Johannes Cabal the Detective

AN AFTERWORD OF SORTS

On the subject of Cabal’s journey home, some commentators have enquired whether anything noteworthy occurred en route, to which the author has replied that there was very little to concern oneself with on that subject. The journey was uneventful in all respects, unless one counts the business with the spy and the bandits and the Elemental Evil and the end of the world as we know it. So, no. Nothing one might call noteworthy.

Ah, said the commentators, who plainly don’t know when to leave well enough alone, some people might like to hear about spies and bandits and all that. This, the author grudgingly admits, is a fair point. If, therefore, you are a person of such low appetites, here follows an account of a further adventure of Johannes Cabal. Read it or ignore it as you are minded.

Just around the corner from the Haymarket, the knowledgeable Londoner will note a discreet and understated portico, under which stands a discreet and understated doorman in a discreet and understated hat. By the door is a small brass plaque, which — for the sake of completeness — shall be described as discreet and understated. The plaque declares, quietly, that the establishment it marks is called Blakes. It says no more, because the knowledgeable Londoner needs no more.

Within its portals (which are not “hallowed,” because enhallowment suggests some fame, and this is anathema to the establishment) lie facilities of comfort and convenience for the rare variety of clubbable men who do not care for clubs. In all conceivable senses, it is a club for gentlemen, but in a single ineffable sense it is not, and this is what attracts a particular caste. Nor is it sheer coyness to say that this exotic factor is ineffable — it is a je ne sais quoi of which one literally does not know what. The nature of this curious factor is neither germane to the following narrative nor even to the jealousies of rival clubs, which are simply aware of the existence of “Blakes men” and are content to leave them in Blakes.

Certainly, there was little beyond its doors, hallowed or otherwise, to mark it out as anything but one of the smaller clubs of the great metropolis. There is a dining room, studies, some rooms for members to stay overnight should the need arise, and a library, which, despite its books going untouched from one year to the next, is the most popular room in the place. Here the members slouch in overstuffed chairs, hold desultory conversations, and read (newspapers, that is, although the otherwise unloved books get the occasional perusal provided they are either a volume of Wisden or, oddly enough, Quiller-Couch’s Oxford Book of English Verse).

On a wintery evening, the members had concluded a pleasant dinner — the majority enjoying an excellent beef Wellington followed by spotted dick and custard, finishing with a good port served with a varied cheeseboard — and had retired to the library to cap the evening with brandy and cigars. There, they occupied their habitual seats and settled into a warm and happy glow as they chatted about politics and sport. Chiltern, who seemed to spend every morning memorising the newspaper so that he should never be without a topic for conversation, was setting forth his views on the marbles that the Greeks seemed to regard as theirs. These views seemed uncannily similar to those of that morning’s editorial, but that was Chiltern; he regarded the newspaper as a useful alternative to having to evolve any opinions of his own.

“They’re ours,” he said, waving his pipe stem at Protheroe, who seemed to be asleep. “How dare those Grecians start laying down the law to us. To us. If we hadn’t removed the blessed things, the Turks would probably have blown them up or something.” He glowered. “You know what the Turks are like.” Chiltern had read history and had yet to forgive the fall of Constantinople.

“How much does a Greek earn?” asked Tompkinson abruptly of anybody. “I mean, what does a Greek earn?”

“Drachmas, I should think,” said Munroe, sketching Chiltern in profile. None too flatteringly, at that. “That’s what they use instead of money over there.”

“No, no, no,” said Tompkinson, shaking his head emphatically. “I mean, What’s a Greek earn?” He looked around until he caught somebody’s eye. On this occasion, the poor unfortunate was Kay, the professor of chemistry. “About five bob!” said Tompkinson. Kay looked at him blankly. “It’s a joke,” Tompkinson explained. “What’s a Greek earn?”

“About five bob?” Kay ventured.

“No! You’re supposed to say, ‘It’s a bit of pottery’ or similar. It’s a pun! A … a … thingy. Earn, E-A-R-N,” he spelled out, “and urn, U-R-N. Sounds the same, but it’s different.”

“Homophone,” supplied Munroe.

“Well, good Lord, if you can’t take a joke,” said Tompkinson, and subsided into an aggrieved silence, for which they were all very grateful.

“One should be very careful with archaeology,” said Enright from where he stood by the fireplace. Everybody stopped and looked at him.

Enright was something of a mystery. Blakes was, as has already been intimated, a club of slightly unusual attributes, this slightness being of such a degree that nobody was sure exactly which attributes were specifically the unusual ones. There had been the incident of the whiskers in the water closet, and some of the members became very tight-lipped should the words “clockwork” and “Lord Palmerston” ever accidentally find themselves in the same sentence, but these were no more than the common eccentricities of any establishment. Enright, by comparison, was a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside a very tasteful Holland & Sherry suit. No one knew very much about him. He came highly recommended from a former member, and sailed gracefully and somewhat laconically through the selection committee. It seemed that the club was perhaps his only social indulgence, as he was never seen at any of the many parties that one attends in and about town. Attempts at gentle investigation into his past by having a word with his primary sponsor came to naught when that gentleman took a nosedive off Beachy Head after some share options turned out to be less than on the square. Even the committee had been reticent in discussing Enright’s background. Everyone made noncommittal noises about “salt of the earth” and “confidentiality” but seemed discomforted and eager to change the subject. Thus, it may be understood that all were intrigued about anything to do with Enright, and all listened attentively as he spoke on this occasion.

“Careful with archaeology?” echoed Chiltern. “What’s that supposed to mean? One might as well say, ‘One should be circumspect with ornithology,’ or perhaps ‘There are dangers incipient in accountancy.’”

“Here, here,” said Wilson, whose wife had run off with a chartered accountant.

“Sorry, Wilson. Still, what do you mean, Enright, ‘careful with archaeology’?”

“Just what I say. No more, no less.”

“Good heavens,” said Clifton, folding his newspaper and putting his reading glasses into his top pocket. “I do believe there’s a story here.”

“A story?” Enright took a spill from the pot on the mantelpiece, lit it from the fire, and used it to rekindle his cigar. “Perhaps there is. There is certainly a salutary warning to the curious.”

“Don’t be so dashed mysterious, Enright,” chimed in Kay. “Is there a tale to be told or isn’t there?” Perhaps it was the impatience in his tone, but Enright shot Kay a warning glance that the chemist didn’t like at all. It was too late for discretion, however; the others had the scent of a yarn and would worry Enright like terriers with a rat until they had it out of him. To his credit, he knew an impossible position when he saw one. He warmed the brandy in his glass and took a sip as he considered his words. Then he began.

I appreciate that I seem something of a dark horse amongst you,” said Enright. “Only the committee know anything of my background, and I swore them to silence upon their word. I fear I shall have to ask the same of you.”

This demand raised no eyebrows; if a shilling had been entered into a fund every time a member of the club agreed to tell a story only under the most sober promise of secrecy, it would by now contain two pounds seventeen shillings and sixpence (to cover Battersby’s tale of his cuckolding; everybody knew all about that well before Battersby did, so it was only worth half a bob). The assembly made its usual collection of incoherent mumbles to signify agreement, and he continued.

“I have seen a great deal of the world in my forty years, sometimes rather more than any Christian would want to see. I was at Panisha in the year ’85, I was in the Guasoir Valley shortly after the Desolée Suppression and, on the occasion I am thinking of, I was in Mirkarvia during the rioting after the assassination of Emperor Antrobus II. I should point out that, at all these times — and others too numerous to mention — I was acting as a private citizen. My loyalties, however, lie with the Crown in all affairs. I am, I like to think, a patriot and I believe it is my duty to see what is to be seen, and report it to the proper authorities.

“Good Lord!” interjected Chilton at this point. “You’re an amateur spy!” He looked around, aghast. “Another one!” He was always put out to discover that yet another fellow member was a spy, as he was about the only member who had never been one. He did, however, maintain hopes that one day a coded letter might accidentally make its way into his hands, or that a desperate government agent might hoarsely whisper some vital secret into his ear before succumbing to a knife between the shoulder blades. Then, he was sure, he would show his mettle and save the day. Towards this happy adventure, he read a good many yellow books, and bought a bowler hat containing a concealed camera. The others shushed him, and Enright continued.

“The rioting was very ugly and threatened to turn into civil war at any moment. I stayed as long as I could, but foreigners quickly came to be regarded as agents provocateurs by elements of both sides and I found it necessary to leave. My departure was neither as ordered nor as leisurely as I might have hoped, and I found myself on horseback with a few belongings heading for the neighbouring state of Senza in the wee hours of the morning.

“There was a … misunderstanding at the frontier, the border guards made fractious and suspicious by the events of the moment, and I was forced to ride on with bullets threading the night air behind me. I made it through unscarred, but my horse was less lucky. She was a skittish mare, all I could lay hands on at short notice, and she was creased upon her left flank by one of the guards’ wild shots. The combination of her fragile nature and the mild but stinging wound conspired to drive her into a frenzy of fear, and she bore me deep into the dense forest that is common in that part of the world.

“I’d venture to say that I am not a novice in the saddle, but that nightmare’s ride filled me with apprehension as she bore me through the closely packed trunks of ancient and twisting trees as if the Devil himself were at our heels. There was no hope of controlling her; her neck was iron and she cared little for the bit that I pulled fiercely back into her mouth. She was beyond fear of a mere man. I was no longer her rider but simply a passenger. I clung onto her as long as I could and, as she tore blindly through the forest, I could not help but think of the tales my old Scottish nanny used to tell me of the water horses of her country that tempted the unwary onto their backs and then ran insanely along the banks of the loch, terrifying their hapless victims before plunging into the waters and drowning them, the easier to feast upon their flesh. That started me worrying about the streams that crisscross the valleys there, running off the mountain ranges that delineate the many pocket states.

“And then, suddenly, it was morning.

“I have been knocked unconscious before and am familiar with the small loss of memory that comes with it, so I was not unduly concerned that I could not recall precisely how I had lost my horse. Indeed, a wound on my brow suggested that I had been swept off her back by a low bough. I was, however, very concerned to discover that my clothes were filthy, and I found that I had a beard of several days’ growth.

“As I lay there, I heard voices and, looking to one side, realised that I had been laid out in a clearing in the woods. My horse, that wretched beast, was tied up by a tree with two others and, by a small fire, two men were going through my saddlebags. I have a small gift for languages, but their parochial dialect of Mirkarvian German was difficult to follow — salted as it was with Katamenian words — and only with difficulty could I make out what they were talking about. What I heard filled me with anger but made me apprehensive for my safety. They appeared to be bandits and had happened across me — they consistently referred to me as the baromarcu’ Ausländerfotz, a singularly insulting term for ‘foreigner’ — in a state of confusion. Seeing that pickings rarely got easier than an amnesiac upon an injured horse, they had ridden after me and knocked me from the saddle. They kept speaking of me in the past tense, and I realised that that they believed this second fall had killed me. In fact, it had restored me to my senses.

“I remembered reading Mallory in my youth, and thought of the mad Lancelot lost in the forest. I couldn’t remember what happened to him, but I doubted he had recovered his wits to discover a pair of thieves bickering over his field glasses. I lay doggo and considered my next move. If they discovered me to be alive, I had little doubt they would cut my throat and consider it small inconvenience. I felt weak, and my wound — I had been fortunate that the bandits had not seen me stir and touch it — burned abominably, suggesting some infection. Fighting them was out of the question. Thus, I was left with little option but to continue to lie quite still and play dead.

“After some further argument, the two villains finished splitting my belongings between them, took their horses — and mine — and made to leave. One briefly wondered whether they should bury me, but the other said to leave me for the wolves and bears. The first was unhappy about this, and I had the sense that he was superstitious about mistreatment of the dead, a courtesy he notably didn’t extend to the living. Thankfully, his companion was made of sterner stuff and belittled him for his fears until they both left, the former in a nervous dudgeon.

“For safety’s sake, I lay still for several minutes after the sound of their movement had faded away. I was in a dilemma — injured, weakened, and lost without food or water. What was I to do? I’ve been in a good few scrapes in my time but, to be frank, none had seemed this hopeless, and it took a few moments to fight a sense of despair that arose in me as the gravity of my situation made itself perfectly apparent. Of course, I was able to rein such sensations back; despair is an enemy just as any other, but at least it can be fought with action. At which point I heard an animal moving close by.

“I stayed perfectly still. Most bears, no matter what the bandits had said, are not especially interested in dead meat until it has become a little gamy. They are, however, easily antagonised and, judging by the sounds the animal was making, it was more likely to be a bear than a wolf. I lay absolutely still, eyes shut, and listened as the animal came closer and closer by degrees, obviously suspicious of the clearing. There would be silence for seconds, sometimes minutes on end, and I would think it had moved on. Then I would hear it again, still cautious, still closer. The blood was pounding in my head as my heart raced, goading me to leap to my feet and either fight or run. I knew that either course would almost certainly result in my death. There was nothing to do but wait.

“Can you imagine what it felt like? Even now, I remember with perfect clarity what it was to lie there and hope against hope that whatever was interested in my prone form was not hungry at that moment. Then I felt its shadow fall across me, and I knew that everything would be settled one way or the other in a few moments.

“‘You are quite the least convincing corpse I think I’ve ever clapped eyes upon,’ said the creature, causing my own eyes to snap open with surprise.

“The ‘creature’ was a man, standing over me and giving me a look of such sour criticism that I felt faintly ashamed, as if caught in the commission of a puerile practical joke. I sat up and immediately regretted such rapid movement, as my head whirled and I felt dangerously nauseous. ‘Somebody’s been using your head as a punchbag,’ said the man, studying me coldly, as if I were but a microbe upon a microscope stage. He knelt by me, pulled back my eyelid, and studied the white. ‘Mild concussion,’ he said. ‘You’ll live.’

“‘You’re a doctor?’

“He smiled, and it was like a bloodless cut. ‘No,’ he replied, amused by something. ‘No, not a doctor. I haven’t the bedside manner for it.’

“‘But you’ve had medical training?’

“He seemed to find this line of questioning boring. ‘Self-taught, largely,’ he replied in a dismissive tone, before adding, ‘Look, we’re both a long way from civilisation and those brigands have horses. I suggest we appropriate them.’

“‘Yes, you’re right, of course.’ After I’d floundered around on the ground for a moment, he deigned to help me up. ‘My name’s Enright,’ I said. He nodded and set off across the clearing in the direction the thieves had taken. He showed no indication of answering my implicit enquiry. ‘And your name is …?’ I called finally as I stumbled after him.

“‘A closely guarded secret. Do keep up, Enright.’”

Protheroe, apparently snoozing by the fire, muttered, “A curious cove,” before lapsing back into gentle snores.

“As I walked with the stranger, I took the opportunity to study him. He stood around the six-foot mark, perhaps a little taller, perhaps a little shorter, but not by much in either direction. His hair was blond, a very Nordic blond that matched the faint German accent I’d detected in his speech. He seemed not to have shaved for a few days. His clothes were an odd choice for travelling through dense forest, too; he was wearing a city suit, and a conservatively cut one at that — it was as if a civil servant had been plucked from the streets of the government district and dropped in the wilds. I remember noting that he had a sorely battered and ageing red carnation in his buttonhole; when I pointed this out, he looked at it with surprise and said something about forgetting that it was there. He then plucked it from his lapel and tossed it away into the undergrowth with a sour remark about life having seemed to be a good deal more agreeable on the morning he bought it. All this said, I must have looked as ill-prepared for the rigours of the forest as he, and I made the natural assumption that he, as I, was a refugee from the troubles.

“‘You don’t talk much,’ he said suddenly.

“‘I thought we were trying to catch them unawares?’

“‘Just so. Based on the evidence, however’ — he indicated a clear trail running through some bushes leading across a slope — ‘we’re not dealing with the world’s most cunning criminals. I’m hardly frontier material myself, but this … this really is pathetic.’

“‘They probably think they’re safe this far from the beaten track.’

“‘Well,’ said the stranger, ‘we shall simply have to disabuse them of that notion.’

“We followed the trail until it met with a small stream running out of the hillside and turned up the slope. I was about to continue the hunt when I noticed that my mysterious companion had paused by the stream. I guessed that he wanted to get some water, which seemed to be an excellent idea. I crouched by the bank, scooped up a cupped handful of water, and supped.

“The liquid was barely in my mouth before I spat it out again. I cannot communicate how foul that water was.”

“Well, at least have a go,” prompted Munroe. “Can’t be as bad as one of Kay’s gin slings.”

“I say!” Kay said.

Enright shook his head, and continued, “It didn’t simply taste bad; it was bad. As it touched my tongue, it was as if all the world’s corruption had gathered there — a horrible rancorous sensation that made my heart quail and touched my soul. I staggered back from the stream, retching violently.

“‘As I was about to say,’ commented the stranger evenly, ‘I wouldn’t drink from this stream if I were you.’ He gestured to take in the banks, and I saw what he had already seen, what had attracted his attention. They were barren, completely devoid of plant life up to their upper edges, where a few stunted and somehow unwholesome specimens clung disconsolately. ‘There’s something very wrong with the water here.’

“‘You might have said something earlier,’ I said, coughing.

“‘I didn’t realise what you were doing until you’d done it,’ he said, and smiled that cold smile again. I was about to remonstrate that he’d had every opportunity to stop me when I abruptly realised something that left a taste in my mouth almost as filthy as that accursed water.

“He hadn’t stopped me for a reason. He wanted to see what effect the water would have.”

There was a pause while the usual mutters of “Cad!” and “Bounder!” were aired. “Then, to add insult to injury, he produced a notebook, presumably recorded the results of his little experiment, and said, ‘Let’s see where this comes from.’ We followed the stream up the hill in silence until it vanished into the earth in a hollow, overshadowed by an embankment. My companion knelt at the edge of the stream and tried to see exactly where the water bubbled out from, but there seemed to be a cave, for want of a better description, barely large enough to kennel a dog, overgrown with weeds that hung down from the slope above, safely away from the herbicidal qualities of the spring. Displeased with his vantage point, he lay flat out and peered into the gloom.

“‘It’s just a spring,’ I said, exasperated with his behaviour.

“‘Just a spring,’ he repeated. He took some sort of small, black, leather folder from his pocket and opened it to reveal the heads of several test tubes. Selecting one that contained a clear liquid and an eyedrop pipette, he took a small quantity of water from the stream. He held the tube and the pipette up for me to see and then, without fanfare, let a drop of the stream water fall into the tube. The result was immediate and dramatic. The two liquids reacted violently, fizzing furiously and flashing with a strange cobalt-blue phosphorescence that lasted for a few moments after the initial hissing had calmed.

“‘Good Lord,’ I said. I may have said something stronger, I was so moved by the idea that I’d had that filthy liquid in my mouth however briefly. ‘What is in that tube?’

“‘This?’ He stoppered the tube and put it in his breast pocket. ‘It’s holy water. And that’ — he pointed at the stream — ‘is very unholy water.’ He craned to look into the tiny cave again. ‘There’s writing in there.’ He produced his notebook and began laboriously transcribing what he could see.

“I stood over him, uncertain what to think. ‘Unholy water,’ I ventured at last. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

“‘It’s not the sort of thing Mother Church tends to advertise. And with good reason — you can combust a bishop with this stuff. Just as well for the serried ecclesiasticals of the world that it’s so uncommon. All of which makes such water bubbling out of the ground by the gallon all the more interesting, wouldn’t you say?’

“‘Who are you?’

“He didn’t look up, but I noticed that he stopped writing. ‘Does the name Johannes Cabal mean anything to you?’

“It didn’t even seem familiar, and I said as much.

“He started writing again. ‘Then that is who I am.’

“When no further elucidation was forthcoming, I said, ‘You behave as if I might know you.’

“‘I make enemies easily. I have a good memory, but it gets difficult to keep track of all the people who might have an interest in me. It’s a substantial list. To return to the matter at hand, however.’ He sat up and studied the writing that he had transcribed. I looked at it over his shoulder, but it simply looked like chicken scratchings to me, no alphabet that I’d ever seen. ‘The head of the spring isn’t natural. It’s worked stone and looks more like a drain to me. These markings are carved into the stone of the head. Look a lot like Ugol letters, wouldn’t you say? Rather pithy, too. Look at the figure that starts and finishes the inscription; that’s a triple imperative, the so-called black exclamation. Failure to obey carried the death penalty back in the time of the Hass. As to what it’s enforcing — ’ He paused, frowned and looked up at me. ‘Do not block.’

“‘They took their plumbing very seriously,’ I joked, but Cabal was not in the mood.

“‘Seven hundred years ago, you couldn’t move in these valleys for Ugol raiders with fur hats and ridiculous little horses. They swept westward, carving swathes through several empires en route, and nobody seemed able to stop them. The incursion started to slow down not long after they came through here before petering out entirely. Their leader, the Great Hass Majien, was an old man by that point. His ill health was probably what stopped the hordes in their tracks. He’s supposed to have died somewhere around here and they buried him and all his wealth beneath a hill. Unimaginable riches just sitting there, waiting to be found.’

“I couldn’t help but look at the hill upon whose slopes we were standing with widening eyes. ‘Good heavens, Cabal! You don’t suppose —?’

“‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged and seemed maddeningly unconcerned by the possibility. ‘One cannot help but wonder, however, why any treasure trove would require running unholy water, only to let the stuff pour down a hillside. The answer lies closer to the summit, I fancy, along with those thieves and their horses.’ So saying, he continued up along the trail. Biting back all too many questions, I had little choice but to follow.

Within a few minutes, however, Cabal resigned the lead as the bandits’ den hove into view. A cave mouth ahead of us showed signs of frequent congress; footprints and hoofprints led in and out and, as we listened, we heard a horse neigh from within. Cabal started to say something, but I tersely gestured him to silence as a pair of the brigands walked out, chattering with foolish disregard for their own security. I recognised them immediately as the two who had robbed me of whatever belongings had remained with me through my period of amnesia. My grim anger at seeing them again must have been apparent, as I looked sideways at Cabal to discover him smiling quite openly at me. Friends of yours? he mouthed with faux innocence. I glared at him and turned my attention back to the men. One was hanging close by the cave mouth, the one who had been so concerned that I might return from the dead to punish them. The other was already heading for the tree line down the slope. He said something dismissively and plunged into the gloom. After a moment, and with clear misgivings, the other followed him. As soon as they were out of sight, Cabal was up and running for the cave. I followed him closely.

“‘Careful!’ I warned him. ‘There may be more.’

“‘No,’ said Cabal, pausing to check that the woods seemed clear. ‘They were arguing about leaving the cave again when they’re supposed to be guarding it. Apparently, the rest of the merry men are off taking advantage of the refugees who were driven from Mirkarvia in the recent unpleasantness. Theirs is an ugly, mongrel tongue, but the meaning was quite apparent. Come on, Enright, we may not have long.’

“We ducked around the corner and ran inside.

“I wasn’t expecting the cave of Ali Baba and I wasn’t disappointed. The first thing that struck us was a near-palpable wall of stench, human as well as horse ordure. What little light there was in that foul place was provided by a few torches and many crudely formed clay lamps burning animal fat through coarse wicks. The atmosphere was oppressive with smoke, and I wondered aloud what sort of men would willingly choose this kind of life over one in the open air.

“‘The usual sort,’ said Cabal, taking a torch from the crack into which it was wedged. ‘Desperate men. Just like you and me.’

“Ignoring him and his nonsensical talk, I went straight to the horses and quickly chose the two most promising. The mare that had caused me all this trouble in the first place could stay there for all I cared. I turned to pass the reins of his mount to Cabal only to find him gone. A flickering light down a rocky side passage showed where he’d vanished. I called after him in an urgent hiss, but he failed to respond. Cursing him and his misjudged and ill-timed curiosity, I tied off the horses again and followed him at a trot. I found him at the end of the passage examining the cul-de-sac he’d ended up in.

“‘Are you mad, Cabal? If they come back, we’ll be trapped. The treasure of the Great Hass can wait for some future date, can’t it? If those fools are still resorting to horse theft, then it hardly seems likely they’ve found it, or will any moment soon. Come on! We don’t have time to dally!’

“I might as well have been talking about the weather.

“‘Convincing, isn’t it?’ he said, blithely unconcerned with our danger.

“‘What is?’ I asked impatiently.

“‘This,’ he said and moved the torch close to the rock face.

“‘What are you blathering about, man?’ I started to say. And then the words froze in my throat. The natural rock face, lined with the cracks of ten hundred thousand nights of cold and as many days of warmth, was no such thing. Under the oblique light cast by the flickering torch, the cracks resolved themselves into regular markings … letters … just like the ones I’d seen Cabal transcribe by that curious stream. In fact, some were exactly alike. ‘The black exclamation,’ I murmured, caught up in the mystery of the moment despite myself.

“‘Just so,’ said Cabal, distracted. ‘The black exclamation. But the warning is different this time. Still terse, though. Do not enter. Not very equivocal, is it?’ He experimented for a few seconds with the torch, altering how its light fell as he tried to tease the secrets out of the other hidden letters. ‘Know this, thou foolish … thief … no … interloper, know that to go beyond here is to suffer not only death in this life but … the one that is to follow.’

“‘A curse?’

“‘No, the Ugol liked their curses to go on for several stanzas. This is a warning. They believed in reincarnation, you see. Not only death in this life but the one that is to follow. It’s saying that you will be killed so very thoroughly that your reincarnation will die by it, too. That’s not the kind of thing they’d say lightly.’

“It is not for me to say I am a brave man, but I believe I can at least claim not to be a coward, physically or morally. Yet, as we stood in that close passageway and read those dire words of warning, inscribed seven hundred years before and likely never read until then, I felt a sense of nervous tension that I had never experienced before. The walls, lit by the fitful dancing flame, were covered in strange shadows that seemed to crowd about us; the air was thick enough to touch. There, gentlemen, within the living stone of that hill, I think I felt the slender, strong fingers of mortal, nameless fear close around my heart.”

Enright paused in his narrative to light another cigar. We waited in utter silence for the minute that the commonplace ritual lasted. When he spoke again, it was a shock.

“Thus when the bandits returned in force, it was actually something of a relief. A relief to be confronting a foe I understood on terms I was familiar with. A relief to face a known quantity. Admittedly, they would probably murder us in cold blood, but that, at least, was something I could apprehend and fight against.

“First we heard the clatter of hooves on the stone floor of the cave entrance and the laughter of men back from a successful day’s butchery. Leaving Cabal searching for the entrance implied in the warning for a moment, I walked quickly and quietly up to the opening of the passage into the main body of the cave and looked cautiously around the corner. There were a dozen of them if there was one — dangerous men, of evil aspect. The pair they’d left behind to guard the hideout were obviously the least of them, lowered still further by their evident dereliction of duty. Their leader looked around, and his snarling countenance showed his displeasure at their absence. A moment later, they ran in. The cockier of the two affected to slow to a saunter as he came to his leader’s notice. There were some barked derogatory remarks that left the less self-assured guard cowering and begging. The rest of the surly gang gathered around as the other guard stood up to his leader and spoke dismissively. The cave was safe, he seemed to be saying, why the complaints? Who was the leader to second-guess the man on the spot? The coxcomb actually swaggered back and forth as he spoke, taking the dark smiles of the other bandits as approbation. I did not. I knew their look, had seen it on the faces of righteous executioners and priests watching the innocent burn, seen it too many times to mistake it or the horrid sense of foreboding that always came with it. It wasn’t approval I saw in their eyes. It was anticipation.

“And then the leader, an ugly bear of a man, swept a curved dagger from its sheath, held it up just long enough for the guard to see it, to understand its import, and then he smashed it down into the hapless man’s chest.

“The blow was brutal, but it was not efficient. I think it took the guard almost a minute to die, sobbing and pleading for help as his blood ran free and hot over his fingers. A minute of laughter and derision as his ‘comrades’ watched his life flow across the floor to mix with the filth. Sickened, I quietly returned to Cabal.

“I found him behaving oddly, using his fingers like a cartographer’s dividers to measure out distances on the rock face. He listened as I told him about the number of bandits and pursed his lips. The fate of the guard he greeted with a nod and, ‘Good. One less to worry about.’

“‘No man deserves to die like that,’ I said, angered by his insouciance.

“‘Or kicking on the end of a length of state-owned rope. Or blown to pieces on a battlefield. Or quietly in bed surrounded by loved ones.’ He spat out these last words venomously. ‘One cannot pick and choose. You shouldn’t be railing against the manner of death, Enright.’

“‘And you find nothing to fear in death, I suppose?’

“‘Only one thing.’ He drew a line with his left fingertip along a crack and then continued down to where his right waited, having finished its curious measurings. He mouthed Perfect and pushed hard. There was a hollow grating sound of stone on stone, and the end of the passage swung in and back. Cabal looked at me, said, ‘Its inevitability,’ and plunged into the darkness beyond. I admit I stood gawping at the secret entrance, so perfectly concealed, for a long moment until Cabal’s irritated voice demanding the torch broke me from my daze.

“The passageway continued down perhaps only another ten feet or so before opening out abruptly. I stepped out into this new cave and held the torch high. I confess, I was harbouring some childish expectations of what the tomb of the Great Hass Majien would look like. I’d envisaged a cavern, its soaring vaulted ceiling supported by Cyclopean columns, heaped piles of treasure of unimaginable worth and, at the centre of it all, a great golden sarcophagus, perhaps standing by the famous war chariot of legend.

“Instead, I found that we were in a roughly hemispherical cave perhaps forty feet across with a pond in the middle. High on one wall, a V-shaped hole vented water that ran down the rock in a steady flow into a gutter. The gutter, in turn, fed a square pool that lay exactly in the middle of the floor, perhaps six feet along the edge the gutter ran over and ten in the other dimension. At the other end of the pool, another, deeper gutter took the overflow and ran it off into a sinkhole. Much time and effort had clearly been spent in the excavation, construction, and concealment of that place, yet its purpose was, to me at least, unfathomable.

“Cabal went to where the water flowed into the room, took some in his cupped hand, and tasted it. ‘If you still have a thirst, Enright, you can slake it here. The water’s good.’ He walked around the pool to the other gutter and, taking the tube of holy water from his pocket, allowed a drop to fall from it into the runoff. There was a brief flash of blue fire as the two liquids mingled. He nodded, clearly pleased that the experiment had performed as expected. ‘And this is the source of that remarkable stream. Now, I wonder what it is,’ he said, going to one knee by the pool, ‘that lies in here and has been supernaturally corrupting spring water by the tun for seven centuries.’ I didn’t like the calculating way he said it, and I was glad to find something to distract him.

“‘Cabal! Look!’ In the torchlight, I had made out more of the carvings, this time plainly written. He was with me in a moment.

“‘This one looks quite simple. No triple imperatives, no flowery discursions, just Thou who hast entered here, know thy folly. For the sake of thine soul and the sanctity of life upon life, leave now. This is the tomb of … ’ It was hard to tell beneath the unsteady light of the torch, the unshaven, chin, the dirt of the woods, and his own sallow complexion, yet I had the distinct impression that Cabal paled. ‘Umtak Ktharl,’ he said finally, in a ghastly thin voice.

“‘What did you say?’ I demanded.

“My voice seemed to shake him out of the state of mental paralysis he’d retreated into and he turned to me with a new, urgent vitality. ‘I said,’ he said, snatching the torch from my hand and heading for the entrance, ‘we’re leaving. Now!’

“Remonstrations were pointless as he gained the exit and moved out of sight. Cursing my impetuous companion, I went after him.

“I caught up with him at the corner of the passage and the main cave, where he was glaring at the bandits from concealment, apparently trying to will them into nonexistence. ‘Who’s Umtak Ktharl?’ I whispered urgently.

“‘That doesn’t matter,’ he whispered back. ‘We should be concerning ourselves with how to escape.’

“‘No, it does matter. Why are you so scared?’

“He glared at me. ‘I am not scared,’ he barked, rather too loudly.

“The bandits all turned to look at us.

“Cabal looked at them, then looked back at me. ‘Now look what you made me do,’ he said, exasperatedly. Then he walked up to the nearest bandit as if we had every right to be there. ‘Guten Abend,’ he said. The bandit looked at him with sheer disbelief. ‘We’re so very sorry, but we’ve rather been forced into precipitate action. A thousand pardons.’ So saying, he pulled the bandit’s revolver from his belt and shot him through the head. He backed towards me, firing twice more, snatched up a rifle that was lying at hand, and threw it to me. ‘We’ll just be holing up down here. Feel free to try and winkle us out.’ He turned and ran back down the passage, with me close at his heels. I swear there was a count of three before the bandits fully appreciated what had happened. Our unexpected appearance and Cabal’s easy resort to great violence had quite discomforted them. Then the bullets started flying.

“‘Now what?’ I asked him as we sought cover in the tomb cave.

“‘I’m no military man, thankfully,’ replied Cabal as he laid himself flat behind a partially emergent boulder, ‘but, in their place, there are two obvious plans. The better of the two is simply to ascertain that there is no exit from here and then seal us in. In a couple of weeks, they can wander in with complete impunity.’

“‘And the second?’ Although I was sure I already knew.

“‘The second is purest folly. A frontal assault. Here they come!’

“The villains, unappreciative that everything comes to him who waits, had massed on the other side of the entrance and were running in, zigzagging across the floor in an attempt to reach cover. Cabal fired and missed the first through. I took a little more time, in the poor light of a few torches that had been thrown in, and put a bullet in the wretch’s chest. Cabal fired once more at the entrance, and then I heard his revolver clack uselessly. He snapped the cylinder out and studied the chambers. ‘A cautious man. He didn’t carry a live round under the hammer. Five shots. I’m out.’ He closed up the pistol resignedly and dropped it to the floor. ‘Make your shots count better than I did mine, Enright.’

“A couple of the bandits had reached cover and were firing over our heads, probably trying for a lucky ricochet. They stood an excellent chance of getting one, too, given the confines we found ourselves in. Happily, ammunition became a concern and they slowed to some desultory sniping. I lay there behind that boulder knowing what it was to really be between a rock and a hard place. My rifle’s magazine held only another four rounds and there had to be at least eight bandits left. Our death was a certainty, and the only choice left to us was how easy we made it for them. I’d made up my mind to make it as difficult as possible, and I suspected that Cabal was of the same liver. After a few minutes, the ringing in my ears from the close gunfire had subsided to the point that I could hear the surviving bandits arguing amongst themselves. ‘What now?’ I asked Cabal again, with less urgency this time. There hardly seemed much point.

“He sighed, picked up the useless revolver, and fidgeted with it as he replied. ‘We wait while the better option occurs to them and they wall us in, I suppose.’

“‘That’s not very optimistic.’

“He laughed humourlessly. ‘I don’t see many grounds for optimism.’ He looked past the edge of his boulder at the pool. ‘You wanted to know who Umtak Ktharl was.’

“‘If we’re to die in his tomb, I might as well know who I’m going to be sharing eternity with.’

“Cabal nodded. ‘That’s fair. Very well. Every schoolboy knows of the Great Hass Majien and his Ugol hordes. The stories talk of vast hordes of horsemen sweeping down from the Irthat Steppes with Majien at their head in his ubiquitous war chariot. Nothing could stand before their unparalleled ferocity, expert horsemanship, uncanny archery, little ponies, comedic moustaches, and so on and so forth, ad nauseam. Utter rot. I researched this period in some detail and I’m confident that the horde barely exceeded a thousand undisciplined men. Any defending army worth the name would have wiped the floor with them.’

“‘You’re saying the history books are wrong?’

“‘I’m saying the history books have rationalised how a bunch of foul-smelling thugs managed to defeat every force thrown against them. The truth is too ugly for the historians in their ivory towers, so they’ve come up with the myth of an unbeatable army. The Ugol were unbeatable, but that’s the only true part of it.’

“‘They had a secret weapon?’ I ventured.

“‘No. Yes, actually. Yes, in a sense, they did. A secret weapon. Umtak Ktharl. He was the Great Hass’s vizier, adviser, majordomo. Actually, I think he ran everything and the Hass was just there as a more acceptable figurehead. The Hass could roister and doister and do all that nonsense. Umtak Ktharl, on the other hand, was evil incarnate.’ I looked questioningly at him, but he was disassembling the revolver for his amusement and wasn’t aware of me. ‘I first became aware of him when I read of something called the Red Snow,’ Cabal continued. ‘Red snow that fell from a clear sky, and where it touched human flesh it dissolved it. And every flake sighed as it ate away the meat from a man’s bones, the sigh of a tiny ribbon of vital essence leaking away into thin air. Entire armies were reduced by it, kings lived in fear of it, and it was only one of the novelties in Umtak Ktharl’s bag of tricks. Some were much, much worse. Who would stand against an army backed by a warlock like that?’

“‘A necromancer,’ I corrected.

“He seemed to be about to lose his temper, and took a moment to swallow his irritation. I affected not to notice.

“‘No,’ he said finally, and his voice betrayed no emotion. ‘Not a necromancer. They are men of a very different stripe. This warlock was the reason for the horde’s success. The only reason. Kingdoms would be abandoned at the very whisper that the Great Hass and his éminence grise were coming. If Umtak Ktharl was entombed here, it explains why the horde withdrew soon after they passed through this land. They very wisely appreciated that the jig was up and it was time to cut and run.’

“‘Not a pretty story.’

“‘No.’

“‘There’s still something about this place that I don’t understand. Why the pool, the spring?’

“Cabal looked at me again and smiled that ugly, cold smile of his once more. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ He looked over at the pool and made as if to speak. Then his expression suddenly became horrified. ‘Enright! What’s that by the gutter? Over there, man!’

“I followed his glance. Near the gutter that fed spring water into the pool, there was something dark and ophidian. As I watched, it moved slowly and cautiously towards the running water. I blinked and then appreciated the illusion. The tail of the black snake ran back towards the body of the bandit I had shot — the flattened perspective, of course, it was obvious. ‘It’s blood, Cabal. Only blood.’

“The effect on Cabal was astounding. He sat up, presenting himself as a beautiful target, and started yabbering at the bandits in furious German, pointing frantically at the dead man. Fortunately for him, my reactions were better than those of our persecutors. I dived across between cover and tackled Cabal, flattening him behind his boulder even as a shot whizzed through the space he’d occupied a moment before. I hadn’t been expecting gratitude, but I was unprepared for the vitriol Cabal blazed at me. Not much of it was in English, or even German, but what little I could make out doesn’t bear repeating.

“‘I just saved your life, Cabal!’ I bellowed in his face. ‘They would have had you otherwise!’

“‘Them?’ he barked back. ‘I’m not afraid of them. The worst they can do is kill us!’

“Suddenly, I became aware of a bubbling sound, like a great cauldron coming to the boil. Risking a peek by the boulder, I was astounded to see that the water in the pool was boiling. Beside me, Cabal said with sharp anger and desperation, ‘Blood! It’s too late, there’s blood in the water!’ And so there was; the slow trickle of blood from the bandit’s body had finally reached the gutter and thence the pool.

“I was never very bright at school in my divinity classes. Our teacher, Doctor Chatt, was a patient man, but even he must have been sorely tried by my complete inability to absorb anything at all. Or at least I’d always believed none of it had stuck until, looking at that extraordinary pool, its surface boiling fiercely and seeming to glow with subdued red, like the sea over a submarine volcano, I heard dear old Chatt’s voice speak to me over the distance of years. It was a lesson about John the Baptist, and somebody had asked what baptism meant. ‘It is the washing away of our sins,’ Chatt had replied in that dark, wooden voice of his. The washing away of our sins. And then I understood.

“Umtak Ktharl had been having his sins washed away for seven centuries. Seven hundred years of pure water driving over him as he lay at the bottom of that strange pool, seven hundred years of corruption being sapped from him. And he, a seemingly bottomless well of sin, hadn’t been purified one wit. In an instant, I saw it all. The Great Hass finally realising that his vizier’s goals surpassed those of any mortal man; the secret construction of this place; the luring of Umtak Ktharl here under some pretext and then plunging him into the pool before he recognised the trap. As generations had been born, flourished, and died away, Umtak Ktharl had lain here, rendered powerless by the never-ending purity of a mountain stream, powerless but still rotten to the core of his foul soul.

“At least, the purification had been never-ending. Until the blood of a wicked man had spilt into it and it had been polluted.

“As I watched the boiling increase in intensity, Cabal slumped down behind the boulder and commented, rather flippantly, I thought, ‘Oh, well. There’s the end of the world as we know it.’

“‘Is there nothing we can do?’ I started to ask him, but he hushed me with a raised finger.

“‘I’m thinking,’ he said. And, as he thought, Umtak Ktharl rose from the waters.

“He seemed to half climb, half float from the pool, an Oriental who should — judging merely by the elements of his face — have been in his forties. But there was something wrong in the way they worked together, perhaps caused by the uncertain light or my own state of mind, something that made him seem ancient beyond belief. The water streamed from his high brow as mercury across glass, and fell hissing like drops of lava to the rocky floor. He was dressed in a long heavy robe of the type favoured by the Ugol in centuries past, but it was dark and featureless, hanging about him like a bed of weed, dank and horrid. It had no right to have survived its long immersion, of course, but mere physics were of little consequence in that cave at that moment.

“All of which were mere details beside those eyes. I cannot even begin to describe them, for as soon as I saw him I looked away. But I know one thing of a certainty, and that is that they were not human. I knew nothing of this … man’s history and have never gone to pains to find out since, for I have no desire to learn what precisely takes a man’s eyes and replaces them with the voids that I glimpsed. Perhaps his eyes were black orbs in his skull. I hope so, for the alternative was that he had no eyes at all but saw through sockets filled by something so wrong for this world that they were not simply beyond description but beyond apprehension.

“My sanity was saved by the bandits, who, seeing only the warlock’s back, opened fire. Umtak Ktharl staggered very slightly under the rain of bullets, like a man snagging his toe in a loose carpet but catching himself in plenty of time. He seemed, if anything, faintly exasperated. Then he turned and set foot on dry ground for the first time in thirty-five generations. The instant they saw his face, the firing stopped. There was a moment of utter astonishment, and then one man made a horrible high, whining scream of terror and bolted.

“It was the signal for a general rout. The surviving bandits threw themselves back into the passage, kicking and trampling those who were too slow. I saw Umtak Ktharl lazily wave his hand and the hindmost bandit burst into fire, an unnatural fire of grey flames that consumed him within seconds. Yet he continued to scream even as he fell into ashes and for some moments afterwards. His fate inspired his companions to yet greater exertions and, in a moment, they had gone. Their nemesis followed with insolent leisure. Cabal and I were left alone, listening to their dying screams echoing in the entrance cave.

“‘Bullets don’t hurt him,’ I said somewhat hopelessly.

“‘No, they don’t. It would be a salutary lesson to those vermin that violence doesn’t always get them what they want. Of course, it helps to be alive after a lesson to appreciate the nuances.’

“His flippancy was starting to irritate me, and he saw it. ‘Look at the bright side,’ he added. ‘I think I have a plan.’

“‘Yes? What is it?’

“‘Can’t tell you. In the first place, there will be a lot of improvisation. In the second, I don’t have time for explanations if we’re to keep up with Ktharl. We mustn’t lose him. Come on!’ He threw the disassembled revolver aside and, having seen that devil’s imperviousness to bullets, I made to do the same with my rifle, but Cabal stopped me. ‘It might not kill him, but it can certainly attract his attention. Hold on to it.’

“We moved quickly but cautiously back up the passage to the entrance cave and happened upon the remains of some of the hapless bandits.

“No two of them had died in the same fashion: one body lay unwounded but gelatinous beside a pile of steaming bones that I took to be his skeleton; another sat upright leaning against a stalagmite, his head brilliantly alight, the flame consuming his flesh as a candlewick does the wax; yet another lay sprawled on his back, having apparently vomited up his heart. These were men who only minutes earlier I would willingly have killed myself, yet at least I would have offered them a quick and humane death. This, however, was far, far beyond the pale.

“‘Why?’ I asked Cabal. ‘Why has he done this? Surely he has it within his power to kill quickly and painlessly? Why these … these monstrous acts?’

“‘Fear. With his power, he can vanquish an army. With his reputation, he can conquer the earth. And he’s probably rather out of practice anyway, I should think. These are the equivalent of piano exercises to him.’ Cabal looked at a human arm protruding from the cave’s wall, a victim it would take pickaxes to extract. ‘These are simple party tricks for somebody like Umtak Ktharl. He’s still working the cricks out. We must catch up with him before he gets back into his stride.’

“Another scream from outside showed that he hadn’t got far. From the shadows of the entrance, we watched as the last of the bandits was dangled by his ankles from a tree at the edge of the clearing. For a moment, I thought Ktharl had somehow bound him there when, with a sick sense of horror, I realised that even the trees were doing his bidding. The bandit wasn’t tied to the branch — the branch was actually wrapped around his ankles like a black snake. The tree leaned slightly, making a ponderous creaking, and then, with unbelievable rapidity, swung the terrified man at the trunk of a neighbour. His screaming stopped the instant his brains were dashed out.

“‘Your plan, Cabal,’ I whispered, still shaken by what I’d seen. ‘Quickly, what is my rôle?’

“‘Are you good at thinking on your feet?’

“‘As good as any, better than most.’

“‘Good. Get to those bushes over there. Act when you see my signal.’

“‘What signal?’

“‘You’ll know when you see it.’ With this, he walked once more straight towards his enemy.

“Umtak Ktharl saw him coming and turned to watch, mildly interested. He raised a hand to make one of the lazy gestures I now associated with an ugly death, and then Cabal did the most remarkable thing. He threw himself prostrate before the warlock and started babbling at him in some odd tongue. Ugol, I suppose. An obviously educated man — and a European to boot — grovelling in such a way before an Oriental was a demeaning sight, and it seemed to take even Umtak Ktharl aback slightly. He lowered his hand and listened to what Cabal had to say. Then he spoke back — a question, by the sound of it — in a strange high voice, thin and complex, like birdsong. It was fascinating and I could have watched for some time, but I remembered Cabal’s plan, such as it was, and crawled on my belly to the cover of the bushes, my rifle held firmly in my hands for instant action. Reaching them, I climbed to my knees and furtively parted the leaves to see how Cabal was getting on.

“He appeared to be making some headway, as he was now on his knees with his head bowed. There seemed to be some sort of question-and-answer session going on. I guessed that this was the first part of Cabal’s plan, to gain the monstrous lich’s confidence. Then what, I had no idea, nor could I guess my part in it.

“As it happened, I didn’t have to wait long. Cabal had somehow ingratiated himself in the space of fifteen or twenty minutes that he was allowed to rise to his feet, although he had to maintain a respectful distance and his head stayed bowed. He was speaking quite loudly and fervently, and reminded me of adherents of those religions less civilised than our own.

“Then suddenly, unbelievably, he pointed straight at my hiding place. I was stunned for a moment, and then the true import of Cabal’s ‘plan’ struck me. There had never been any intention to stop Ktharl, only to save his own neck in the apocalypse that he knew was coming. And I was to be the first sacrifice to his survival.

“Swearing bitterly, I brought my rifle up, aimed straight at Cabal, and fired. I’m a good shot and my aim was true, but the bullet never arrived. That accursed Ktharl, that disgusting abomination that should have been dead seven hundred years ago, simply reached out and plucked the ball from the air. He studied it, lying in his palm for a second or two — eminently unimpressed by the best modern science had to throw at him — and then he raised his hand to his mouth and blew gently. Some instinct made me dive to one side, but not fast enough to avoid being winged by that selfsame bullet as it shot back at me as fast as from any rifle barrel.

“It was plain that I couldn’t fight him. My only chance was to escape from him and his new cur, Cabal, in the forest, get back to civilisation, and try to convince the authorities of this incredible story. I slung the rifle over my shoulder and started running. I risked a look back and saw Umtak Ktharl sweeping after me across the leaf litter as if he were gliding across ice, Cabal running doggedly in his wake.

“My only advantage was speed, but even that would be lost if I became exhausted. Ktharl was inexorable, his steady progress indefatigable. I considered my options and decided to forget about losing them amidst the trees, and instead try to find a dwelling with, I hoped, a horse. I finally understood why it had been so important in Cabal’s plan for me to leave the cave, because in doing so I had also left behind any chance of reaching the horses stabled there. Furious with myself for trusting him, I ran and ran and ran. My path was along and down the side of the hill in the direction I guessed the Senzan border lay. On reaching the base, I struck out across the forest floor and hoped for the best.

“Every time I looked back, Umtak Ktharl was there. I don’t know why he didn’t just kill me there and then; it must certainly have been within his power. Perhaps he had another use for me and that was something I didn’t wish to think about, and which spurred me onwards with still more desperation. It was a nightmarish situation, one that I hope never to repeat and, God willing, never will except within nightmares. My wounded arm bled steadily, my headlong flight preventing any hope of its closing. As the seconds of running turned into minutes, I had the unappealing thought that Umtak Ktharl was somehow tracking me by the drops of blood I left in my wake, that he could smell them, perfumed with my fear.

“It was by the merest good luck that, when I found the gorge, I didn’t fall headlong into it, so harried was I. It was more than deep enough to kill a man, perhaps eighty feet into a fast-moving torrent with sharp rocks on either side. Scaling the side was impossible without equipment and the time needed for the descent. I had no choice but to run alongside it. The ground started to angle upwards, and I began to fear for my endurance again as every step became a torment in itself. The incline wasn’t great, but in my exhausted state it was the last thing I needed. Then, thank God, I saw the bridge.

“The bridge was a rope affair, obviously not meant for carts or horses or other beasts. Even to a man, the crossing of sixty feet or so across the ferocious drop would have been a little daunting. Anything, however, anything was better than staying on the same side of the river as Umtak Ktharl, and I quickly crossed, the bridge swinging and twisting beneath my feet as I firmly gripped the rails and ran like a tightrope walker with the Devil on his coattails.

“This was a double hope for me. Perhaps Umtak Ktharl would not be able to cross the bridge, what with his weakness for running water. Perhaps, like a vampire, he wouldn’t be able to pass over it. Second, even if he could, it would be my delight and my privilege to cut the guy ropes loose when he and, I hoped, Cabal were halfway across. I enjoyed the prospect of the pair of them tumbling into the angry white waters below. I fear I may even have been laughing a little hysterically by the time I reached the far side.

“Barely had I attained a hiding place by the mooring posts when Umtak Ktharl swept majestically into view and, without even a pause, moved onto the bridge. It would seem that my first hope was to be confounded. The sight of Cabal staggering exhaustedly up to the mooring posts on the other side and leaning on them while he wheezed unhappily reminded me of the second. I reached into my pocket for my clasp knife with murder in my heart. My hand found nothing but an old receipt and the stub of a pencil. The knife wasn’t there.

“I almost cried out loud with frustration. Of course, it wasn’t. Those damnable and damned bandits had stolen it from my ‘corpse’ back when they’d also relieved me of all my other belongings and my horse.

“I looked behind me; the path rose in a sharp zigzag up a very steep forested slope. I couldn’t hope to get far. My reserves were gone and the jig was up, but I was damned if I was going to go down without a fight. Anger making my thinking clear, I unlimbered my rifle from my shoulder and took careful aim at the approaching sorcerer. I breathed gently and, just as my breath was on its cusp, squeezed the trigger.

“My first shot caught him square in the chest, but made him pause only momentarily, as if he’d forgotten something and then decided it was not important.

“The second bullet struck him in the face; I think I had some vague thought of puncturing one of those eyes in the hope they were where his power lay. That is how desperate I had become. I heard the bullet ricochet off him as if it had struck rock. He shook his head, as if bothered by an insect, and advanced.

“I was down to my last bullet and all hope had run out. Umtak Ktharl was clearly utterly invulnerable to mundane weapons. On the other hand, I doubted the same could be said of that turncoat Cabal; I decided to let him have the last shot.

“I was grateful that the bandit whose rifle it had been had shown more concern with the maintenance of his weapon than with his personal hygiene. Every shot I had so far fired had gone exactly where I placed it. Despite the bandit’s peripatetic lifestyle, the barrel was well maintained, the action was reliable, and the sights were perfect. I trusted them implicitly as I placed foresight ’twixt back leaf and centred the whole upon Cabal. I aimed at his head with the expectation of the bullet’s trajectory taking it into either his throat or his upper chest. Either would be satisfactory. He was still wheezing pathetically, his whole frame heaving with the effort of drawing breath, as he stood half slumped against the mooring post. Then I paused. There was something peculiar here, something odd in the way he was moving. I lowered my sights and was delighted and ashamed by what I saw. His body wasn’t heaving with exhaustion at all but with exertion … exertion as he sawed fiercely through the guy supporting one side of the bridge with a small pocketknife. The whole thing had truly been a ruse; Cabal had been looking for such an opportunity, and had now taken it with both hands.

“Without a further second’s hesitation, I brought my rifle back up to the target and fired.

“It wasn’t a clean shot, I’m embarrassed to admit; I can only plead unfamiliarity with the weapon at that range. But still, it clipped the second guy rope nicely, severing a good half of its strands. Cabal almost dropped his knife with surprise, but saw what I had tried to do and waved at me. He redoubled his efforts, and the rope he was working on parted with a woody snap. The bridge leaned crazily to that side and Umtak Ktharl showed more emotion than I’d seen up to now; he actually seemed quite angry. The weight of the bridge was too much for the rope I’d damaged and, with a musical twang, that gave way, too. Now anchored only on my side of the gorge, it fell and swung to smash against the cliff wall. Bits of wood and debris rained into the stream to be instantly carried away.

“Umtak Ktharl, however, was not amongst them. With a countenance of utter fury, he hung in the air in the middle of the gorge, defying both gravity and our fondest hopes.

“I was at my wits’ end and had been for some time. Cabal was not, and that is something we should all be grateful for. He reached into his breast pocket and threw something at that remorseless monster. ‘Umtak Ktharl!’ he shouted, as whatever it was glittered and shone in its arc. ‘Catch!’

“I like to think it was Ktharl’s utter arrogance, his total belief in his invulnerability, that proved his downfall. He should have done almost anything except catch what had been thrown to him. I think Cabal, in his brief acquaintanceship with Umtak Ktharl, had seen it in his character and played upon it. What is it they say comes before a fall?

“At any rate, Umtak Ktharl caught it. The object had barely been in his hand a moment when it flashed an angry cobalt blue that illuminated the warlock so strongly I had the absurd impression that I could see his bones within him. With rising hope, I realised what it was. A tiny thing … nothing at all in the usual way of things.

“A small phial, two-thirds full of holy water.

“The water must have boiled in its tube, because it broke with the distinctive plink of fracturing glass I remembered so well from my dawdlings in chemistry as a boy. It must have been like a tube of acid shattering in his hand. Not enough to kill him or even hurt him, but more than enough to engage his full attention, to break his concentration and really, at that point, that was all that was necessary. The holy water flared and steamed like St. Elmo’s fire where it splashed upon him, he made some small, pathetic effort to beat the supernatural flames from his hand and arm, and then he was falling. It took only a moment to plummet the distance, and he was gone, lost in the frothing waters.

“Cabal and I ran downstream, eager to make sure that he didn’t make the bank. This time I’m sure I was laughing, laughing with sheer relief. There would be a tomorrow. It wasn’t the end of everything.

“I saw Umtak Ktharl first. Just the hint of an arm waving in the turbulent water of an eddy pool. Pinned against a rock underwater, once again having his sins washed away constantly.

“‘He’s finished!’ I shouted with delight across the roar of the river.

“‘He’s no such thing,’ Cabal shouted back. ‘He could get washed free, the water level could drop in high summer, somebody might find him, anything could happen. He’s contained for the moment, but he isn’t finished by a long chalk.’ He started walking back upstream. ‘I need to think.’

“I could barely get a word out of him for the next couple of hours as we trudged along, each on our respective side of the gorge. Then the river started to rise and the gorge to become shallow and, finally, we found another bridge, a properly metalled road bridge this time and joined our paths. It was clear that we were leaving the wild lands, and towards nightfall we reached — quite unexpectedly but very welcome, all the same — a customs post. We were on the border between Senza and Mirkarvia, actually on the Senzan side; I had crossed the border days earlier while delirious. We must have looked very disreputable as we approached the building, and a couple of officers came out to greet us. We went inside and were glad of their offer of a pot of coffee while they questioned us. About the only thing the bandits had left me with were my papers, and these the commanding officer took and studied closely.

“Satisfied, he turned to Cabal and asked to see his passport. Cabal sighed and shrugged. ‘I’m afraid my papers were lost in my escape.’ Then he looked the officer in the eye and said, ‘My name, however, is Gerhard Meissner. I was formerly a docket clerk, first class, in the Mirkarvian Department of Administrative Coordination. I am claiming political asylum.’ I looked at him oddly until he sent me a warning glance that made me compose and comport myself more neutrally.

“The customs officer looked at him oddly and started flicking through the sheets on his clipboard. He found what he was looking for and nodded. ‘Of course, Herr Meissner, you have been expected.’

“Cabal’s face was a picture. He looked utterly blank for a moment. Then he pulled himself together. ‘I am? That is to say, excellent. I must admit, I was worried about the loss of my documents.’

“‘Inconsequential, signor. The Minister of the Interior will need to speak to you, of course. You must be interviewed.’

“‘Of course,’ replied Cabal, but I could see his confusion.

“They organised a horse and trap for us and we rode in silence for the few miles to the nearest town, Sadile. The only time Cabal — I assume his real name was Cabal — spoke was to point out the watercourse running parallel to the road. ‘If that ever dries up,’ he said, ‘we’re all in a lot of trouble.’

And that’s your story, Enright?” asked Chiltern in the silence.

“That’s my story,” replied Enright. “At least, it’s most of my story. There is a small coda. Two unusual things happened that first night in Sadile. At about two in the morning, the whole town was woken by an explosion. A distant thing it was, several miles away, but the rumble travelled through the earth and tumbled people out of their beds and tiles from the rooftops. Those who had been awake at that hour said there was a strange flash in the sky to the south, which turned to an angry cobalt glow hanging over the forest and took minutes to fade.”

“Oh!” said Tompkinson excitedly. “I know what that was.” He pondered for a moment and then shook his head. “No. No, I don’t. Carry on.”

“And the second thing?” asked Munroe.

“Well, I only found out about that the next morning. Cabal was gone, vanished into the shadows. He obviously had a few secrets he didn’t want the authorities to learn. Nobody was much concerned about his absconding nearly as much as about the outrage that had been committed the night before.

“The archbishop of Parila was visiting the parish. Shortly after midnight, a mysterious stranger had dragged him out of bed at gunpoint. The poor archbishop was forced into his robes and driven down to a small river that runs by the town. There his assailant had put a gun to his head and told him to bless the river and to keep blessing it until he was told to stop. The archbishop, quite reasonably under the circumstances, blessed the river waters for all he was worth. At about two o’clock, there was the blue flash in the sky, reflecting upwards from some sort of explosion in the forest. The archbishop’s assailant seemed very pleased, said something about being able to sleep now, and left him there. The archbishop’s description of the stranger sounded awfully like Cabal.”

There was a respectful silence, broken by Tompkinson saying, “No, I don’t understand.”

“‘I’ll explain it to you next week,” said Munroe. “I’m tired now, though, so I’ll take my leave of you, gentlemen. Good night, Enright. Thank you for that fascinating story.”

They broke up, and started to make their varied ways home. In the cloakroom, Kay bumped into Enright putting on his overcoat. As they made their way across the foyer to the exit and the city night, Kay asked him, “Johannes Cabal. Did you ever find out who he was?”

“I made enquiries when I got home,” he replied. “Turned out he’s a little infamous in some circles.”

“A spy?”

Enright smiled and leaned towards me confidentially. “A necromancer,” he whispered. He seemed to find Kay’s expression of shocked outrage still more amusing. “Look at the bright side, Kay. I’m very glad he turned out to be a necromancer rather than, say, a docket clerk, even a first-class one. So should you. A lot of use he would have been then. Good night!”