Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

“Dick!” Speke gasped. “It wasn't me! It wasn't me! I didn't do any of it!”

“I know, John. You've been the greatest victim of them all.”

“Please! We have to get out of here! They'll come for us!”

Zeppelin grinned. “He believes there are monsters in this place.”

“I see only one,” Swinburne snarled, stepping forward with his fists raised.

“Remain where you are, kleiner Mann ,” Zeppelin growled.

Burton said, “Let's not waste any more time. Now, Herbert.”

The clockwork philosopher drew his revolver, aimed it at Zeppelin's head, and did nothing.

Burton sighed. He turned to William Trounce and asked, in an exasperated tone, “Have you noticed how he winds down at the most inconvenient of times?”

“I have!” the Yard man grumbled.

Count Zeppelin laughed nastily. “Your clockwork toy has become a statue. Sehr gut! Now, let us get to business. I want your little assistant to go around the rock behind me. He will find there a pack, and in it some lengths of rope. Have him fetch them, if you please.”

“Up yours, you murdering git!” Swinburne spat.

“It would be more convenient for me to keep the lieutenant alive for a while longer, Herr Burton, but I am prepared to inject him with venom now, if necessary. It will cause him to transform in a most painful fashion. He is your enemy, ja? But he was once your friend. Are you prepared to watch him die?”

The count applied pressure to Speke's neck. The Englishman started to choke.

“Stop!” Burton barked. “Algy, fetch the ropes.”

“But, Richard-”

“Just do it, please.”

Swinburne hesitated, then stamped past Zeppelin and his captive, found the pack, retrieved the coils of rope, and returned to his former position.

“Don't-” Speke began, but was cut off and shaken hard.

“You will be quiet!” the count said. He looked at Trounce and demanded: “You there! Who are you?”

Trounce scowled. “I'm Detective Inspector William Trounce of Scotland Yard.”

“Ha-ha! A policeman in Africa! Most amusing! You will kneel down and the little man will bind your wrists.”

“I'll not kneel for you!”

“You are of no consequence to me, Detective Inspector. If you allow yourself to be tied, I give you my word that I will leave you here alive. Perhaps you will manage to free yourself and make your way out of this cavern, ja? But if you resist, I shall most certainly kill you like a dog.” Zeppelin transferred his attention to Burton. “Do not doubt that I can defeat all three of you, Herr Burton!” He took his right hand from Speke's neck, held it up, and flexed his fingers. His claws gleamed in the phosphorescent light. “It takes but one scratch!”

“William,” Burton said, quietly. “Do as he says, please.”

Trounce looked shocked. “We can overpower him!” he hissed.

“The risk is too great. As he says: one scratch. I would prefer to keep you alive while this affair plays itself out.”

“Kneel with your back to me, Herr Policeman. I wish to see that the rope is made tight.”

Trounce slowly obeyed, his face livid with anger.

Burton said: “Go ahead, Algy.”

The poet, whose eyes were also blazing with fury, squatted behind Trounce and began to tie his wrists.

“Nein! Nein!” Zeppelin shouted. “Das ist ein slipknot! Ich bin kein Narr! Do not try to deceive me! Do it properly!”

Swinburne cursed under his breath and started again.

When he'd finished, the count ordered the poet to rejoin Burton. He then dragged Speke forward, still holding him by the neck with just his left hand, and inspected the handiwork.

“Das ist besser!” he exclaimed.

He pulled a revolver from his belt and pointed it at the back of Trounce's neck.

“No!” Swinburne shrieked.

Burton looked on, his face mask-like.

Zeppelin noticed the explorer's expression and grinned at him. “You think perhaps that my pistol is useless, ja?”

He received no response.

“You are wrong, Herr Burton. Observe!”

The Prussian sliced the weapon upward into the bony side of Speke's head. The lieutenant slumped, and the count let him slip senselessly to the ground.

“Effective, do you not think?”

Zeppelin reversed the weapon and held it in his left hand like a club. He stepped closer to Trounce, pressed his knee between the detective's shoulder blades, and, with his right hand, reached down over the Yard man's face. He curled his fingers under the bearded chin and levered Trounce's head back until his spine was agonisingly arched and the Prussian's claws were pressed dangerously into the skin of his neck.

“Now, Herr Burton, you too will kneel and your assistant will tie you. If you do not do this, I will break this man's back.”

“You gave your word!” Swinburne shrilled.

“I gave my word that I would leave him here alive. I did not say anything about the condition of his spine.”

“Damn the man!” Burton muttered. He knelt, facing away from Zeppelin.

“As before, little assistant. None of your tricks!”

Swinburne bent over Burton and began to bind his wrists.

“What's the plan, then, Richard?” he whispered eagerly.

“I was hoping you'd tell me, Algy.”

“Be quiet!” Zeppelin commanded.

Swinburne finished the job and stood back.

The count released Trounce. “Das war einfach!” he said. “It is more convenient to kill a man when he is on his knees, nein?”

He raised the revolver over Trounce, still holding it like a club, looked at Swinburne, and asked, “Do you wish to say goodbye to your friends?”

The poet's mouth fell open.

“Your word, Zeppelin!” Burton yelled.

The count laughed. “Who heard it except the men who will die here today? I will leave this place, by myself, with the Eye of Naga in my hand and my honour intact! I will be a hero to the Germanic people!”

He swung the pistol up and back.

Swinburne let loose a scream of rage and flung himself forward. The Prussian turned and swiped at him, but the poet, with astonishing speed, ducked and rolled through Zeppelin's widespread legs. Snatching up a lump of quartz, he bounded to his feet and threw it with all his might into the side of his opponent's head.

Zeppelin staggered and groaned. He turned and hit out, blindly. Swinburne was already scampering clear and scooping up a fist-sized stone. He threw it and it cracked off the bigger man's kneecap, causing him to scream with pain.

“Bravo, lad!” Trounce cheered.

“Your aim is improving, Algy!” Burton called.

“I was trying to hit his nose!”

“Oh!”

“Come here!” Zeppelin roared, hopping on one leg.

“Not bloody likely!” Swinburne answered. Maintaining his distance, he picked up more crystals and rocks and started pelting the count with them.

“Gott im Himmel!” Zeppelin cried out. He backed away, coming perilously close to the lip of the sinkhole.

“Send him over the edge, lad!” Trounce urged.

In desperation, the Prussian hurled his revolver at Swinburne. It flew wide of the mark.

“Ha!” the poet squealed. He aimed at Zeppelin's uninjured knee, and, putting all his strength behind it, launched another stone. It caught the count in the middle of his forehead. The big man groaned and sat down hard, his eyes glazing over. Blood poured down his face.

Swinburne bent and lifted a large serrated lump of amethyst, heaved it over his head, and staggered toward the Prussian, intending to crack it down onto the man's skull.

“Algy!” Burton yelled. “Stay away from him!”

His assistant, oblivious to all but revenge, ignored the command and reached his opponent's side. He swung the amethyst higher.