The Kingdom
( Fargo Adventures - 3 )
Clive Cussler
Sam and Remi Fargo return for the thrilling third adventure in the acclaimed new series. In Spartan Gold and Lost Empire, Clive Cussler brought readers into the world of husband-and-wife team Sam and Remi Fargo, whose passion and instinct for treasure-hunting has led to extraordinary discoveries-and perilous journeys. Their next adventure, however, might be their most astonishing yet. The Fargos are used to hunting for treasure, not people. But then a Texas oil baron contacts them with a personal plea: an investigator friend of the Fargos' was on a mission to find the oil baron's missing father-and now the investigator is missing, too. Would Sam and Remi be willing to look for them both? Though something about the situation doesn't quite add up, the Fargos agree to go on the search. What they find will be beyond anything they could have imagined. On a journey that will take them to Tibet, Nepal, Bulgaria, India, and China, the Fargos will find themselves embroiled with black-market fossils, a centuries-old puzzle chest, the ancient Tibetan kingdom of Mustang, a balloon aircraft from a century before its time . . . and a skeleton that could turn the history of human evolution on its head. Packed with the endless imagination and breathtaking suspense that are his hallmarks, The Kingdom once again proves that Clive Cussler is "just about the best storyteller in the business" (New York Post).
Clive Cussler
The Kingdom
(Fargo Adventures – 3)
PROLOGUE
A LAND FORGOTTEN
Of the original one hundred forty, could I be the last Sentinel? The grim thought swirled through Dhakal’s mind.
The invaders’ main force had overrun his country from the east eight weeks earlier with brutal speed and cruelty. Cavalry and foot soldiers poured from the hills and swarmed into the valleys, razed the villages to the ground, and slaughtered all who stood before them.
Along with the armies came elite bands of soldiers tasked with a single mission: locate the sacred Theurang and bring it to their King. Having foreseen this, the Sentinels, whose duty was to protect the holy relic, removed it from its place of reverence and spirited it away.
Dhakal slowed his horse to a trot, slipped off the trail through a break in the trees, and stopped in a small shaded clearing. He climbed from the saddle, allowing his horse to wander to a nearby stream and bend its head to drink. He moved behind the horse to check the series of leather bands that secured the cube-shaped chest to the animal’s rump. As always, his cargo was held fast.
The chest was a marvel, so solidly built that it could withstand a high fall onto a rock or repeated bludgeoning without showing the slightest crack. The locks were many, hidden and ingeniously designed to make them all but impossible to open.
Of the ten Sentinels in Dhakal’s cadre, none had the resources or ability to open this unique chest, nor did any of them know whether its contents were genuine or a substitute. That honor, or perhaps curse, belonged solely to Dhakal. How he had been chosen was not revealed to him. But he alone knew that this sacred chest carried the revered Theurang. Soon, with luck, he would find a safe place to hide it.
For nearly the past nine weeks he’d been on the run, escaping the capital with his cadre just hours ahead of the invaders. For two days, as the smoke from their burning homes and fields filled the sky behind them, they raced south on horseback. On the third day they split up, each Sentinel heading in his predetermined direction, most heading away from the invaders’ line of advance, but some back toward it. These brave men were either already dead or suffering at the hands of their enemy who, having captured each Sentinel’s decoy cargo, were demanding to know how to gain access to his chest. As designed, this was an answer none of them could give.
As for Dhakal, his orders had taken him due east, into the rising sun, a direction he’d maintained for the past sixty-one days. The land in which he now found himself was very different from the arid, mountainous terrain in which he was raised. Here there were mountains too, but they were covered in thick forest and separated by lake-pocked valleys. It made staying hidden much easier, but it had also slowed his progress. The terrain was a double-edged sword: skilled ambushers could be upon him before he had a chance to run.
Thus far he’d had many close calls, but his training had seen him through each one. Five times he’d watched, hidden, as his pursuers rode within feet of him, and twice he’d fought a pitched battle with enemy cavalry squads. Though outnumbered and exhausted, he’d left these men dead, their bodies and equipment buried and their horses scattered.
For the past three days he’d not seen or heard any sign of his pursuers. Nor had he come across many local people; those he did encounter paid him little attention. His face and stature was similar to theirs. His instincts told him to ride on, that he hadn’t put enough distance between himself and-
From across the stream, perhaps fifty yards away, came the crack of a branch in the trees. Anyone else would have dismissed it, but Dhakal knew the sound of a horse pushing through heavy brush. His own horse had stopped drinking, its head raised and ears twitching.
From the trail, another sound, the scuff of a horse’s hoof on the gravel trail. Dhakal pulled the bow from the sheath on his back and an arrow from the quiver, then crouched down in the knee-high water grass. Partially blocked by the horse’s legs, Dhakal peeked under the animal’s belly, looking for signs of movement. There was nothing. He turned his head right. Through the trees he could just make out the narrow trail. He watched, waited.
Then, another hoof scuff.
Dhakal nocked an arrow and drew the bow slightly, taking up the tension.
A few moments later a horse appeared on the trail, cantering slowly. The horse stopped. Dhakal could see only the rider’s legs and his black-gloved hands resting on the saddle’s pommel, reins gripped loosely in his fingers. The hand moved, jerked the reins slightly. Beneath him, the horse whinnied and stamped its hoof.
An intentional move, Dhakal realized immediately. A distraction.
The attackers would be coming from the forest side.
Dhakal drew the bow fully, took aim, and let fly the arrow. The point pierced the man’s leg in the crease between his upper thigh and hip. He screamed, clutched his leg, and toppled off his horse. Instinctively, Dhakal knew his aim was true. The arrow had punctured the leg artery; the man was out of the fight and would be dead within minutes.
Still crouching, Dhakal spun on his back heel while retrieving three more arrows from his quiver; two he planted in the ground before him, the third he nocked. There, thirty feet away, were three attackers, swords drawn, creeping through the underbrush toward him. Dhakal took aim on the trailing figure and fired. The man went down. In rapid succession he fired twice more, catching one man squarely in the chest, the next in the throat. A fourth warrior let out a war cry and charged from behind a copse of trees. He almost reached the edge of the stream before Dhakal’s arrow dropped him.
The forest fell silent.
Four? Dhakal thought. They had never sent fewer than a dozen before.
As if in answer to his puzzlement, the pounding of horses’ hooves sounded on the trail behind him. Dhakal spun, saw a line of horses galloping down the trail past their fallen comrade. Three horses . . . four . . . seven . . . Ten horses and still they came. The odds were overwhelming. Dhakal mounted his horse, nocked an arrow, and turned in his saddle in time to see the first horse galloping through the gap between the trees and into the clearing. Dhakal fired. The arrow plunged into the man’s right eye. The force drove him backward, over his saddle, where he bumped off the rump of his horse and into the next rider, whose horse reared, backpedaling, creating a choke point. Horses began slamming into one another. The charge stalled.
He realized this was no chance ambush. His pursuers had been covertly following him for some time and had managed to surround him.
Over the splashing of his horse’s hooves in the shallow water he could hear them now: riders crashing through the forest to his right and hooves on the gravel trail to his left.
Ahead, the stream curved to the right. The trees and undergrowth were thicker here, crowding the bank, all but blotting out the sun and leaving him in twilight. He heard a shout and glanced over his shoulder. Four riders were in pursuit. He looked right, saw dark horse shapes slipping in and out of the trees, paralleling his course. They were flushing him, he realized. But to where?
His answer came seconds later as the trees suddenly parted and he found himself in a meadow. The stream’s width quadrupled; the color of the water told him the depth had increased as well. On impulse, he veered his horse left, toward the sandy bank. Directly ahead, a line of five riders burst from the tree line, two of them bent low, pikes held horizontally before them, the other three riding upright, bows drawn. He laid his body across his horse’s neck and jerked the reins to the right, back into the water. On the opposite bank, another line of riders had emerged from the trees, these too armed with pikes and bows. And to complete the ambush, directly behind, galloping down the stream toward him, was yet another line of cavalry.
As if on cue, all three groups slowed to a trot, then stopped. Pikes still at the ready and arrows nocked, they watched him.
Why aren’t they following? he wondered.
And then he heard it, the deafening rush of water.
Waterfall.
I am caught. Trapped.
He reined back and let the horse walk until they reached a bend in the river. He stopped. Here the water was deeper and moving fast. Fifty yards ahead Dhakal could see the mist plume billowing over the surface, could see the water boiling over the rocks at the rim of the cataract.
He turned in his saddle.
His pursuers had not moved save a single rider. The man’s armor told Dhakal this was the leader of the group. The man stopped twenty feet away and raised his hands to his shoulders, signaling he was unarmed.
He shouted something. Dhakal did not understand the language, but the tone was clear: placation. It is over, the man was surely saying. You have fought well, done your duty. Surrender, and you will be treated fairly.
It was a lie. He would be tortured and eventually killed. He would die fighting before he would let the Theurang fall into the hands of his accursed enemy.
Dhakal turned his horse until he was facing the pursuers. With exaggerated slowness, he drew the bow from his back and tossed it into the river. He did the same with his quiver, followed by his long sword and short sword. Finally the dagger in his belt.
The enemy leader gave Dhakal a nod of respect, then turned in his saddle and shouted something to his men. Slowly, one by one, the riders raised their pikes and sheathed their bows. The leader turned back to Dhakal and raised his hand, gesturing for him to come forward.
Dhakal gave him a smile and a shake of his head.
He jerked his reins hard to the right, whipping his horse around, then heeled it hard in the flanks. The horse reared, coiled its legs beneath it, and began thrashing toward the spray rising above the deep waterfall.
FRONTIER WASTELANDS OF XIZANG PROVINCE,
QING EMPIRE, CHINA, 1677
Giuseppe saw the dust cloud on the eastern horizon before his brother did. A mile wide and confined by the walls of a narrow valley, the swirling brown wall of dirt and sand was headed directly for them.
Eyes fixed on the spectacle, Giuseppe tapped his older brother on the shoulder. Francesco Lana de Terzi of Brescia, Lombardy, Italy, turned from his kneeling position where he’d been studying a sheaf of blueprints and looked in the direction Giuseppe was pointing.
The younger Lana de Terzi whispered nervously, “Is it a storm?”
“Of sorts,” Francesco replied. “But not the kind you mean.” Behind that dust cloud was not another wind-whipped sandstorm, the kind they’d grown so accustomed to over the last six months, but rather hundreds of pounding horses’ hooves. And atop the horses, hundreds of elite and deadly soldiers.
Francesco gave Giuseppe a reassuring clap on the shoulder. “Do not worry, brother, I have been expecting them-though, I admit, not this early.”
“It is him?” Giuseppe croaked. “He is coming? You did not tell me that.”
“I didn’t want to frighten you. Worry not. We still have time.”
Francesco raised a flattened hand to shield his eyes from the sun and studied the approaching cloud. Distances were deceptive here, he had learned. The vastness of the Qing Empire lay far behind the horizon. In the two years they’d spent in this country, Francesco and his brother had seen a wild variety of terrain-from jungles to forests to deserts-but of all of them, this place, this territory that seemed to have a dozen different pronunciations and spellings, was the most godforsaken.
Comprised mostly of hills, some rolling and some jagged, the land was a vast canvas painted in only two colors: brown and gray. Even the water of rivers that gushed through the valleys was a dull gray. It was as though God had cursed this place with a swipe of his mighty hand. On days when the clouds parted, the startlingly blue sky seemed only to accent the ashen landscape.
And then there was the wind, Francesco thought with a shudder. The seemingly endless wind that whistled through the rocks and drove eddies of dust along the ground that seemed so animated the locals often treated the phenomena like ghosts come to snatch away their souls. Six months ago, Francesco, a scientist by nature and training, had scoffed at such superstitions. Now he wasn’t so sure. He had heard too many strange sounds in the night.
Another few days, he consoled himself, and we will have the resources we need. But it wasn’t simply a matter of time, was it? He was making a bargain with the devil. The fact that he was doing it for the larger good was something he hoped God would remember when Judgment Day came.
He studied the approaching wall of dust a few seconds more before lowering his hand and turning to Giuseppe. “They are still twenty miles away,” he estimated. “We have another hour, at least. Come, let us finish.”
Francesco turned back around and shouted to one of the men, a squat, powerful figure in a roughly woven black tunic and trousers. Hao, Francesco’s primary liaison and translator, jogged over.
“Yes, sire!” he said in heavily accented but passable Italian.
Francesco sighed. Though he’d long ago given up trying to get Hao to call him by his first name, he had hoped that at least by now the man would have ceased with the formality.
“Tell the men to finish quickly. Our guest will be arriving soon.”
Hao cast an eye to the horizon and saw what Giuseppe had pointed out a few minutes earlier. His eyes widened. He nodded curtly, said, “It will be done, sire!” then turned around and began barking orders to the dozens of local men milling around the hilltop clearing. He scurried off to join in.
The clearing, which measured a hundred paces square, was in fact the roof of a gompa’s interior courtyard. On all sides of the clearing, its turreted walls and watchtowers followed the hill’s ridges down to the valley floor like spines on a lizard’s back.
While Francesco had been told a gompa was primarily a fortified center for education, the residents of this particular stronghold seemed to practice only one profession: soldiering. And for that, he was grateful. As evidenced by the frequent raids and skirmishes that took place on the plains below, it was clear he and his men were living on this realm’s frontier. It was no accident that they had been transported here to complete work on the machine-what their benefactor had dubbed the Great Dragon.
The clearing now echoed with the overlapping pounding of mallets on wood a
s Hao’s workers hurried to drive the final stakes into the rocky soil. All across the clearing, plumes of brown dust rose into the air, only to be caught by the wind and whipped into nothingness. After another ten minutes the mallets fell silent. Hao scrambled back to where Francesco and Giuseppe stood.
“We are done, sire.”
Francesco backed up a few steps and admired the structure. He was pleased. Designing it on paper was one thing; to see it come to life was something else altogether.
Standing forty feet tall, occupying three-quarters of the clearing, and constructed of snow-white silk, with curved exterior bamboo braces painted blood red, the tent seemed like a castle built of clouds.
“Well done,” Francesco told Hao. “Giuseppe?”
“Magnificent,” the younger Lana de Terzi murmured.
Francesco nodded, and said softly, “Now, let us hope what is inside is even more impressive.”
Though the gompa’s hawkeyed lookouts had certainly spotted the visitors approaching even before Giuseppe had, the alert horns did not sound until the retinue was but minutes away. This, as well as the riders’ direction of approach and early arrival, was a tactical decision, Francesco guessed. Most of the enemy’s outposts lay to the west. By coming in from the east, the party’s dust cloud would be obscured by the hill on which the gompa sat. This way, roving ambush parties would have no time to intercept the new arrivals. Knowing their benefactor as he did, Francesco suspected they had been covertly watching the gompa from a distance, waiting for the wind direction to change and enemy patrols to move on.
A cunning man, their patron, Francesco reminded himself. Cunning and dangerous.
Less than ten minutes later Francesco heard the crunching of leather and armored boots on the spiral gravel path below the clearing. Swirling dust rose above the rock-lined border of the clearing. Then, suddenly, silence. Though Francesco was expecting it, what came next startled him all the same.
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