The Elusive Bride

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Ul-ul-ul-ul-ul!”

The battle cries of their pursuers faded momentarily as Emily Ensworth and her escort thundered around the next bend. Gaze locked on the beaten surface of the dirt road, she concentrated on urging her mare even faster-on fleeing down the mountain road as if her life depended on it.

She suspected it did.

They were halfway down the hill road from Poona, the monsoon capital for the upper echelons of the British governing Bombay. Bombay itself was still hours of hard riding ahead. About them, the usually serene beauty of the hills, with their majestic firs and cool crisp air, was again fractured by the ululations of the riders pursuing them.

She’d got a good look at them earlier. Clad in traditional native garb, their insignia was a black silk scarf wound about their heads, long ends flying as, swords flashing, they’d charged wildly in their wake.

Their pursuers were Black Cobra cultists. She’d heard the grisly tales, and had no wish to feature in the next horrific installment.

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