The Warlord of the Air Read Online Free Page B

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 powers 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.
    A nd 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 horse-hair 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 by my side. I offered him my glasses. He 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