Westphalen dropped the sword and pried at the fingers. Malleson rushed over and helped. Together they pulled the fingers far enough apart to allow Westphalen to extricate his arm. Malleson hurled it onto the grate where it clung to one of the bars until pulled loose by one of the fiends below.
As Westphalen lay gasping on the ground trying to massage life back into the crushed and bruised tissues of his wrist, the woman's voice rose over the clatter of the shaking grate.
'Pray to your god, Captain Westphalen. The rakoshi will not let you leave the temple alive!'
She was right. Those things—What had she called them? Rakoshi? Whatever they were they would rip the lone securing eye from the stone floor and have that grate up in a minute if he didn't find some means to weight it down. His eyes ranged the small area of the temple visible to him. There had to be a way!
His gaze came to rest on the urns of lamp oil. They looked heavy enough. If he, Malleson and Hunter could set enough of them on the grate.
No...wait...
Fire! Nothing could withstand burning oil! He leapt to his feet and ran to the urn Tooke had opened with his knife.
'Malleson! Here! We'll pour it through the grate!' He turned to Hunter and pointed to one of the lamps around the dais. 'Bring that over here!'
Groaning under the weight, Westphalen and Malleson dragged the urn across the floor and upended it on the shuddering grate, pouring its contents onto the things below. Directly behind them came Hunter who didn't have to be told what to do with the lamp. He gave it a gentle underhand toss onto the grate.
The oil on the iron bars caught first, the flames licking along the upper surfaces to form a meshwork of fire, then dropping in a fine rain onto the creatures directly beneath. As dark, oil-splashed bodies burst into flame, a caterwauling howl arose from the pit. The thrashing below became more violent. And still the flames spread. Black, acrid smoke began to rise toward the ceiling of the temple.
'More!' Westphalen shouted above the shrieking din. He used his saber to slice open the tops, then watched as Malleson and Hunter poured the contents of a second urn, and then a third into the pit. The howls of the creatures began to fade away as the flames leapt higher and higher.
He bent his own back to the task, pouring urn after urn through the grate, flooding the pit and sending a river of fire into the tunnel, creating an inferno that even Shadrach and his two friends would have shied from.
'Curse you, Captain Westphalen!'
The woman had risen from beside the priest's corpse and was pointing a long, red-nailed finger at a spot between Westphalen's eyes. 'Curse you and all who spring from you!'
Westphalen took a step toward her, his sword raised. 'Shut up!'
'Your line shall die in blood and pain, cursing you and the day you set your hand against this temple!'
The woman sounded as if she meant it, really believed she was laying a curse upon Westphalen and his progeny. That shook him. He gestured to Hunter.
'Stop her!'
Hunter unslung his Enfield and aimed it at her. 'You ’eard what ’e said.'
But the woman ignored the certain death pointed her way and kept ranting.
'You've slain my husband, desecrated the temple of Kali! There will be no peace for you, Captain Albert Westphalen! Nor for you'—she pointed to Hunter—'or you!' then to Malleson. 'The rakoshi shall find you all!'
Hunter looked at Westphalen, who nodded. For the second time that day, a rifle shot rang out in the Temple- in-the-Hills. The woman's face exploded as the bullet tore into her head. She fell to the floor beside her husband.
Westphalen glanced at her inert form for a moment, then turned away toward the jewel-filled urn. He was forming a plan on how to arrange a three-way split that would give him the largest share, when a shrill screech of rage and an agonized grunt swung him around again.
Hunter stood stiff and straight at the edge of the dais, his face the color of soured whey, his shoulders thrown back, eyes wide, mouth working soundlessly. His rifle clattered to the floor as blood began to trickle from a comer of his mouth. He seemed to lose substance. Slowly, like a giant festival balloon leaking hot air from all its seams, he crumbled, his knees folding beneath him as he pitched forward onto his face.
Westphalen felt a faint sense of relief when he saw the bloody hole in the center of Hunter's back—he had died by physical means, not from a heathen woman's curse. He was further relieved to see the dark-eyed, barefoot boy, no more than twelve years old, standing behind Hunter, staring down at the fallen British soldier. In his hand was a sword, the distal third of its blade smeared red with blood.
The boy lifted his gaze from Hunter and saw Westphalen. With a high-pitched cry, he raised his sword and charged forward. Westphalen had no time to reach for his pistol, no choice but to defend himself with the oil-soaked saber he still clutched.
No cunning, no strategy; no skill to the boy's swordplay, only a ceaseless, driving barrage of slashing strokes, high and low, powered by blind, mindless rage. Westphalen gave way, as much from the ferocity of the attack as from the maniacal look on the boy's tear-streaked face: his eyes were twin slits of fury, spittle flecked his lips and dribbled onto his chin as he grunted with each thrust of his blade.
Westphalen spotted Malleson standing off to the side with his rifle raised.
'For God's sake, shoot him!'
'Waiting for a clear shot!'
Westphalen backpedaled faster, increasing the distance between himself and the boy. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Malleson fired,
And
