The Warlord of the Air Read Online Free

don’t follow you.”
    “If I told you what I know, what happened to me—what I saw—it might make a difference. If you agreed to write it down, publish it, if you could, when you got back.”
    “When we got back.” I said firmly.
    “Just as you like.” His expression altered, became grim, as if his decision had a significance I had not understood.
    And so the lunch was brought up and he ate some of the cold chicken and the salad. The meal seemed to do him good, for he became more coherent.
    “I’ll try to begin at the beginning,” he said, “and go through to the end—telling it as it happened.”
    I had a large notebook and several pencils by me. In the early days of my career I had earned my living as a Parliamentary reporter and my knowledge of shorthand stood me in good stead as Bastable began to speak.
    He told me his story over the next three days, in which time we scarcely left that room, scarcely slept. Occasionally Bastable would revive himself by recourse to some pills he had—which he swore to me were not opium—but I needed no other stimulant than Bastable’s story itself. The atmosphere in that hotel room became unreal as the tale unfolded. I began by thinking I listened to the fantastic ravings of a madman but I ended by believing without any doubt that I had heard the truth—or, at least, a truth. It is up to you to decide if what follows is fiction or not. I can only assure you that Bastable said it was not fiction and I believe, profoundly, that he was right.
    MICHAEL MOORCOCK,
    Three Chimneys,
    Mitcham, Surrey.
    October 1904

CHAPTER TWO
The Temple at Teku Benga
    I don’t know if you’ve ever been in North-East India (began Bastable) but if you have you’ll know what I mean when I say it’s the meeting place of worlds both old and immeasurably ancient. Where India, Nepaul, Tibet and Bhutan come together, about two hundred miles north of Darjiling and about a hundred west of Mt. Kinchunmaja, you’ll find Kumbalari: a state which claims to be older than Time. It’s what they call a “theocracy”—priest-ridden in the extreme, full of dark superstitions and darker myths and legends, where all gods and demons are honoured, doubtless to be on the safe side. The people are cruel, ignorant, dirty and proud—they look down their noses at all other races. They resent the British presence so close to their territory and over the past couple of hundred years we’ve had a spot or two of trouble with them, but never anything much. They won’t go far beyond their own borders, luckily, and their population is kept pretty low thanks to their own various barbaric practices. Sometimes, as on this occasion, a religious leader pops up who convinces them of the necessity of some kind of jehad against the British or British-protected peoples, tells them they’re impervious to our bullets and so forth, and we have to go and teach them a lesson. They are not regarded very seriously by the army, which is doubtless why I was put in charge of the expedition which, in 1902, set off for the Himalayas and Kumbalari.
    It was the first time I had commanded so many men and I felt my responsibility very seriously. I had a squadron of a hundred and fifty sowars of the impressive Punjabi Lancers and two hundred fierce, loyal little sepoys of the 9th Ghoorka Infantry. I was intensely proud of my army and felt that if it had had to it could have conquered the whole of Bengal. I was, of course, the only white officer, but I was perfectly willing to admit that the native officers were men of much greater experience than myself and whenever possible I relied on their advice.
    My orders were to make a show of strength and, if I could, to avoid a scrap. We just wanted to give the beggars an idea of what they would come up against if we started to take them seriously. Their latest leader—an old fanatic by the name of Sharan Kang— was their King, Archbishop and C-in-C all rolled into one. Sharan Kang had already burned