The Tiger's Prey

by Wilbur Smith

  He ran back down and almost collided with Tom at the foot of the stairs. ‘They are here,’ he gasped. ‘Scores of them, maybe hundreds, just outside the gate.’

  ‘How did they get there unseen? Where is Ilkley?’

  ‘I don’t know. I did not see him on the walls.’

  A creak sounded by the gate. Tom and Francis turned. Dawn was coming quickly, as it does in the tropics; the gatehouse was now visible as a shadow against the lightening sky. Something moved at its base.

  Ilkley did not hear them approach. At the beginning of the siege, Tom had buttressed the gates with beams taken from Foy’s dismantled house. Now, Ilkley strained to pull the heavy timbers away, sweating even in the cool pre-dawn air. He had not allowed enough time for this, and the Rani’s men had lit their matches too soon. He worked with feverish haste, his mind clouded with thoughts of what the enemy captain would do to him if he reached the gates and found them barred. After three months in the fort, wasting from hunger and thirst, Ilkley had lost all hope. The fort would fall: it was only a question of time. He intended to survive it.

  The last of the beams came free. Ilkley’s slippery hands lost control; it fell away and landed with a thud. Ilkley did not have time to wonder who might have heard. The enemy captain was waiting on the other side of the gate. The moment he saw it open, he would launch his attack.

  He lifted the bar that locked it and let it fall on the sand. He put his shoulder against the gate and heaved. Rusted by rain, jammed with grit and disuse, the hinges resisted. He pushed harder, drawing on a desperate strength he did not know he had.

  A hand on his shoulder spun him around. Tom and Francis stood behind him, both with drawn swords. Beyond, he saw the rest of the garrison stirring to life, repeating Tom’s orders in whispers, to keep silent and grab their weapons.

  ‘What have you done?’ said Tom in anguish.

  Ilkley wanted to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. He stuttered and stammered. ‘I just—’

  It was too late. His last, frantic shove had finally shifted the gate. Only a foot or so, but it was the signal the enemy had been watching for. Through the opening, Tom saw a host of glowing sparks rise from the ground like fireflies taking wing. They ran for the gate.

  ‘They are coming,’ shouted the hubladar who had gone up to the walls.

  Tom threw Ilkley aside and hauled on the iron bracket to close the gates. The day was light enough now that the attackers saw him. A musket fired; a ball whistled through the opening just over Tom’s head.

  Francis dragged him back, as a second ball hit the gate. A six-inch splinter tore through the space where Tom’s eyes had been a second earlier.

  Tom looked at the two cannon. They were kept loaded, but there was no powder in their touchholes. He grabbed a powder flask hanging from a nail in the wall and poured it in, spilling it in his haste. Francis brought a match.

  The attackers were already scrabbling at the gates, heaving them open. Tom touched the match to the first cannon, and leaped out of the way as it thundered back. The blast blew the gate off its hinges, scattering the attackers backwards. The second wave poured in to the breach, but only in time for Tom to reach the second cannon. They died on the bodies of the fallen.

  But there were more behind – and no time to reload the cannon. Tom’s men grabbed the timbers that had buttressed the gate and piled them in the gateway. With the corpses that choked the entryway, the cannons, and the broken remains of the gate, it made a rough barricade they could crouch behind.

  Even woken from sleep, the discipline Tom had instilled over the past months repaid itself now. The men knew what to do, and the cannon blasts had bought them just enough time. Half the men knelt behind the barricade, keeping up a steady fire, while the others reloaded the muskets. Behind them, two of the boys crouched in the sand, digging out a shallow trench where Tom had ordered.

  But as fast as the men could shoot, the enemy kept coming. Clambering over the corpses of their comrades that choked the gateway, they were now so close that the men on the barricade had no time to reload. They fixed bayonets. The battle became a close-up, savage slaughter: hand to hand combat that left every man covered in blood.

  The boys had finished their trench and filled it as Tom directed. They brushed sand over to conceal what they had buried, then took up cudgels to join the fray. Tom waved them away. He could see how the tide of the battle was running. Now that the two sides were face to face, the enemy commander could bring his weight of numbers to bear. He was forcing his men forward, driving them through the gate like a nail into a hole. However hard the defenders fought, they could not resist the sheer pressure of so many men. Soon they would be overwhelmed.

  ‘Back to the redoubt,’ he ordered.

  From the beginning of the siege, he had feared it might end this way. He had prepared a redoubt, a last refuge they could retreat to. He had fortified the north-west bastion, furthest from the gate, and provided it with a supply of powder and shot. He was under no illusions: he knew he could not last long. On the tower, they would be vulnerable to enemy musket fire. As soon as the enemy gained the walls, they would be finished. All he could hope for was to make their attackers pay so dearly they gave up the fight.

  ‘Back,’ he shouted. ‘Back.’

  His bellowing voice penetrated even the chaos of battle. The men on the barricade disengaged, leaped back and ran so fast that their assailants lost their footing and fell. Those in the front rank of the attackers, who had fought most bravely, were crushed under the weight of men pushing in behind.

  Tom was last to go. He stooped, and fired the fuse that led into the shallow trench the boys had dug. Then he ran.

  Men poured into the courtyard behind him. They might have caught Tom, but their numbers worked against them. Pressed together, they hindered each other from running, or from levelling their muskets. And they did not see the fuse.

  The flame reached the powder kegs the boys had buried in the trench just as Tom reached the stairs. The powder exploded in a cloud of flame, sand and blood, as if a giant fist had reached out of the ground. Such was its force, even the bones of dead men became lethal projectiles. The attackers were eviscerated.

  The explosion echoed around the courtyard. Through the screams, Tom heard a new sound: a gathering roar that shook the earth with even more force than the original explosion. It rose to a crescendo like a thunder clap, then slowly rolled away in the rumble of settling stones.

  Tom gained the top of the tower and looked down into the courtyard. Smoke and dust choked the air, but from that height he could see enough to make out what had happened. The gatehouse had disappeared. Battered by the enemy’s artillery over the last three months, the explosion almost directly beneath it had been the final straw. It had collapsed, burying the bodies of living and dead alike.

  Instinctively, he looked around for Francis and Ana. Both were there. Ana knelt beside one of the men, dressing his wounds, while Francis had come up right beside him. He was shouting something, but Tom’s ears were still ringing from the explosion and he could not understand.

  The dust had started to settle in the courtyard. With a sinking heart, Tom saw that his last gambit had failed. The explosion had not deterred the attackers: they were still coming on, scrambling over the debris where the gate had been and charging towards his last redoubt. It would not be long now before they overran the walls and all was lost.

  He reached for the pistol he carried – but it was gone. It must have been knocked out of his belt in the melee. He raised his sword, and steeled himself for the end. Still, he refused to give up. He would not surrender, for while he breathed he could hope he would see Sarah again. But it would not be long now.

  Francis was still trying to tell him something. Making no impression, he grabbed Tom’s arm and turned him, pointing him out to sea. For some unaccountable reason, he seemed to be grinning like a madman.

  Then Tom saw, and no pain or battle-weariness could keep the joy off his
face. A ship had appeared in the bay, her furled sails bunched like clouds from her yards. A row of cannon gleamed from her gun ports. From her stern hung the red-and-white striped ensign of the East India Company. She had lowered her longboat, which pulled through the surf towards the beach filled with red-coated marines.

  One of her guns bellowed. Tom saw the ball skim over the water and carve a bloody gap in the Rani’s army. The beach erupted in a fountain of sand. Another gun fired, and another, staggered shots that gave the Rani’s men no respite. In an instant, victory turned to a rout. They ran headlong through their camp and into the jungle, abandoning their weapons, their stores and their big guns. Even their officers joined in, making no attempt to rally the men.

  The only man who resisted was Tungar, standing up in his stirrups, shouting at his army to stay and fight. When words did no good he used the Neptune sword, laying about his men with the flat of the blade. But the fleeing soldiers simply ignored him, abandoning all discipline as they melted away into the jungle. One of the men grabbed his stirrups and tried to unhorse him, but Tungar fended him off with a cut that left him clutching his eyes.

  The ship fired again. One of the balls passed so close to Tungar’s mount it almost took its head off. The beast reared up, teeth bared, and only Tungar’s superb horsemanship kept him from being pitched onto the sand.

  With a final roar of rage, he circled the horse and spurred it away. Tom saw the Neptune sword waving above the fray as he used it to cut a path through the fleeing throng.

  This was his last chance, Tom realized. If Tungar reached the jungle, let alone the palace, Tom might never have another chance to retrieve the sword – or to avenge Alf Wilson, and all the men who had died because of Tungar. He ran down the stairs, across the courtyard, and clambered to the top of the rubble pile that blocked the gate. The stones were still warm from the heat of the blast.

  He scanned the battlefield. Where was Tungar?

  Christopher staggered away from the fort. Dust and sand choked his mouth; his ears were still ringing from the sound of the blast. When he touched his hand to his scalp, he felt only blood and bare skin. The explosion had burned his hair off.

  He had been at the gate. Tungar had insisted he lead the assault – no doubt because he did not trust Ilkley’s story, and hoped to rid himself of his inconvenient ally. If so, the plan had almost worked to perfection. Christopher had seen Tom Weald on the far side of the gate, had been ready to charge in and capture him before the Rani’s soldiers butchered every man alive. Just in time, some instinct had stayed him. The Devil takes care of his own, his mother would have said. Christopher knew it was fate, saving him to reclaim the sword. He had held back, long enough to see his men blown to pieces by the mine, the survivors crushed under the falling arch, and Tom Weald out of reach again on the tower. Thrown down by the force of the blast, he had not even risen when suddenly he became aware that the tide of the battle had turned decisively. His men were in full retreat, and as a cannon ball tore one man’s head off he saw the ship in the bay and understood why.

  He felt no disappointment. He owed no allegiance to this army – and this was a moment he had long planned for. Instantly, he sought out Tungar. Tungar stood on his horse, a little distance away, screaming at the men to stand their ground. He might as well have shouted at the waves.

  Even in the chaos of battle, Christopher felt a chill blast of triumph. Tungar was finished. If the English did not kill him, the Rani certainly would. Now all that mattered was getting the sword.

  He ran for Tungar, pushing past the wounded who limped and struggled too slowly. He saw one of the soldiers trying to commandeer Tungar’s horse, but a blow from the Neptune sword put paid to that insolence. Watching, Christopher did not see the fallen firelock on the sand. His boot caught it, tripping him on his face. Two men rushed past him, and as he got to his feet he saw a cannon ball shatter their bodies, right in front of him. If he had not tripped … Again, he thanked the dark fate that protected him.

  But now even Tungar had seen it was hopeless. He turned to flee, swinging the golden sword like a scythe to cut through the mass of men who choked the neck of land that led back to the river and to safety. Even he could not force a path. The horse, terrified by the crowd and the roar of the ship’s broadsides, refused to move.

  Christopher slipped through the crowd, moving closer to his target. He uncoiled the urumi that he had prudently worn around his waist. In the press of men, he had little space to wield it. He waited for an opening, then let fly, unspooling it over the heads of the men in front.

  The steel blade closed around Tungar’s wrist. Christopher snapped it tight and yanked it back. The force cut Tungar’s hand clean from his arm. It dropped to the ground, still clutching the Neptune sword, while a jet of blood fountained from the stump. Tungar screamed. He let go the reins to staunch the flow, but the horse was already too close to panic. It felt the bridle loosen and reared up on its hind legs. Tungar fell and landed hard on the sand. The horse bolted, trampling men beneath its hooves in its haste to be away.

  The crowds around them were thinning. Most of the men had already reached the trees, or died in the attempt. Christopher could see the Indiaman’s boat approaching the beach, filled with red-coated marines. If they caught him here …

  The Neptune sword lay in the sand, glittering like buried treasure. Christopher reached for it. Even among all the wreckage of defeat, he felt the sweet thrill of victory. All the horrors he had suffered, the terrible things he had seen and done, were justified in that moment. The sword was his, inches from his grasp.

  A hand closed around his ankle and hauled him back. Christopher overbalanced and fell onto his knees. He lunged for the sword, but the hand gripped him with a ferocious strength and dragged him away.

  It was Tungar. Christopher twisted around and saw him, his severed stump pressed against the sand to staunch the bleeding, while his left hand held Christopher fast. He clenched the skull-handled dagger in his teeth, so tight the blade cut the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Traitor,’ he hissed through the blade. ‘You may have defeated me, but I will send you to Shiva the Destroyer before I go myself.’

  With a howl of pain and hate, he pushed himself up on the stump of his right arm. At the same time, he let go Christopher’s foot, grabbed the knife from his mouth and plunged it into Christopher’s leg in a single motion.

  Once again, the skills he had learned in the kalari saved his life. The moment Tungar let go, Christopher used all his strength to leap onto his feet. When the knife came down, he was already standing. The blade struck a glancing blow, drawing blood but missing the muscles beneath.

  Now Tungar was helpless. He tried to stand, but Christopher knocked him back down. He pried the knife from his grip and tossed it aside. Straddling Tungar, he put his hands around his throat and squeezed. Tungar flailed and kicked; he reached for Christopher’s face to gouge out his eyes, but his arm was not long enough. Christopher caught his hand in his mouth and bit down on his fingers until he felt the bone crack. Tungar opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. Christopher’s chokehold was unrelenting. He pressed his thumbs against Tungar’s windpipe.

  Tungar’s eyes bulged. His face went red, so bright Christopher thought it might split down the seam of its scar and spill out his brains on the sand. His tongue pressed through his black, betel-stained teeth, gasping for air that would not come.

  His windpipe snapped. His eyes rolled back, his head lolled and his mouth hung slack. Christopher gave the body one last squeeze to be sure he was dead, then stood. Ignoring the wound on his leg, he gathered up the sword and ran for the safety of the trees.

  The marines had come ashore. They shouted at Christopher but he did not listen; he only knew they were firing at him by the blooms of sand that erupted on the beach around him. He glanced back. Uncertain of the situation, the marines were not giving chase. Beyond them, he saw a figure standing on the rubble at the fort’s gate, and he knew
instinctively it was Tom Weald.

  He had defeated Christopher. But Christopher had the sword, and that gave him new strength. He reached the trees and vanished from sight.

  A little way inside the forest, he found Tungar’s mare. The fleeing army had given no thought to taking her. She stood in a glade, spattered with blood and grime, chewing on grass.

  Christopher caught the bridle and murmured soothing words in her ear, until she allowed him to mount. He knew pursuit would not be far behind. He rode hard, fording the backwaters and following twisting paths until he was sure he was alone.

  The horse was breathing hard, her wet flanks steaming in the heat. He slipped out of the saddle to give her some respite, and walked a while, leading her by the bridle. He thought furiously.

  He could not go back to the Rani. With her army routed and the fortress relieved by the East India Company, her stratagem had failed. She would have to sue for peace, and the Company would be in no mood for leniency. They might even demand she hand over Christopher, for exemplary punishment. The thought of being taken back to Bombay in chains, of being thrown down before his father and having to beg for his life, made him shake with rage and fear.

  Walking had brought him to a crossroads. A few shabby huts stood among the trees, though the villagers had heard his horse and made themselves invisible. They knew nothing good happened when powerful men came to their village. Christopher ducked into the huts and took the food he found: a few balls of rice, and some dried fish. He didn’t bother looking for money. The villagers lived little better than animals. He could feel their eyes on him, watching from the undergrowth, but he was unconcerned. The Neptune sword would deter them from mischief.

  He pulled it from its scabbard, thrilling to the balance of the weapon. He turned it in his hand, so that the gold inlay on the blade caught the sunlight coming through the trees. The sapphire in the pommel glowed like a single, blue eye looking into his soul. He had lost nearly everything – but so long as he had this, he felt invincible.