The Lone Warrior

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘Jack?’ Aamira sounded more angry than scared.

  ‘Get up on the roof!’ Jack grabbed the objects he had been searching for. He turned and thrust Aamira towards the opposite window. ‘Up there! Look lively now!’

  Fear surged into his gut. He had forgotten the force of the feeling, the icy rush that flooded his body, the squirm in the very depth of his being as death arrived to sit at his shoulder once again.

  He made sure Aamira was obeying his command before he reached down to snatch his sword from the floor. His hand clasped the mottled red grip. The sharkskin was worn, in places rubbed raw from where he had held it clenched in his hand as he fought. The feel of it against his skin kindled memories of the battles he had survived, the ones he tried to keep locked away in the darkest recesses of his mind. He had killed many men with the blade.

  The talwar rasped from its leather scabbard, the steel flashing once in the strong sunlight that now flooded the interior of the dak. It was a fabulous weapon. Its edge was bright, and a tight, flowing script was etched deep into the face of the blade. It was the weapon of a prince, a legacy of his time in the service of a rebellious maharajah. The steel felt alive in his hand, as if a wanton spirit had been bound in the steel and was now released as the need to fight arrived once again.

  Jack pushed himself out of the window and clambered up on to the roof of the dak to join Aamira. He risked a glance forward and cursed as he saw that the danger was close.

  A band of Gujar tribesmen were rushing towards the stranded vehicle. The Gujar were lawless robbers who plagued the roads between the large garrison towns scattered along the Grand Trunk Road. The driver and his men had done the sensible thing by fleeing at the first glimpse of the hard men from the hills. Jack knew he no longer had the same option; the fast-moving bandits were sure to be upon them before he and Aamira had gone more than a hundred yards. So he had decided to make a stand. The outcome was likely to be the same, but at least he would have the satisfaction of not being run down like a rabid dog.

  It was time to reveal his bitter talent.

  It was time to fight.

  A fiery wind beat against Jack as he staggered upright on the dak’s roof, the searing heat scalding his unprotected face. He looked across and saw Aamira struggling to get to her feet, so he reached for her hands and hauled her up, careless of her yelp of protest.

  ‘Brace yourself. Quick now.’ His voice rasped as he snapped the order. He saw the first flare of fear in her eyes, but there was no time to reassure her, and he turned away, assessing the bandits who were storming towards them.

  The Gujars were running hard. Their long kurtas billowed around them, the once white robes stained grey with dust and grime. The heavily bearded faces beneath the tightly bound pagdis snarled in anger, their teeth bared as they rushed to attack the foolish travellers who journeyed alone.

  Jack cursed as he counted a dozen men charging towards them. He did not fear a fight, but against such odds he knew the chance of survival was poor. He turned and saw the colour drain from Aamira’s face as she spotted the wild men who had come for them. She opened her mouth to scream.

  ‘Shut up!’ He silenced her before she could give voice to her terror. Her mouth gaped open and the whites of her eyes were huge. She looked at him as if he was mad but he gave her no time to reply and forced his revolver into her hands. ‘Quick, take this.’

  ‘What!’ She screeched the word in the moment before he thrust over a small leather pouch. ‘What do I do with this?’

  ‘Load it!’

  ‘I don’t know how!’ Her voice was shrill. The panic that bubbled beneath the surface was rising up and threatening to escape.

  ‘Then beat the bastards to death with it!’ Jack snarled the words, his frustration building.

  He turned, spreading his legs wide as he balanced on the precarious roof. He risked a glance at the Gujars. The dak was still miles from the next caravanserai. He knew the robbers would not hang around. They would have picked their victims with care, timing their ambush so that the dak was alone and far from any other British travellers. He spat once, clearing his mouth of the sour taste of fear. He was not entirely without hope. The Gujars might be hard men, but they would not risk a pitched fight. The Grand Trunk Road was patrolled by soldiers from both the regular army and the ranks of the East India Company regiments. There was still a chance of rescue. If he could hold the bandits off for long enough, a British cavalry patrol or a group of fellow travellers might appear in time to save them.

  The Gujars came on at a rush. The first man dodged past the ponies still held in the dak’s traces before clambering on to the driver’s platform at the front of the carriage. He bounded to his feet, as agile as a mountain goat, before leaping up and launching himself on to the dak’s roof.

  The talwar came for him before he could regain his balance. The steel keened as it cut through the overheated air, as if it was thirsting for blood after so long imprisoned in its scabbard. The edge was sharp and the acrobatic Gujar bent double over the blade as it cut him down.

  Jack turned away even before the first man fell, ignoring the spray of blood flung wide by his fast-moving blade. Hands were grasping the sides of the roof, the Gujars seeking to haul themselves up by using the dak’s window ledges as stepping-stones. He could hear their feet scrabbling for purchase as they rushed to get to the pair of travellers whose wealth they sought to take as their own.

  He darted across the roof and stepped down hard, crushing the closest set of grasping fingers under the heel of his heavy army boot before stamping left and right as more and more hands reached up.

  ‘Jack!’

  Aamira shouted his name. He crushed another set of fingers, then turned and charged across the roof. A Gujar had made it up and was reaching to take the young girl around the throat. There was time for Jack to see the grey in the man’s beard and the spots of age on the hand that held a heavy lathi before he swept his talwar forward, aiming to scythe the man from his feet.

  The dak was rocking back and forth as the band of Gujars threw themselves up the sides. He nearly lost his balance and staggered, only coming to a stop inches before he would have collided with Aamira.

  His blow went wide, but it had captured the attention of the old warrior, who pushed the girl away, sending her sprawling on to her back. The wooden lathi came at Jack in a practised lunge, aimed at his gut.

  Jack roared as he saw the danger. He slashed his talwar across his body, battering the Gujar’s club to one side. As it went past, he stamped forward, recovering his sword from the parry and thrusting it into his opponent’s stomach, twisting the steel hard as he drove it deep so that it was not trapped in the man’s flesh.

  He felt cold as he began to fight, an unearthly calm descending over him. There was nothing of the rage that sustained him in the bitter, bloody depths of battle. Instead he fought with dispassion, killing with detachment, his emotions scoured away.

  He tugged his sword back sharply, caring nothing for the man whose hands clutched the blade that had torn out his life. The talwar sliced through the grasping fingers, the steel running with blood as Jack turned away, his only thought to find the next victim.

  ‘Jack, look out!’ Aamira had pushed herself to all fours and now she shrieked out in warning.

  He turned in time to see a heavily bearded Gujar lurch across the roof. There was no time to bring his sword round, and Jack could do nothing as the man’s lathi punched hard into his left side.

  The blow knocked him from his feet. Ignoring the sudden pain, he twisted his body the moment he hit the dak’s roof, then threw himself to one side as the club swung downward, cutting through the air where his head had been a moment before. He scrabbled on to all fours, then grabbed the man around the ankle. He felt his fingers dig into sparse flesh as he took a firm hold before throwing his weight upwards, taking the man’s leg with him.

  The fall was spectacular. The Gujar’s leg went high and the man crashed down on t
o his back, the breath driven from his body as his full weight slammed into the wooden roof. Jack scrambled back to his feet. He slashed his sword round in a vicious arc, driving away another two Gujars who had clambered on to the tiny battlefield, pushing them back, keeping them at bay for a moment longer. Then he reversed the blade, thinking to drive it down into the man he had toppled, feeling nothing as he prepared to extinguish another life.

  Aamira got there first. She had crabbed across the roof and now she smashed Jack’s revolver down, driving the metal hilt into the turbaned head of their attacker. She cursed as she fought, punching the gun down again and again, her wild cry the last sound the robber would hear as she bludgeoned him to a bloody end.

  There was no time to dwell on the sight of his companion beating a man to death. More bandits had forced their way on to the roof, but they had learnt to be cautious of the beautiful blade that was being used with such pitiless professionalism and they held off, hesitating and staying to the extremities of the limited space as they waited for another of their number to strike first.

  Jack did not wait to discover who that would be. With a feral roar he threw himself forward. He moved fast, his boots dancing on the surface made treacherous by bright slicks of blood. He thrust the talwar, aiming it at the belly of the closest enemy. At the last second he twisted his wrist and slashed hard at a different man. The blade was moving quicker than the eye could track, and he bellowed in joy as the feint worked and his sword cut a thick crevice in his intended target’s side.

  The Gujar he had first aimed at launched an attack of his own. His high-pitched squeal rang out, and Jack ducked low, seeing the movement of the man’s lathi in the corner of his eye.

  The club whistled through the air as it whipped past over his head. The man’s shriek was cut off as he saw his attack miss, but it quickly returned as Jack reached up and grabbed him around the throat. He felt the soft flesh under his fingers and he dug them in deep before twisting his wrist hard and extending his arm, thrusting the Gujar back over the edge of the roof.

  The agonised scream was cut off abruptly as the man crashed into the rocky ground. Jack did not wait to hear it. He turned and thrashed his talwar through the air, driving back the attackers who had climbed the opposite side of the dak and taken their first steps forward.

  Aamira saw them back away from Jack’s blade and she scrambled to her feet, putting herself in their path. Teeth bared in defiance, she lashed out with the bloodied revolver, flailing it at the closest Gujar. The tribesman saw the wild swing and battered the attempted assault to one side with his lathi, baying in anger as he realised he was being attacked by a woman.

  Jack heard the notes of a trumpet sounding clear above the melee, but he paid it no heed and cut his sword at the Gujar who had deflected Aamira’s attack. He howled in frustration as the Gujar blocked the blow, the sharpened steel cutting a thick splinter from the heavy wooden lathi. He recovered the blade, but his foe was not hanging around to carry on the fight. The trumpet called for a second time, and the Gujar turned and jumped from the roof, his lathi thrown to one side in his haste to escape. Jack twisted on the spot, his talwar held ready to fend off any attack coming at them from the other side of the roof.

  There was no one left to fight. The Gujars were running.

  The bright red of a horseman’s tunic caught Jack’s eye. The rider thundered past the marooned dak at the gallop. More men followed, in tight formation. Their heavy sabres were drawn and they rode down the Gujars trying to flee.

  Jack twisted his head from side to side as the cavalry raced past. He recognised the red alkalaks and the mustard-coloured breeches immediately. They belonged to the 2nd Punjab Cavalry, an irregular regiment in the service of the East India Company. Leading the dark-faced riders forward was an English officer wearing a dark blue helmet wrapped in a navy pagdi and crowned with a brass spike. Around his waist, the hilt of a revolver poked from a tightly bound blue kamarband, but the officer had no need of the handgun in the short, sharp struggle that was taking place around the stranded dak.

  As Jack stood and gasped for breath, the officer rose high in his stirrups to cut down the tribesman who had been attacking Aamira. The rest of his Punjabi cavalrymen knew their business just as well, and the Gujars stood no chance. The Company horsemen attacked with calm precision, the surviving bandits finished off in a brief flurry of hacking and cutting, the British horsemen employing their heavy sabres in a perfect demonstration of the drill they had practised for hours for just such a moment as this.

  ‘I say. Are you all right up there?’

  The plummy tones called up to where Jack and Aamira were standing on the roof of the dak, trying to force scorching air into their struggling lungs. They looked at one another. Jack smiled first, then threw his head back and roared at the sky, laughing at the madness of what he had done.

  ‘Are you quite safe?’

  The voice called for a second time, and Aamira looked down into the concerned face of the British officer, who had brought his horse to a halt beside the stranded dak. With a visible shudder she brought her emotions under control and called down to him. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ The young officer was clearly struck by Aamira’s beauty, his cheeks flushed by more than just the exertion of riding to their rescue.

  Jack laughed at the polite display. He took Aamira’s hand, holding it tight, wondering at her courage. She had stood at his side and fought for their lives. She had killed a man, yet now she blushed at the attention of an English subaltern.

  ‘Are you staring at me?’ She saw she was the focus of his gaze.

  Jack glanced around him. The bodies of the men they had slain surrounded them, and they were perched precariously, the roof now slick with blood. Yet he could only look at her. ‘We had better get down.’

  ‘That is a good and wise idea.’ Aamira made no attempt to move. Instead she took his other hand. ‘You saved us.’

  Jack shook his head in denial. ‘We saved us.’

  Aamira offered a half-smile. ‘I could not let you do it all.’

  ‘It is my job.’ He felt a single shiver slide down his spine. He might no longer wear the uniform of a British soldier, but in his heart he was a redcoat.

  Carefully he walked to the edge of the dak’s roof before crouching and bracing one leg on the window below him. He beckoned her to him, ready to help her down. She came willingly. He watched her pick her way through the debris, her movements lithe and controlled. She took his hand, then sat, sliding her legs over the edge.

  ‘You have saved me twice now.’ She paused as she sat close to him, her eyes fixed on his. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ Jack repeated the British officer’s words. It earned him a look of reproof before Aamira lowered herself down.

  She glanced back at him when she was safely on the ground. He could not read her expression, something in the fleeting look quite beyond his appreciation. Then she turned away, her face hidden from him.

  He followed her down, his boots thumping heavily on to the dusty soil. He had fought for Aamira and kept her safe. He knew he would do so again without hesitation. He had pledged himself to bring her safely to Delhi. He knew he did not really know her, but he did not care. His life had purpose again, and for now, that was enough.

  Delhi, May 1857

  The sight and smell of Delhi had accosted them when they were still over a mile from the city’s walls. Jack felt little as the dak trundled noisily over the bridge of boats on the eastern approach. The journey had been too long for any excitement as their destination finally hove into view.

  An enormous fortress dominated the skyline. Even in the half-light of dusk, Jack could see the power of the impressive defences. He had learnt a little of the city’s long history from Aamira. The interminable hours of the journey had provided more hours of conversation than he cared to recall, but at least it had allowed her the time to give him some idea of the place that wa
s drawing them in.

  The fabulous fortress was known as the Red Fort, the Lal Qila, and for two centuries it had been at the heart of the Mughal emperors’ domain. It had been built by the Emperor Shah Jahan when the Mughal empire was at the height of its power. From behind its impregnable walls the emperors had ruled their vast kingdom, governing the lives of the millions of subjects under their control. In those days the empire had stretched from Bengal in the east to Baluchistan in the west, and from Kashmir in the north to the Kaveri basin in the south; an enormous swathe of land that had made it one of the most powerful empires ever to have existed on the face of the earth.

  But like so many great dynasties before them, the Mughals’ powers had waned. Under pressure from without, and stricken with schism and dissatisfaction from within, their empire had crumbled. The Persian army under Nadir Shah was the first to attack, defeating the Mughal emperor Muhammad Shah at the Battle of Karnal. The Marathas followed, turning raids and border skirmishes into complete domination, the subjugation of the Mughals completed swiftly and with little resistance. For one hundred years the Marathas would rule the city of Delhi and control the Red Fort, the great power of the Mughals reduced to so much dust.

  It took the intervention of the British to finally defeat the Maratha forces. Fifty years before Jack trundled peacefully into the city, General Gerard Lake’s army overcame them at the Battle of Delhi. The Maratha territories were swiftly added to the dominion of the British East India Company, the commercial company that was allowed to govern the country in the name of the Queen. The British installed a political agent to rule the city and its lands before allowing the last of the Mughal emperors, Bahadur Shah, to take his place once more on the throne.

  Under the rule of the British resident, the once mighty Mughal empire lived on in name alone, its ruler the puppet of his British overseers, his authority limited to the boundaries of the Red Fort itself. Even in the heart of his tiny domain the British government controlled the emperor, his power now constrained by the same walls that had once protected his forebears.