CHAPTER III
THE CITY OF THE WHIRLING SANDS
SEVERN lay flat at the mouth of the defile and watched an extraordinary scene from beneath the curving rim of a great boulder.
Before dawn they had arrived at the valley of Darkan. This valley had two entrances, and this southern entrance was guarded by a single Mongol. As Kilgore had explained, the office of guardian was hereditary. Except for this one man, those of the tribe never ventured into the valley of the whirling sands.
Severn stared as a lone Sikh advanced, unarmed and openly, in the new light of day. The Sikh held his turban-ring over one wrist. Ahead of him appeared nothing but rock.
“A play for primitive curiosity,” said Kilgore, low-voiced, from his position beside Severn. “If it wins—we win. Few men have seen a Sikh turban-ring at work. Watch.”
The Sikh came to a pause, stared around vacantly. Among the rocks ahead a single skin-clad figure stood up; the dull glint of a rifle-barrel was visible. The Sikh seemed not to observe it, but stooped and fumbled at the laces of a shoe.
The Mongol stepped forward, rifle held loosely. The Sikh picked up a stone and threw it at some invisible snake or scorpion near by. The Mongol jumped, saw that his fear was groundless, came forward again.
Then for the second time the Sikh stooped to throw. The motion appeared awkward and ungainly. The steel ring left his hand, whirled out in a wide arc, and the Mongol stared at it in astonishment. The ring curved through the air, as a flat stone curves from the hand of a boy; it shot upward—and suddenly gave one terrible swoop downward. A cry burst from the Mongol. The razor-edge of that steel ring struck him between neck and body. He vanished from sight.
Day's whistle shrilled. The Sikhs leaped up, ran for the defile. Severn found himself running with them. They came to the lone Sikh rising from above the body of the Mongol, wiping his ring. He saluted Kilgore and smiled.
“Sahib, he was alone.”
Day picked up a long tube of bronze which the Mongol had dropped. It was some sort of horn or trumpet. That its note could cover the ten miles of valley to the Darkan temple was an incredible conjecture; yet here was the man, here was the trumpet—naught beside.
“I guess,” said Day, “we won't try the thing, eh? come on.”
The horses were brought up, and the fifteen men rode through the defile. This, presently, widened before them, broadened out into a great valley of sand—a yellow waste in the morning sunlight, with yellow mountains to the left, purple-shadowed hills to the right. They halted to make camp beside a pool of clear, cold water in a hollow of the defile.
“Three hours for sleep,” said Kilgore calmly. “Then on.”
No fires were made. The Sikhs squatted, ate, talked in low eager tones. Severn and Day, who was also seeing this place for the first time, sat and listened to Kilgore, who had an excellent idea of how the land lay.
“Imagine a great Y,” said the Canadian, “at the bottom of which we now stand. This lower portion is ten miles in length. Once it was a fertile valley, like those buried cities of Khotan which you have seen, Severn. Under that sand ahead of us lies a city”
“This is the valley of whirling sands, that the legends tell about?”
“Exactly. At the upper end stands the Darkan temple, the last remnant of that lost City. The right fork of the Y is short, only a few miles in length, and ends in a blank valley—what would be called a box cañon in the States. That is where the magic lake of singing fishes and purple grass lies, the home of Esrun himself.
“The left fork of the Y, to the left of those central hills ahead, is a defile like this one, but it opens into a series of valleys which support the Darkan tribe. Fandi Singh is now at that defile, I trust, waiting to cut off the caravan. He is to join us at the temple two hours after dark. There will be only the ten priests to fear. They have a number of Mongol women who attend to the housekeeping. We'll handle them easily.”
Severn gave his companions a reflective glance.
“The whole procedure sounds like a very simple thing, after all.”
Kilgore smiled.
“It would be simple to captureif one had a plan of the place! Let's get some sleep. Guards out, Day?”
The latter nodded.
“No forage for the horses, though. They're in bad shape.”
“There's forage to be had in plenty—at the temple.”
Day grinned and settled himself for sleep in the hollows he had dug for hips and shoulder-blades. Severn followed suit and was asleep almost instantly.
When he wakened, it was to hear a low murmur of wonder from the bearded Sikhs, who were one and all staring at the sand-valley before them, Severn sat up and looked at the valley; he remained thus, propped up on his hands, staring blankly.
There was something—a score of things—moving there, far down the valley. At first glance they looked like water-spouts, some of huge size, some very small. They were, of course, whirlwinds of sand; but the odd thing was that they retained their shape and moved in almost regular lines back and forth.
Smiling, Kilgore thrust a pair of field-glasses into the hand of Severn. The latter looked again. Miles away in that clear atmosphere, he saw strange things. Those whirling sands were, in the central portion of the valley, marching in incredible numbers. As they came and went, Severn saw a black mass disclosed for a moment—the ruin of some uncovered house or palace. It vanished again. He saw great toghrak-trees laid bare, and then disappear. He saw buildings come into shape; one looked like the tope of some low-built temple.
A stalwart Sikh came up and saluted Kilgore.
“Sahib, this is the place of whirling sands, of which you told us? Good. Do these sands swallow up men?”
“Like flies,” said Kilgore grimly. “We march by the eastern rim of the valley, risaldar. If we have luck we shall get through.”
“Wah, Guru!” exclaimed the Sikh. “Then we wet our turbans here.”
He gave an order. The Sikhs sprang into activity, tearing from their long turbans strips of cloth for the noses of men and animals—the leather head-bags had been left with the camels. The wet cloths would substitute. Kilgore turned to Severn.
“You see why no Mongols venture into this valley, except at such times as the priests indicate?”
Severn nodded.
“Wind-currents, atmospheric conditions, heat and altitude,” he said curtly. “When do we march?”
“Now,” answered Day, and shrilled on his whistle.
The fifteen set out. There was but one lead-pony, which bore Kilgore's machine gun. Following the Canadian, they headed diagonally for the eastern edge of the valley, where comparatively few of the sand-spouts were dancing.
It was wearisome going, for the sands were loose and shifting, so that the animals sank fetlock-deep at each step; Severn perceived that they would be most of the day in traversing this ten-mile valley. He had had his fill of this monotonous sand-marching long since. The menace of the whirling pillars of sand did not worry him, nor the gusty winds that filled the air with flying particles. He was inured to all this and as he rode on his thoughts wandered to Kilgore's separation of forces.
That Kilgore had left his camels and baggage to follow under guard of Sheng Wu and the Manchu riders, less from choice than from necessity, was plain enough. Yet Severn did not like it. Such men as the Darkan priests, who kept in full touch with the outside world by means of their novitiates, might easily have heard of the projected expedition; all magic aside, they might have learned of it through natural sources of information. A conviction oppressed Severn's mind that Kilgore had committed a fatal error—but it was not his to speak of it now.
Time dragged. The party made slow progress along the eastern edge of the valley and presently even Severn was eying the sand-spouts uneasily. Large and small, those whirling vortices moved with an incredible speed. Noses of men and animals were muffled in the wet cloths. When one of the smallest pillars shot toward them, a tiny vortex no higher than a mounted man, the riders eyed it grimly and awaited its coming without fear.
It burst upon them. Severn, no less than the others, was profoundly startled by the frightful force of this tiny sand-spout. It was a perfect maelstrom of wind and sand that whirled on them, buffeted and wrenched them, nearly tore them from their saddles. The sand cut through clothes and hairy pelts to the skin. When they emerged from it, they were gasping, staggered, stricken. The captured Mongol ponies broke away and fled, screaming shrilly.
“My !” croaked Day in dismay. “If one of those big fellows lands on us, good night! That was sample enough for me”
Kilgore held up his hand and gave a sharp command.
“Forward! At the whistle from Day sahib, break ranks and seek shelter along the rock-ledges. Forward.”
They rode on, men and beasts sorely shaken by realization of the danger. To their right stretched abrupt ledges of the red Khangai granite. Kilgore explained to Severn that, although there were no sand-spouts in the valley at night, precisely for that reason had he chosen to attack by day. The priests would be caught completely off guard at dark.
“You have planned boldly,” said Severn. The eyes of Kilgore bored into him.
“But not well?”
Severn parried with his gentle smile.
“My dear chap, I certainly am no competent critic. No two generals adopt the same tactics. Let us await the event”
Day's whistle shrilled; a great whirling pillar had swerved and was sweeping straight toward them as if guided by some infernal intelligence. The horses snorted, broke in panic. Severn, like the others, dismounted and gripped his bridle, clinging close in against the rocky wall that would break the blow.
But not all gained that wall. Two of the horses got the bits between their teeth and with their riders bolted straight ahead, frantic with terror. As if they were standing still, Severn saw the whirling pillar rush for them—then the maelstrom, was shattered along the precipice; he found himself engulfed by a dun cloud of stifling sand and gripped hard at the nostrils of his trembling horse. The two fleeing men vanished. Sand covered everything.
It was over presently. Buried to the waist, the men emerged. The pack-horse with the gun was safe. Allsign of those two men was gone; blotted out as if they had never been, even the place where they had gone down could not be discerned. The sand-waves, in level wind-riffled billows, had covered them over and were smooth again. To search for the lost men were folly; delay in this place were madness.
“Mount,” ordered Day, and the staring men obeyed.
“By the right hand of the Lion,” spoke out the stalwart risaldar, stroking sand from his beard, “I think there are devils in this place!”
“So there are, risaldar,” said Kilgore coolly. “Are we to fear devils, then?”
The risaldar laughed fiercely, and after him the other nine. They spurred forward again; and as they passed through that vast city, buried under the sands of forgotten centuries, they beheld strange things laid bare by the floating sands. Yet they paused not.
Severn, as he rode, wondered what would happen to them if Sheng Wu and the supporting force did not show up.