At the Outpost of Fate

CHAPTER 18 — THE CHILD RETURNS

It was only as they were flying south from Delhi the next morning, that Molly realized she no longer had any idea what they were looking for. They had gone to London because of a vague remark from a thief in a hypnotic trance. They had come to India because of a similarity between two metal pillars — a similarity that evidently was not as profound as everyone had initially believed. And now? Now they were traveling into the Indian interior because of… what exactly? It seemed like they were moving further and further from the answers.

Her father also seemed to be moving further away with each passing day. But it wasn't just him; she felt herself being pushed in the opposite direction. It was almost like she was having an allergic reaction to her own life or rather, the life that had been thrust upon her. The strange events at the museum in the New York may have been the pivotal moment, but she realized now that it had been a long time since she felt any kind of control over her life.

At least the scenery was a welcome distraction. India was more beautiful that anything she had ever seen. The hinterlands of Delhi were arid grasslands, but further to the south, the landscape was green and lush like the Congo region where she had grown up, but with the rough edges sanded off. She could see the distinctive patchwork shapes of farms and villages below, not merely the stamp of human activity, but evidence of a civilization that had endured for thousands of years.

Their destination lay just to the west of the town of Bhilsa, near the ruins of an ancient village on the banks of Betwa River. There was a lake on the northern edge of the site and after a flyover, Molly determined that it was suitable for landing the Catalina.

From the air, the site looked like little more than an enormous dirt mound, devoid of human habitation or activity. But no sooner had the Catalina ground to a halt in the shallows than a young boy, wearing only the common dhoti garment, appeared to greet them.

Hobbs was even more pensive than usual as he followed the young boy to the ruins and seemed dismayed to learn that the archaeological excavation being conducted was also something of a tourist attraction, not unlike the Qutab Complex. "The tour starts on the hour sahibs," their young guide told them in heavily accented English. "But I can show you many things until the bus arrives."

"Bus?" Winterbourne snorted derisively. "You know, this place does resemble the land Nightjar described in his vision, but if there's aught to be seen here, it's either already been found or won't be dug up for another hundred years."

Hobbs glanced around anxiously then dismissed the boy with a word of thanks and an anna coin.

"End of the road?" Hurley asked.

"I'm not sure," the priest answered. Molly couldn't recall every having heard her father express uncertainty and the statement left them all a little shaken. He had been their navigator, the guardian of their faith and trust and now he was telling them that he didn't know what to do next.

Had the entire errand and all their sacrifices, been an exercise in futility?

Molly tried to put on a brave face. "We've come all this way; might as well have a look around."

For a moment, her companions' stares made her want to seek shelter under a rock, but then she realized that there was gratitude in their eyes. She had, by simply refusing to admit defeat, buoyed them up at a critical moment. Even Hobbs met her gaze with a rare, if subdued, smile and then to her complete amazement, put an arm around her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I've been so… distracted."

She sorted through a list of replies, ranging from conciliatory to sarcastic, but finally could only manage to say, "Yes, you have."

He sighed. "Did you ever wonder why I chose to raise you as my own daughter? Unusual behavior for a man of the cloth, don't you think? I was told… I was ordered by the archdiocese to ship you off to the orphanage in Stanleyville, but I refused. Have you ever wondered why?"

She had of course and had taken comfort in the belief that he had been motivated by the desires common to the human species: the wish to love and be loved, to protect the helpless, to raise and shape and mold the next generation of life on the planet and maybe leave the world a better place. But the very fact of his asking challenged that delicate web of assumptions.

"The truth is that we are very much alike. I too was orphaned and raised in a house of God by a man of great faith." He took a deep breath before continuing. "And it happened right here, in India, not far from here."

"I thought you were born in America."

"The priest who raised me told me that I was. He said that my parents were lay missionaries, from the United States who had died of cholera when I was only an infant. I never knew them.

"Throughout my childhood, I was given to believe that there was but one path, the service of God. Although I studied at the seminary and took my vows, I was restless, hungry for answers about my origins and so I traveled, eventually making my way to America. But there were no answers; no long-lost family waiting to claim me as their kin." He paused, as if not quite sure what to say next and when he finally did speak again, it was evident from his expression that he was still holding back. "This whole affair has brought back many painful memories. It's been a reminder that I really don't know who I am."

"You're my father. You're Brian's friend. Isn't that enough?"

A pained smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "It should be."

She knew there was more he wanted to say, but before he could find the words, Hurricane rushed over to them, his eyes dancing with excitement. "Molly girl, what did you wish for at the Pillar yesterday?"

His enthusiasm was so contagious that she couldn't help but laugh. "I can't tell you that. If you tell someone your wishes, they won't come true."

"Well, girl, I think this one may have. Look."

She followed his pointing finger to a reception area on the east side of the site. While she and her father had been conversing, a battered red open-air bus had arrived in a cloud of dust. Several passengers had already disembarked — an even mixture of European and Indian tourists — and it took a moment for her to realize why Hurricane was so excited. When she finally did, she couldn't decide whether to faint or run. She chose the latter, sprinting toward the bus, throwing her arms around the one man that she wanted to see more than anyone else in the world.

"My God," Hobbs whispered. "It's Dodge."

In the joyous reunion that followed, none of them noticed a group of people, wearing voluminous robes, faces hidden beneath turbans, also exiting the bus.

But the new arrivals were watching them very closely.

They begged off from the tour and gathered under the shade of an awning that extended out from the edge of the dig site office. A friendly argument ensued over who would be first in recounting their adventures. Molly felt like she was going to explode from the pressure of unanswered questions, but Dalton's argument won out. "You'd better let me go last, because once you hear what I've got to say, nothing else will matter."

Hurricane, always something of a natural storyteller, took charge of the tale, but the Padre and Molly broke in often with their personal accounts. Winterbourne listened quietly, since much of the tale was new to him as well. Dalton interrupted only once, when they were describing what had happened in London Underground.

"It came alive? What caused that to happen?"

She could see her father on the verge of saying something, but Hurricane pushed on with the narrative. "God only knows. It just happened."

When he had finally brought their tale to the present, Dalton said, "Well, a lot of things make sense now. Like, for example how Jocasta Palmer came to have the Staff." He began recounting his own tale, beginning with his abduction from in front of the Clarion Building in New York and ending with the escape from Antarctica. "The Outpost and everything in it was destroyed."

"How did you find us?"

"Miss Palmer's contacts alerted us to the fact that you had been in London and then gone on to India. I just missed you in Delhi."

"Where's Doc Newton?" Hurricane inquired, using his nickname for the scientist.

"And the dragon lady?" Molly added, using her own pet name for Jocasta.

"Both returned home. There wasn't anything more than Dr. Newcombe could accomplish and I don't think he was especially fond of travel. As for Miss Palmer, I believe she may have feared prosecution for her illegal activities."

"Why did you come to us?"

"This Skull character is looking for the ancient civilization that built the Outpost. With the Staff in his possession, he'll be able to unlock all of its secrets and rule the world. He believes that you may have the knowledge of where to find the ancient city, so it's only logical that he'll be hunting you. We need to find the city first in order to make our stand against him."

"That's exactly the way we figured it," Hurricane said. "Except for one small detail."

"We don't know where the ancient city is," Molly supplied.

Dalton's gaze darted from one face to another. "Then why are you here?"

"Following breadcrumbs," Winterbourne muttered.

Dalton ignored him. "You must surely be on the right track. The pillar you found in London can't be one of a kind. And the Pillar in Delhi has to be a rough copy, made by a later civilization in an attempt — probably a failed attempt — to harness that same power. It stands to reason that if the Iron Pillar was fashioned here, then the original column that it copied must be here as well."

"That's what we thought," Hurricane answered. "But look around. There's no lost city here. Or if there is, it's under tons of earth."

"Maybe no one has looked in the right place," Dalton suggested. "Maybe there's a locked door, just waiting for someone to come along with the right key."

"You mean the Staff?" Molly asked. "But we don't have it."

"True, but if we can at least find the keyhole, we'll know we're on the right track."

"We may not need the Staff," Hobbs said quietly.

The dour priest's tone was unusually grave, even for him and Molly felt a chill shoot down her spine. Though she didn't know what he meant, she felt like the explanation would be as dire as a death sentence.

"The pillar in London," Hobbs continued. "It came alive when I touched it. Me. How many others had touched it with no effect? But when I touched it, it awakened."

Hurricane seemed to share Molly's formless dread and when he spoke, it was almost as if he was pleading with the priest to keep his silence. "A coincidence. The time was right."

"There are no coincidences, Brian." Hobbs gave a heavy sigh. "I've lived my entire life with the knowledge that there was something…dark…within me. I've kept it at bay with my faith, with my opposition to the unspeakable evil that men do, but it's all been a deception. I cannot change what I am."

Molly felt tears welling in her eyes even as she shook her head in denial. Winterbourne and Hurricane both stood by solemnly and only Dalton appeared to be confused by what the priest was saying.

"I suspected it was true when I touched the Pillar," Hobbs said. "But when you told me the date the prophecy was given, Mr. Winterbourne, I knew it with certainty. My own birthday, the summer solstice of 1883. The priest that raised me told me I was the son of missionaries, but who were they? Where are their graves? Why could I find no relations in the United States? What if the priest simply saw that I was a white-faced child and assumed that I was the offspring of foreigners? What if he knew the truth and hid my true heritage?"

Molly felt the word form on her lips: Coincidence. But even if she could have forced it past the knot in her throat, it would have still rung hollow.

"You think you're the Child of Skulls?" Dalton asked, incredulous. "That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard. We know who the Child of Skulls is."

"I'm inclined to agree with Mr. Dalton," Winterbourne intoned. "Nightjar's prophecy was explicit. The Child would leave the earth devastated. Surely, you would never do such a thing. This Schadel fellow is working with the Nazis, raising an army, trying to build terrible weapons. I don't see where this is open to interpretation."

Hobbs spread his hands. "Would that I could take comfort in such false hopes. But I felt that column come to life at my touch; I can think of no other explanation."

"You've always fought evil," Molly protested. "You save lives. You won't even kill your enemies."

"I've heard enough," Dalton declared, startling Molly with the intensity of his ire. "I don't believe for a second that you are the Child of Skulls. None of us do. What matters is finding the ancient city before the real Skull Child arrives. We need to stop sitting here worrying about some crazy coincidence and search these ruins to find it."

Hobbs pursed his lips, then nodded. "You are correct. And whether I am right or wrong, the truth will become apparent."

Concealed in the relative shelter of the dig office, Chevalier Savile listened intently to the conversation taking place only a few feet away. He glanced over at his acolyte, whom he had named Ishmael in honor of the sole survivor of Herman Melville's fictional whaling ship Pequod and saw the horror in the man's eyes as he overheard their quarry discussing the events that had wiped out several of his brethren.

He did not consider himself to be a spiritual man and talk of prophecies did not concern him overmuch, but this supernatural manifestation was not something he could simply discount. Nor did he consider himself to be a particularly moral man, but the possibility that he was involved in something that might cause the death of thousands… millions even… Well, that was enough to make even the hardest mercenary reconsider his ethical obligations.

There had been no word from the client and the Grandmaster had directed him to use his best judgment in seeing the assignment through. He had known all along that they were working with representatives of the Third Reich — politics too, did not concern him — but it was hard to believe that the Fraternis Maltae would knowingly involve itself in any enterprise that had as its ultimate goal, widespread destruction. It benefited no one to have the status quo upset to that extent.

He gripped the hilt of his ceremonial sword, pressing the crucifix deep into his palm and considered what to do next. The discomfort helped him focus, bringing much-needed clarity of purpose. His ultimate goal had not changed; a successful outcome to this affair would ensure his place as Chevalier Premiere and eventually Grandmaster of the Fraternis Maltae.

As the group outside made up their minds to explore the ruins, he made up his. "If there is something to all this," he told Ishmael. "If they find something, we will seize it for the Brotherhood."

They kept apart from the tour group as they roamed the site and therefore were unable to put the statuary and petroglyphs in a proper historical context. This was of little concern since what they sought would not be found in the existing body of knowledge. Moreover, Hobbs was able to supply the spiritual background.

The site was known as Udayagiri, which meant "mountains of the sunrise" but once it had been known as Vishnupadagiri, "the hill of Vishnu's footprints."

"Vishnu is the supreme god of the Hindu pantheon, but he is nothing like our one true God. He exists in a variety of forms or avatars, each of which engages in some epic battle against evil." He pointed to shallow niche in the rock where stood an enormous sculpture of a man's body with the head of a tusked animal. A smaller female figure dangled from the tusks. "That is Vishnu as Varaha. In this incarnation, he battled the demon Hiranyaksha, who had captured the earth goddess, Prithvi and imprisoned her at the bottom of the ocean. The battle between Varaha and Hiranyaksha lasted a thousand years."

"Who won?" Molly asked.

Hobbs gave a tight smile. "Vishnu Varaha, of course. The hero always wins."

The site consisted of more than a dozen such cave sanctuaries hewn into the rock. Some, were merely scallops carved out around the statuary, as was the case with the image of Varaha. Others were much more developed. The cave immediately next to the Varaha sculpture had an elaborate T-shaped doorway and immediately inside, featured more animal-headed figures from Hindu mythology. Hobbs entered the cave, casually identified a couple of the statues and then shook his head. "Nothing here."

The next cave was an enormous domed chamber, partly carved by natural processes, with a massive hanging slab that had been recently buttressed to prevent collapse. The back wall, beneath the slab, was extensively decorated with carved inscriptions, but instead of entering, Hobbs abruptly turned away and moved into an adjoining cleft that opened like a canyon between the rock walls. The passage was longer than Molly first reckoned, with a series of carved stair steps that resembled a fractured riverbed at first glance, descending seemingly into the heart of the hill. A few tourists meandered on the steps, admiring the Sanskrit inscription and decorative niches, but Hobbs swept past them all, hastening to the lowest step. Dalton was right behind him.

Hurricane Hurley hung back as the rest of the group pushed forward. Although his manner was outwardly casual, his nerves had not been this on fire since the Great War. Some of his anxiety stemmed from the Padre's bizarre revelation. He had known the man for close to twenty-five years and while he had always found the priest to be something of an enigma, he would never have imagined anything as crazy as what Hobbs had just suggested. But that was only part of it and insofar as there wasn't a thing he could do about it, a relatively small part at that.

No, what really had his sixth sense buzzing was the more familiar threat of enemy action. Just as during the war, the longer it stayed quiet, the greater the certainty of an attack. It wasn't just paranoia. If Dodge had found them so easily, despite their best efforts to conceal their approach, then their foes could surely do so as well. The fact that there had been no overt attack did not mean that they weren't being watched. In fact, Hurricane was quite certain that they were being watched and he intended to do something about it.

Despite his massive size, he was very adept at melting into the scenery. He paused to study various pieces of statuary, scanning left and right with his peripheral vision, while his eyes stared straight ahead. He stopped to tie his boot laces, studying the reflection in the crystal of his wristwatch to see if they were being followed. When the rest of the group rushed after the Padre into the cleft, he too dashed around the corner, then spun on his heel and waited to see if the three figures, bundled up just a little too much considering the tropical weather, would hasten after them.

They did. And he was ready.

As he stepped back around the corner, the first of the robed pursuers crashed headlong into his chest and rebounded backward, sprawling onto the well-worn path. The other two stopped dead in their tracks, as if uncertain what to do, but Hurricane did not hesitate. In a single fluid motion, he swept them up together in the crook of his right arm, crushing them against his solid chest. At the same time, he planted his left foot squarely on the forearm of the fallen figure, pinning his right arm to the ground.

A muffled curse issued from behind the swath of fabric obscuring the man's face, but Hurricane ignored the outburst and instead used his free hand to strip away the disguises of the other two. The turbans fell away and Hurley's eyes grew wide with surprise and dismay. "But if… oh, no!"

Hobbs felt a tingling sensation in his extremities, like a static charge building up to deliver a stunning electric shock. He had felt this before. He felt it whenever he touched the Staff and he had felt it in London just before the metal column came to life and started killing. It was the feeling of power; a power that responded uniquely to him. It was, he now understood, his birthright.

He faced the blank wall of rock before him, studying it as he might once have studied a stained glass window in a cathedral. But never again, he thought. The doors of the house of God are no longer open to me. But this door…

Even as he formed the thought, he became aware of a T-shaped doorway, just like those in the other caves, set in the rock face.

"That wasn't there before," Molly gasped behind him.

"No," Dalton said. "But now it is. Open sesame." And then without another word or a look back, he entered the cave.

Hobbs' hand strayed to this throat, touched the clerical collar. Though it had been a part of him for longer than he could remember, it now felt foreign; like it might constrict at any moment and choke the life out of him. His fingers tightened on it and he felt an almost overwhelming urge to rip it loose.

But he did not.

If this is to be my destiny, he thought, then I will meet it as I have met every day; as a man of God.

He forced his fingers to relax and then reached out instead to take Molly's hand. He even managed a wan smile. "Let's go see what's in there, Molly girl."

The doorway may have been the work of human artisans, but the passage beyond appeared to be a continuation of the cleft in the hillside. The meandering path leading deeper underground had evidently been cut by the elements. The stone floor and walls were damp and speckled with a growth that, Molly soon realized, was providing a dim orange glow. Luminescent lichen, she thought and hoped that was all it was.

The rapid beat of footsteps echoing through the passage suggested that Dalton was running. Molly couldn't imagine why; she was dreading what they would discover and she could feel the same dread radiating from her father.

Father. He was her father. He was a good man. Therefore, he could not be the Child of Skulls and nothing they might discover would change that. So, she thought, no reason not to hurry.

The path sloped away steeply for about a hundred yards, then leveled out as another T-shaped doorway appeared. As they passed through it, Molly realized they were no longer in a cramped natural tunnel, but rather standing on a narrow walkway or possibly a bridge, that traversed a vast open chamber. The phosphorescent lichen continued to light the footpath, but the dimensions of the cavern were shrouded in complete darkness. Even the far end of the crossing remained hidden in shadow until she and her father crossed half the span. Only then did she see a sheer wall of rock, extending away into darkness in every direction, with a single doorway — a rough-hewn arch rather than a T — directly ahead. It took her a moment to realize that the light was streaming from the opening and she quickened her pace.

The first thing she saw beyond the arch was Dalton, standing motionless near the center of a domed chamber, like some kind of underground basilica, about fifty yards across. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw several more arched passages, at least a dozen, leading out of the round cavern, but these barely made an impression on her consciousness. Instead, her gaze gradually moved past Dalton to the object at the exact center of the room, a tall pillar of silvery metal, capped with the image of a coiled snake with a skull in its jaws.

"Don't touch it!" she cried.

He paid no heed, but instead reached out with his right hand….

Suddenly, Hobbs was beside him. The priest had moved in the blink of an eye, dashing around her to prevent Dalton from making contact with the pillar. He seized the young man's outstretched hand and thrust it aside.

The priest's usually taciturn manner evaporated in a blaze of passion. "Dodge, whether you believe what I said or not, this pillar is dangerous. You don't know what you're dealing with here."

"You old fool," Dalton rasped. He tore his hand free of the Padre's grip, then in the same move tried to backhand him. Hobbs was taken completely by surprise. The blow, which he could have deflected almost without thinking, struck his jaw and sent him reeling a few steps back. He recovered quickly, instinctively striking a te stance, even though his face betrayed his confusion.

Molly too could not believe what had happened. She rushed in from the opposite side and attempted to interpose herself between Dalton and the column. He immediately gripped her shoulders, squeezing hard enough to make her wince and tried to thrust her aside, but she got hold of his shirtfront and when he sent her stumbling, she pulled him along. As they crashed to the floor together, for just a fleeting instant, she wondered if the pillar had somehow affected his mind or if perhaps he had become like the people from Flight 19. But then he smashed his fist into her solar plexus and drove that thought, along with every other, right out of her head. She doubled over in pain, unable to breathe for several seconds.

Dalton was back on his feet immediately, squaring off against the Padre. And this time his hands weren't empty. He held a familiar metal object in both fists, like a baseball slugger awaiting a pitch. "You and your delusions," he hissed. "Like you could ever be the Child of Skulls."

"Drop it or I'll drop you!" Hurricane's roar thundered in the chamber.

Molly caught her breath in a gasp and looked up to see Hurley standing just inside the arch, with both pistols trained on Dalton…

Except Dodge was standing right next to him, along with three others: Winterbourne, who also had his revolver drawn; the scientist she had met once or twice, the one Hurricane called Newton; and the blond jewel thief that had escaped them in New York. But if Dodge was with Hurricane, then who…?

"I think you know," the man holding the Staff said, in a cold condescending voice that was nothing like the voice of the man whose face he wore, "that you haven't got a prayer of hitting me. If you thought otherwise, you'd have already pulled the trigger."

As if to underscore his point, a corona of violet energy erupted up and down the length of the Staff.

Hurricane did not waver, but nor did he pull the trigger. "Don't suppose anyone else has a better idea," he muttered under his breath.

"I do." Hobbs moved again, this time with his usual deft purposefulness. His attack was slow enough to slip right through the invisible force field. His left hand closed around the Staff, while his right formed into a claw that tore into his foe's false face. Theatrical putty fell away in ribbons to reveal a gleaming skull face beneath, but the damage Hobbs inflicted was literally only cosmetic.

Neither man would release their hold on the Staff. As they struggled for possession the blaze of electricity grew to blinding intensity. Hobbs, who had trained for many years in the art of unarmed combat, was clearly the better fighter, but his foe seemed to have tapped into a vein of primal resolve. He planted his feet, threw all of his weight sideways and both men careened into the column. The Staff struck the larger metal post a glancing blow, but it was enough. The enormous pillar rang like a bell, vibrating with such intensity that Molly had to clap her hands to her ears. Even then, she could feel the low hum resonating through her entire body.

At that instant of contact, the Staff seemed to explode out of the hands of the two men who fought for it. It hit the stone floor without bouncing and began rolling toward the quintet gathered at the entrance arch. Hurricane fluidly holstered his pistols and knelt to retrieve the relic, but before he could grasp it, he froze statue still. Molly saw the others react to something as well, but it was only when Hurricane straightened up that Molly saw a gleaming strip of metal pressed to his throat.

It was the blade of a sword.

The man Molly knew as Mr. Savile stepped around Hurricane, the sword in his right hand pressing hard enough that the tip had already opened a flow of blood. Molly saw a that a smaller blade was being held to Dodge's throat — the real Dodge — in the hands of the young man who had rescued them outside Winterbourne's London apartment. Though she could not see the decorative hilts of those weapons, she recognized them instantly. The Fraternis Maltae!

Savile swept up the Staff in his left hand and tipped it to his forehead in a mocking salute. "Thanks ever so much."

The sudden appearance of the assassin monks had caused a lull in the struggle between Hobbs and his skull-faced opponent. All traces of the disguise had fallen away, removing as well all traces of the man's humanity. There was only bleached scar tissue, indistinguishable from the white bone of his skull. His shrunken skin had drawn away from his teeth to give him a perpetual death's head grin. His lashless eyelids seemed barely able to contain the round orbs of hatred that bulged from his eye sockets. And when he saw Savile holding the Staff, he discovered some untapped reserve of rage. He hurled the priest away and wrapped both arms around the towering column.

"I am the Child that was prophesied!" he cried. "And I claim my kingdom. Armies of Hell, I summon you! Lay waste to this world!"

His shout echoed tinnily beneath the dome, sounding to Molly like the histrionic ravings of a madman shouted in a subway tunnel. But even before the last syllable was uttered, the air in the basilica began to hum once more. Orange light, the color of a funeral pyre, blazed to life in the vast space beyond the arched portals. A hot wind rushed in, laced with the stink of sulfur and in the distance, a sound like the coils of a serpent sliding over stone or the unfolding of enormous leathery wings, signaled that something had heard the Skull's call and was answering.