a trembling hand and touched the gleaming surface of the orb. The moment his skin made contact he felt the change. The alien embryo lodged inside him vanished, as if it had never existed. The wave of relief was so strong that his knees nearly gave out and he had to sit on a nearby chair.

“Have you discovered anything about The Orb Charles?” Thaddeus was asking.

“Not really. But it is clearly psychically active and it makes me speculate about non-water based ectoplasmic forms.”

“Well, whatever it is,” Said Tolly, “it’s doing my nerves a power of good. I think we should stay down here until we are more fully recovered.”

“Good idea.” Said Darwin. “I shall see to making you comfortable.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

Thaddeus re-lit his pipe and stretched his slippered feet towards the warmth of the charcoal brazier before him. Seated in a comfortable armchair, he found his bookmark in the copy of Huxley’s Man’s Place in Nature and opened it. For a moment the shadow of the turning page squirmed across the paper like a tentacle, threatening to turn his mind to blacker thoughts, but glancing up he saw the Orb glowing on the table by his side. He gazed at it for a moment in pleasure, puffing on his pipe. Then turned back to his book.

Walter was sitting at the table. Before him were scattered dozens of small components and a half-finished scale model of the Mole prototype that glowed in the light of the Orb. He clicked a piece into place with a strange half-smile.

Tolly sat to one side by a coffee table. He laid out the last card of his game of patience and looked at his fob watch. Seven pm. Time to go.

“Goodbye gentlemen. See you tomorrow or on Thursday at the latest.” He said.

As he ascended the stairs, leaving the warmth of the room behind him, he felt a dull gnawing at his nerves. Did he hear something? A faint, distant echo of the weird music of The Deep? He had not heard it for several days, not since they had moved into the lead-lined room. He tried to put it out of his mind.

Upstairs Rufus was waiting for him in the hallway.

“The cabbie’s here.” He said.

Tolly donned his hat and coat and stepped out into the night. The handsome cab loomed tall in the half-light. Looking up he saw the silhouette of the driver swaddled in hat and scarf. The bulky outline reminded him of something monstrous. Tolly stepped back into the porch.

“Rufus!” He whispered. “Do you think he’s… all right?”

“Yeah. I had the Elder Sign in my glove when I shook his hand just now. Didn’t even blink.”

Tolly let out his held breath. “Thanks.” He said. Turning, he climbed into the cab.

“Train station please!” He called. The Penzance to London sleeper train would get him to Paddington by 8 in the morning. Plenty of time for a hearty breakfast and then – then he would see if the Germans would take the bait.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Tolly found Stumm waiting for him just inside the grand entrance of the German embassy.

“Herr Carnehan.” Stumm clicked his heels and gave a formal little nod. “Zis vay please.”

Tolly followed him to the state-room he had seen before. There he found Schleimann who vigorously shook his hand.

“Come in, come in.” He said, beaming. “Your chief political officer has arrived.”

Lounging against the marble fireplace, nonchalantly smoking a slender cigar, was an athletically built man of about thirty. He was exquisitely dressed in a dark morning suit, cravat and jewelled tie-pin.

“Allow me to introduce you.” Said Schleimann “Toliver Carnehan, this is Rupert of Hentzau.”

“Delighted, old boy.” Hentzau said with a lazy, likeable smile. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you no-end.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Hentzau.” Said Tolly.

“It’s Count, actually. But you can call me Rudy.”

“Are you English?” Tolly could not help asking.

“No, I hail from Ruritania. But I spent ten years at Eton, so picked up the lingo, so to speak.” Hentzau replied.

“Very impressive.” Said Tolly. “So, what made you decide to join this venture?”

“Well it was Bismark, really. The old walrus needed someone with a taste for adventure and experience with the crowned heads of small countries. Having read your story, I jumped at the chance.” Hentzau gave his lopsided smile.

“I’m honoured.” Said Tolly. “It seems I already have two Counts and an eminent archaeologist in my party.”

Schleimann waved them to seats by the fire and a servant poured drinks. Schleimann and Stumm had coffee but Hentzau, Tolly noted, had a brandy. He decided to join him.

“I have also made some progress since our last meeting.” Tolly announced. Then he paused. For a moment his vision swam and he saw again the yawning ocean depths leading to R’lyeh, felt the obscene dream-thoughts coiling there like colossal tentacles in the darkness… He blinked and looked around. The others were staring at him. He shivered, took a swig of brandy, and started again.

“I have found a small group of men I trust and who are willing to join our expedition.” He gave a modest smile. Schleimann and Stumm, however, looked dismayed.

“We haf no need of others.” Stumm said, frowning.

“We only need yourself as… king.” Schleimann added.

“I have four companions.” Tolly began ticking them off on his fingers. “Danny’s father is a doctor, Joshua Dravot. He has sworn to visit Kafiristan and I have sworn to accompany him. Then there is my Chinese manservant and bodyguard, Sum Won, who is bound to me by a debt of blood. Corporal Mathew Damon was our closest comrade from the Zulu campaign; he’s in London now and determined to avenge his brother-in-arms. There’s also my accountant Herbert Perkins. Not much of an adventurer, but he keeps track of all my finance now. I can’t do without him.”

“But you see…” Schleimann started.

“To be clear.” Tolly interrupted. “I insist they come. If they don’t, I don’t.”

Schleimann and Stumm looked taken aback, they glanced uncomfortably at Hentzau.

“Four companions?” Hentzau frowned for a moment, fiddling with his watch-chain.

“Why not?” He said with a smile. “A king should have his friends around him.” He snapped his fingers for another drink.

“So then,” said Tolly, trying not to look relieved, “what’s the next step?”

“There is one more person you must meet.” Schleimann said. “You have heard of Oscar Van Nügel, the millionaire diamond magnate? He has backed our plan from the very beginning and is covering all the costs of the campaign.”

“He is a remarkable man, as you would expect in one so rich. A thinker as well as a captain of industry. You will see when you meet him.” He added.

“When?” Tolly asked.

Stumm sat forward.

“Van Nügel has an estate in Norfolk called Holkham Hall. On ze 30th of November you vill take the 12.36 train from King’s Cross to King’s Lynn, and ze 3.05 to Holkham. Make sure you are not followed.”

“Very good.” Tolly stood up and took his hat from a flunky. “I look forward to seeing you there.”

“Cheerio, old chap!” Hentzau called. “And remember, Stumm’s the word!”

 \* \* \* \* \*

The Five were sitting in leather armchairs in Mycroft’s room at the Diogenese Club. Mycroft stood by the fire, drumming his fingers pensively on the mantelpiece. Tolly finished his account of recent events.

“What I can’t comprehend,” Mycroft mused, “is why the Kaiser would authorise this operation. It seems entirely out of character. And the crown prince, Frederick, is even more Anglophilic.”

“Is Bismark arranging this behind the Kaiser’s back?” Tolly wondered.

“Probably. Are you still prepared to play along?” Mycroft asked.

“We are.” Said Tolly. Part of him, he had to admit, was looking forward to it.

“Very well. The HMSS Esmeralda will be in orbit at these coordinates every dawn and dusk.” Mycroft passed Walter a slip of paper.

“She’s a 6,000 ton Protected Space Cruiser with two ten-inch and six six-inch guns, along with the usual lesser armament. There will be 200 marines as well as a hundred crew on board, so it should be able to see-off any S-Boats and match the mercenary infantry if needed.”

“What about communication?” Asked Thaddeus. Two weeks of rest and recuperation with the Orb had returned him to his usual self.

“I was just getting to that.” Mycroft picked up an ordinary-looking walking stick.

“This contains a light-weight tripod, and this…” he took out a large circular shaving mirror in a leather case, “is a concealed heliograph.”

Walter picked up the gadgets eagerly.

“Here is your one-time pad for encryption.” Mycroft handed him a dog-eared copy of the Pocket Almanac of the North West Frontier. “Use each seventh letter counted backwards from the bottom of page 77.”

“Excellent.” Walter almost rubbed his hands in anticipation. He remembered something. “Could you arrange for my hexapod to be on board the Esmeralda?” He asked.

“With the jet-packs?” Tolly added.

“Certainly.” Mycroft replied. “Just crate-up anything you need and deliver it to the Navel spaceport at Greenwich addressed to Captain Naylor.”

“In that case,” said Tolly standing up. “We shall be on our way. We leave for Holkham Hall tomorrow.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

Tolly stared out of the window and watched the Norfolk coastline slide by. It was a grey, chill day, but from the warm comfort of the first class compartment it was pleasant to watch the mist rolling in from the sea. The train slowed and he saw they were coming into Holkham station.

They were the only passengers leaving the train. The platform was small and apparently deserted, but as the steam cleared they saw a thickset man in a topcoat and bowler. He approached and touched his hat.

“Yes.”

“This way please sirs. Mister Van Nügel sent a carriage.”

They set off down a country lane, flanked on one side by a high brick wall. They soon came to a large gatehouse. A man emerged and nodded to the coachman. A moment later large black gates were swung open and the carriage crunched its way up a broad gravelled driveway.

It was getting dark. Looking out of the window, Tolly could just make out a large building in the distance. He sniffed, intrigued. He had caught a trace of the once-familiar smells, half-forgotten since his time in the first Zulu war. Scanning the parkland he caught sight of a herd of antelope and, in the distance, a mass of animals with unmistakable black and white stripes.

“Are those…” He began.

“Zebras? Yes sir.” Said the coachman. “Mister Van Nügel has animals from his native South Africa here. Wildebeest, antelope and lions.”

“Lions?” Asked Tolly.

“Yes. I carry a Howdah pistol just in case. But the estate is six thousand acres and the lions generally stay away from the roads.”

The carriage stopped before the front entrance of the largest stately home Thaddeus had ever seen. On one side neatly trimmed lawns surrounded a huge circular fountain. On the other loomed the columned frontage of a building larger than the British Museum. Smartly uniformed staff stood on the steps and ushered them through the main doors.

The interior of Holkham Hall was, if anything, of even more staggering opulence that the gigantic exterior. The entrance hall was made almost entirely of marble, the walls flanked by classical columns supporting an ornate domed ceiling. Busts of Caesars gazed down on them from niches in the walls.

Two men stood in the centre of the floor waiting to greet them. The first was Rupert of Hentzau, the second could hardly have been more different. Oscar Van Nügel sat in a wheelchair, his legs withered and his head bald but for a fringe of white hair. But his eyes burned brightly from beneath bristling eyebrows, and his voice was load and commanding.

“Welcome to Holkham Hall, Mr Carnehan.” He said, in a strong Boer accent.

Tolly turned to introduce his companions.

Despite being seated, Van Nügel managed to look down his nose at Gong.

“Your choice of an oriental as a bodyguard is most misguided, Mister Carnehan.” He sniffed. “You should choose men of better stuff.”

“Shall we say, Mister Van Nügel,” said Tolly momentarily nonplussed, “that my experience is somewhat different. Sum Won here has saved my life on a number of occasions.”

“Hermann!” Said Van Nügel spinning his chair towards a side entrance. “Will you join us for a moment?”

A powerfully-built man stepped forward from amongst a group of attendants. With his shaven head, broken nose and heavy moustache, Bosche looked every inch the prize-fighter.

“Mister Bosche here was the All-German boxing champion for five years running. I have engaged him as your bodyguard. You have no need of a Chinaman.”

“I am sure Mister Bosche is altogether excellent, but I already have a man…” Tolly replied, with a hint of exasperation.

Rupert of Hentzau placed an arm around Tolly’s shoulders and turned to Van Nügel with a laugh.

“Come come Oscar! We can’t keep the future king of Kafiristan on the doorstep while you quibble about his selection of staff. The champaign is waiting. Come on.”

Hentzau steered Tolly through a doorway into another sumptuously-decorated state room, where a small crowd of men and several waiters with trays of glasses stood waiting.

Rupert turned to the assembled company and raised a glass.

“Allow me to propose a toast to our most honoured guest Mr Tolliver Carnehan, whose adventures have inspired thousands of readers throughout Europe – including His Majesty the Kaiser himself. We have read of his extraordinary exploits with his comrade Daniel Dravot and are determined that he should regain the throne of the Kingdom for which his brother, King Daniel the First, gave his life. Inspired by your spirit of courage and adventure, we the European Friends of Kafiristan, will stop at nothing, sir, to see you reclaim your throne – I raise my glass to you, Your Majesty, the Once and Future King of Kafiristan!”

There was clapping and exclamations of support. Tolly looked around to find Van Nügel had rolled himself up to his elbow.

“As Rupert put it so prettily, I was one of those inspired by your story, Mister Carnehan. It demonstrated what two white men could do in an uncivilized land. Like James Brooke in Sarawak, you are living proof that the white man is destined to rule.”

For a moment, the sight of poor Danny falling from the rope-bridge flashed before Tolly’s eyes.

“Well,” he said, “it didn’t end terribly well…”

“Of course!” Van Nügel declared fiercely, “you were betrayed by lesser men. But we shall put that to right, Mister Carnehan!”

Henstzau appeared with two men.

“Allow me to introduce Mister Paul Kruger,” he said, indicating a heavily-built man with sandy hair. “The financial director of our expedition.”

“And my nephew.” Added Van Nügel.

“And this is Doctor Karl Heissmann,” Henstzau continued, indicating a sallow-faced man with thick spectacles, “our… um, medical expert.”

“Delighted, gentlemen.” Tolly said.

Hentzau turned and indicated a group who now stood in a semi-circle, holding their glasses.

“Let me introduce your most senior NCOs and officers. Messers Gutterson and Snipe you already know. Hermann Bosche has been introduced. These are Lieutenants Strohberg and Leizer, Captain Lemmerstein and Colonel Holzhammer. All formerly of His Majesty’s German Army; now at your command.”

The officers nodded and clicked their heels.

There was the sound of a gong.

“And that’s the Sound of Dinner.” Said Hentzau. “Let’s go in.”

They filed through to a vast dining room, lit by huge chandeliers. Hentzau steered them to a top table, groaning with silver plate, where Van Nügel had already been placed at one end, along with the more senior Germans. The rest of the company went to sit on less sumptuously decorated tables further down the hall. Tolly made a quick count of the place settings.

“Looks like we are one place short, Mister Van Nügel.” He said.

The old man gave him a stony stare.

“I assumed your man would be waiting on you.” He replied frostily.

“Not at all. Sum Won always dines at my side.” Said Tolly, as pleasantly as he could.

“Come now Oscar,” Hentzau smiled, “surely a King can have a taster!”

Grudgingly, Van Nügel noded to a waiter who had appeared with an extra place setting. “I wonder that he can trust him.” He grumbled as he began his starter.

“Oscar, you are being a bore - so to speak.” Hentzau said with a laugh.

“We Boers had it right!” Van Nügel declared, rolling his ‘R’s ferociously. “The proper relationship between races is that of Master and Servant. This is something the British have forgotten! My father – an honest farmer - had to trek beyond the Kei River after the idiotic British ban on slavery in ’35. And we were proved right – British softness encouraged the Zulus to attack in ’79! As you know Mister Carnehan.” He pointed his knife at Tolly.

“Well, I found the Zulus to be…” Tolly began.

“But this sentimentality is the great failing of the British,” Van Nügel went on. “It is a form of decadence; the keeping of pets. You will find no pets on the Veldt, Mister Carnehan, nor here in Holkham Hall. Only working beasts and wild ones.”

“Yes, we saw some zebras on the way here…” said Tolly, trying to change the subject. But Van Nügel would not be diverted.

“The ancient empires fell when the rulers became weak and self-indulgent towards lower races.” He declared. “The British have become like the ancient Athenians, with their useless philosophy and art. They want to be thinkers rather than doers.”

“Uncle is writing a book.” Kruger put in, eyes gleaming.

“But a new power is rising now, Gentlemen, a New Sparta.” Van Nügel’s voice rose. “The Germans are a tough, martial people, like the old Dutch, and the Anglo-Saxons! They will forge an empire greater than any!”

Tolly noticed Hentzau watching him closely, gauging his reaction, no doubt. He tried to assume the expression of a man interested-despite-himself.

Gong felt no embarrassment at the ravings of an obvious lunatic, but it struck him that it might be politic to withdraw from the table, and perhaps useful to be able to look around the house. He excused himself and slipped away.

Rufus, however, was finding it literally difficult to stomach Van Nügel’s diatribe. It made him want to spit his expensive food in his face. He also pulled away from the table and went out.

“It seems my views are not to your companions taste?” Van Nügel said, a with a hint of reproach.

“Perhaps.” Replied Tolly airily. “Matt lost many friends in the Zulu War, I think it still troubles him.”

“No doubt, no doubt…” Van Nügel ground his teeth. “He has seen what those savages are capable of.”

“Why do you live in Britain, Mister Van Nügel, since you dislike it so much?” Thaddeus asked.

“Britain is still the hub of commerce. And many Anglo-Saxons are fine people - people like yourself Mister Carnehan.” He added.

A butler appeared and whispered something in Van Nügel’s ear. The old man nodded, and then rapped his knife against his glass. The hall became silent.

“Gentlemen!” Van Nügel announced. “I have just been told that His Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany is dead!”

A murmur swept across the room. Tolly noticed Stumm and the other Germans exchanging smug, knowing smiles.

“I propose a toast! The Kaiser is dead. Long Live the new Kaiser – Frederick the Third!” He raised his glass.

There was something odd about his tone, a trace of mockery, Tolly thought. The smiles of Hentzau and the German officers seemed to widen, as if they were sharing some secret joke.

“Kaiser Frederick.” Came the toast. The diners raised their glasses and drank.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Rufus was walking quietly along the grand corridor that seemed to run the width of the house, while Gong explored another direction. It was quiet and the servants all seemed to be occupied with Van Nügel’s banquet.

There was the sound of a door closing behind him. Rufus turned to see a smallish, wiry man approaching. There was something faintly furtive about his manner, and his long nose, receding chin and beady eyes gave him a faintly rat-like look.

“It’s Mister Matthew Damon, isn’t it?” He asked in a flat, toneless voice.

“What of it?” Rufus asked gruffly.

“Yes, I see.” The man went on, not meeting Rufus’s gaze. “Yours truly is Reginald Sparks. Grew up in Southwark, I did. In that neck of the woods everyone knows a certain Mister Rufus Ward… do you know him?”

Rufus said nothing, but his stare hardened.

“You’re his spitting image, you are, Mister Damon. You could be his twin brother.”

“The thing about brothers in the East-end,” Rufus gritted, “is that it’s a bad idea to cross them. That can be very dangerous.”

“It might lead to embarrassing questions, don’t you fink, if it was known that Mister Rufus Ward – or his brother – was ‘ere under a different name…”

“What’s your point?” Growled Rufus.

“Well I’m in need of money, see. Say a hundred pahnds? I’d say that me keeping quiet was worth that to you.”

“Be careful, Reggie. Your mouth could get you into trouble.” Rufus murmured.

“I’ll leave you to think about my proposition Mister Ward – I beg your pardon – Mister… Damon.”

Sparks slid away. Rufus took his hand from his pocket, leaving the automatic knife where it was. Not here, he thought. Not yet.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Tolly was seated at a large mahogany table in state-room. Around him Van Nügel, Kruger and the Germans were being served brandy and cigars. Hentzau placed a file before him labelled ‘Toliver I of Kafiristan: Acts and Proclamations.’

“There are a few preliminaries that Your Majesty should attend to.” He explained.

There was a set of documents printed on expensive paper. Tolly read the first.

The Proclamation of
The Independent Government of
THE KINGDOM OF KAFIRISTAN

I, King Toliver Iskundar I of Kafiristan, successor of His Holiness King Daniel Iskundar I, do hereby declare the right of the People of Kafiristan under their Sovereign Monarch to the Independence of Kafiristan and the Ownership of all its Lands and Territories.

I do hereby establish the Independent Government of the Kingdom of Kafiristan and make the following appointments:-

First Minister
Count Rupert von Hentzau

Minister of War
Count Otto von Stumm

Minister of the Interior
Doctor Karl Heissmann

Chancellor of the Treasury
Mr Paul Kruger

Signed

¬¬¬¬¬¬\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_
His Majesty Toliver I of Kafiristan

On this day the \_\_\_ of December 1886

Hentzau handed him a rather splendid fountain-pen. Tolly paused for a moment. He had been expecting this, and there was really nothing to be done but to play along. He leant forward and signed with the flourish of a man flattered by the trappings of royalty.

The next document was even more telling; a mutual defence treaty between Kifiristan and Germany granting rights to military bases, airspace and allowing the Germans to intervene in the case of external threat or internal instability.

The next document struck Tolly as rather curious. Calling itself the ‘Scientific Exploration Act of 1886 it granted exclusive rights to archaeological expeditions and artefacts to Dr Heinrich Schliemann. So, Tolly mused, they had been right in thinking Schliemann was after something lost or hidden in the mountains of Kafiristan.

The last document announced the issue of a new legal tender - the Kafiri Schilling to be pegged to the German currency at a rate of one hundred Kafiri Schillings to the Goldmark.

Hentzau placed a highly polished attaché case on the table and slid it across to Tolly.

“There are 25 million Kafiri Schillings here. As soon as Kafiristan’s declaration of independence is reported internationally the Bank of Germany will recognise it’s currency as legal tender.”

Tolly opened the case and extracted one of the notes.

“I thought they came out rather well.” Said Hentzau.

“So the minute we declare independence…” said Tolly slowly.

“…Your Highness will have a quarter of a million Goldmarks.” Hentzau finished for him.

Stumm stepped forward and spread a large map across the table showing the borders of Kafiristan. He pointed to a thin red line traced North-South.

“Zis was the line of your advance on Sikundar Gul viz Daniel Dravot.” Stumm said. “Ve vill land by spacecraft – here.” He pointed to a small plateau next to the capital.

“I imagined a triumphal procession along your old route, gathering loyal subjects on the way.” Hentzau put in. “But Stumm won’t hear of it.”

“No. Ve vill seize ze capital immediately, you vill be king within 48 hours of landing.” Stumm declared.

“Then we send emissaries to the Russian, Chinese and British border posts.” Hentzau explained. “By pure chance a correspondent from the Chicago Tribune will be visiting the Khyber Pass, and a Neues Volksblatt stringer will be in Shirabad, on the Russian boarder. We invite political representatives to your coronation and the journalists will break the story world-wide.”

“Excellent.” Said Tolly, adopting a commanding air. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow.” Schleimann replied. “Mister Van Nügel owns his own airline.” He added. “Tomorrow we fly directly to Istanbul on one of his airships. From there we go to Kafiristan by spaceship. In secret.”

“In that case, Gentlemen, I shall get some rest and recommend that you do the same.” Said Tolly. He stood up with as much importance as he could manage.

“I thank you all, once again, for everything that you have invested in this enterprise. I have no doubt that we will be successful.” He added.

As the butler opened the door for him to leave Tolly caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of one of the German staff officers giving his companion a cynical, knowing smile.

“Good night, Your Majesty.” Called Hentzau. “Sleep tight.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

Thaddeus stood with Tolly, Van Nügel, Hentzau and the others on the steps of Holkham Hall, still digesting the sumptuous late breakfast he had eaten. In front of them paraded the small private army of the Honourable Company of the Calm Bark and Great Cod. He had to admit that they looked well drilled, demonstrating skirmish lines, retreating by sections and any number of the latest formations.

“Very impressive.” He remarked to Hentzau, who stood beside him.

“They’ve been Stumm’s pet project. He’s been slipping off here at weekends to run them through their paces.” Hentzau drawled, flicking away a cigar stub.

Stumm overheard them.

“Before arriving here, zey completed two months training with the world’s finest mountain troops in the Austrian Alps. Zey are ready for Kafiristan.”

The troops had lined up in a smart line facing the steps.

“Good drill!” Van Nügel called out to them. “But which of you want to hunt a lion…?” A forest of hand were raised, “with bayonets?” Most of the hands disappeared.

Van Nügel turned to a grim-looking servant Tolly took to be his groundsman.

“Take those men off, William, and show them a thing or two.” He said.

Van Nügel rolled his chair over to Tolly.

“I like to test men’s metal, Mister Carnehan.” He said. “It is the only way to really know them.”

“Take your Chinaman, for example.” He went on. “I have a solution to our disagreement.”

Tolly felt he knew what was coming next.

“Let him go a round with Hermann Bosche here. The looser stays here.” Van Nügel said.

Tolly looked at Gong. The martial artist gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Well, since you insist...” Tolly said.

“Yes I do!” Declared Van Nügel eagerly. “Let’s get on with it. Mister Bosche!”

The German stepped forward, slipping out of his jacket and rolling up his sleeves to show heavily muscled forearms.

Gong had feared it would come to this, sooner or later. Now he began gathering Qi into his body, preparing himself for what was to come.

“Who’ll give me Five to One odds on the Chinaman?” Called Rufus.

The troops crowded around, waving money. Rufus pulled out a notebook and started taking bets.

A space cleared for the fighters at the base of the steps. Bosche stepped into the impromptu ring with confidence but not, Gong saw, undue arrogance. His movements were apparently relaxed, but they masked great precision. Gong felt a growing respect for the German as a master martial artist, albeit of a different style.

Gong stepped forward and made a small bow. Bosche nodded in return. There could be no lethal blows in this contest, Gong realised, and that robbed him of some of his most powerful moves. On the other hand it lowered the stakes.

Gong adopted a masked Tiger stance. The German, however, continue to move smoothly, circling slightly.

Since gweilo boxing style consisted almost entirely of punches, Gong reasoned, Bosche would sooner or later throw one. The most elegant response would be a simultaneous counter-punch. Letting his stance shift slightly, he waited.

Bosche very expertly feigned a jab, but Gong was not drawn. Bosche gave little nod, as if in acknowledgement. Gong waited for the real punch, when it came he would evade it and counterpunch to the chin. Bosche feigned again.

Bosche’s fist struck him with surprising force. All Gong could do was channel Qi into his jaw to prevent unconsciousness, and snap back out of range. It was the punch of a master, Gong realised, masked by the feint with the other hand.

“Ha! That’ll teach your Chinaman a thing or two!” Crowed Van Nügel.

A look of irritation crossed Bosche’s face at the words. Gong could see he was curious about the Qi defence he had used. The German began to move more seriously now, he was running through a series of subtle stances that Gong could not quite understand. He made another feint.

In the instant that Bosche shifted his weight to step forward Gong snapped out a lightening punch, catching him crisply on the point of the jaw. But something extraordinary happened. In the instant of contact Bosche somehow twitched his face backwards and to one side so that most of the force struck thin air. Gong had but a split-second’s pause before the German countered with a powerful hook that Gong narrowly dodged.

“Touché, wouldn’t you say?” Hentzau quipped.

The two circled again, both wary now. Gong was thinking hard about the punch-slipping technique. Without knowing how to counter it he could not be confident of knocking Bosche out. Those heavy neck muscles, he now realised, powered lightening fractional movements that absorbed shock to the head. But what about other parts of the body? Gweilo boxing only allowed blows above the waist.

Bosche moved forward and made another feint. As he did so, Gong shot out a hand, the tips of his fingers sinking expertly into the pressure point on Bosche’s thigh. As Bosche shifted his weight to throw an uppercut his leg collapsed under him. Somehow he kept his balance, a look of astonishment on his face, and hopped upright, unleashing a heavy haymaker.

But the movement was wild and Gong sidestepped easily, sliding forward one foot in a practiced motion that swept Bosche’s good leg out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. Gong stepped in to finish the job but the German, still startled, opened his arms in an obvious gesture of surrender.

“Bah! The Chinaman cheated!” Erupted Van Nügel.

“My man floored yours fair and square, I would say.” Said Tolly, turning to him.

But Van Nügel had already spun his chair and was pushing himself furiously away through the crowd.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Walter stood in the Holkham Hall telegram office and polished his glasses. What had begun as a bit of stage-craft had become a genuine nervous habit.

“Would you be so kind as to show me the communication accounts?” He warbled. “Mister Kruger said I was to examine them.”

The telegraph clerk hesitated for a moment. Then stood up and pulled out a bunch of keys.

“We keep them down the hall. You’ll have to follow me.”

Walter kept the clerk occupied finding paperwork until he eventually had to use the toilet. Seizing his chance, Walter slipped back into the telegraph room. Thankfully it was empty. Pulling the encrypted message for Mycroft from his pocket he began to tap out the code.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Gong reflected that he was not, all things considered, very comfortable. The flight to Istanbul in Van Nugel’s airliner had been luxurious. Tolly’s party and the officers had had the First Class cabin to themselves, and the food, drink and view had all been excellent. But the German S-Boat that they had transferred to in the dead of the Turkish night was cramped enough to make him feel both claustrophobic and slightly travel-sick. At least, he reflected, he was not in the third S-Boat, cheek by jowl with the camels.

There was a lurch, and then a heavy impact. A hatch hissed open somewhere above and a blessed draft of cold air flowed in. The mass of bodies began to shuffle towards the exit ladder. Finally, Gong emerged onto the narrow deck and looked out on a breath-taking scene.

It was dawn in the mountains of Kafiristan and in the distance all around them the tips of mountains shone white against a purple sky. Beneath them, rocky valleys and ravines stretched in every direction, still hidden in shadow.

“I knew I would be back one day.” Gong turned to see Tolly standing at his elbow.

“Come along your highness!” Hentzau clapped him on the shoulder. “Time waits for no man – not even Kings!”

 \* \* \* \* \*

Thaddeus sat on a rock and lit his pipe. Around him sprawled the small army and its litter of supplies. The equipment included two field guns, he noticed, now limbered behind two of the woolly camels brought from Istanbul.

A pair of soldiers passed carrying strange silver and brass weapons. Their uniforms were more distinctively German than the others, and the weapons piqued his curiosity.

“I say!” he called after them. “What have you got there?”

The men turned hardened, weather-beaten faces towards him and Thaddeus was intrigued to see that each had a large brass monocle attached to their helmets. He approached and peered at the heavy long-arms they carried, attached by heavy cables to packs on their backs and tipped with prominent silver spheres.

“Ya. Der Tesslagewehr. Schön eh?”

A Tessla-gun? Thaddeus wondered. Some sort of electrical weapon.

“Interesting, is it not, Herr Doctor?” He turned to see Schleimann.

“Yes indeed. Something electrical?” Thaddeus replied.

“Indeed. Stun guns; prototypes developed by Tessla. To humanely collect any novel animal species we might encounter on our exploration.”

“I see. How fascinating.” Thaddeus noticed that the two soldiers had joined a group standing apart from the rest, surrounded by crates and baggage.

“You are travelling separately?” He asked.

“Yes. We await an S-Boat to take us to the first possible dig-site.” Schleimann turned and went into his tent.

Thaddeus acted on impulse. He followed the German through the canvas door flap. Inside he saw a folding table covered with maps and a camp bed with a briefcase lying on it.

“Professor Schleimann, I have a favour to ask. Although devoted to medical science, I have always been fascinated by archaeology. I would love to accompany you.”

Schleimann pursed his lips. “Well… we will have to ask Hentzau.” They left the tent together, but Schleimann paused.

“I had best see Hentzau alone, doctor.”

Thaddeus nodded and watched the archaeologist making has way towards the command tent. Glancing to make sure he was not observed Thadddeus slipped back into the tent and went straight to the briefcase on the bed. He had noticed Schleimann constantly carrying the thing; indeed this was the first time he had seen the archaeologist detached from it.

To his relief he found that it was unlocked. Inside were papers that he spread hurriedly on the bed. There were letters and maps, but a set of photographs caught his eye. They were of evidently ancient texts in different scripts, one written on a stone stele of some kind. Stapled to each was a translation in German. Thaddeus read each as swiftly as he could.

Greek

The Secret of Alexander. The secret of Alexander was his possession, the Ring of Hermes that had belonged to King Solomon in ancient times.

The ring had been discovered by his tutor Aristotle. It gave great knowledge of the minds of men and of the spirits of the air, earth, fire and water. With this ring Aristotle pierced every mystery and became the Wisest of Men. When Alexander was his pupil he discovered the ring and took it to make War. He knew the minds of his enemies and ruled the hearts of his men. He commanded the spirits of heaven and earth. He was invincible while he held the ring.

But he lost it. This is how.

Alexander had marched beyond Persia, to conquer all the lands to the east. He heard that in the Roof of the World was the Gate to the Underworld, home of sleeping gods and demons. He determined to conquer the Underworld and none could dissuade him.

He found the Gate, hidden by the Magi, by the Temple of Gayomart on the Mountain Road to the East, beyond Alexandria Eschate. But the demons were too strong. None returned from that journey save Alexander himself. The demons had taken his secret and driven him mad. He grew horns on his head. His army would not obey him and marched for home. Following them he became sick and died in Babylon.

\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_

Persian

High King Seleucus, Lord of Babylon, Shah of Persia [and] King of Media, this day reunited [with] Guardian Spirit, received [by the] Wise Lord of the Eternal Flame. He is gone [to] bring light to darkness [in] the World Beyond, [as] he brought Truth [to] the lands [of the] World That Is. His deeds [are] blessed. Ninety-nine temples [he] built and ninety-nine myriads of commoners [he] saved from darkness. Peace [he] brought [to] the fifty-five provinces and the forty-four principalities. [When] Angra Mainyu tried to wake the Sleeping Evil of the Underworld he caused the Gate to keep it’s secrets by the Ahurani Waters. [He] defeated Difila [Diphilus] and cast out Bethon [Peithon] the Cursed. [When] Darkness tempted him [with] Falsehood he turned to the Truth. Praise [him].
\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_

Sogdian

On the Road from Kabura [Kabul] [to] Kashgar [there are] twelve towns. Three days [away] on good roads is Farguatha, [with] three markets and plentiful horses and asses. Six more [before] Durbaj, small, wealthy and walled. One market. Five days [to] Yetaz, small, no market. Further [on] the road is poor [for] one month’s travel and impassable in winter. The only places [to obtain] supplies are [at] four Fire Temples. The biggest [is called] Asha Tas [with] some forty priests. The smallest [is called] Ahurani [with] just ten. The priests have grain, books and livestock, [but] lack spices, wine and cloth. Beyond the pass [is] Nuntaq, small, walled, one market. The road becomes good…

\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_

So that was what Schleimann was after – the ring of Solomon and, perhaps, the Gates of the Underworld…

There was the sound of a shot and a hole appeared in the tent wall by Thaddeus’s head. A moment later came a crackle of gunfire outside. Quickly replacing the papers in the case, Thaddeus dived out of the tent pulling his revolver from its holster. The valley side ahead of him was alive with Kafiris, clad in sheepskins and felt hats, running down the stony slopes towards the camp, some firing their matchlocks as they came.

A whistle sounded, followed by orders bellowed in German. Thaddeus saw the defenders rushing to grasp rifles. A trooper scrambled past him only to crash down like a sack of potatoes, blood pumping from a bullet wound in his neck. Thaddeus reached him and pressed a handkerchief to the wound just as a volley crashed out from the defenders. Glancing up he saw a dozen or more of the advancing figures knocked down by rifle fire. But the fastest of the Kafiris had already reached the line of troops and were laying about them with broad-bladed short-swords. The camp rapidly filled with battling men; bayonets and revolvers against swords and musket-butts.

Shots rang out from the centre of the camp. Glancing behind him Thaddeus saw more defenders had found their rifles and were joining the fray, shooting down Kafiris where they stood. The tide turned rapidly against the attackers who began to draw back; soon they were fleeing back up the slopes, many to be mercilessly picked-off by the European troops as they ran.

Thaddeus turned his attention to his patient. To his dismay he realised that this was a battle he could not win. All vital signs ceased a few minutes later and Thaddeus stood up and looked around sadly for something to wipe his hands on. He noticed Heissmann approaching him.

“I’m afraid we lost him.” Thaddeus said. To his surprise Heissman looked around eagerly.

“Another?” He peered at the dead man through thick spectacles.

“Orderly!” Heissmann called.

Two men appeared and carried the body to join a line of corpses laid out on the lower slope next to a large tent. Intrigued, Thaddeus made his way to join Walter, Rufus and Gong who were standing nearby.

Peering inside they could see Heissmann administering injections to several corpses on tables while his assistants fitted each one into what looked like a strange breathing-apparatus, complete with mask, tubes and a brass cylinder strapped to the back.

“Surely, Doctor Heissmann,” Thaddeus exclaimed, “these men are beyond help now!”

Heissmann gave a peculiar grin.

“You are about to see something vonderful, Herr Dravot. The dead will soon be helping us.”

“Surely you don’t mean…”

“Yes! Raising the dead. Zombies as they are called in the Vest Indies. The Ancient Egyptians knew the secret; discovered by Professor Schleimann and refined by German science.”

“What are these metal devices?” Walter could not stop himself asking.

“Steam reservoirs and delivery systems.” Heissmann explained as he worked. “Doctor Frankenstein’s breakthrough.”

“Steam-driven zombies?” Grunted Rufus. Heissmann turned to him and nodded.

“Exactly. All the legends of the walking dead are from warm climates – the Tropics, Egypt, Japan. Why? Because zombie metabolism is endothermic! Cool it down and it goes dormant. But what happens if you heat one up?”

“Boiled zombie?” Ventured Rufus.

“Higher mobility, rapid movement, higher brain-function. Obedient. Capable of simple mechanical tasks. The perfect weapon!”

There was a groan. The corpse behind Heissmann began to twitch and pull against the straps that held it to the table.

“Aha. This is a historic moment, Gentlemen, the first field-test of the Z-weapon.”

The scientist turned and barked commands in German. Two orderlies attached a metal band to the zombie’s head and there was a crackle of electricity. Heissmann grabbed the wildly jerking head and stared into its glassy eyes.

“You are Number Five! You will obey my commands!” Heissmann shouted in English. An orderly disconnected the electricity and strapped the mask over the dead face. There was a hiss of steam.

“Release it. Number Five get up!” Heissmann ordered. Slowly the corpse climbed to its feet. A puff of steam escaped from one of the valves.

“Number Five wait outside.”

The zombie lumbered out of the tent.

Stumm turned away, muttering something under his breath, and stalked out of the tent. Rufus followed him.

“I see the colonel disapproves.” Heissmann remarked. “But this is the future of war.”

There was a groan and another corpse began to twitch.

“Please excuse me Gentlemen. I have much work to do.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

The sun was setting behind the jagged peaks to the west and the light was fading fast. Rufus sat with his back to a boulder. He kept his eye on the spot on the hillside where he had seen a particular sentry. In the gathering gloom he checked that he was unobserved and slipped away from the tents.

At first he walked quietly, an unobtrusive figure intent on answering nature’s call, no doubt. A hundred yards from the picket line he dropped into a crouch and made his way silently between the boulders.

It was already so dark that he sensed rather than saw his target as he neared him. He paused, listening to the man’s breathing, and eased his kukris from their sheaths.

He stepped, silently, closer still.

“Sparks?” He whispered. It would not do to get the wrong man.

“Eh?” A pale face turned towards him.

Rufus did not hesitate. He brought the twin blades together with all his force, shearing through the scrawny neck and sending the head of Reginald Sparks rolling into the boulders with a black spray of blood.

Rufus froze; suddenly aware that he was not alone. To his right he saw a face. A young Kafiri crouched behind a large rock, a long blade glinted in his hand. He was goggling at the head that now lay near his feet.

Rufus met the lad’s gaze and slowly moved backwards. The Kafiri stared back, but did not move. So the Kafiri’s were out with their knives at night? So much the better, Rufus thought.

Carefully, he made his way back to the tents.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Tolly stood on the pass and stared. Before him lay a deep valley, brightly lit by the winter sun. In its midst rose the rocky slopes and above these the walls and towers of Sikundar Gul, perched atop its huge stone hill, just as he had seen it a thousand times in his memories and dreams. At the very summit gleamed the acropolis; a marvel of white marble, in the clear air it seemed to float against the sky.

There was a clattering of equipment behind him. Stumm barked commands and the field guns were unlimbered.

“The king returns, eh?” Hentzau stood by his shoulder, lighting a slender cigar.

“But will anyone be pleased to see him, I wonder?” Mused Tolly aloud.

“Wait till Stumm gets his howitzers to work on ‘em. They’ll want you back pretty smartish then.” Hentzau tossed away the match and sauntered towards the artillery.

```
Tolly turned towards the rest of the expedition. The troops were drawn up in column. To the rear stood the eerie ‘Z-troopers’, some of them still carrying the heavy crates that Heissmann had forgotten to tell them to put down. The scientist himself was busy stoking a portable boiler that provided steam for the zombies’ backpack tanks.  Tolly supressed a shudder.

```

“Penny for yer thoughts?” Rufus asked.

“I’m thinking that I don’t want my people blown to bits or savaged by Heissmann’s monsters.” Came the reply.

“Not sure whose people they are.” Said Gong. “But I aglee.”

“Hentzau! Stumm!” Tolly adopted his most commanding air. “Over here a minute.” He called.

“I will approach the city and negotiate a surrender.” He announced when they had gathered.

“Steady on, your highness.” Hentzau drawled. “Give us a chance to soften them up first.”

“No. My mind is made up. I will not shell my own capital unless absolutely necessary.” Tolly replied.

“Ve cannot vouch for your safety.” Stumm growled. “I cannot risk many men close to their valls.”

“None needed.” Tolly retorted. “I shall go alone.”

In the end Tolly set off with twenty troops and his four companions. Just as they were leaving Rupert of Hentzau joined them.

“Can’t let you to have all the fun.” He said.

For an hour they made their way down the steep, winding road into the gorge. They were crossing the ford of the swift rushing stream when Gong saw them. Three men crouched behind a huge bolder ahead. Calling a warning he leapt to where Tolly stood and pulled him into the cover of a rock.

“Hang on.” Said Tolly, staring at the figures ahead. “I know him!”

“Hold your fire!” Rufus called.

Tolly waved a hand and stepped out of cover, calling something in Kafiri. There was an answering shout and a figure clad in black sheepskin with silver accoutrements sprang up and rushed down the trail to splash into the water and grasp Tolly’s hand with every sign of joy. The two of them fell into a laughing, jabbering conversation.

“Gentlemen!” Tolly turned at last, beaming. “Allow me to introduce an old and true friend, Billy Fish Junior, Lord of Bashkai, son of a late lamented father.”

Thaddeus stepped forward and raised his hat.

“Very pleased to meet you, sir.” He said. “And my condolences for your loss.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

It was so far, Gong reflected, a virtually bloodless coup. When Tolly had explained the danger of German invasion, and demonstrated the effect of high explosive shells on a rocky outcrop to prove his point, even the recalcitrant High Priest Kafuzelum agreed to play along with Tolly’s plan. For all the Germans’ military efficiency, they did not have a single Kafiri-speaker amongst them, so Tolly had been able to negotiate openly with the Council of Sikundar Gul on the best way of getting rid of the invaders.

A fake coronation was now being arranged and the messengers sent by Hentzau to the Khyber Pass and the Russian border post at Shirabad had orders to dispose of their German minders and burn the letters declaring independence. Meanwhile, Billy Fish Junior had been sent towards Bashkai to raise as much of the army as he could before returning and hopefully surprising the German forces when the time was right.

The only problem was communication. The plan called for counterfeit ambassadors and journalists to arrive for the ‘coronation’ and for that they desperately needed to get a message to HMSS Esmeralda. But the only heliograph had been set-up on Sikundar Gul’s tallest tower and was guarded around the clock.

Gong swung out from the battlements he was standing on and began to climb, finding tiny holds by touch alone. Beneath him the drop was lost in darkness; above him he could see the dim flickering light of a lantern. He could hear Rufus chatting loudly to the guards above him. At last he reached the top and could grasp the lip of the tower’s ledge, where he hung out of sight.

“Go and ‘ave some o’ that stew and wine mate!” Rufus declared. “I’ll mind your post for yer.”

Gong heard a feminine giggle.

“Watch aht for that merry young widow, though.” Rufus remarked. “I heard she can be very free wif her favours, if you catch my drift.”

There was some more talk and Gong risked a peek over the ledge. Just one guard remained, standing by the heliograph and looking down to the lower level where several people stood eating and drinking. Behind him the sky was lightening fast, it would be dawn soon. There was no time left.

With a single fluid movement, Gong drew himself up onto the ledge and stepped noiselessly towards the guard. Suddenly sensing him, the man spun around, but before he could make a sound Gong’s hand shot out to his neck and the man slumped forward, pitching headfirst into the darkness below.

The first rays of sunlight appeared above the mountains. Gong pulled a sheet of coded numbers from his pocket and turned to the heliograph. If Rufus could just buy him a few more minutes, all might still be well.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Clad in robes of purest white, Tolly stood in the gateway of the Acropolis and gazed out upon Sikundar Gul spread out beneath him. Crowds of people packed the great square and bright ribbons fluttered from the buildings. A shout came from below followed by a cheer. Flanked by Hentzau on one side and Gong on the other, Tolly descended the marble steps towards the great stone throne set before the crowd, where Kafuzelum, the High Priest, stood holding the golden crown that Danny had made for him a lifetime ago.

Inside the main hall of the acropolis, Rufus turned away from the steps and waved at Billy Fish Junior who stood at the doorway leading to the lower levels. A moment later Kafiri riflemen began to file silently into the hall forming a line behind Rufus, just out of sight of the crowd below.

The crowd parted in the square below and Rufus made out the three pretend diplomatic delegations that had each arrived by airship that morning, causing much consternation in the city. Now the men sent by Mycroft to impersonate the Russian, Austrian and Chinese representatives were being ushered to seats of honour in the square.

A hush fell upon the crowd. Tolly stood before the throne with his arms outspread and Kafuzelum raised the crown high, before bringing it slowly down and placing it upon Tolly’s head. A cheer went up and the honour guard standing by the throne raised their rifles and fired a salute into the air.

At the sound of the signal the men crouching behind Rufus surged forward. Rufus lead the way, pulling his Lancaster pistol from his holster. Dropping to one knee on the top step, he drew a bead on Hentzau, standing by the throne. There was a crash as the volley blasted out. Rufus squeezed off his shot too late, Hentzau had already spun and dodged behind the cover of the throne. With a single fluid motion, the Ruritanian swept out his sable and brought it crashing down on Tolly’s head, sending him sprawling headlong on the marble steps. Rufus saw Gong leap for him, but somehow Hentzau evaded him and, leaping onto the nearby battlements of one of the inner walls, disappeared over the edge.

The square had become a scene of smoke and chaos. Armed men had appeared among the crowd and mercinaries and German officers were fighting and falling everywhere. Rufus led the Kafiris down the steps to join the fray. When he got to Tolly he found him lying, spattered in blood, with Gong bent over him.

“Is he dead?” Rufus gritted.

“No. Stunned. The crown saved his life.”

“That’s fair enough then. It nearly got ‘im killed last time.”

There was a dull boom. Looking up they saw a cloud of smoke rising from the gate towers on the other side of the town. Walter and Thaddeus had successfully blown up the field guns, then. They could make out the staccato report of Walter’s automatic Webeley prototype and the steady banging of Thaddeus’s revolver.

“I better get over there and help them aht.” Said Rufus.

There was a groan and Tolly opened his eyes.

“It’s OK Torry. Just a nasty gash to your head.” Said Gong.

“What happened?” Tolly gasped, blinking blood from his eyes.

“You were King for a day, my friend.” Said Rufus. “King for a day.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

The further adventures of Tolly, Rufus, Thaddeus, Walter and Gong will continue in Chapter Eight The Gates of the Underworld.

APPENDIX

Documents

DECLARATION OF AN ALLIANCE OF MUTUAL DEFENCE

Between

The Independent Government of
THE KINGDOM OF KAFIRISTAN

and

THE EMPIRE OF GERMANY

1. In the event of military aggression against either of the Parties to this Accord the other does undertake to provide all available material assistance including Force of Arms to maintain the territorial integrity and stability of the Party so attacked.

2. In the event of such an attack, or in the event that both governments agree there to be a realistic threat of such attack, the Armed Forces of the other Party will have free entry and passage throughout the territory of the threatened Party, for the sole purpose of deterring and resisting attacks upon the territorial integrity and stability of the government concerned.

3. For the purposes of mutual defence the Independent Government of the Kingdom of Kafiristan does grant rights to Air Space, and to territory not exceeding one hundred square kilometres for the provision of air base and supply facilities and appropriate defensive installations in locations agreed upon by both governments.

4. This Accord shall be in force in perpetuity or until revoked by mutual consent of both Parties.

\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_

SCIENTIFIC EXPLORATION ACT 1886

EXCLUSIVE RIGHTS TO ARCHAEOLOGICAL EXPLORATION

From this day, the \_\_\_ of December 1886, the SOLE foreigner authorized to conduct archaeological exploration and research throughout all the domains of the Independent and Sovereign Kingdom of Kafiristan is

DR HEINRICH SCHLIEMANN

and those working under his direction. Dr Schliemann is hereby fully licensed and authorized to carry out archaeological and historical researchers in any part of the Kingdom, and all subjects are required to render him any Assistance he should require in the carrying out of his Researches. He is fully licensed and authorized to remove any items of Archaeological or Historical Interest for restoration or scientific study.
\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_

FINANCE ACT 1886

THE ISSUE OF NEW CURRENCY

From this day, the \_\_\_ of December 1886, the SOLE legal tender throughout all the domains of the Independent and Sovereign Kingdom of Kafiristan is to be the

KAFIRI SCHILLING

All other currencies are hereby no longer legal tender for any transactions public or private, and must be exchanged for Kafiri Schillings issued by the BANK OF KAFIRISTAN at the rate of one hundred Schillings for one Imperial German Goldmark.

For all external exchange the value of the Kafiri Schilling shall be exactly one hundred Schillings for each Imperial German Goldmark.
\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_