Conder kept to the widest passage with the tallest ceiling, presuming that it would lead to the center of the structure and present some keystone the dynamite could be applied to. Side passages were ignored, and, as soon as the party passed, hidden defenders emerged and attempted to take the hindmost. In the first attack, six knife-wielding pygmies managed to strike down Sepoy Ahmad and Sepoy Hasan, before succumbing to bayonets and black powder. Hasan’s wound in his shoulder blade did not appear mortal, but the wavy asymmetrical blades carried by the pygmies were covered with a tar-like substance. It was a matter of minutes before Hasan began sweating profusely and complained that he was too weak to carry his pack or lift his rifle. In ten minutes he collapsed and could not rise again.
“Poison,” Shkuro grunted to Conder in Russian. “One hour, maybe two.”
Conder explained to Hasan and the man grimly nodded his assent. Malik spoke a prayer over the man, and Conder put him out of his misery with a round from his Webley revolver. They divided Hasan’s ammunition. It did not sit well with the men to leave him, but Conder assured them they would remove the dead when they withdrew.
The close, lightless corridors removed many of the expedition’s advantages, but they used their firepower to kill scores of the naked maniacs. And yet every black-powder cartridge gone was as sand through an hourglass. In the confusion, Rifleman Rana was slashed across the chest by one of the wicked knives. Wishing to avoid the fate of Sepoy Hasan, Rana drew his kukri and threw himself into the pygmies crowding the corridor before them. Not wanting to shoot their comrade, the rest of the men waded in with bayonet and kukri, and within seconds the floor was slippery with blood. The second rank of Sepoys tried to place a bayonet through the heart of every wounded pygmy, but one managed to stab Sepoy Hussain in the calf before Conder could put a round through its eye. Hussain limped forward into the fray to sell himself as dearly as he could with his last minutes.
Cutting, stabbing, and shooting their way forward a foot at a time, they forced the last of the pygmy warriors out of the corridor and into a huge domed chamber, like a blockage forced from a pipe. Conder barely had time to register the details, since the battle did not slow, but he noted the round chamber was hundreds of feet across and was dominated by a great, yawning circular pit at its epicenter, surrounded by six rude stone altars. Directly across from the entrance, on the opposite side of the pit, was a raised dais, atop which squatted a strange and unnaturally proportioned golden throne bearing a huge, misshapen figure swathed in a voluminous, cowled yellow silk robe. The yellow hierophant did not stir, so Conder ignored it in favor of firing his Webley through the spine of the pygmy on his left, while hacking at the pygmy on his right.
As the fight spilled out across the chamber, the advantages of the rifles returned, even as the pygmies were able to bring more fanatics to bear. These zealots wore the newest and most uncommon skins to denote their rank and prestige. Conder recognized the visage of Baron Savukoski pulled down like a mask over the face of a gray-eyed monster. Conder blew out the back of its head with his Webley.
The pygmies scattered as they were pushed back; some threw themselves at the foot of the dais and waved their hands in deliberate and meaningful ways. The Sepoys shot them down from across the room, splashing their blood across the hem of the disinterested hierophant’s yellow robe. Risaldar Khan set into his opponents with his Kyber knife, reserving his own Webley for anyone who looked to be remotely bothersome. Shkuro, with his long reach and longer saber, passed his blade over the guard of pygmy after pygmy, striking off the tops of their heads. The Sepoy impaled pygmies on their bayonets, kicking the dying off the ends of their blades. The Gurkhas’ kukris scattered fingers and opened throats. Rivers of blood ran between the flagstones, winding ever closer to the lip of the yawning pit.
It took a few seconds for Conder and the others to realize they were alone among the silent corpses. No, not quite alone. One remained on top of the misshapen golden throne, quiet and unconcerned, swaddled in silk. A shape stirred under the sea of yellow. It was not the shape of a man, nor a primate, nor even something with bilateral symmetry. It sloshed and slithered under its yellow shroud like a mound of greasy serpents. Conder and the men watched as its sleeve parted, and a long, undulating tube, carved from a large bone or tusk, emerged from the folds. Pallid snakes coiled around the tube and slipped one end of it beneath the High Priest’s mask. The sound that flowed out of that tube was an atonal wail fit to wake the dead. Which was exactly what it did.
The first to stir was one of the pygmies. Sepoy Shah put his bayonet through its ribcage to finish it off. Instead, the pygmy grabbed the barrel of Shah’s rifle with its remaining hand and would not release it. Shah discharged his rifle and blew it off the end of the bayonet, but that didn’t stop it from sitting up again. Conder stepped up and struck its head off with his cutlass. All watched in speechless horror as the headless body struggled blindly to its feet. More rose. Rifles fired. The bullets did nothing but disfigure the lively dead. Even their former comrades Rifleman Ran and Sepoy Hussain were struggling to their feet. The devout called for God. The sacrilegious muttered profanities. The Cossack did both.
Conder could feel the panic rising in the men. Even the Gurkhas were at a loss. Any second he expected someone to break ranks and flee into that lightless corridor littered with the likely stirring dead. Were the hundreds they slaughtered out on the field before the village also rising?
The flute! The dead rose when the flute sounded. It was insane, but it was a straw to grasp at. Pointing his cutlass at the figure on the throne, Conder roared “Put a volley into that devil! Now!”
Everyone fired. Conder and Malik emptied their Webleys. The yellow silk erupted with gouts of something too thick and blue to be blood. Bullets smashed the flute to bits. The thing on the throne pitched forward, rolling down the steps. There was a glimpse of something pale and wet before it dropped into the pit and vanished. The flute was silent, but the dead still advanced, teeth gnashing.
The melee was joined. Kukris opened throats and bellies. Bayonets and rifle butts pushed the advancing dead back. Meat and bone were sundered, but the enemy came on. Then the Cossack struck the head off one of the pygmies and kicked its flailing torso in the chest. The corpse spun around and stumbled blindly into the bottomless pit.
“Into the pit! Force them into the pit!” Conder shouted above the din. The Gurkhas struck off the fingers and hands of the corpses, while the Sepoys speared them on their bayonets and ran them off the edge and into oblivion. Sepoy Rassoul was dragged screaming into the pit by the corpse he was trying to maneuver into it. The corpses remained silent as they were hurled in. Everyone could still hear Rassoul screaming when the last corpse was sent in after him.
And more corpses were shambling into the great hall. Looking around, Conder took stock of his men. Malik and the Cossack still stood, as did Havildar Thapa and four of his Gurkhas. Eleven Sepoys remained. Every uniform was tattered and covered in blood. How had it all gone so wrong? He’d led his men to their deaths and worse.
“Risaldar Khan! Take the men and cut your way out. Don’t fight them. Just get past them. Get to the horses and get clear. Rifleman Pun, put the case of dynamite by that wall. Leave me a lantern and I’ll catch up with you when I’m finished.”