By late that afternoon, their path was winding downward, losing altitude, although he reckoned that must be a function of his own fatigue. According to the topographic maps he carried, this whole region was a sort of swampy floodplain, nearly level, with no striking highs or lows. There were no mountains in the district, for example, and it stood to reason there would be no valleys, either. Still…
But as dusk approached, he realized there could be no mistake. Their path was intersected by a gully that led steeply downward for a hundred yards or so, then leveled out again. Trees from each side of the gully met overhead and blocked out the sunlight. More than once, he saw the disappearing tails of serpents startled by their passage and half expected a king cobra to rear up and block the path at any moment.
Watching out for snakes made Stockwell think of Renton Ward, and that in turn brought painful memories of Audrey Moreland back into the forefront of his mind. Such beauty, squandered in a godforsaken wilderness, and she would be forgotten almost overnight back home.
The trees cleared out in front of them, a sudden break in the oppressive gloom, and in the few short yards before they closed in overhead once more, he saw it.
He stood rooted to the spot until his captors shoved him on.
Stockwell thought he must have lost his mind. The heat had poached his brain; that must be it.
He blinked, then blinked again, but nothing changed. The scene in front of him was real, and his companions saw it, too. Pike Chalmers, too, had stopped dead in his tracks, dumbstruck, until a couple of the pygmies prodded him with spears. Stockwell now kept on moving, even though his legs had lost their feeling. He was giddy with excitement, close to passing out from the combined effects of hunger, heat, exhaustion and surprise.
But he kept moving.
Toward the ancient, hidden city that had risen from the ground in front of them, as if by magic.
Coming home was always a relief and pleasure for Kuching Kangar. He hated visiting the outside world, but he had no real choice. Cruel Fate had marked him with a face and body that were different from others in his clan—"normal" in the words of men who didn't know his people—and it meant that he was preordained to bridge the gap between his tribe and those Outside.
In every generation of his people, there were six or seven normal ones, enough to carry on their necessary commerce with the world of common men. It was a part of great Nagaq's own master plan, and while Kuching Kangar could recognize the genius of it, he was still uncomfortable with his special role. Raised from birth to be as those Outside, he always knew that he was strange, a fact the other children of his tribe wouldn't let him forget. They teased him constantly, threw pebbles at him when he tried to join them in their games and made it crystal clear that he would never be entirely welcome. The young women of the tribe had shunned him, too, as if his normal aspect was revolting, something to be feared. In time, he knew from adolescence, elders of the tribe would choose a normal female for him, to perpetuate the freakish bloodline, even if they had to snatch one from Outside.
The normal ones must never die out absolutely, after all. They were the only link between his people and the larger world that brought them special treasures: gold and silver, precious stones and sacrificial offerings for great Nagaq.
When he was sent away for education with the common men, Kuching Kangar had worried they would find him out, see something in his eyes or in his manner that would instantly betray him as a member of the tribe. He had been wrong, of course. The men Outside were idiots, for all their schooling. They knew nothing of his people or Nagaq. They even raised their children to believe that dragons were a figment of imagination.
Fools.
These days, he lived between two worlds, with one foot in the City and the other one Outside. With his diplomas duly registered and filed away, Kuching Kangar took pains to hide his education, building up a reputation as one of the foremost hunting guides in all peninsular Malaysia. He was famous, in his way, among the Outside men who came with guns or cameras to stalk the native wildlife, study plants or mingle with the aborigines. Some came in search of oil or other minerals, but it was all the same to him. Each year, a number of his clients vanished in the jungle, always under circumstances that would not reflect upon Kuching Kangar or make him suspect in the eyes of the authorities.
Nagaq demanded periodic offerings, but there were millions of unsuspecting fools Outside, and each new season brought a crop of them, intent on finding riches, romance or adventure in the wild. Most made it back intact, but if a member of the party should be lost occasionally, snatched by "tigers," "crocodiles" or "quicksand," who would be the wiser? After ten years in the game, Kuching Kangar had come to realize that strangers from Outside were fond of tragedy. It made their own lives more exciting, satisfying somehow, if they knew somebody who had died.
Perhaps it reassured them of their own invincibility, when Death brushed shoulders with them and selected someone else. The roots of their peculiar mind-set held no fascination for Kuching Kangar. It was enough for him, and for his people, that the idiots still made themselves available—and paid him very handsomely for leading them to meet their fate.
He'd never before snared an entire expedition, but Dr. Stockwell's group was special. They had come to find Nagaq, the first time in a generation that Outsiders had taken any interest in a "simple native legend." Last time, in the year before Kuching Kangar was born, a group of British soldiers had come hunting for the dragon, but their disbelief had blinded them, and they were too well armed for any member of the tribe to challenge them. Besides, they had been more concerned with pitching tents and practicing survival exercises than in hunting for Nagaq. A normal member of the tribe had been their guide, and he made sure they never passed within a day's march of the City.
There had never been another name for it, as far as he could tell. The tribe didn't possess a written history, of course, but the traditions were preserved in oral form, passed down among the normal ones and any others capable of holding long-term memories. It was "the City," plain and simple, built from massive blocks of jade, erected in the time before remembering. The site was chosen by an ancient father of the tribe who was the first to see Nagaq and worship him with offerings.
According to tradition, early members of the tribe had all been normal. It took a few years in the City, worshiping Nagaq, before the dragon god had started blessing them with special children. At first, in the beginning of the change, some members of the tribe were horrified, repulsed by "monster" children in their midst, but then a wise priest recognized the blessing of Nagaq and carefully explained it to the others.
They had chosen wisely in their god, and he rewarded them by setting them apart. He placed his mark on those who served him, leaving normal ones among the blessed to help deceive the world at large. Sometimes, he even favored normal ones with special children, so they wouldn't be discouraged by their lot in life or blame themselves for having failed to worship him with proper offerings.
Nagaq had placed his mark upon the City, too. A secret river from below ground fed a stone fountain in the spacious courtyard where the tribe conducted many of its rituals. And sometimes, in the dark of night, the very water seemed to come alive with eerie, dancing lights.