Mundy The Devil's Guard (Thriller Novel)

Enriched edition.
1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-80-272-4864-3
Verlag: Musaicum Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 248 Seiten

In 'The Devil's Guard' by Talbot Mundy, readers are plunged into a gripping thriller novel filled with suspense, mystery, and intrigue. Set against the backdrop of a fascinating historical era, the book expertly combines elements of adventure and espionage, keeping the reader on the edge of their seat throughout. Mundy's writing style is both engaging and vivid, painting a vivid picture of the characters and settings. The novel's intricate plot twists and fast-paced narrative will surely captivate fans of action-packed thrillers. This literary work is a testament to Mundy's skill as a master storyteller, drawing readers in with his immersive prose and intricate storytelling. Talbot Mundy's 'The Devil's Guard' is a must-read for anyone interested in thrilling plots, historical settings, and expertly crafted narratives. With its compelling storyline and well-developed characters, this novel is sure to leave a lasting impression on readers who enjoy high-stakes adventure and suspense.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Mundy, Talbot

Weitere Mitwirkende

Fisher, Shane

Leseproben

CHAPTER II.
“A manuscript in the handwriting of jesus!”

Table of Contents

Three men set forth seeking fortune. And the one found gold; another came on good land, and he tilled it. But the third saw sunlight making jewels of the dew. All three went by the same road. Each one thought himself the richer.

Elmer rait’s letter had been wrapped in dogskin and then enclosed in a tough brown envelope. It smelled vaguely of ghee. The white paper was filthy with finger-marks, torn here and there, and turned yellow in places with age, as if Rait had made use of such stuff as he found in the markets of Lhasa.

“Dear Jeff: What on earth did we quarrel about? I forget. Nothing serious anyhow—probably ethics. You’re a muscular moralist, whereas I’m practical and don’t even want to make things better than they are. And here I am in Lhasa—the Forbidden City!—thinking of you, wishing you were here too, in spite of those winkers you wear, which you think are respectable compunctions, for all the world like an old maid in a bathing costume with the pants tied round her ankles. You ought to have been a bishop. You’d look splendid with a miter and crook. And how that fist of yours would shake a pulpit! However, there is nobody quite like you: nobody quite so whole-souled in stupidity with so much force behind it; nobody quite so willing to oblige a friend, and especially when the friend least deserves it; nobody more dependable. You’re like a phalanx in reserve, or a siege-train—anything heavy and honest, that can hit like Billy-o when pointed in the right direction.

“Which is Tibet in this instance. Come along. I dare say money wouldn’t tempt you, even though your ancestors were Scotch and you’ve a fortune salted down in tax-exemptums. I have spent seven years preparing for this trip, and I have got through this far as a Tibetan trader with a Chinese accent. I am after loot, though not the kind of loot that you’ll appreciate —ancient manuscripts—priceless. Those won’t tempt you either. This will.

“I am headed for Sham-bha-la. The place is said to be fictitious, although three or four explorers have been within thirty or forty miles of it. You’ve heard of it, of course; you and I talked about it years ago; that time we met the Lama in Benares, who was paying his way with stamped gold ingots.

“When I started out for Lhasa I was not yet sure that Sham- bha-la is a real place, but now I’m positive. I’m almost sure I can get there, and get in, but almost equally sure I can’t get out again without help. Hence this S.O.S. call for the phalanx.

“I will split with you fifty fifty. It is true about the ancient libraries; the books are written on palm-leaves, treated with mastic such as the old Egyptians used, that has preserved them perfectly. They’re bound with leather thongs between wooden blocks, which have had to be renewed every few centuries.

“The people who live in Sham-bha-la can read those books, which are in a language much older than Sanskrit. They are not a warlike people; they will not take life; they protect themselves from intrusion and interference by taking advantage of Tibetan superstition and dislike of strangers. The Dalai Lama, who is a well-meaning man, and the Tashi Lama, who is an extremely intelligent religionist, do what they are told by these Sham- bha-la people, who advise them secretly.

“It would take too long to tell you how I found out all about them, but remember: although we quarreled about morals or some such nonsense, I never once gave you a wrong steer during all the years we were in partnership. If you find my trail and come to Sham-bha-la, I promise you full pay for all your trouble—gold, priceless manuscripts and information that will make historians and scientists look sick. Think of the fun of refuting the high-brows!

“Your danger will be mainly from Tibetans, who are dead- set on keeping all foreigners out of the country. I have quite convinced them I was born in Tibet and kidnapped over the Chinese border in my youth, but there’s a rumor that a white man has slipped in through Gyang-tse (which is the way I came) so they’ll be keeping an extra sharp lookout along that route. They strip all suspected wayfarers and search them, which is no joke with the wind at twenty below zero; so stain your skin with something permanent.

“It’s an awful journey, which will suit you to a T. The country is hell, and you’ll like it. There’s no food fit to eat, no sugar, and you mayn’t smoke. The wind gives you toothache, and Tibetans never wash; dirt helps to keep them warm and fuel is scarce everywhere. Tibetans are all right—no bigger rogues than you and me—but awfully suspicious. Yes, I know well you believe you are honest. The Tibetans won’t believe it, so look out for them.

“Beware of women, who are in a minority in Tibet and therefore doubly dangerous. Some of them go in for polyandry, and they like men Herculean, so beware! They get indignant when their overtures are turned down, and the other husbands take it as an insult to themselves, so they go after you with bows and arrows. One white man I heard of—I forget his name—fell for the proposition, hoping to find some way to visit Lhasa; he found himself one of nine and, being the latest recruit—a mere Plebe, as it were—was made bell-hop to the gang. I’m told he stuck it out for five or six years, always trying to escape, until he almost forgot he was white; but one day he took a bath in a hot spring, the dye gave out, and the woman was tired of him anyway. So they had him examined by a government official, who found him guilty, had him flogged to death and fed him to the dogs. The fact that the woman and all her husbands were also flogged to death was not much consolation to him. Better avoid matrimony, even at the risk of seeming rude.

“Don’t trust anyone on British territory, except Chullunder Ghose, who is an impudent scoundrel but extremely fond of you. Him you will have to trust, so make the best of it. You had better bring him with you; he will die in the passes, which is the best thing that could happen to him. You will probably need one confidant who can make the grade, but whatever you do, don’t bring along a white man. Choose someone you can kick, and who won’t matter much if he dies. Any white man would be certain to turn quarrelsome, at this elevation, with the bad grub, and dirt, and one thing and another. Particularly, don’t bring Jimgrim or Narayan Singh. I know they’re your friends, or you think they are, but I hate them both. They think they know too much, and neither of them has the slightest use for me.

“You must make your way toward Lhasa and work that great lump of a head of yours for all it’s worth. Discover my Tibetan name and where I am. Naturally, I don’t dare to write my Tibetan name in this letter, which might fall into the wrong hands, in spite of all precautions. You will have to prospect for me. You remember those marks we used to make on rocks when we were prospecting? Look out for those or something like them. Where-ever you see such a mark beside the main road you may look for a message in writing not far from it—probably hidden under the stones of one of the countless roadside cairns on which each passer-by sticks a prayer-flag.

“You can’t get in through China, because the Chinese and Tibetans haven’t made peace, except nominally, and both sides have blocked the frontier. They say it’s equally impossible to get down through Siberia, because the Soviet people have closed all routes, which are said to be almost impassable anyhow. Sven Hedin came up several years ago along the Valley of the Indus, while the Maharajah of Kashmir pretended to look the other way; there was an awful row about it, and the odds are that way’s blocked; the Maharajah won’t dare look away another time. You’d better take the least used and most difficult route you can find, and hold your tongue about it.

“The chief danger, of course, is from spies on the Indian side of the border, who might learn of your intentions and tip off the Lhasa Government. There’s a telegraph wire between Lhasa and Gyang-tse, at which latter place there’s a British officer and a small detachment of troops who help the Tibetans to watch the border. It’s the funniest amateur telegraph set you ever saw, but it serves its purpose, which is to help them keep out foreigners.

“Kashmiris and Bhutanis are allowed to travel in Tibet without much interference. Let your beard grow, curl it, and you’ll look enough like a Kashmiri merchant to get by, provided you don’t talk too much. Don’t kid yourself that you can speak Kashmiri like a native. You never could. You can’t. You never will. You can look the part, and you’re a better actor than your idiotic modesty allows you to pretend. So pretend to be sick —or be deaf and dumb—or mad. Affliction is a passport everywhere. You always were mad anyhow; you ought to find that role easy.

“Either I am on the track of the most important discovery of modern times, or else I shall explode a fable that a third of the world has believed so long that it has become a tenet of religion. After seven years’ preparation and inquiry I am confident that this is not a mare’s nest, however, and that the results will exceed expectations. The main trouble will be to get out with the loot, which is why it’s so important you should come.

“My argument is this: These men in Sham-bha-la possess important secrets, and they are clever enough to have kept themselves hidden —almost, you might say, a myth—for centuries, although in ancient times there used to be a traveled highway...