Goddess of the Dead (Wellington Undead Book 2)

by Richard Estep

  A mighty fortress had long ago been constructed around the temple. It was a fortress that was widely considered to be invulnerable to siege and assault from the outside, so steadfast was the mountain stronghold in design and geography.

  It was called Gawilghur, and the Marathas held claim to both its power and its many dark secrets.

  A ten-foot deep circular pit with steep sides lay between Achalraj and the room’s only exit. Four pairs of stout wooden posts had been driven into the ground on the edge of the pit, roughly corresponding to the cardinal points of the compass. From each post dangled a chain that ended with a sturdy iron manacle.

  The altar itself was carved from a thick slab of stone some eight feet wide and twelve feet long, which was little more than a platform for the twenty-foot tall statue of the goddess herself. Kali appeared to be prancing or capering upon the plinth, her feet hidden by the large mound of skulls which surrounded them on all sides. The skulls were not carved, but rather were those of human sacrifices carried out in her name over hundreds of years by her devotees. A pair of skulls also hung from her earlobes, though these had been carved as part of the statue itself. Her skin was somewhere between dark blue and midnight black in color, but displayed an orange sheen as it reflected the light from the burning braziers that were placed discreetly at the edges of the chamber.

  Nor did Kali’s uniqueness end there, for she was blessed with an additional pair of slim yet muscular arms; two were spread away from her body, casting a beneficent blessing upon those who worshiped her, and of the remainder, one hand held a severed head by a knot of hair, while the other wielded a curved sword. A bright-red tongue protruded rudely from between her black lips, and appeared to be lapping at the dried bloodstains which coated her chest and belly. The stains, too, were real, the result of the same ritual murders which had resulted in the platform of skulls upon which she now stood. A necklace of severed male heads, each dessicated with age and painted a garish white, tastefully covered her naked breasts. Each face wore a subtly different expression, ranging from a slack-jawed gawp which implied that the owner had not foreseen his imminent decapitation, to a screaming rictus of horror which made it clear that this particular victim most definitely had. The years and, in some cases centuries, had not been kind to the heads, shriveling their features to become obscene parodies of how they had once appeared in life. Kali herself remained forever young and unblemished. Which was just as it should be, Achalraj reflected, the hard stone of the floor inducing welcome twinges of pain in his knees and shins. The glory of our Dark Mother shall remain constant and undimmed forever, long after we, her humble servants, have crumbled into dust and ashes.

  The scrape of a sole upon stone caught his attention.

  “All is in readiness,” he said. It was phrased as a statement, rather than a question, and stated with confidence. Those who served Achalraj were only too aware of not only his exacting standards, but also the price of failure.

  “It is, my lord.”

  Achalraj slowly stood and turned to face the chamber’s single doorway, not bothering to brush the dust and dirt from his dark maroon robes. He was a tall man, who had once been slender but whose frame was now beginning to run towards fat. His long, black hair was coiled out of sight beneath a purple turban. Two dark brown eyes regarded the world soberly from beneath a pair of thick-set, bushy eyebrows. A cruel mouth was topped by a long, neatly-trimmed mustache, both ends of which were oiled and curled slightly upwards at each tip.

  With his back to the statue and the altar, the High Priest of Kali regarded the newcomers impassively. Two of his thugs were half-carrying, half-dragging the form of a bound man into the temple. The man was obviously European, judging from his skin (which, though tanned, was blatantly pale by the standards of the region) and the mop of unkempt dark hair which hung down over his eyes. The man was struggling against the bonds of coarse rope which lashed both his wrists and ankles together, the former being secured behind his back. A piece of rag had been stuffed into his mouth, one small corner of which protruded from the opening between his teeth.

  Perhaps most interesting of all was his attire. The man wore a very distinctive style of blue jacket and red sash, which marked him out clearly as a British cavalryman; not one of the countless native silladar horsemen used by the British dogs and their whores of the East India Company, but rather an actual dragoon, part of the contingent sent out from England to further the serve the greed of its corrupt and corpulent king. What was more, markings on the sleeve suggested that this was a man of at least some small rank. This was a prize catch indeed.

  “Bring him to me.”

  As the thugs muscled their captive charge towards the waiting priest, he caught sight of the enormous prancing statue for the first time. The dragoon’s eyes bulged wide in their sockets, taking in the panoply of blood, skulls, and death which adorned the ebony skin of the prancing goddess. His struggles took on a new intensity, and were quieted only when one of the guards struck him a fearsome blow on the back of his skull which rendered him insensible for a few moments. The soldier’s head lolled drunkenly forward. Pushing the now-limp body into position between a pair of the wooden posts, the guards fought little resistance from the incapacitated dragoon as they slashed the rope binding his wrists with a knife and then maneuvered him easily into the pair of manacles, sliding an iron pin firmly into place to secure each one. His body hung slackly from the chains, arms extended tautly above his head.

  “You have the others?” Achalraj asked, eying the prisoner with just a hint of approval.

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” the shorter of the two thugs replied earnestly. “Three more of the British soldiers, just as you said.”

  “Good. Bring them in. Place them there,” he indicated the pit with a nod of his head.

  The two thugs left the temple, and Achalraj waited patiently while they returned with four comrades. Each pair of men carried between them a thick woolen blanket, and within each blanket lay the corpse of another dragoon. The three British soldiers had all died by some combination of bullet, blade, and blunt-force trauma. The first had been shot twice, once in the chest and then again in the shoulder; the second bore slashes to both head and torso that were consistent with the razor-sharp edge of a tulwar; whereas the third had a musket-ball lodged in his abdomen, and had then apparently been helped through death’s doorway by having his skull stoved in with a hefty object, probably the butt of a heavy firearm.

  One by one, the pairs of guards shuffled to the edge of the pit and unceremoniously dumped the dead bodies into it. The corpses rolled limply down the steep sides, finally settling into a jumbled heap close to one another along one inner edge. The guards lined up to face their master, who had removed a human skull from somewhere within the confines of his robes. The upper part of the cranium had been meticulously sawed away and discarded, leaving the interior open to the outside world. The brain and other contents had been scooped carefully out, and the inner surfaces scraped with a blunt knife edge until they practically gleamed. Then, candlewax had been poured into the large, irregular hole through which the brainstem and spinal cord had once passed, then allowed to harden until it formed a very effective plug. The end result turned out to be a skull-shaped chalice.

  “You have done well,” the priest of Kali conceded. “Just as I asked. Three dead, one living. What of the rest?”

  “There were thirteen others. We killed them all, excellency, just as you instructed.” The senior man spoke for all of them. “Unfortunately, we lost ten of our own during the encounter. The British fought well, and bravely.”

  Achalraj nodded. “Such is their reputation. Say what you will of their ethics and gutter-bred morality, their courage and skill upon the battlefield should never be questioned.” A moan from the sole surviving dragoon signified his return to wakefulness. Achalraj walked over to stand in front of him, just in time to receive a look that was filled with pure venom. The priest reached ou
t a hand and took hold of the exposed corner of rag, gingerly tugging it from the man’s mouth. He allowed it to flutter down into the pit, discarding it with obvious distaste.

  “What is your name, Englishman?” Achalraj asked gently. He was rewarded with an almost perfectly-aimed gobbet of spit, landing squarely on the bridge of his nose.

  “Drop dead, you heathen bastard,” gasped the prisoner, breathing heavily. “I’m from Galway, and I’m no bloody Englishman.”

  Without even the merest suggestion of reproach, the priest brushed away the saliva with the edge of one long sleeve. Fingering the two roughly-cut white chevrons that were stitched onto the outer fabric of the dragoon’s upper sleeve, he said, “Whatever your name is, it would seem that you are a leader of some kind. Let us hope that your blood proves worthy of the fact.”

  None of the men saw the knife-stroke coming, for both the weapon and the hand which wielded it had been concealed within the folds of his long sleeve. In a blur, Achalraj swiped the curved blade from left to right across the captive soldier’s throat, slicing neatly through the skin, muscle, and connective tissue with minimal resistance. More importantly, on the right of the now-dying man’s throat, the carotid artery and both the internal and external jugular veins were completely laid open. Hot blood jetted from the wound, which looked to the onlooking thug cultists as though their prisoner had suddenly developed a second mouth, but this one a gaping red orifice without teeth. Knowing what was coming, the priest of Kali had stepped nimbly aside, avoiding the spray of pressurized blood which he knew must inevitably follow.

  For his part, the dragoon began to cough and gag, fighting desperately to breathe as his body died. Bug-eyed, his mouth formed a horrified ‘O’shape, and his limbs struggled futilely against their restraints. With each heartbeat, the torrent of blood became less forceful. The man’s heart was rapidly giving up, unable to sustain even its own need for blood. The raging red torrent had already lessened to a mere gush. Seeing his moment, Achalraj stepped forwards and brought the skull-cup into position to rest directly above the captive’s breastbone, angled upward and inward towards his chin. Steadily, the skull began to fill with blood. The level rose with each weakening pulse of the dying man’s heart, excess blood slopping over the rim of the open skull and spilling onto the earth at the priest’s feet. As the makeshift chalice grew redder, so did the cavalryman’s skin grow paler and whiter. Shortly after it had become full to the brim, the luckless corporal sagged against his chains, completely lifeless.

  “Take him down,” Achalraj ordered. The thug guards hurried to obey. “Throw his body into the pit.”

  Holding the chalice carefully in both hands, the priest turned and knelt once more before his goddess.

  “Dark Mother Kali,” he intoned, “please hear the prayer of this, your most humble and utterly worthless servant. Bless this offering of our enemy’s life-blood, and bestow it with your divine essence, O Kali, that we might bring about your will upon this land.”

  High above him in the darkened upper recesses of the chamber, the statue’s eyes slowly began to glow. The precious stones which were inlaid in the eye sockets took on an ethereal crimson hue, pulsing as if in time with some silent heartbeat. As the glow intensified, there suddenly came an ear-shattering groaning sound. Kali’s head slowly tilted downward on its slender neck, twisting until her gaze settled squarely upon the form of her most faithful priest. The statue’s mouth ground open.

  “I have been watching you, Achalraj.” The voice that emerged was comparable to the sound of two huge boulders grating against each other, and yet somehow still managed to possess a distinctly feminine quality. “Watching with great interest. What is it that you desire of me?”

  Raising the chalice in both hands, Achalraj bowed his head in supplication, not daring to make eye-contact with this, the most capricious of deities. “I entreat your help, most munificent and terrible Kali, in casting off the yoke of the English oppressor from our land.” The thugs had all similarly abased themselves, foreheads pressed to the ground and eyes squeezed tightly shut. Achalraj fancied that he could hear the pounding of their terrified, racing heartbeats.

  “This pleases me,” Kali rumbled, causing her priest to breathe the slightest sigh of relief. He rarely called upon the favors of the goddess, mainly because they frequently turned out to be a double-edged sword; therefore, hearing that the great Kali’s goals were in alignment with his own came as no small mercy. “Tell me, Achalraj, how it is that you intend to achieve this lofty ambition.”

  In a halting, hesitant voice that rapidly grew in confidence as he spoke, Achalraj began to outline his plans. No secrets could be kept from Kali, nor was it worth even making the effort to try.

  When he had finished, the priest waited with bated breath, fearing that at any moment, the wrath of a displeased Goddess of Death could fall upon him. Instead, Kali simply said, “Your request is granted, most faithful servant. I shall bestow upon you that gift which you ask of me. See that you use it wisely.”

  One of the statue’s unladen hands began to move, the long, slender fingers passing slowly over the chalice held in the priest’s shaking hands. The blood within started to glow the same color as that of Kali’s eyes, boiling and bubbling in agitation as the great shadow fell across its surface, as though somehow heated from within. Eyes widening in anticipation, Achalraj climbed slowly to his feet, taking great care not to spill even a drop of the now-blessed contents of the chalice as he walked over to the pit. Leaning carefully out over the edge, the priest poured a brief stream of blood onto one of the blue-coated corpses down below, and then repeated the process three more times, in each instance making certain that the warm, viscous fluid splashed into the eyes, mouth, or an open wound.

  It was not long before the enchanted blood began to take effect. The first sign was a twitch in one of the dead soldiers’ hands, soon followed by the entire arm moving. Achalraj saw that it was the corporal, which made perfect sense to him; he is, after all, the most fresh, he thought to himself as he watched the dead man throw his head back and utter a heart-rending moan, the sound of a soul suffering absolute torment. At first, the dead man flopped like a fish abandoned on the shore, struggling to get to his feet. After a few moments of trial and error, he finally succeeded, rocking unsteadily back and forth on his heels as he worked to find his balance.

  Drawn by the anguished howl and desperate to sate their curiosity, the thugs joined Achalraj at the edge. All seven men looked down in horrified fascination as the remaining three corpses began to stir, each one moaning and howling just as the first had. The reanimated dead bodies started to shamble around the pit, paying no heed to one another as they occasionally caromed into each other.

  “Your divine will has brought the dead back to life, great and terrible Kali.” Achalraj could not keep the blatant sense of wonder from his voice. His six guards were silent, staring in mute disbelief as men that they had only recently killed were suddenly back on their feet again, seemingly oblivious of the horrific wounds that each of them carried.

  The goddess towered above her subjects, eyes glowing redly against the dark background of the chamber. “Four new soldiers for my cause…a humble start, but a start it is.”

  “Yes, most magnificent Kali,” Achalraj responded with great humility. “Your will shall be done.”

  “Then raise me an army, priest, an army of many thousands; and with it, we will descend upon the unbelievers, shall drive them from this land forever.”

  A cruel smile crept across the priest’s face as the implications finally sunk in, yet he managed to keep his tone obsequious. “As your humble and most devoted servant, I would be most honored to lead your army in the furtherance of your glory.”

  The laughter which came in response shook the chamber to its very foundations, causing thin cracks to appear in the rock walls and small pebbles to fall from above. Terrified at the mirth of their dark goddess, the thug cultists sank to their knee
s and abased themselves before her statue, whose eyes now glowed even more brightly.

  “Make no mistake, priest,” the goddess rumbled, “it is not you who shall not ride at the vanguard of my army.”

  Achalraj’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Most munificent and fearsome Kali, your humble servant does not understand…”

  A slender figure appeared in the entranceway, little more than a silhouette in the chamber’s all-pervading gloom. Like the thug cultists, the figure was dressed entirely in black from head to toe. It stepped forward slowly, moving to stand beside the kneeling priest. Achalraj looked up into the cold, hard face of a young Indian woman.

  “Jamelia?” the priest gaped. “Jamelia is to command?”

  “What better instrument for a goddess than a tigress?” Kali asked rhetorically, her booming voice echoing percussively throughout the cavernous chamber. “Know your place, Achalraj. It is given to you to birth my army. Jamelia shall lead it against the British. There is honor to be found in both.”

  “Most divine Kali.” Having recovered his composure somewhat, Achalraj nodded in obeisance.

  Despite the fact that she was a deity, the priest knew from long years of experience that she was incredibly powerful but most certainly not omniscient. He did not think that she could read his mind, but Kali was a fickle mistress and it did not pay to take chances with her. He had seen others do so, and the price they paid in the end was always both horrific and extremely memorable for any who witnessed it.

  It was therefore a matter of survival that Achalraj make a conscious effort to bury the feeling of growing resentment he now felt, and so he put on the mask of the humble, unassuming servant. But the sideways look that he risked taking at the expressions of both the goddess and the tigress suggested that neither female was anywhere close to being fooled.