Shadows of Shambhala

by Tony Simmons

  “Infidels!” he cried. “Protect me!”

  Showing myself again, I pretended to shoot into the crowd and spotted a revelation: The people of the village rushed up the pyramid steps, grappling with the fleeing priests and line of guards — joining the “shadow man” who seemed to be everywhere at once — to destroy the filth that had taken over their eternal valley. Crashing through the mob, his black cloak flapping like a crow’s wings, Zed brought up his swords. They flashed in the fading light as he swept through the white robes, cutting a crimson swath to ascend the tower.

  Dr. Alla also must have seen Zed’s blood-splashed visage raging toward the heavens. He screamed, “It can’t be him! It can’t be him!” and dropped into an empty basin under the mirrored totem, disappearing from sight. The woman kneeling in the red folds of cloth fell on her side, and I heard her crying pierce the noise of battle.

  A tall, cloaked figure in a slouch hat rushed out of an archway far to my left, followed by Pasang. Grasping her under the shoulders in the hook of his left arm, Argo dropped on a climbing rope secured to the gallery rail and swung out toward the ziggurat. He released the rope at the end of his swing, flinging the two of them through open space. Rolling in the air, they became one black mass under his flapping cloak, which unspooled as they struck the stone steps below the pinnacle of the pyramid.

  Argo rolled up onto his knees, pistol raised and looking for a target, as Pasang sprawled beneath him.

  I took a breath and ran for the stairs.

  ***

  Mount Meru, the Tibetan Himalayas

  Two days earlier

  From Doc Riley’s Journal:

  We climbed ever higher, with only infrequent pauses for rest when the pathway provided room enough for us to cluster. We traded our crampons for snowshoes. The cloud cover soon enveloped us in a total white-out, and neither time nor distance had any meaning beyond the steps of our feet and the length of rope leading us ever upward. I couldn’t see Pasang at the lead. Sometimes, I couldn’t even see my own feet.

  This high above the earth, sunset was delayed. By late evening, a white light gleamed against the white sky that surrounded us, but it seemed too low. Sometimes lower than the ice my boots crunched through. It felt like we were upside-down, and vertigo pulled at me. I stumbled.

  “Got you, mate,” Zed said, and I felt his massive hand close on my elbow.

  I nodded my thanks for the catch, then felt a tug on the rope joining me to Johnny-D. I straightened up and continued forward, keeping Johnny’s feet in view to ground me in this world without dimensions. I hoped we’d find a place to make camp soon; I didn’t relish the idea of withstanding the storm in the dark.

  A shout went up from the front of the line. Argo echoed it, but I didn’t understand. Then Johnny called out over his shoulder to me, “Cave!”

  We veered to our left, and a wall of ice and rock rose up suddenly, blocking much of the violent wind. Argo had unclipped from the rope and stood beside a narrow crevice a few feet high, waving us to enter. I squatted to clear the arch, while both Zed and Argo were forced to crawl.

  “Thank God,” I gasped. The relief of leaving behind the wind and snow rushed over me like a wave.

  A light flared in the cave as Tally switched on an electric lantern from her pack. It revealed a vaulted ceiling of stone and rounded uneven walls. The cave was about fifteen feet across and twenty deep, with a dry rock floor. Toward the back of the space sat bundles of old furs. Pasang opened the bundles, uncovering coils of rope, poles, hammers and other climbing gear.

  An empty tin flask clattered onto the floor. Zed snatched it up, shook it, then pitched it to Johnny-D.

  “Bastard,” Johnny said, throwing the flask at the far wall, where it clattered against stone.

  The cave had been used to store emergency supplies at some point, long ago. The ropes were dry-rotted and much of the other gear just as badly aged. Pasang piled the old ropes and other flammables near the cave mouth, produced a box of matches from under her furs, and set the lot afire. Smoke roiled out into the unending wail of the ice gods warring outside, and we assembled to enjoy the heat while it lasted.

  “We must be very near the city entrance,” Argo said, doffing his gloves and holding his hands near the flame.

  “What do you mean?” Pasang said. “This is it.”

  I spun about, giving the cavern another look. No sun symbol marked a passageway. Indeed, I saw no passage. The cavern curved on itself, offering little room and no exit except into the frozen night.

  “The entrance will appear when the morning sun shines through the mouth of the cave,” Pasang said.

  “But we’re on the western side of the mountain,” I said. “I watched the sun set below us.”

  Pasang grinned. “Ghost lights. Reflections. In a storm like this, it’s easy to be confused. We are on the eastern face. A golden dawn will reveal the path.”

  We settled in, making pallets of the old furs. Zed, who carried our heavier supplies, passed out canned rations. While we ate, Pasang told us what to expect in the morning.

  “There are many tunnels and passages to traverse before we reach Shambhala,” she said.

  “And we won’t be welcome there,” Johnny-D suggested. At Pasang’s glare, he added, “You ran away. They won’t be happy that you return with us in tow.”

  Pasang glanced at me. Since taking my hand in the village, she had tended to address me when speaking to us as a group. I thought at the time that she was just shy, and my friendly face reassured her.

  “The fountain of Vril energy is failing,” she said as if to me alone. “It is the source of light and life in Shambhala. When it goes, so goes all things. Your world, and mine.”

  On our journey across the Middle East to this country, Captain Argo taught us all he knew of the subterranean world we sought. That included a treatise on the energy-form called “Vril,” a sort of energized liquid or “plasma” that could be ingested, applied for healing purposes, used to power machines, and had other amazing properties. Some believed it was not only the basis of Shambhala’s power, but the very origin of life on this planet.

  “So we go quietly,” Tally said, nodding to each of us as if she wanted us to agree. “Watch for booby-traps and tripwires. Keep an eye out for sentries.”

  Argo squatted beside me, his eyes on Pasang. “Cards on the table, lady. You’re returning for a reason, and not just because we showed up. Spill.”

  I turned toward him. “Captain, is it necessary to take that—”

  “It’s all right, Doctor,” Pasang said. She again looked at me, then dropped her eyes as if ashamed. She reached into the neck of her blouse and drew out an amulet on a chain. A small silver ring around a white crystal center, it glimmered in the firelight, casting starpoints against the cave walls. Outside, the wind’s lamentations increased.

  “This is the Eye of the Sun,” she said. “I — stole it from the temple to avert the rise of Kalki. To forestall the end of the world.”

  Argo didn’t reach for the amulet — I believe Pasang would have fought him, if he had, and I don’t know which side I would have joined — but he studied it intently from where he sat.

  “So why fetch it home now?” Zed asked.

  Again, Pasang couldn’t meet my eyes. “I have been in your world for some time. I’ve seen the darkness there. For all that awaits us in Shambhala, it cannot be worse than that.”

  “She’s holding back, Cap,” Johnny-D said, pointing at Pasang. “She’s leading us into a trap.”

  “She’s the only reason we made it this far,” I argued. I started to rise, but Argo put a hand on my shoulder and held me in place. I glared at him, surprised to see calm in his eyes.

  “You’re both right,” Argo said. “And we’re here now. Get some shut-eye if you can, because we go in at first light.”

  We bedded down without posting a guard. Pasang assured us the Yeti had never entered this cave, not since the dawn of time. I was so exhausted that I f
ell asleep easily, and I dreamed of home. The crash of waves, a surf board under my arm, warm sunshine drying salt water and burning my pale Irish skin. I awoke to the morning light streaming through the cave mouth, and in my transition to wakefulness saw strange shadows moving on the ceiling.

  Shouts of alarm brought me upright, and the sick pain of something heavy striking my head turned out the lights again.

  The next time I awoke, I was lying on my belly in a tiny stone cell in the dark. Pasang lay beside me, feigning unconsciousness. Her eye lashes fluttered when I stirred. Her lids narrowed and crinkled. Her finger crossed my lips. I lay still.

  “They took Argo away,” she whispered. “They took our weapons, but they didn’t check below my clothing or Tally’s.”

  I tried to ask her what happened in the cave — what were those shadows I saw? But she guessed my question before I could utter it.

  “The shadow-men of Shambhala,” she said.

  ***

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Under the Earth

  23 September 1932

  Sanskrit Month of Asvina, Buddhist Year 2475

  A

  rgo fired point-blank, and a white-robed woman brandishing a scimitar fell. She tumbled over the side of the pyramid, her bones cracking on stone steps. The others fled before him in a headlong rush down the opposite incline, falling over each other and taking their chances against the mob of villagers and Zed’s whirling blades.

  Argo checked his pistol — one cartridge remained, and his ammo belt was empty. He grasped Pasang’s hand and brought her to her feet. “Where did Dr. Alla go?”

  She pointed under the spinning totem at a deep basin carved in the surface of the ziggurat. “There’s a passage below. But when I replace the Eye, the Vril will flow again. The passage will fill, and if you aren’t clear —”

  Argo turned away, shaded his eyes against the glare reflected from the totem, and dropped into the depression under it. He marveled for a second when he realized the great mirrored column wasn’t attached to a support — it defied gravity as it rotated under the Eternal Sun. From all around him came the cries of conflict, sounds of gunfire and screams, and yet for a second in time he was in the presence of something magical.

  Argo saw Pasang waiting for him to move, then he ducked and entered the tunnel opening. Its floor was smooth and sloped at a steep angle toward the earth. Even his boot treads couldn’t grip the stone, and he slid downward for several yards. The totem light above soon faded, leaving only the blue-white glow of the crystals embedded in the rock walls for illumination.

  As Argo slipped further down the trough, a trickle of sparkling water passed his feet. The flow increased, casting watery reflections and brightening the tunnel. When he finally skated to a halt where the trough leveled off, Argo found himself knee-deep in the rising, glowing Vril. Branch tunnels traveled in four directions, and the energized liquid flowed into them toward unknown destinations. Just above the waterline to his right, a closed wooden doorway shaped like the lid of a barrel promised an alternate route for escape.

  Argo pushed the door open, carefully peering around the edge until he heard the sound of hurried footsteps retreating along the corridor. He crossed the threshold and slammed the door behind him, then sprinted along the tunnel in pursuit. His wet footprints glowed briefly in his wake, like the phosphorescence of ocean water in the night.

  He rounded a turn and felt the air explode from his lungs as something solid crashed against his chest and smashed him backward. Argo fell flat on his back, and his pistol clattered away. Gasping, he saw a Mongolian guard in a blue turban step around the corner and raise his wooden club for a second stroke.

  Argo spun toward the guard and planted his right elbow in the man’s groin. The man stumbled backward, causing his swing to fall short. The bludgeon struck the floor and bounced loose from his fingers. When he reached for it, Argo swept his feet from underneath him.

  The guard hit the ground hard. Argo rolled on top of him, using his knees to pin the man’s arms. With a sweeping motion, Argo drew his Bowie knife and stabbed it under the guard’s chin, into his brain. He yanked the blade free and wiped it on the dead man’s turban. Sheathing the knife, Argo launched himself away and scooped up his pistol as he ran.

  The tunnel widened, opened into a straightaway, and Argo spotted Dr. Alla’s white robe in the distance. Another guard ran alongside him.

  “Give it up, Kenston!” Argo shouted.

  “I’m not Kenston!” Dr. Alla faltered, stumbled. He turned back to face Argo, who imagined the cloaked vision he presented in pursuit. “You — you’re not Kenston either!”

  The guard helped his master to his feet. Even at a run, Argo could see the look of confusion on the guard’s face matching that of his master’s. Dr. Alla pointed at Argo, said a word to the guard, and turned to flee.

  The guard brought up his spear, took an offensive stance, and prepared to skewer Argo. Just as the space between them closed, Argo whipped his cloak into the air in front of him, spinning it by one corner so that it opened like a black shield between him and the spear. He dashed forward, threw the cloak before him and dropped onto his hip, sliding like a runner into home base.

  The spear pierced the cloak and sliced through empty air where Argo might have been, just as Argo’s boot heels smashed into the guard’s ankles. The man yelped as he fell, and Argo’s clenched fist silenced him. Rotating up on his knees, Argo raised his pistol and sighted down the tunnel at Dr. Alla’s retreating back. The robed man’s form seemed to warp, his long, twisted shadow appearing on the floor behind him.

  Argo squeezed the trigger. The gun spoke — Dr. Alla twitched and fell. He lay still, flat on his face, only yards from the maze of passages that might have sheltered him until he could rally again. Argo holstered his Webley and approached the body. He watched as Dr. Alla drew breath and a pool of blood spread across the stone floor. He knelt and grasped the man’s shoulders to turn him over.

  Dr. Alla pivoted, stabbing his right arm at Argo like a cobra striking. His extended fingers jabbed into Argo’s neck, and the long nails drew blood. Argo fell backward, choking and clutching at his own throat. Dr. Alla shoved himself atop his pursuer, pinned Argo with his knees, and glared into Argo’s desperate eyes.

  The world tipped sideways. Argo sensed gravity shift. The floor was now a wall, and he felt as if he was sliding down it into a deep, spiraling darkness. He tried to look away, but Dr. Alla’s gaze held him — twin inescapable black holes into which he fell headlong. Blind and breathless, Argo recalled Pasang’s warning about Dr. Alla’s power of mesmerism, as well as his own vow not to get close enough to fall prey.

  A tug at his boot. A shush of steel on leather. Argo’s head was spinning, but he realized Dr. Alla had taken his Bowie knife from his boot.

  Argo lunged to his left, then right. He heard the chink of steel on stone, felt the rush of movement past his ear as the knife just missed its mark. Dr. Alla’s knee slipped — he’d overextended and unbalanced himself when Argo dodged the blade. Argo reared forward, grappling blindly with the man. His hands found Dr. Alla’s arms, then his wrists, and twisted with all his might.

  Light returned, and air rushed into his lungs. The world righted itself. Argo shoved away from Dr. Alla, flattened his back against the wall, and raised his hands before him. His vision cleared to see Dr. Alla charging with the blade in hand.

  Argo sprang to meet him, swerving past the outstretched knife and grabbing Dr. Alla’s robe. He threw himself backward, pulled Alla with him, and shoved the man further along — face-first into the stone wall.

  Bone cracked and blood spurted. When the robed man fell still this time, he barely breathed. Argo sat up and retrieved his knife. He rubbed his sore neck, then kicked Dr. Alla’s leg to be sure he wasn’t faking.

  ***

  Under the Earth and Not Under the Earth

  Temple of the Eternal Sun

  From Doc Riley’s Journal:

  My lungs
burned by the time I descended from the gallery and followed Zed’s trail of dead and wounded up the side of the pyramid. I fought my instinct to stop and treat the injured — this was open battle, still. I took a handgun from one of the dead and set my eyes on the pinnacle.

  The big ginger-haired brawler stood with his back to the totem, long knives dripping blood. A happy grin cracked his face. The sacrifice, once more draped in her crimson robe, sat at his feet and gazed up at him, one arm gripping his right knee and her face a mix of awe and lust. Zed laughed when he saw me, a deep and hearty bellow, and I laughed back at him despite the madness and death all around us.

  Behind Zed, Pasang climbed down the side of the motionless mirrored column. Though it hung still, the sky remained bright. She dropped the last several feet, turning to embrace me with a smile. She pointed at the water filling the depression under the totem, which began to rotate, slowly at first but with building speed.

  “I replaced the Eye. The Vril flows once more,” she said.

  I shaded my eyes from the blinding reflection to watch the water rise. It reached the lip of the basin and overflowed, draining along tiny paths cut into the stone. Glowing water cascaded down the center of the steps on all four sides of the ziggurat, into the moats between the walls of the complex, and then into the sacred river.

  At sight of the Vril, the villagers cheered. Some of them grabbed hold of the wounded — priests, guards, and fellow villagers — and dragged them into the flow of flickering liquid. I thought at first they were drowning the wounded. My heart sank. But they hauled them out again, smiling, and shouting praises.

  “What the bloody hell?” Zed growled.

  “The Vril is a healing fluid,” Pasang said. “It will make them stronger in body and mind. They will no longer be under the spell of Dr. Alla.”

  We watched as the surviving priests and guards put down their weapons and joined the villagers in the coursing waters. Pasang took the hand of the woman at Zed’s feet and led her over to the water bubbling from the basin. The woman dipped her golden face in the Vril.