'Mount up!' Westphalen said.
The approach began orderly enough. Westphalen let the six lancers lead the way while he brought up the rear. The detail trotted up the path until they were in sight of the temple, then broke into a gallop as planned.
But something happened on the road leading down to the wall. The men started to whoop and yell, whipping themselves and each other into a frenzy. Soon their lances were lowered and clamped under their arms in battle position as they leaned low over the necks of their mounts, bloodying
their flanks as they spurred them to greater and greater speed. They had been told that a band of rebel sepoys was quartered beyond that wall; the lancers had to be ready to kill as soon as they cleared the gate. Westphalen alone knew that their only resistance would come from a handful of surprised and harmless Hindu priests.
Only that knowledge allowed him to keep up with them. Nothing to worry about, he told himself as the wall drew nearer and nearer. Only a few unarmed priests in there. Nothing to worry about.
He had a glimpse of bas-relief murals on the surrounding wall as he raced toward the gate, but his mind was too full of the uncertainty of what they might find on the other side to make any sense of them. He drew his saber and charged into the courtyard behind his howling lancers.
Westphalen saw three priests standing in front of the temple, all unarmed. They ran forward waving their hands in the air in what appeared to be an attempt to shoo the soldiers away.
The lancers never hesitated. Three of them fanned out on the run and drove their lances through the priests. They then circled the temple and came to a halt at its front entrance where they dismounted, dropping their lances and pulling Enfields from their saddle boots.
Westphalen remained mounted. He realized that made him an easy target, but felt more secure with his horse under him, able to wheel and gallop out the gate should something go wrong.
During a brief lull Westphalen directed the men toward the temple entrance. They were almost to the steps when the
It was not a battle—it was a slaughter. Westphalen almost felt sorry for the priests. The soldiers first took aim at the closer group emerging from the temple. The Enfields left only one priest standing after the first volley; he ran around their flank to join the other group which had slowed its advance after seeing the results of the withering fire. From his saddle, Westphalen directed his men to retreat to the steps of the black temple where the light weight and rapid reloading capacity of the Enfield allowed them second and third volleys that left only two priests standing. Hunter and Malleson picked up their lances, remounted, and ran down the survivors.
And then it was over.
Westphalen sat numb and silent in his saddle as he let his gaze roam the courtyard. So easy. So final. So quick. More than a score of bodies lay sprawled in the morning sun, their blood pooling and soaking into the sand as India's omnipresent opportunists, the flies, began to gather. Some of the bodies were curled into limp parodies of sleep, others, still transfixed by lances, looked like insects pinned to a board.
He glanced down at his pristine blade. He had bloodied neither his hands nor his sword. Somehow that left feeling innocent of what had just happened all around him.
'Don't look like pandies to me,' Tooke was saying as he rolled a corpse over onto its back with his foot.
'Never mind them,' Westphalen said, dismounting at last. 'Check inside and see if there's any more hiding around.'
He ached to explore the temple, but not until it had been scouted by a few of the men.
After watching Tooke and Russell disappear into the darkness within, he sheathed his sword and took a moment to inspect the temple close up. Not made of stone as he had originally thought, but of solid ebony, cut and worked and polished to a gloss. He could not find a square inch anywhere on its surface that had not been decorated with carvings.
The friezes were the most striking—four-foot-high belts of illustration girding each level up to the spire. He tried to follow one from the right of the temple door. The crudely stylized art made whatever story it was telling impossible to follow. But the violence depicted was inescapable. Every few feet…killings and dismemberments and demonlike creatures devouring the flesh.
He felt a chill despite the growing heat of the day. What sort of a place had he invaded?
A cry from within the temple cut off further speculation. Tooke's voice, telling everyone he'd found something.
Westphalen led the rest of the men inside.
Cool within, and very dark. Oil lamps set on pedestals along the ebony walls gave scant, flickering illumination. He had the impression of cyclopean sculptures rising against the black walls all around him, but could make out only an occasional highlight where pinpoints of light gleamed from a shiny surface. After seeing the friezes outside, he was quite content to let the details remain in shadow.
He turned his thoughts to other matters more immediately pressing. He wondered if Tooke and Russell had found the jewels. His mind raced over various strategies he would have to employ to keep what he needed for himself. For all he knew, he might need it all.
But the two scouts had found no jewels. Instead, they had found a man. He was seated in one of two chairs high on a dais in the center of the temple. Four oil lamps, each set on a pedestal placed every ninety degrees around the dais, lit the scene.
An enormous statue made of the same black wood as the temple rose behind the priest. It was a four-armed woman, naked but for an ornate headdress and a garland of human skulls. She was smiling, protruding her pointed tongue between her filed teeth. One hand held a sword, another a severed human head; the third and fourth hands were empty.
Westphalen had seen this deity before, but as a book-sized drawing—not as a giant. He knew her name.
Kali.
With difficulty, Westphalen tore his gaze away from the statue and brought it to bear on the priest. He had
