Biggles Flies South Read online

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: ‘THE KING HAS SPOKEN’

  CHAPTER 2: THE DESERT ANSWERS

  CHAPTER 3: THE MOONLIGHT ASSASSIN

  CHAPTER 4: KADAR’S STORY

  CHAPTER 5: ZARWAN CALLS

  CHAPTER 6: A DISCONCERTING DISCOVERY

  CHAPTER 7: THE END OF THE TRAIL

  CHAPTER 8: THE HABOOB

  CHAPTER 9: LOST IN THE DESERT

  CHAPTER 10: THE TOMBS OF THE DEAD

  CHAPTER 11: THE HORROR IN THE POOL

  CHAPTER 12: TRAPPED

  CHAPTER 13: WHAT HAPPENED TO ALGY

  CHAPTER 14: ALGY TO THE RESCUE

  CHAPTER 15: CAPTURED

  CHAPTER 16: A HOPELESS PROSPECT

  CHAPTER 17: CONDEMNED TO THE CROCODILE

  CHAPTER 18: BIGGLES WINS THROUGH

  CHAPTER 19: A DREADFUL SENTENCE

  CHAPTER 20: BIGGLES STRIKES

  CHAPTER 21: MIRAGE!

  CHAPTER 22: FAREWELL TO THE DESERT

  Chapter 1

  ‘The King Has Spoken’

  Mazeus, son of Hystomannus, leaned against the warm trunk of a royal palm and regarded with brooding eyes the endless sands that rolled away from his feet to the far horizon. What lay beyond that mysterious belt of purple-blue that veiled the distance, he wondered. What strange beasts dwelt there? Perhaps those legendary monsters of which he had heard so much, the unicorn and camelopard. He thrilled at the thought of beholding them in the flesh, for Mazeus was young, barely sixteen years of age, and this was his first campaign with the mighty Persian host in which his father was a Captain of the Royal Guard, now encamped on the Oasis of Khargah, in Upper Egypt, the sinister land of that potent godhead, Ra.

  The year was 525 B.C., nearly five centuries before the Roman Caesar landed on the shores of barbaric Britain. Cambyses, conquering son of Cyrus the Great, founder of the Persian Empire, was on the march, adding more and more territory to his wide-spread kingdom. Egypt had fallen under the pikes and scimitars of his armoured warriors, and he had celebrated the event by destroying the sacred Apis and plundering the temples of the high priests. And now he paused at the oasis to refresh his troops, before moving on to conquer new worlds.

  But strange rumours were current in the camp. With bated breath the superstitious soldiers told of strange signs and stranger portents, of crafty sorcerers caught in the act of casting spells, and fanatic necromancers who died with a curious light of triumph in their eyes; of pillars of smoke that rose from the desert by day and mystic fires that blazed in the heavens by night. Yet, when the furious Persian scouts had galloped out, they found—nothing. Some spoke of evil shapes seen slinking in the dunes, of double-headed cats, men with heads like dogs’, and other horrors never seen before; yet not one could they slay. One archer vowed that he had seen his arrow pass through the body of a twin-faced hawk, yet it did not fall, and a slinger claimed that his stone had bounded from a hydra-headed snake which vanished on the open sand where there was not a hole, or bush, or any other hiding-place. It was all very mysterious.

  Mazeus turned from his musings and saw his father striding through the serried ranks of resting men; his face was grave, and Mazeus felt a thrill of apprehension, for his father had been in council with the king.

  ‘What news, O Father?’ he asked, as the bearded captain reached their silken tent.

  Within the restful shade Hystomannus placed his hands upon the shoulders of his son, a gesture of affection seldom shown. ‘You were over young for this campaign,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Would that I had left you with your mother in Persepolis.’

  ‘Over young, sir?’ cried Mazeus in surprise. ‘Why, all the sons I know, many much younger than I, have been to war.’ Which was true, for in those distant days boys were trained in the use of arms as soon as they could bear them.

  ‘That may be so,’ answered his father moodily, mopping the perspiration from his face with a towel. ‘But this is different.’

  ‘How so, my Father? Have I not acquitted myself in battle?’

  ‘Yes—yes. But now—I do not know. These pagan gods—within my heart there is a fear that neither common sense nor reason can dispel.’

  ‘You mean—the king has spoken?’

  ‘Yes. And he acts against the advice of all of us. This passion for strife is going to his head, I fear, until he knows not where to stop.’

  ‘You mean—he will go on?’

  ‘When the sun goes down we march—forward.’

  Mazeus’s dark eyes opened wide. ‘Forward!’

  Hystomannus pointed a finger at the shimmering, sun-scorched sand. ‘There lies our path,’ he said grimly.

  ‘For what purpose, Father? Have we not enough plunder already?’

  ‘More than enough; but Cambyses swears to sack the Temple and destroy the outlandish gods at Ammon. Rumours have reached him of this place, which is near a citadel called Siwah, the home of all the witchcraft in this thrice-accursed land, where none can quench his thirst although his body boils inside his armour. It is there, so ‘tis said, the lying priests consult their Oracle.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘No man can say. It lies out in the unknown desert, that is all we know.’

  ‘Cannot a guide be found?’

  ‘They prefer to die in agony rather than speak.’

  ‘But what of those who led us here from Memphis and Djebel Dakrour?’

  ‘They will go no farther. They say their feet are tied and their lips are sealed by Ra.’

  ‘Can no way be found to make them open them?’

  ‘None—we have tried them all, you may be sure,’ said Hystomannus dryly.

  ‘Yet still we go?’

  ‘Yet still. And now you know what I mean when I say that this is different.’

  ‘I will go and sharpen my lance,’ smiled Mazeus.

  His father shook his head. ‘The enemies that we shall have to face will not be those of flesh and blood. Didst ever see me flinch before stones or flying steel?’

  ‘Never, my Father.’

  ‘There are worse things in the wilderness: such things as thirst, heat, dust-devils that sweep across the sand and carry all before them. No sword can hold such things in play, no shield can stem their rush.’

  ‘Father! It is not like you to talk this way,’ cried Mazeus in alarm.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Hystomannus shook himself almost savagely. ‘It is these accursed priests,’ he muttered. ‘We have destroyed their gods, and in the night strange voices say they will destroy us, too.’

  Mazeus smiled, a little nervously, perhaps. ‘We shall see. How many men are going on this expedition?’

  ‘Fifty thousand.’

  ‘You mean—?’

  ‘The army marches forward as the sun goes down. Come, let us prepare.’

  Chapter 2

  The Desert Answers

  Thus, as the sun went down in a blaze of crimson glory, the mighty Persian host marched out in martial splendour: Parthian pikemen, Mardian archers, Scythian cavalry, Medes and Susians, slingers, bow-men, horse and foot, chariots and baggage-wagons— all moved out across the quivering dunes, confident of victory, never having known defeat.

  Mazeus, with his lance at rest, rode beside his father near the royal wardrobe chest, which rested in a chariot beside the records of the historians who accompanied the king so that the story of his prowess might be told. Around this chariot rode the Royal Guard, drawn from the highest born in the noble city of Persepolis.

  Swiftly the rim of the sun melted into the sand; the moon came up and a myriad stars blazed down from a sky of purple velvet, while along the line of marching men arose such sounds as the dunes had never heard before; the dull rumble of a hundred thousand feet, the musical ji
ngle of arms and accoutrements, the creaking of wagons, the groans of toiling slaves, and the cracking of the whips of their taskmasters.

  For three long days and nights the army wound like a gigantic serpent across the brooding sand, halting when the sun was high, the soldiers seeking in vain for shelter where there was none; for not a tree, not a bird, not an animal or blade of grass, nor any other living thing broke the eternal monotony of sand, sand, and still more sand. Yet ever in the distance strange wraiths of smoke pointed upwards to the heavens like accusing fingers, while at night unearthly fire was seen to flicker in the dunes. And the marching men marched on in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes, for in their hearts was fear.

  On the evening of the third day, soon after the army had resumed its march, an excited murmur ran along the line. Hills could be seen ahead, so it was said, and the men were as cheered as shipwrecked mariners when a coast is seen. Mazeus rode forward to the top of a towering dune and looked long and steadily at the line of jagged peaks, which, like a row of broken teeth, rose stark and clear into the sky. They were, he judged, still twenty miles away, but dawn should see the weary soldiers resting in their shade. He paused for a moment to watch the army winding through the sands, then he galloped back to his father to report.

  It was nearly four hours later when he noticed, with more curiosity than alarm, that the moon had changed its colour. No longer was it an orb of gleaming silver; it had turned a creamy tint, almost golden; it appeared to be much larger, too, and misty at the edges. He called his father’s attention to it, but all he got by way of answer was a curt ‘Ride on!’

  Another hour passed, and he saw that the moon had become a dullish, orange globe, a phenomenon he had never seen before. He noticed, too, that the pace of march had been increased, and that unusual noises now arose from the winding train behind. The crack of whips came faster, and the hoarse cries of the chariot-drivers were nearly drowned in the plaintive groaning of the camels. A breath of wind played for a moment on his cheek, but it brought him no refreshment, for it was as hot as if it had been breathed from the heart of a live volcano, and a thrill of apprehension swept through him.

  ‘What means this speed, O Father?’ he asked wonderingly, and then ran his tongue over his teeth, for there seemed to be some grit on them, which grated as he spoke.

  ‘A storm is coming,’ was the brief reply. ‘Look at the moon.’

  Mazeus turned, and caught his breath when he saw that it had turned dull brown, with edges blurred, as though a veil were being drawn across it. ‘You mean a sand-storm?’ he asked easily, for now he felt no fear, having seen such things before.

  ‘Yes. Ride nearer to the chariot.’

  ‘It will overtake us, you think, before we reach the hills?’ questioned Mazeus, pressing his left leg against his horse’s flank to move it nearer to the chariot.

  ‘It will.’

  ‘But we cannot be far away now.’ As he spoke Mazeus turned again in the saddle, eyes seeking the moon, but now in vain. The column moved through a world of utter darkness.

  ‘Tie your scarf across your mouth and keep close by my side,’ his father told him, and a moment later came the wind.

  At first it came quite quietly, a gentle sigh, a moan that crept across the wilderness; but then there came a gust, a howl, a searing, scorching blast, bringing with it a cloud of sand that stung and smarted like the bites of countless ants.

  Mazeus bowed his head and swiftly tied his scarf about his mouth, at the same time fighting to check his plunging steed, in such darkness as he had never known. Where was the chariot? He moved, as he thought, towards it, but it was not where he had imagined it to be. Faintly, above the scream of the wind, he heard the groans of slaves and the cursing of the soldiers he could not see. Panic clutched his heart. Where was his father? ‘Father!’ he cried, but the blast, with a shriek of triumph, tore the word from his lips and flung it in the air. ‘Father!’ he called again, shortening his reins to control his frenzied mount. The animal, sensing his fear, reared high, then plunged. The rein snapped like a piece of cotton, and in an instant the maddened creature was racing before the storm.

  Blindly, gasping for breath, Mazeus clung to the saddle with his left hand, still gripping in his right, perhaps from force of habit, his lance, for to lose a weapon in Cambyses’ army meant, for the loser, death. And as he rode a thousand demons seemed to clutch him, tearing at his clothes, snatching at his body, scouring his face and hands with sand until they bled. Where he was going, in what direction, he did not know; he only knew that the sand was choking him to death; for he had to breathe, and every time he drew a breath, by nose or mouth, the tiny grains poured in and clogged his throat and lungs.

  He was reeling in the saddle when the horse fell, with an almost human scream of terror. Thrown clear, he rose at once, groping for the animal. But it had gone. For a moment or two he stood still, appalled by the calamity, then he began to run. But he seemed to be staggering through a roaring tide which, snatching at his ankles, dragged him down. He fell, rose, and fell again, hardly knowing that he did. ‘It is the end of the world,’ he thought, in a vague, bewildered way as he blundered on only to fall again. This time he remained rigid, his questing hands feeling the earth beneath him. It was no longer sand. It was rock. He had reached the hills! Gradually, like a blind man on a strange road, he felt his way along it until he found the thing he sought, a cleft, a fault in the rocky massif, and into it he tumbled. The sand poured in, but it was not so bad as it was outside, and gradually the storm began to wane.

  Came dawn, and he crawled wearily from his refuge, his face all raw and his dry lips cracked and bleeding. A dreadful thirst consumed him and he knew that he must drink or die. No longer could he remove the cloying sand from his mouth. The army? Yes, someone would see him when he raised his lance. Forcing open his aching eyes, he looked out across the desert, but all that met his gaze was sand, billowing yellow dunes of sand as far as the eye could see. Behind him was the mountain, grim and stark, as relentless as death itself. At first he did not understand. Where was the army? The thought repeated itself again and again in his reeling brain. Where could it have gone in so short a time? One thing alone was certain: it was not there.

  He was not to know that nearly all the mighty Persian host, fifty thousand horse and foot, horses, carts, and chariots, lay buried in the sand not a mile from where he swayed, so that neither pike nor lance, wheel nor standard remained to mark its mile-square tomb.

  ‘My father will come back,’ he thought desperately. ‘He will come back to seek me. I must make a mark that he will see. My lance!’ Weakly, the dunes rocking before his eyes, he picked up the weapon and drove the handle deep into the sand, so that the point was skyward. This done, he lay down to wait.

  The sun soared upwards, driving bars of living fire into the sterile earth. Silence reigned, the awful silence of the uttermost wilderness. The rays crept round the rock and played upon the huddled body that lay at the foot of the lance. It did not move. It would never move again, for the spirit of Mazeus, son of Hystomannus, the last survivor of Cambyses’ Royal Guard, had gone to seek its comrades in the cloudless blue, above the eternal sand.

  Chapter 3

  The Moonlight Assassin

  Major James Bigglesworth, better known to his friends as Biggles, folded up the map he had been studying and put it on the paved terrace near the feet of the long cane-chair in which he was sitting.

  ‘No,’ he said, for the benefit of Ginger Hebblethwaite, who was standing near him. ‘Quite definitely, no. Algy will bear me out—if he is capable of bearing anything—that when we started on this trip it was agreed that we should fly direct to Capetown without any intermediate meandering. Yet here we are, rather less than half-way, and you want to fly off, literally, at a tangent. My answer is, unless any insuperable obstacle arises to prevent me from getting there, I am going to Capetown and nowhere else.’

  ‘Good enough, chief,’ agreed Ginger, with just a hi
nt of disappointment in his voice. ‘It was only a suggestion, you know—’

  ‘Yes, I know all about your suggestions. Say no more. The matter is closed.’ Biggles settled back in his chair and reached for the iced drink that stood on a small table near his elbow.

  ‘Picture of a Great White Chief putting his foot down,’ murmured the Honourable Algernon Lacey, more often known as Algy, catching Ginger’s eye and smiling at his discomfiture.

  The three airmen were in Egypt, where they had arrived a few days earlier after an uneventful flight from England in one of the new ‘Tourer’ twin-engined sports aeroplanes which had been acquired for the purpose.

  The reason for the trip was quite a prosaic one. Major Mullen, Biggles’s old C.O. in Number 266 Squadron, R.F.C., now a high official in South African civil aviation, had conceived the idea of a Squadron Reunion Dinner; but as many of the old members of the Squadron were now in Africa, in his service, it was decided that it would be more convenient for the majority if the dinner was held in Capetown instead of London. This information, together with an invitation, had been sent to Biggles, who, having little to do at the time, had decided to accept, taking his two friends with him as guests. Naturally, it did not occur to him to travel any way other than by air, so a new machine had been purchased with the idea of making the occasion something of a pleasure cruise.

  They had started with plenty of time at their disposal in order to make the journey in easy stages, which would allow them to see something of the places of interest on the route, and up to the time they reached Egypt this programme had been adhered to. They were now in Cairo, and had, in fact, been there for three days, leaving their machine at Heliopolis Aerodrome while they explored the ancient city.

  Ginger, however, either because he found the slow progress somewhat irksome, or possibly because he was never so happy as when he was in the air, had lately formed a habit of suggesting minor expeditions by air, and it was such a proposal that he had just put forward. For reasons best known to himself—for he had not had time to disclose them—he had suddenly decided that he would like to see Jerusalem, and it was on this question that Biggles had given his decision.