"The devas joined together to try and defeat Lord Raksa, raising an army of humans to follow them into battle, but the asura leader slew those who marched against him as if they were wheat before the sickle. The devas were equally unprepared for the savagery of their enemy, and many of their number were lost to Lord Raksa's sword.
"The surviving devas gathered to decide what must be done. It was revealed to them by a captured asura foot soldier they tortured that the only way Lord Raksa's spell of invulnerability could be counteracted was if a female warrior of equal ferocity met him in battle. When the devas heard this, they became even more agitated, because devas are without true gender, being neither man nor woman. They knew that to send a human female against an asura was worse than useless, for even if she succeeded in killing Raksa, his blood would still fall upon the ground and revive him.
"The more the devas reflected on their predicament, the angrier they became. Their wrath grew and grew, feeding on itself, until it leapt from their eyes and mouths like burning water. Out of the pillar of flame stepped the figure of a woman, shaped in the manner of monsters, yet divine in nature. Her skin was black as night, her eyes red as spilled blood.
When she smiled, she showed teeth as sharp as knives and a tongue as long and pointed as a cat's. In one hand she carried a noose, in the other she bore a trident, the center tine of which was made of living fire.
"The devas looked upon the Holy Monster born of their righteous anger and were elated and frightened by what they had wrought, but lost no time sending their new-born creation out onto the battlefield to face their enemy. The asura lord laughed when he saw the Holy Monster, for she was no bigger than a mortal woman, while he stood nearly twelve feet high. Lord Raksa was still laughing as he charged her, but his amusement ended as the Holy Monster plunged her trident into his heart and raised him above her head like a speared fish.
"As blood gushed from Lord Raksa's pierced heart, the Holy Monster opened wide her mouth and drank every last drop. The asura army, seeing their leader drained like a wineskin, cast aside their weapons and fled in terror. However, the Holy Monster was drunk on the blood of her enemy and not ready to stop at killing Lord Raksa. She pursued the fleeing demons and slew them all, from the grandest general to the lowliest cook.
"Once she was finished with the asura, she turned her fearsome bloodlust on the humans, adorning herself in the limbs and entrails of her victims. The Holy Monster drank streams of blood that became lakes that grew into rivers that expanded into oceans. And with every human she emptied, she left behind a trace of asura, so that they arose from the dead, changed from within. These creatures, born of the Holy Monster's bloodlust, were
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) called
enkidu
—known to you as vampires.
"Finally, the demon blood within the Holy Monster ran its course and her black skin split, like that of a snake, revealing golden light. Casting aside her monstrosity, the Holy Monster took her place amongst the devas who had made her. And like many before her, the Holy Monster was made a goddess in the eyes of humankind."
"And the Demon Knife? How does that fit into your story?"
"When the Holy Monster shed her skin, she cast aside her trident, the center tine of which had been transformed into a blade of purest silver as it was plunged into the icy heart of Lord Raksa. As time passed, the trident rotted away, leaving only the silver blade, which became known as the Demon Knife. The Black Shrine of the Holy Monster was built to house these precious relics, and there they have remained since the Ice Age, guarded by the descendants of those who once looked upon the Holy Monster in her terrible wrath and dedicated themselves to her worship."
"And you were once amongst their number?"
"I was their high priest," Naga replied simply, but not without a hint of pride in his voice.
"If not for the pipe, I would still be amongst my brothers, offering bowls of blood and milk to She Who Strides Amongst The Dead. But I made the mistake of coming down to the city to trade for necessities, and was introduced to the smoke of the dragon. Thus I became the debased creature you see before you—one willing to betray his heritage for chandu of the first chop."
"Not that we don't appreciate it, ole bhoy," Multoon chimed in.
Ghilardi studied the priest for a long moment. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?"
"Because I am damned, " Naga said, dipping
his yen hock
yet again into the black tar opium. "And the damned do not lie."
Ghilardi looked up from his work as Multoon entered the tent, bringing with him a gust of frigid Himalayan air. As usual, the ginger-haired Irishman seemed in a foul mood.
"Th' damned wogs are demandin' more money," Multoon spat. "Thim buggers won't go on if they don't get it."
Ghilardi sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. "I thought you said Gupta could handle them."
"He can—under normal circumstances. But there's a point where even th' lash fails to motivate. They're afraid of evil spirits, sorr."
Ghilardi set aside the papers, a sour look on his face. Two weeks out of Simla, with an early winter on the way, and they had yet to locate the valley Naga had described. He had far too much invested in the expedition to back out now, but he did not relish having to reach into his own pocket yet again. As it was, he had serious reservations about the character of Multoon, who he suspected was lying to him about the bearers in order to gouge him even deeper. However, he needed Multoon as much as the bearers, for the old soldier knew the language and the people of the Himalayas far better than he did.
"Very well," Ghilardi sighed, dropping his shoulders in resignation. "Tell Gupta his men will get their pay."
Multoon smiled, the gleam of greed in his eye confirming Ghilardi's suspicions. "Very
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) good, sorr! I'll let thim know direct!"
Ghilardi drummed his fingers on the camp table, trying to figure a way out of the situation he had made for himself. While his inheritance was considerable, it was nowhere large enough to finance a prolonged stay in India. There were matters concerning the family business he had been putting aside for several months, which could no longer be ignored, especially now that war had been declared between the Kaiser and the British king.
The elder Ghilardi had always dismissed the occult as a fraud designed to separate the gullible from their money. Now that the mantle of family patriarch had been placed on his own youthful shoulders, Ghilardi was beginning to wonder if his father had not been right.
Still, his father's passion for mountaineering, which had provided Ghilardi with a premature legacy, was now placing his son in good stead regarding the expedition. No doubt Multoon had not expected his young business partner to be so at home in the higher altitudes.
Outside his tent there was the sound of several highly agitated voices chattering away in Hindi. Ghilardi groaned and rolled his eyes as he got to his feet to see what the devil was going on. He threw back the flap and saw Multoon standing in the middle of a swirling knot of bearers, most of whom looked like they were ready to bolt the camp. Multoon's man, Gupta, a hawk-faced Hindu with eyes as black and bitter as coffee and skin the color of chai, pushed his way through the mob, cursing the bearers while lashing out at them with a dog whip. Although surrounded by chaos, Multoon was beaming from ear-to-ear.
"Good lord, man!" Ghilardi shouted at Multoon above the din. "What is going on?"
"We done it!" Multoon bellowed in reply. "We done it! We found th' Black Shrine!"
The "we" was actually a bearer named Sarad who set out in pursuit of a mule that had broken its tether. After an hour of searching, Sarad finally cornered the wayward pack animal in a box canyon. It wasn't until he had succeeded in harnessing the mule that Sarad noticed the huge edifice at the bottom of the canyon. Ghilardi could not fault the boy's intellect, for he too had nearly overlooked it, even though he knew it was there. The entrance was carved directly into the rock face, but was so weathered by time as to appear natural at a distance. But upon closer inspection what at first appeared to be a collection of strangely grouped outcroppings proved themselves to be the outline of a human head, a cavern serving as a gaping maw, complete with a row of jagged stalagmites arranged like a row of pointed teeth.
"What do you think, Multoon?" Ghilardi asked, passing the binoculars to the Irishman.
"Looks peaceful enough," he replied, scanning the area with the slow, steady sweep of someone accustomed to reconnaissance. "No sign of ole Naga's bunk-mates, as far as I can see. But I can tell ye one thing, sorr, and that's thim black buggers back there won't come down into th' canyon, much less set foot inside that cave." "I expected as much,"
Ghilardi said. "What of Gupta?" "He sez he'll guard th' entrance, but he refuses to come inside." "Then it's up to us to get in there, find the Demon Knife, and get out in one piece.
Speaking of Naga's brothers; what do you think they would do to us if they caught us?"
"Tis a heathen land," Multoon said. "And heathens ain't ones for blasphemin'."
The interior of the cave was unlike anything Ghilardi had ever seen before. The first yard or so was on level ground, but then the floor of the cavern sloped steeply downward. But
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) what made this cave remarkable were the stairs that lead into the darkness below. The steps were as wide as those of the Royal Museum in London, and made of huge, unbroken slabs of black marble. Every dozen steps there stood a metal brazier that smelled of sandalwood. Ghilardi was quick to notice the groove worn into the center of the stairway by the passage of countless feet.
After five minutes they came to a wide underground pool as flat as glass, to the right of which, in a natural grotto, stood a statue of the dread goddess atop a dais fashioned of volcanic glass.
"Mein Gott
—!" he whispered under his breath.
"God has nothing to do with this, me bhoy," Multoon rasped.
Unlike many of the idols Ghilardi had seen in his travels, the image of Kali was of human scale and lacked the multiple arms and faces so common amongst the Vedic deities.
However, despite its size, the idol of the Holy Monster was indeed marvelous to behold.
The figure was frozen in mid-dance, knee bent and foot raised, and although its surface was black as night, it seemed to shine in the flickering light from the huge braziers that flanked the dais, each big enough to hold a man. Save for a garland of skulls fashioned from whole pieces of ivory about its neck, and a skirt of hands made from mutton jade, the Holy Monster was naked. Twin rubies twinkled in the eye sockets and a grotesquely long and pointed tongue, carved from a single piece of red jade, jutted from its mouth. In the left hand of the idol was a noose fashioned from the finest silk, and in the right was clutched a dagger.
Ghilardi's heart leapt like a fish as he looked upon the fabled Demon Knife. In the flickering light from the braziers it shone like the morning star, bedazzling him with its serpentine shape and simple beauty. As he climbed the dais his ears were filled with a strange ringing, like the tolling of crystalline bells.
As Ghilardi stood face-to-face with the idol, staring directly into its ruby eyes, a queasy sensation of dread building in his gut replaced the exhilaration in his heart. In such close quarters he could plainly see that the idol of the Holy Monster was not carved from wood or stone, nor cast from metal, but instead an astonishing example of taxidermy.
Swallowing the bitter ball of grease rising in his throat, Ghilardi turned his attention to wresting the Demon Knife from the effigy's hand. He fumbled with the rigid fingers for what felt like a small eternity before finally succeeding in breaking its grip.
Ghilardi turned his back to the idol and held his prize up to the light, where it shone and sparkled like ice. Despite being fashioned from silver it weighed no more than an ordinary pocketknife, and was perfectly balanced. The undulating blade, similar to that of a kriss, was fitted to a hilt of finest ebony, and its dual edges gleamed like freshly whetted razorblades. Looking at its pristine glory, it was not hard to imagine such a weapon laying waste to legions of the damned. Indeed, the legends concerning the Demon Knife claimed that there was no devil that could not be killed with it—not even the Greatest of Evils Incarnate.
A rattling sound, like that of a wooden wind chime, shook Ghilardi from his reverie. He turned and saw Multoon remove the garland of ivory skulls from the idol's neck and stuff them into a canvas bag.
"
What are you doing?
" he yelped, his voice sounding young and foolish even in his own ears. "Put that back!"
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) Multoon paused in his looting long enough to favor his partner with a sneer. "What 'tis it to ye? Ye got yer loot, eh? Ye didn't think I spent all this time an' effort just t'
steal a fancy pig-sticker, did ye? Besides, in for a penny, in for a pound, I allus say." Multoon returned to looting the idol, removing the skirt of jade hands from its waist, then yanking free the red jade tongue that jutted from between the idol's lips.
Ghilardi's eyes widened in alarm when Multoon took out his pocketknife and locked its blade into the open position. He grabbed the older man's arm, staying his hand. "Are you mad—!? This isn't just looting, it's desecration!"
Multoon shoved the younger man aside. "Mad? I'll tell ye what's mad!" he snarled. "It's skinnin' some poor dear, dyin' her blacker'n Queen's Victoria's mournin' dress, then stuffin'
her like she was some bloody huntin' trophy!" He plunged the pocketknife into the idol's right socket, popping the ruby eyeball free in a spray of horsehair and packed sawdust.