The Maharajah's General

by Collard, Paul Fraser

  The enemy leader appeared. He was a giant of a man mounted on an enormous warhorse, and he loomed over his men like a vengeful god. He was dressed as finely as a prince, with thick, swirling black robes, his bearing as regal as that of an English duke. His thickly bearded face was creased in a ferocious scowl, his mouth stretched wide as he urged his men up and over the crest, calling for them to kill, to slay those who had strayed near to his lair.

  ‘Prepare to fire!’

  Ten bayonet-tipped muskets were brought to the shoulder at the curt command, the redcoats taking up the slack in the trigger as they readied for the order to fire.

  Jack held back the final command. He saw the muzzles waver as the men struggled to hold the unwieldy weapons steady, the seventeen inches of steel making them unbalanced and clumsy. There would be time for a single volley. One chance for the muskets to spit out death before the men would be unleashed and ordered to charge. Jack could not afford to waste it, and he forced himself to stand calm, waiting until the enemy was close enough so that every shot would find a target.

  The disordered mob surged forward. Still Jack delayed the order to fire, even though the ambushers were so close that he could see every detail on the faces rushing towards him.

  The mob was no more than fifty yards away, just moments from reaching the thin red line that stood with such stoic defiance in their path.

  ‘Fire!’ Jack bellowed the order, releasing the tension that had gripped him since the first bandit had appeared.

  The sepoys obeyed immediately, the sudden thunderclap of sound shocking in its violence as the muskets fired as one.

  He had deliberately left the volley late, the front of the mob barely twenty-five yards from the frail British line. At such close range every bullet smacked into an enemy body, flensing those who had rushed to the fore.

  ‘Charge! Charge!’

  Jack felt his fear released. Nothing mattered now. Nothing except the need to fight, to take his sword and hack at the enemy. This was the intoxicating madness that he had half forgotten. The soul-searing surge of hate and anger that combined with his fear to drive him willingly into the dreadful cauldron of battle.

  He tore out of the cloud of smoke created by the discharging muskets. The ambush had been bludgeoned to a halt. Bloodied, crumpled bodies formed a grotesque barrier and tangled around the feet of those nearest to them, the impetus of the bandits’ charge broken by the brutal volley.

  He heard a roar behind him as the sepoys followed his lead, their sudden scream a horrific contrast to the stoic silence with which they had watched the enemy close on them. The men in red coats were unleashed to do what they had been trained to do.

  It was time to kill.

  Jack rushed at the stalled mob, the last few yards disappearing in a blur of movement as he led his men forward. He ducked under a farmer’s sickle wielded by a man dressed in nothing more than a simple loincloth. The curving blade flashed past, missing his neck by no more than an inch. He was on the man in a heartbeat, the narrow escape meaning nothing as the madness of battle surged through him. There was time to see terror ripple through the man’s greased body before Jack rammed his sword into his throat.

  As he tore his blade from the gruesome wound, his victim fell to the ground, his hands clasped around the dreadful ruin of his neck. Jack was forced to step swiftly to his left to avoid a spear-thrust aimed at his side, the speed of the melee leaving no time for thought. He back-swung his sword, using the sharpened rear edge to gouge across the face of the white-robed man who had just attempted to kill him. Another spear-thrust from the mass that swirled around him tore through his red coat, missing his flesh by inches. Jack spun as he felt the impact, slashing upwards, releasing a howl of frustration as it bounced off the heavy robes of his assailant, the thin edge of the cheap sword already too dull to cut through the thickly bound cloth. But the blow drove the attacker back, giving Jack enough time to raise his revolver.

  The barrel of the weapon was no more than six inches from the nearest attacker in the press of bodies. He pulled the trigger, aiming at the snarling face of a heavily armoured man who was lifting a thick talwar above his head, readying himself for a blow that would shatter Jack’s skull with a single strike. The bullet punched into the man’s face, blood and scraps of flesh flung wide as it smashed through skin and bone. The man fell and Jack felt nothing, already searching for his next target, his soul emptied of all emotion save the need to kill.

  He aimed into the whirl of bodies, pulling the trigger again and again, each shot knocking another one of the enemy from their feet, the pistol deadly in the bloody close-quarters fight. His fusillade drove the ambushers away from him as he cut a dreadful swathe of death through their ranks. It gave his sepoys an opening, and they threw themselves into the gap he had created, their bayonets reaching for the enemy, their shrill banshee cries the last sound many of the ambushers would ever hear. They thrust into the mass of bodies, wielding their bayonets in the short, professional jabs they had learnt on the drill square. The ground under their feet was littered with the dead and the dying, the hideous stench of blood and opened bowels filling their nostrils as they surged forward, seeking the next victim for their blades. It would have taken a brave man or a fool to stand in their way, and the disparate horde recoiled from the disciplined charge.

  Jack let his men push past him. His blood thundered with the need to throw himself back into the melee, but he forced himself to still the urge, his need for knowledge overriding the visceral instinct to fight. The sepoys’ thrust into the enemy’s ranks gave him a few precious seconds to try to make sense of the desperate struggle. Seconds he could not afford to waste if he was to defy the gods and snatch a bloody victory from the gaping jaws of defeat.

  The ambushers were giving ground, melting away from the horror of the sepoys’ volley and their merciless bayonets. Yet despite their bravery and brutal efficiency, the red-coated soldiers were still outnumbered. The mob might have been giving ground in front of the assault, but more and more were moving to the flanks, swarming around the handful of British soldiers.

  When they rediscovered their courage, Jack’s command would be overwhelmed.

  Isabel crouched behind the boulder, transfixed by the gory spectacle going on no more than two dozen yards from where she hid. For as long as she could remember she had read about battle, captivated by the dry, urbane accounts of campaigns and set-piece war written by generals and commanders. She had devoured every book she could find, from Livy to Wellington, yet she had never before contemplated the brutality that she saw unfurling before her. The dusty, emotionless words did nothing to convey the dreadful struggle in which men hacked and gouged in a desperate fight to kill or be killed. There was no glory in war, and the sordid, squalid sight she was witnessing left her struggling to control the waves of nausea that lurched through her body.

  The black-robed leader of the enemy horde detached himself from the fighting. Even across the yards of scrub she felt his eyes bore into her. Her throat constricted in fear as he eased his charger round, turning its head to face where she hid, before kicking the mount into motion, riding straight for her. He never once let his eyes leave her, staring into her terrified gaze as he rode down the slope.

  ‘Danbury!’ The scream tore from her throat as the heavily armoured figure slid from his horse a few yards in front of her. The man was huge, a figure from a nightmare, his robes the colour of night, his black eyes pitiless. He was a vision of hell manifest on earth.

  Agile despite his bulk, the huge warrior landed gently on his feet. Isabel saw the purpose in his action. Fear surged through her, a visceral wave of animal terror more powerful than anything she had ever known. It burst out of her like a river in flood breaching its banks.

  ‘Danbury! Danbury!’ She shrieked his name in panic, her voice shrill.

  The black-robed figure was unmov
ed, no trace of emotion visible behind the beard that smothered his face. He lifted a single gauntleted hand, holding it towards her as if inviting her to dance. Her fear reasserting itself, she stood mute, powerless to resist.

  ‘Come.’ The man’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and Isabel struggled to hear the single command over the cacophony of the fight that carried on regardless of her plight. The fingers encased in thick black leather gloves flexed, beckoning her to him.

  She felt her body jerk into motion as if tugged forward by an invisible chain. She thought nothing of the silver revolver she still held in her left hand, the idea of resisting never once entering her mind. Her movements felt ponderous, as if the ground was cloying mud rather than dusty soil. Her eyes fixed on the face that observed her progress with serenity and she reached out her free hand, demurely offering it as if she were shyly accepting a suitor’s request for a dance at a dowager’s ball.

  She laid her small hand in the centre of the leather gauntlet and surrendered.

  The ambushers swarmed forward, surrounding the small group of sepoys, forcing Jack back into the fight. He flicked his sword out, deflecting a richly jewelled talwar that reached for his eyes, then brought his own blade around in a glittering arc to parry an ancient bayonet-tipped musket that was thrust at his stomach. More blades reached forward, the enemy’s courage growing with every second as the wild horde sensed the weakness in the tiring sepoys.

  The first of Jack’s men went down, a pig-sticking spear finding its way past his jabbing bayonet. The leaf-shaped head slid through the thick scarlet coat and into the sepoy’s flesh, the fiendish shriek of triumph emitted by its owner the last sound the dying soldier would ever hear. The sight of the first red-coated devil falling to the ground galvanised the rest of the mob. Those too cunning, or too fearful, to have been at the forefront of the attack sensed the change, belatedly pushing forward, their desire to fight kindled now that victory seemed certain.

  As one the mob closed on the small band of soldiers that had fought with such courage. Like a pack of wild dogs they flung themselves into the fight, each keen to wet their blade in the sepoys’ blood, eager for the gory proof of their valour.

  The surviving members of the escort did not stand a chance. The enemy swarmed around them, countless blades whirling, attacks coming from all sides. Yet still the sepoys fought on, stamping their feet forward, thrusting their bayonets at the bodies that pressed against them, their leaden arms and aching muscles forced to continue the fight, the soldiers of the foreign Queen refusing to submit meekly to their fate.

  Above the cacophony of the fight, Jack heard Isabel scream his assumed name. He shoved a naked fanatic backwards with his shoulder, using the point of his sword to tear a fist-sized hole in the man’s grease-covered stomach, then forced his way out of the vicious melee, his blunted sword bludgeoning those of the ambushers seeking to attack the rear of the sepoys’ fragile formation. He had no concept of how long they had fought, the passage of time meaningless in the grotesque struggle where a single heartbeat could pass between life and death. All he knew was that Isabel’s terrified scream was a call for help he had to heed.

  Free of the fight, Jack ran hard, ignoring the spasm of pain in the pit of his spine and the dreadful ache in his sword arm, focusing his attention on the tall figure that loomed over Isabel’s tiny frame. At any second he expected the man to turn, to react to the single foolish redcoat charging towards him. But the black-robed giant stayed facing Isabel, his back left undefended and exposed. It gave Jack an opportunity, and he strained every tired sinew as he strove to reach Isabel and somehow drag her to safety.

  The ground passed slowly under his boots, the uneven surface twisting each footfall. He was certain his legs would give way at any moment, buckling under the strain of racing down the slope to send him tumbling and falling to the floor. Yet somehow he kept his footing, and he counted off the seconds as he hurtled towards the black-robed figure. Yard by yard, step by step he closed the gap between them, no longer hearing the attackers’ shouts of victory or the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears.

  He screamed as he charged, the final few yards disappearing in a sudden rush as he flung himself at the huge man, releasing his tension into a blow aimed at the back of the bandit’s neck. It was a vicious attack, driven by all of Jack’s anger at the futility of the desperate fight. His sword vibrated in his hand as it sliced through the air, the aching muscles in his forearm already bracing for the moment of impact, for the shock of the blade ripping into the enemy leader’s flesh.

  The talwar came out of nowhere. The black-robed figure spun round, his richly decorated blade whispering upwards with the speed of a striking cobra, the huge two-handed sword blocking the blow that had been a heartbeat away from ending his life.

  The counterattack smashed Jack’s sword to one side, violently deflecting his blade away. Jack was immediately thrown completely off balance and he tumbled to the floor, hitting the stony ground with a bone-jarring thump. As he fell, the talwar flickered through the air, missing his head by a fraction of an inch.

  Jack threw himself to one side as soon as he hit the ground, using the momentum of his fall to roll away from his enemy, ignoring the stabs of agony as his body scraped across the rocky soil. Once, twice the talwar stabbed downwards, missing him by no more than a hair’s breadth, the attacks coming at him so fast that he could do nothing but throw himself down the slope and hope that he could avoid the deadly blade.

  His wild tumble gained momentum, the incline of the slope adding speed to his movement. He sensed another attack, the flash of the talwar slicing through the air inches from his nose. The blade went wide; it gave Jack the slightest of openings and he pushed with his legs, scrabbling for purchase. He scrambled to his feet with as much speed as he could muster, and with a dull clang his notched and pitted sword met the dreadful talwar. His desperate parry battered the blade to one side, saving him moments before his enemy’s sword would have been thrust into his guts.

  The fierce surge of elation at once again being able to fight was short-lived. The black-robed figure stepped forward, unleashing a flurry of attacks that had Jack sliding backwards as he struggled to counter the pace of his enemy’s movements. The talwar sliced through the air, each slash followed within a heartbeat by another, a relentless salvo that drove him back down the slope, his sword arm ringing as he blocked each blow as best he could.

  ‘For pity’s sake, shoot him,’ he screamed at Isabel.

  She gave no sign of having heard him. The small silver revolver was still clutched in her left hand, but it hung uselessly by her side, the terrified girl giving no thought to the weapon that she had brandished with such defiance only a short time before.

  Jack twisted to one side, his attempt to get Isabel’s attention momentarily distracting him and nearly letting the black-robed swordsman’s blade slip past his faltering defence. Again and again he parried the fast-moving talwar. He was forced to forget Isabel as he fought for his life, every ounce of his strength needed to counter the terrifying rain of blows that came at him one after another, each driven by a strength he could barely match.

  The black-robed figure started to chant as he fought. Underscored by the metallic clash of swords, the deep voice rumbled in a hypnotic rhythm. Jack did his best to pay no heed to the words, but they unsettled him nonetheless, the menace in the foreign phrases clear.

  With a loud cry the chant stopped. The black-robed figure paused for no more than a single heartbeat before his sword whirled through the air, slashing towards Jack in a blow of immense power.

  Jack thrust his battered sabre forward. His speed saved him, the two blades coming together a fraction of a second before the talwar would have crashed into his unprotected head. Yet the noise of the impact was wrong. With a dull thud, Jack’s sabre shattered, the cheap steel cleaved in half by the power of the bandit leader’
s attack. He could only stare in horror as the top half of his weapon spun away, leaving only the shattered stump in his hand.

  Jack’s stubborn defence was ended, leaving him unarmed and defenceless. He felt the shadow of death loom over him as the black-robed figure pulled back his sword arm, preparing the thrust that Jack could no longer counter. He looked into his enemy’s face and knew he was about to die.

  Isabel had watched as if paralysed as the black-robed figure flayed mercilessly at the British officer. At any moment she expected the fast-moving talwar to break through Danbury’s desperate defence, his faltering defiance certain to be no match for the power of his assailant’s wild assault.

  Somehow, though, Danbury stayed alive, his sabre meeting every blow. Isabel had never seen such ferocity. The two men fought at a frightening pace, their blades moving with such speed that she could barely even see the dreadful steel as it flashed through the air. She did not hear Danbury call to her. It was only when the dark-robed figure started to chant that she felt herself return to her senses. She felt Danbury begin to waver, the sinister incantation unsettling the British captain.

  ‘Danbury!’ She screamed his name as the chant came to its terrifying conclusion, but her voice was lost in the black-robed figure’s cry and she could only watch in horror as his sword slashed towards Danbury with a speed and power that seemed impossible to counter.

  The sound of the British officer’s sword snapping reached her in the moments after the dreadful chant came to an end. She saw the appalled look on Danbury’s face as he realised he was about to die. She ran forward, careless of the enemy horde that had begun to swarm down the slope. Her only thought was to help, to try to save the red-coated officer before he was struck down in front of her eyes.