Shadows over Baker Street

Tiger! Tiger!

ELIZABETH BEAR

What of the hunting, hunter bold?

Brother, the watch was long and cold.

What of the quarry ye went to kill?

Brother, he crops in the jungle still.

Where is the power that made your pride?

Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side.

Where is the haste that ye hurry by?

Brother, I go to my lair—to die!

—RUDYARD KIPLING

*

It was in India, on the high Malwa Plateau in July of 1882, that I chanced to make the acquaintance of an American woman whom I have never forgotten and undertake an adventure which I have long waited to recount. The monsoon was much delayed that hot and arid summer, and war raged between the British and the Russians in nearby Afghanistan—another move on the chessboard of the “Great Game.” No end was yet in sight to either problem when I, Magnus Larssen, shikari, was summoned to the village of Kanha to guide a party in search of tiger.

My gunbearer (who was then about fifteen) and I arrived some ten days before the shooters, and arranged to hire a cook, beaters, and mahouts and prepare a base of operations. On the first full day of our tenancy, I was sitting at my makeshift desk when “Rodney” came into my tent, ferment glistening in his brown eyes. “The villagers are very excited, sahib,” he said.

“Unhappy?” I felt myself frown.

“No, sahib. They are relieved. There is a man-eater.” He danced an impatient jig in the doorway.

I raised an eyebrow and stretched in my canvas chair. “Driven to it by the drought?”

“The last month only,” he answered. “Three dead so far, and some bullocks. It is a female, they think, and she is missing two toes from her right front foot.”

I sipped my tea as I thought about it, and at last I nodded. “Good. Perhaps we can do them a favor while we’re here.”

After some days of preparation, we took transportation into Jabalpur to meet the train from Bhopal. The party was to be seven: six wealthy British and European men and the woman, an American adventuress and singer traveling in the company of a certain Count Kolinzcki, an obese Lithuanian nobleman.

The others consisted of a middle-aged, muttonchopped English gentleman, Mr. Northrop Waterhouse, with adolescent sons James and Conrad; Graf Baltasar von Hammerstein, a very Prussian fellow of my long acquaintance, stout in every sense of the word; and Dr. Albert Montleroy, a fair-haired Englishman, young around the eyes.

As they disembarked from the train, however, it was the lady who caught my attention. Fair-haired, with a clean line of jaw and clear eyes, she was aged perhaps twenty-two, but her beauty was not the sort that required youth to recommend it. She wore a very practical walking dress in sage green, fashionably tailored, and her gloves and hat matched her boots very well. I noticed that she carried her own gun case as well as her reticule.

“Ah, Magnus!” Von Hammerstein charged down the iron steps from the rail coach and clasped my hand heavily, in the European style. “Allow me to present your charges.” Remembering himself, he turned to the American, and I saw that she was traveled enough to recognize his courtesy. “Fraulein, this gentleman is the noted author and hunter of heavy game, Mr. Magnus Larssen. Magnus, may I present the talented contralto, Miss Irene Adler.”

“So what is this I hear about a mankiller, shikari?” The older Waterhouse boy, James, was talking. “On the train, we heard a rumor that a dozen men had been found mauled and disemboweled!”

“Lad,” his father warned, with a glance to the woman. She looked up from her scarcely touched sherry.

I think Miss Adler winked. “Pray, sir, do not limit the conversation on my behalf. I am here to hunt, just as the rest of you, and I have visited rougher surroundings than this.”

Montleroy nodded in the flicker of lantern light. The boys had collected the supper dishes, and we were each relaxing with a glass. “Yes, if we’re to have a go at this man-eater, let’s by all means hear the details. It’s safest and best.”

“Very well,” I allowed, after a moment. “There have been three victims so far, and a number of cattle. It seems that the tigress responsible is wounded and taking easy prey. All of the bodies have been mauled and eaten; that much is true. The details are rather horrible.”

Horrible indeed. The eyes had been eaten out of their heads, and the flesh off the faces. The bodies had been dismembered and gnawed. If it had not been for the fact that the only prints close to the bodies were those of the wounded tiger, I might have been tempted to think of some more sinister agency: perhaps agents of a Thuggee cult. I was not, however, about to reveal those facts in mixed company, Miss Adler’s high opinion of her own constitution notwithstanding.

Across the room, I saw the younger Waterhouse boy, Conrad, shudder. I shook my head. Too young.

Thick leaves and fronds brushed the flanks of our elephants as they stepped out of the cool of the jungle and into more dappled shade. The ground cover cracked under their feet as we emerged from the sal trees into a small meadow. From there, we could catch a glimpse of the grasslands sweeping down a great, horseshoe-shaped valley to the banks of the Banjar River.

“This heat is beastly, Mr. Larssen!” the count complained.

I glanced across the red-and-gold knotted carpets spanning the broad back of the elephant we shared with Miss Adler. I sweated even in my shaded perch, and I did not envy the mahouts perched astride the beasts’ necks in the brutal light of the sun, but I presumed they must be more accustomed by blood and habituation to this barbarous calescence. “It is India, Count,” I replied—perhaps more dryly than necessary.

“And the insects are intolerable.” Kolinzcki’s humor did not seem to extend to irony. I raised an eyebrow and returned my attention to the trail, keeping my pot gun to hand and an eye out for edible game, as the beaters took a large portion of their pay in meat.

My mind drifted as I sought any spoor or scat of our quarry. A strange, oppressive silence hung on the air, and there was no trace of moisture upon the breeze. I felt a chill of unease upon my neck—or perhaps it was only the shade of the trees as our mounts carried us back down the jungle trail.

I felt the need to break the uncanny quietude. “The tiger,” I said to Miss Adler and her companion, “is the true king of the jungle. No mere lion can compare to him for ferocity, intelligence, or courage. He fears nothing and will easily turn the tables on a hunter.”

“That is why we ride elephants?” The Lithuanian’s accent could have been better, but his speech was comprehensible.

I nodded. “Tigers respect elephants, and the reverse is true as well. One will not trouble the oth—”

A great outcry among the monkeys and the birds in the jungle on our left ended my lecture. I heard an intermittent crashing in the bamboo as an antelope sprinted away. Our tiger was on the move.

Our beaters fanned toward the jungle, several of them disappearing from sight among the trees. One or two glanced back at us before vanishing into the brush, understandably apprehensive: there was at least one tiger in that cover who had learned the taste of man.

I directed the mahouts back to the clearing, where we could intercept the line of beaters. The good doctor and von Hammerstein were mounted on the second beast, and Mr. Waterhouse with his two sons rode the final one. Rodney walked alongside with a cargo of rifles. Count Kolinzcki fumbled with his gun, and I made a note to myself to keep an eye on the Lithuanian, in case he should require assistance. Miss Adler quietly and efficiently broke her under/over Winchester and made it ready on her own.

We reached the clearing in good order and took a moment to array ourselves. The cries of the beaters rang out—“bAgha! bAgha!”—“Tiger! Tiger!”

She was within their net and moving toward us. Miss Adler drew a deep breath to steady herself, and I restrained myself from laying a hand on her shoulder to calm her. A glance at her lovely face, however, showed only quiet resolve.

Von Hammerstein also readied his gun, as did the Waterhouses and the doctor. Not intending to shoot, I foolishly failed to exchange the bolt-action .303 Martini-Lee for my double rifle.

The moment stretched into silence. I found myself counting my breaths, gaze fixed on the wall of brush. “Mir Shikar,” von Hammerstein began—luckily, for as I turned toward my stout and stalwart old friend, I saw the tigress lunge.

The tricky old killer had somehow doubled back and come up upon our flank. She was too close, perhaps a stride away. She made one gigantic bound out of the brush and was airborne even as I whipped my rifle around.

In that instant, my eye photographed her—the twisted forefoot, the sad traces of mange and hunger, the frantic golden eye—and my finger tightened on the trigger.

To no avail. With a hollow click, the rifle failed to discharge. It seemed an eon as I worked the bolt—jammed—and tossed it aside, extending my hand down to Rodney for the .534 Egyptian. In the instant before my fingers closed on the warm Turkish walnut of the stock, I heard two weapons roar and sudden plumes of acrid white smoke tattered in the hot breeze. The shots caught the tigress in side and breast, tumbling her over and backward.

She dragged herself upright, and Mr. Waterhouse fired as well, squinting along the barrel like a professional as he put a third and final bullet into the defiant cat. She made a little coughing sound and expired, her body going fluid in each joint.

I glanced around before sliding off my elephant. Miss Adler had broken her Winchester and was calmly replacing the cartridge she had expended into the creature’s breast. Von Hammerstein was also dismounting his beast, keeping his weapon at the ready in case he was forced to fire again.

I bent over to examine the kill, and found myself straightening abruptly, scanning the jungle for any sign of movement. I saw only our returning beaters.

Von Hammerstein saw it and laid a questioning eye on me.

“Her teeth,” I said thickly. “There must be a second cat. This one might bring down a man, but she could never manage a bullock. Not with that crippled foot, and the ruined teeth.”

It was then that I heard a sound like a throbbing drumbeat, distant but distinct. I did not know what made it, and my curiosity was piqued.

I would give anything to have remained so ignorant.

Three of the beaters did not come out of the woods, nor were their bodies found.

A search until nightfall failed to turn up the men—or, in fact, any trace of a second tiger. Reluctantly, we reunited and turned for the camp, our beaters muttering in dissatisfaction. We resolved to resume the hunt in the morning, and hopefully find traces of the victims and whatever cat had taken them. Dr. Montleroy did get a lucky shot at a leopard, and brought it down, so we had two trophies: the elderly tigress, and a beautiful spotted cat perhaps seven feet in length.

Dinner that night was a somber affair, despite the excellent food: bread of a flat sort stuffed with potato, vegetables curried with tomato and onion, mutton spiced and baked in a clay pot. It was a great relief when the Lithuanian Count pressed Miss Adler to entertain us by singing, and she obliged. Even without accompaniment, her contralto was superb and much relieved our heavy hearts.

My sleep, when it came, was troubled by the sounds of a quiet argument nearby—the voice of Miss Adler demanding, “But you must give it back to me!” And a male rumble—stubborn, I thought—replying. A lovers’ quarrel, perhaps.

I am not sure what brought me from my cot, other than the sort of prurience that a man does not like to admit. I wondered what he had of hers, of course, and a gentleman does not leave a lady alone in a tight spot, even when that lady is an adventuress.

It was Kolinzcki whom she argued with, for I recognized his voice as I moved closer to the wall of my tent, feeling my way barefoot in the unrelieved darkness. He switched languages, and she followed. I was surprised to be able to understand them somewhat, for I speak no Lithuanian. But the disagreement they conducted in low tones was in Russian, and that language I have a fair command of.

“It was not yours to take,” Miss Adler whispered, urgency resonating in her trained voice. “Do you know what you’ll be unleashing?”

“It is unleashed already,” Kolinzcki replied. “I merely bring our noble friends the means to control it.”

She sighed, the harsh Russian tongue taking on a certain fluidity when she spoke it. “It is not so simple as that, and you know it. It will be a great embarrassment for my friends in Prague if I cannot return their property. If it seems they are cooperating with the Tsar, it will go hard for them.”

He was silent, and she continued in a voice I barely heard under the sawing of insects. “Have I not done everything you asked?”

It was obvious to me that the Count was blackmailing the lovely singer, and I made up my mind to intervene. But as my hand was on the tent flap, I heard again the low, resonant throbbing that had so startled us in the afternoon. Outside, Miss Adler gave a little cry of surprise, and as I came around the corner to confront them, I heard him say in English, “And that is the reason why I cannot oblige you, my dear, as well you know. Perhaps when we are back in civilized lands, we can discuss this again.”

She stepped close to him and laid her hand on his arm. “Of course, darling.”

Then perhaps a lovers’ quarrel after all, and already made up for. Silent in bare feet, I returned to my sleepless bed, unaccountably disappointed, and harboring suspicions I did not care to address. Who was I, a Norwegian, to care what alliances and wars the Tsar and the British Queen make against and upon each other? They seemed determined to tear Afghanistan in two between them, in their so-called Great Game: an endless series of imperialist intrigues and battles. A game, to my eye, whose chiefest victims were simple folk like my Rodney. The best the rest of us—I thought then—could manage was a sort of detached distaste for the whole proceedings.

The morning found us all awake early and unsettled. It was bold young James Waterhouse who sought me out before we mounted our elephants. “Shikari,” he said—they had picked up the usage from von Hammerstein and thought it delightfully quaint. “Did you hear that noise again last night?”

I hesitated. “The drumming? I did indeed.” I said no more, but he must have noted my frown.

He pressed me. “That wasn’t an animal noise, was it? I heard it when we killed the tiger.”

It had absorbed my thoughts through the night, when I wasn’t distracted by the implications of the argument between the Lithuanian—or perhaps not Lithuanian—Count and the fair Miss Adler. It wasn’t quite exactly a drumming: it was more a . . . heartbeat. It was true; it didn’t sound like an animal noise. But it didn’t sound precisely like a human noise either.

“I don’t know,” I answered uncomfortably. “I haven’t heard it before.” I turned to aid Miss Adler in climbing the rope ladder to our elephant. Truthfully, the count required more assistance, and as I helped him up, his waistcoat gaped and I noticed the golden hilt of a dagger secreted within it. Great-grandfather’s hunting knife, no doubt: too showy, but not a bad precaution. He rose a bare notch in my estimation.

There were some clouds on the horizon, and I thought the wind might carry a taint of moisture. I was eager to find the second cat and travel deeper into the jungle, perhaps to seek a third. We were past due for weather, and monsoon would mean the end of our hunt.

My party were on edge, made nervy no doubt both by the loss of the beaters the day before and by the close call with the tiger. Still no sign had been found of the missing men—even of a scuffle—and I found myself tending toward the explanation that they had deserted. Conrad seemed spooked, and I permitted the brothers to ride my elephant while Miss Adler and her escort traveled with Mr. Waterhouse.

Instead of skirting the forest, we resolved to plunge into it, and search among the bamboo and the sal trees for the second man-eater. I found myself eager as a young man, and by the time we broke for luncheon we had covered some miles into the thicker part of the forest. We found a little clearing in which to enjoy our cold curry and venison with the native bread. I sat beside von Hammerstein, while noting that Miss Adler had taken a place some distance from her Count. I wondered.

I kept the Egyptian close to hand, in case our man-eater should be drawn out by the scent of food or prey, but lunch passed uneventfully. We resolved to take a short siesta on the grass in the appalling heat of the afternoon with some of the beaters standing guard.

I again caught a glimpse of clouds massed on the horizon, but they seemed no closer than they had been in the morning, so I determined that we should press on after resting, but I must have dozed. I was awakened with a start by the sound of crashing in the brush—something sprinting straight for us. I scrambled to my feet, clutching my rifle. I noticed that the rest had dozed as well—except Miss Adler, who was on her feet, straightening from adjusting the Count’s jacket, and loyal Rodney, who was chatting with one of the beaters in their native Hindi.

I brought my weapon to bear on the sound. The beaters moved rapidly out of the line of fire, and I did not spare a glance for the others.

It was no tiger that broke the screen of trees, but a man, ragged and hungry looking, on the verge of exhaustion, bare feet bloodied as if from some long journey. He did not look Indian but rather Arab—Afghan, perhaps? I cautiously lowered my rifle, and he collapsed at my feet with a cry.

He babbled a few words in a tongue I did not understand. I again shifted my estimation of Count Kolinzcki, as I noticed it was he who first came to the man’s side, bending over him. I watched warily for a moment. The Arab seemed no threat, however, and I gestured Rodney to bring water as I crouched beside him as well. My bearer had just begun to cross the clearing, leaving his post at my shoulder, when the eldest elephant threw up her trunk and trumpeted in alarm.

A stray breeze brought a whiff of scent to my nostrils: char and hot metal. I cast about for any sign of smoke and noticed the elephants rocking nervously. It seemed obvious to me at that time that they had scented fire, for I knew then of no beast that could so disturb them.

I was both right and wrong.

“Mount!” I cried. The Waterhouses began immediately to move toward the elephants while Dr. Montleroy and von Hammerstein helped the beaters grab up our possessions. I reached down with some thought of assisting the prostrate Arab, but Kolinzcki was already dragging him to his feet.

The Arab grabbed Kolinzcki by the collar, and the fat Count knocked his grubby hand aside. And then, looking startled and sick, the Count pressed his right hand to his breast, with the expression of a man who realizes that his watch has gone missing from his waistcoat.

I remembered the argument of the night before, and Miss Adler bent over his supine form as he slept, but the rush of events did not permit me to inquire.

I barely caught a glimpse of it before it was among us: it came silent as a wisp of smoke, disturbing the vines and brush not at all. It glowed, even in the incandescence of the afternoon, with a light like a coal, and across the back it bore stripes like char. It possessed the rough form of a tiger, but it stank like a forest fire and its maw was a lick of flame.

It sprang to the back of the smallest elephant with an easy leap, transfixing Conrad Waterhouse with its burning gaze. Even as the elephant panicked, he froze like a bird charmed by a snake. The Creature’s blazing claws scorched down her sides, leaving rents in her thick hide that I wouldn’t have credited to an ax. She screamed and reared up, ponderously reaching over her shoulder in an attempt to dislodge the predator. Her panic knocked Conrad from his feet, and I did not see him move again. His brother lunged across the path of the Creature to shield the fallen boy with his body: a brave and futile gesture.

The Creature avoided the elephant’s wild blows contemptuously, plunging to the soft earth like a cannonball as all three of our mounts stampeded and the injured elephant’s foot struck James.

The beaters and mahouts scattered. The Creature casually disemboweled the closest man: it never even turned its head, already gathering itself for another pounce. Even as I leveled my weapon I knew it was hopeless. I squeezed the trigger and the rifle hammered my shoulder once, and again. Rodney sprinted back to me, my Purdey clutched in his hand. He had two cartridges between his fingers, drawn from the loops on his vest, and he had the rifle broken, loading both barrels simultaneously as he ran.

The good doctor stood rooted in shock. I heard the report of von Hammerstein’s gun and, a second later, that of Miss Adler’s. I released my empty weapon as Rodney, spitting fragments of words in his excitement, smoothly handed me the replacement. Mr. Waterhouse was turning to cover the beast with shaking hands, unable to fire as long as we stood behind it, craning his neck in an attempt to see both the quarry and his two sons.

The animal stalked forward, opening its flame-rimmed maw, and I heard again the sound I had compared to the pounding of drums or the throb of a mighty heart. The roar went on and on, and my heart quailed and my hands shook as it slunk one pad-footed step forward.

I readied my useless weapon, determined to die fighting, and Miss Adler loosed her second shot. The bullet ruptured the hide of the beast and a ripple shuddered across its surface as if she had tossed a rock into water. A few spattering droplets of fire shot up, falling to the grass, where they smoked and vanished.

Count Kolinzcki staggered back, down on one knee in fright and despair, his hand dropping from his breast to fumble with his weapon. Von Hammerstein held his fire. I knew he would be waiting for a shot at the eye—a forlorn hope, but the one I clung to as well.

The thunder of hooves spoiled my aim. I raised my gaze from my gun sight to witness the arrival of the proverbial cavalry. A lathered bay gelding—of Arab stock, to guess by its small stature and luxurious mane—charged out of the bamboo in full flight. Its flanks heaved and blood-flecked foam flew from its bit. On its back was a mustachioed officer, who hauled up short on the reins and virtually lifted his mount into the air.

It was a prodigious leap: the little horse’s hindquarters bunched and released, and it sailed up and over the back of the Creature. The tigerlike thing twisted in a fruitless attempt to score the horse with its claws, and then recoiled as the rider hurled some sort of pouch at its face. Whatever it was, it hurt! The Creature throbbed again, searing the depths of my ears, and turned and bounded away.

The officer hauled his horse to a stop and whirled it about on its haunches—an unequaled display of horsemanship. The little bay half reared in protest of the hard handling, and then settled down, pawing and snorting.

The officer gentling it with a hand on its neck was a man of middle years, his hair iron gray as was his copious mustache. He had a high forehead and a sensual twist to his mouth, and his eyes glittered still with the excitement of the hunt.

At the appearance of the officer, the Arab turned as if to flee, and almost ran directly into me. He still wove on his feet, and I detained him easily enough.

“Sir,” Miss Adler said, first in command of her wits, “we are indebted to you beyond any repayment.”

“Miss,” he replied, “it is my privilege to serve. And now we must be away, before it returns.”

I identified the British insignia upon his uniform. “Colonel, I thank you as well. I am Magnus Larssen, these good people’s guide. We have wounded.” The beater who had been disemboweled by the Creature was dead or dying quickly, but I could see James picking himself up painfully, his father crouching beside him with an expression of terrible grief. Dr. Montleroy was already trotting to their side.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran, Her Majesty’s First Bengalore Pioneers,” he said. I noticed that in addition to a sidearm and saber, there was an elephant gun sheathed on his saddle in much the fashion that the Americans carry their buffalo rifles.

Von Hammerstein and Rodney were crouched where the Creature had been. Rodney held up a burst leather water bottle: the object that the colonel had thrown in its face.

“There’s no spoor, sahib,” Rodney said. “It leaves no marks in the grass. Like smoke. There are”—a silence—“specks of molten lead.” Bullets, he did not say.

I felt a cold, thickening sensation in my belly: fear.

“Shikari,” began the colonel, but then he hesitated with a glance to the grief-stricken father, and began to dismount and unlimber his gun. “The young man looks well enough to ride. Have him sling the boy over my saddle. We must make it to the river by nightfall.”

He spared a glance for the Arab, and another caress for the exhausted horse. “This man is my prisoner. I pursued him from the border, and I will be bringing him back with me.”

Kolinzcki, rising to his feet, seemed about to protest, but something in the glitter of the colonel’s eyes silenced him. For myself, I merely nodded, and went with von Hammerstein to collect the casualties.

The events of that afternoon return to me now only as a heat-soaked blur. We walked only when we could run no longer. Waterhouse clung to the stirrup of the colonel’s horse, trotting alongside it as he steadied his sons. Conrad still breathed, but he had not regained consciousness, and I believed James was suffering an internal injury: he grew ever whiter and more silent, and most of our water went to him.

I knew the Creature stalked us, as wounded cats will, for every so often I caught a taste of its red scent upon the breeze, and the gelding was hot-eyed and terrified. I feared the poor beast’s wind was broken: it wheezed through every breath and staggered under its double burden, but it kept up gamely.

The colonel had bound the Arab’s hands before him with a leather strap. Through this means, Moran contrived to keep the prisoner upright and moving, although he was staggering from exhaustion.

I came up beside him when we had not been moving long and leaned into his ear. “The Arab is a Tsarist agent?”

“Of a sort,” he said, one wary eye on the individual in question. “A tribal shaman. A personage. And an Afghan, not an Arab.” He raked me with a sidelong glance and I nodded to encourage his discourse. “He was traveling to India with an entourage. We stopped the rest at the border, but this one got through. Fortunately, I’ve apprehended him before . . .” His voice trailed off. “What are your politics, Larssen?”

“I haven’t any.”

He grunted. “Get some.” And walked away.

My especial burden was the fat Count, who staggered along in our wake and complained. Miss Adler kept along nicely, bearing her own distress very well, despite suspicious looks from the Count. Almost, I thought he was about to break into open argument with her, but he directed a hard look at Moran and kept his comments to the heat.

Finally, in the haze of heat and despair, Moran turned on the Count. “If you don’t stop whining, I’ll send you back in pieces!” he snapped, shaking his gun for emphasis.

The Count halted. “A common Englishman does not call me a fool!” he replied sharply. “I am accustomed to a dignified pace, and if this Norwegian idiot had not led us into the lair of monsters”—a rude gesture in my direction—“we’d all be bathed and fed by now!”

The colonel’s prisoner chose this moment to break in, gesticulating and seeming to berate the Count, shrieking in anger. The Count listened for a moment, and shook his head. He glanced around in appeal. “Do any of you understand this barbarian?” he asked, glancing from one to another.

None answered, but Moran’s eyebrow rose in silent speculation.

Night came on more quickly than I could have imagined. My feet were bloody in my boots, and sun blisters rose along the length of my nose where my helmet did not shade it. I grew deaf to the hum of insects, the chatter of monkeys and birds. The sole promise of relief was the black storm front piling up on the horizon: the long-overdue monsoon, racing northward to greet us. Whenever I found the strength to raise my head, I glanced at those bulging clouds, prayerful, but they never seemed closer. As if some invisible army held them besieged, they roiled and tore, but could not advance.

Dr. Montleroy sought me out as the afternoon waned into evening. “I’m going to lose James unless I can get him to help, and quickly. I may anyway, but there’s still time to try.”

“What does his father say?” I croaked.

“He knows,” Montleroy answered, with a glance over his shoulder to the white-faced man. “It is one son or neither.”

I nodded once. “Take all the water. Go.”

We pulled Conrad down off the exhausted gelding over James’s feeble protests, and the good doctor swung up behind. Moran poured water for the horse into his hat, and the animal sucked it up in a single desperate draft. “Go like the wind,” he said to it, and slapped it hard across the flank. It startled and bolted, Montleroy and James bent low over its neck.

“Godspeed,” said Miss Adler from beside me. I glanced around in surprise. It was then that I noticed that the Count was missing.

No one had seen him fall behind, and we could not turn back. Mr. Waterhouse, von Hammerstein, and I took turns carrying Conrad, who drifted in a fever. He mumbled strange phrases in a language I had never heard, but which seemed to discomfit Moran’s prisoner greatly.

The prisoner attempted to speak to me, but I could only shake my head at his foreign tongue. He tried von Hammerstein as well, to equally little avail, and Moran did not interfere. I had the distinct impression that the colonel watched out of the corner of his eye, as if observing our faces for any sign of comprehension, but the chattering of the monkeys meant more, at least to me.

With her paramour gone, Miss Adler stalked up to the front of the group. It was she who first identified the clearing where we had killed the tigress. We paused for breath, and the prisoner threw himself down in the long grass and panted.

“Two more miles to the river,” she said, in a flat and hopeless tone, resting the Winchester’s stock on the ground. Moran glanced from her to the rapidly darkening sky and grunted. Waterhouse’s face clenched in terror and I knew it was not for himself that he feared.

“We could try to run it,” offered von Hammerstein. He shifted the still form of Conrad Waterhouse on his shoulder and stared out toward the grasslands, a calculating look on his face. “Could you keep up, miss?”

The woman frowned. “I daresay.” She bent down to unlace her boots while Rodney held the Winchester. She stepped out of them and knotted them over her shoulder.

The monkeys fell silent. The prisoner started up, eyes staring, and he cried aloud—“Ia! Ia Hastur cf’ayah ‘vugtlagln Hastur!”—and then, in mangled Hindi, “The burning one comes!” His eyes shimmered insanely. His voice was exultant. I wondered why he had not spoken Hindi before, at least to myself or Rodney.

“Run,” Moran shouted, yanking on the leather strap, and we ran.

The six of us, Moran dragging his captive, pelted out of the sal and down the slope of the land toward the riverbank. Around us the grass burned from gold to bloody in the light of the sunset. An enormous orb, already half concealed by the horizon, lit the scene like the plains of hell.

I ran with my hand clenched on my rifle, heedless of clutching grasses. Rodney darted ahead with one hand on von Hammerstein’s arm, nearly dragging the laden man. Conrad bounced on his back, voice raised in a peculiar shriek, raving a string of words that pained my ears.

The ground blurred under my feet, and as I passed Miss Adler I caught her elbow and dragged her along—she was running well, but my legs were longer. Ahead of me, I saw Moran give an assisting shove to Waterhouse and turn around to yank the leather strap again. His prisoner simply piled into him, swinging his hands like a club, teeth bared to bite.

“The dagger!” he shrieked in broken Hindi, foam flying from his teeth. “You fool, or it will have us all!”

Moran moved with the speed of a man half his age. “Go on,” he yelled at me as I moved to help him. He ducked under the prisoner’s swing and brought his gun butt up under the man’s jaw. As I pelted past, the Arab tumbled boneless to the ground, and Moran raised his weapon.

I flinched, expecting a shot, but Moran snarled as he hauled the prisoner to his feet.

I caught my breath in my teeth. It hurt. “Not . . . going to make it,” Miss Adler groaned between breaths.

A lone tree rose before us as I stole a glance over my shoulder. We were less than halfway to the river, and I could see the red glow of the sunset matched by an answering inferno only yards behind.

Von Hammerstein and Waterhouse had reached the same conclusion, for as we drew up we saw them crouched in the grass. Rodney stood just behind them, his eyes very white and wide in his mahogany face. He clapped my shoulder as I passed him, and I realized that he was younger than Conrad Waterhouse, over whose raving form he stood guard.

“Good lad,” I said to him, which seemed wholly inadequate, and I came and stood beside him. I remembered that we had given all our water to James, and nevertheless I found my fear lifting. I was resigned.

Moran came up to us and took in the situation with a nod. We turned at bay, the devil before us and the sunset at our backs.

It let us see it coming—a glowing specter in the darkness, a demon of flame and fear. It leaped through the tall grass toward me—a bound of perhaps forty feet. I caught a very clear view of it as it gathered itself. Flaming eyes glittered at me with unholy intelligence in the moment before it leaped.

I felt something rise in my heart under that regard, an antique horror such as I had never known, and I heard Waterhouse whimper—or perhaps I myself moaned aloud in fear. Words seemed to form in my mind, words of invocation that I both knew and did not know, powerful and ancient and evil as maggots in my soul: “Iä! Iä Hastur . . .”

I emptied the .534 at it, to no effect. Beside me, I heard von Hammerstein’s gun choke and roar twice. He reached for a second one. The reek of powder hung thick upon the air.

The beast was in midair—it was among us—Conrad had risen to his feet with madness on his face and thrown himself at Rodney. Waterhouse caught the blow, staggered, and bore the boy over onto the ground, kneeling on his chest and bearing his hands down only with great difficulty. Rodney never flinched.

I dropped the empty weapon. “Boy. Gun!”

Rodney snapped the Purdey into my hand, and I aimed along the barrel with a prayer to Almighty God on my lips. Moran was distracted from his prisoner, shaking his weapon loose and raising it in a futile and beautiful gesture. His luxurious mustache draped across the scrollwork on the gun as he sighted, and he placed two shots directly into the beast’s eye as it lunged.

The flaming paw hurt not at all. It struck me high on the thigh, and I felt a distinct shattering sensation, but there was no pain. I lost the Purdey, and I saw poor Rodney hurled aside by a second thunderous blow. He fell like a broken doll, and he did not rise. Mr. Waterhouse started up to defend his boy, and was knocked backward fifteen feet into the tree before its next blow crushed von Hammerstein against the earth. I felt the impact from where I lay.

Moran turned with his gun, coolly tracking the Creature. He did not see his prisoner rise up from the ground clutching a rock in his bound hands, and my shout came too late. Even as he spun, the villain laid him out.

Then, suddenly, Miss Irene Adler was standing behind the prisoner, something glittering in her hand. She drew her arm back, and with a Valkyrie shout she plunged the Count’s dagger deep into the Arab’s back. The man stiffened, shuddered, and clawed, tied hands thrust into the air as if to drag Miss Adler off his back. I was eerily reminded of the poor, wounded elephant.

He sagged to his knees as the Creature snarled its throbbing snarl and spun about on its haunches. It took a step toward Miss Adler and screamed as only a cat can scream.

The prisoner fell to the ground dead, and Miss Adler stood defiant and braced behind the corpse, ready for whatever death might find her. Seeming unaffected by the death of the Arab, the Creature crouched to leap. Pain grinding in my broken leg, I started to drag myself upright with some futile idea of hurling myself on the thing.

At that moment, the rain came.

The monsoon was upon us like a wall of glass, and the Creature screamed again—this time, in agony. It turned this way and that, frantic to escape the raindrops, like a dog that seeks to elude a beating. Each drop sizzled and steamed as it struck, and with each drop the devil’s light flickered, spots appearing on its hide like the speckles on a coal sprinkled with water.

It twisted about itself, shrieking, and finally seemed to collapse. A sickening scent of char rose from the wet ashes that were all that remained.

My leg flared at last into agony, and a black tunnel closed upon my sight.

I groaned and opened my eyes on a vision of bedraggled and ineffable beauty tucking a jeweled dagger into her reticule. There was a tarpaulin under me—wet, but drier than the ground—and another one hung over the branches of the tree to shield me from the worst of the rain. I recognized it as gear Rodney had carried. Moran lay beside me, under a blanket, quite still.

She laid a damp cloth on my forehead and smoothed back my hair before she stood. “Your leg is broken. I beg you to forgive me for leaving you in such straits, Mr. Larssen. I assure you I will send help, but I must leave at once: it is a delicate matter, and vital to the security of a certain Baltic nobleman that the theft of this dagger from his household never be proven—either by the English or the Russians.”

“Wait,” I cried. “Miss Adler—Irene—”

“You may certainly call me Irene,” she replied, something like amusement in her voice. I saw that her gloves were burned through, and the palms of her hands were blistered.

I tried for a moment to formulate a question, but words failed me. “What has happened here?” I finally asked her, trusting that she would understand.

“I am afraid you have been rather overtaken by events, my dear Mr. Larssen . . . Magnus. As have we all. I came here to retrieve this dagger, which was stolen from a friend of mine. The rather vile Mr. Kolinzcki, whom I fear is neither a Count nor a Lithuanian but an agent of the Tsar, stole it and brought it here with the intention of providing it to this Afghan sorcerer.”

She spurned the corpse with her toe.

“For all I know, he intended some foul ritual of human sacrifice, which may have greatly discomfited the British army. At the very least, it seems to have had the power to control that.” She gestured expressively to the pile of ashes. “A pity I had to kill him. I imagine he would have befuddled British intelligence greatly, if they had the chance to interrogate him. But once I understood that he was somehow holding back the storm . . .”

“Monsoon. If I may be so bold as to correct a lady.”

“Monsoon.” She smiled.

“But how? You cannot tell me how?” I wished I could grit my teeth against the pain in my leg, but they chattered so that I could not manage it. I did not look to where Rodney lay, out in the cold rain.

“It seems that there are things in heaven and earth that lie beyond our ken as Western minds of scientific bent.”

I nodded and a wave of pain and nausea threatened to overwhelm me. “The Count?” I asked.

She lifted her strong shoulders and let them drop, her expression dark. “Left behind and eaten, I presume. I assure you that your assistance has been invaluable, and that the war in Afghanistan may now come to a close.”

She set a pan of rainwater and a loaded pistol close by my hand. “The colonel is alive but unconscious—it seems the blow rendered him insensate.” A final hesitation, before she turned to go.

She turned back, and seemed to study my face for a moment. I hoped I saw something like affection there. “I am also very sorry about Rodney.”

It was a very long, cold night then, but the villagers and Dr. Montleroy came for me in the morning. We did not speak, then or ever, of the thing we had seen.

James survived, although Conrad never regained himself. I had occasional dealings after with Colonel Moran, until he left the region for cooler climes. I understand he has come to a very bad end.

As for Miss Adler—her, I never saw again. But my dreams are haunted to this day by her face and, less pleasantly, by those eerie words—Iä! Iä Hastur cf’ayah ‘vugtlagln Hastur!—and I have never since been able to take up a gun for sport.