by Eric Flint
A slow, thoughtful nod. “I believe so. Though I suggest we do not to pull too many men from those defenses until dawn makes it clear they are not planning to sneak men across the river.”
“How long?” Bertram asked, looking nervously out into the dark.
“Oh, we have some time yet.” Bidhi waggled his head, loose chain veil chiming gently. “It is far more difficult to move men into position at night than most commanders would believe. They will be lucky to be in position to attack before dawn.” He shrugged. “If they’ve already been given orders to begin the attack at a certain time regardless of whether or not they are in position, we may see some action earlier than that.”
John decided not to comment on how cheerful Bidhi sounded, as it would only encourage him. Then again, if every one of Dara’s men had a leader like Bidhi to look to, then Aurangzeb would be well and truly screwed.
John knew better, though. All he had to do was look at how poorly suited his own experience and training was to leading men in battle. Yet, here he was: second-in-command to an emperor whose sole previous battle had resulted in defeat and capture.
Thoughts making his belly churn, John realized there were things he should be doing about their situation rather than standing here admiring Bidhi Chand and feeling inadequate in the comparison.
“I assume your man”—John hiked a thumb at the stairs the runner had departed by—“was sent to tell Dara about the results of your scouting mission?”
“He was,” Bidhi said. “He will also return with my armor.”
John gestured a question at the chain shirt the man was already wearing.
“What, this?” The Sikh thumped his chest, smile flashing in the starlight again. “This is but a nightshirt, friend John. For the real heavy work, I dress myself in plate armor made by the finest armorers in the Punjab and touched by Guru Hargobind Singh himself.”
John and Bertram just stared at the big Punjabi warrior.
“You might have seen it when I led Guru’s men into the fort on the day of our arrival? I must say I cut quite the dashing figure. At least, the dancing girls of the city seemed to think so.”
“I remember,” John said, smiling despite himself. Dark thoughts found it hard to linger around Bidhi. The man was like a force of nature, always ready to take on whatever the world put before him.
“John, we probably ought to join Dara,” Bertram said.
Bidhi nodded. “I will join the rest of my men when I have donned my armor. We will be ready for the sally when the horn sounds.”
“Be safe, Bidhi,” John said. He raised his voice slightly and addressed the rest of the men, hoping they understood his Persian. “All of you, fight well and keep safe.”
“Do not fear for us, John Ennis,” Bidhi said. “Fear for the enemies of Sixth Guru Hargobind Singh and Dara Shikoh, Sultan Al’Azam!” As if sound itself responded to his desire, Bidhi’s low-voiced declaration carried like thunder to the edges of the gatehouse roof and no farther.
John was shaking his head in wonder as he and Bertram clattered their way down the stairs.
“That man is something else, isn’t he?” Bertram said.
“Damn straight,” John agreed. He laughed a moment later, making himself a bit breathless as they rounded the last flight of stairs.
“What is it, John?” Bertram asked.
“Just glad I’m not the only one with a man-crush on him,” John said, cupping the butt of his rifle to avoid scraping it against the inner wall of the stairwell.
“A man-crush?” Bertram asked the question an instant before deciphering the meaning for himself, if his laughter was any indication.
John was still grinning as they pounded across the courtyard from the outer gatehouse to the inner. Then he heard a high, shrill whistle. Another. Then the throb of drums.
“Shit.”
Red Fort
Pavilion of the Healers
“Dara was sent for?” Jahanara asked, attempting to see past the walls and through the veil of night.
Firoz Khan nodded. “And the messenger found him already armored and on his way to Delhi Gate, Begum Sahib. Speaking of which, Shehzadi, I must don my own if I am to prove more than a passing nuisance to any who would threaten you.”
Jahanara looked at the eunuch and raised her voice so the rest of the harem women gathered to render aid to the wounded could hear. “I must apologize for denying you the opportunity to test your blade skills against the enemy. They will not make it past our defenses. Dara and the husbands of the fine women gathered here will see to it.”
Some of the worried expressions among the noblewomen changed, some firming with resolve, others deepening as worries for loved ones about to fight made mockery of her words.
Firoz returned the look with the terribly put-upon expression she had only ever seen when Murad had destroyed the diwan’s carefully prepared correspondence with a careless kick that had upended an ink well.
“What is it?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“You agreed, Begum Sahib.”
“Agreed?” Jahanara said absently.
“Please do not pretend I am a fool, not today,” Firoz said, voice full of gentle reproach.
Jahanara looked again at her advisor. “Whatever do you mean, Firoz?”
“You know very well what your diwan means, Begum Sahib.” Smidha was far less careful with her tone than Firoz Khan. “You promised Dara if you were allowed to contribute the ablest of the harem guards to the common defense, you would stay well away from the fighting and allow your servants who had experience at arms to don armor and weapons in your defense.”
“I did, did I?” Jahanara said, pretending a lapse in memory she did not suffer.
Lowering her voice, she quickly added for the benefit of her closest advisors: “If you insist on doing this, very well. But do so quietly, one at a time. Do not make the ladies of the court unnecessarily fearful for their safety. Some are pregnant, and should not be put under any more strain than is absolutely necessary.” She carefully removed the hand that had slid to cover her own womb as she spoke, regretting the strange intensity that made the statement more of a threat than intended.
“Your will, Begum Sahib,” her advisors said in unison. Firoz sent two of his assistants to arm themselves.
The drums beat upon her nerves. The shooting had yet to start, however. No wounded had been brought to the great pillared pavilion she had caused to be constructed at nearly the center of the great fort. Fully staffed, the hospital was as ready as the up-timers and Jahanara could make it.
Many of Father’s guards had died after his assassination, not because they had suffered wounds that could not be treated but because there had been no healers near at hand to suture wounds and stem the bleeding. This battle, and all battles to come, would be different if she had her way.
“Ilsa,” Jahanara called as the lovely ferenghi appeared from deeper within the pavilion. “Are you well?”
Ilsa made her way through the crowd of women to Jahanara’s side before replying, “I am well, Begum Sahib. And you? Did you get any sleep?”
“I did.” The lie came easily to Jahanara. It would not do to show weakness before the women of the court. Not before the battle. Not during the battle. There would be time enough later for allowing fear to show. For now she must find some way to convert the creeping fear that threatened to overwhelm her into the kind of example that showed the way for those in her care.
She lowered her voice. “Smidha, it is time you carried out your special orders. See to it.”
“Your will, Shehzadi.” Smidha leaned in. “Shall I bring the ferenghi?”
Jahanara nodded. “Monique knows already, it is just the timing of the thing. Ilsa may accompany you if she wishes.”
Ilsa’s puzzled glance slipped from Jahanara to Smidha.
“Where?” the blonde asked, when neither responded to her look.
“To collect my sister.”
Ilsa’s puzzled look d
isappeared, to be replaced by a look Jahanara didn’t care to interpret. “I will go, Shehzadi.”
The drums continued their remorseless beat.
“Where is Pr—” Jahanara was silenced by a hundred sudden streamers of light leaping from the walls protecting Red Fort. It was as if Shiva had raked nails across the early morning darkness to allow the light of the cosmos entry into the realms of men.
Almost every streamer exploded into an even brighter ball of light some twenty or thirty gaz above the walls.
Gunfire erupted from every quarter but the river as soon as Talawat’s fireworks shed enough light for the Atishbaz and other firearm-equipped men to see their targets.
“Dear God,” Ilsa breathed as the cannon added their roar to the battle for the Peacock Throne.
Red Fort
Delhi Gate
“Merciful God,” Dara breathed as the light of Talawat’s flares revealed a veritable carpet of men rushing toward the walls to either side of the gatehouse he had chosen to command the defense from.
“He is sweet mercy.” Talawat’s answer was rote, hands and mind busy with yet another check of his work. The Atishbaz sorcerer had chortled with glee as he and his apprentices had launched the flares. Dara was almost afraid to learn what the man would do when his next surprise was unveiled.
Glancing around, Dara realized the men atop the gatehouse were waiting for his command. Archers and arquebusiers in the adjacent towers were already raining death on Aurangzeb’s army.
Feeling his quickened pulse throb in his scar, he took a deep breath and shouted as loudly as he could, “Death! Death to those who think to take what is yours!”
His men leapt into action, bowstrings and matchlocks snapping. Each type of arm releasing its own particular hail of death to reap his brother’s sowar.
“Breathe, Sultan Al’Azam. Steady your breathing. Keep calm,” Talawat whispered from beside him. “Just like shooting the long gun, this.”
Dara nodded and complied, not wanting another seizure. Succumbing to such weakness in this moment would be disastrous for his cause.
“I’d probably be a better example if I wasn’t scared out of my mind, too,” Talawat added as the cannon roared again.
John climbed into view and trotted over to Dara, up-timer rifle clicking against his mail. “Sultan Al’Azam, it doesn’t appear as if Aurangzeb plans to assault the River Gate.”
“Good,” Dara said, peering down the length of the wall. Aurangzeb’s men were, despite losses, about to surmount the undefended outer wall that ran parallel to the heavier, taller, and thoroughly manned inner.
“Good,” he repeated. “Are you ready, Talawat?”
The gunsmith’s smile was so broad it seemed his face would split in half. “I’m always ready to make things go boom, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“John?” Dara said.
“Wish there was a little more light,” the up-timer said, readying his rifle.
Talawat’s snicker was gleeful. “‘Wish there was more light!’ he says.”
Chapter 43
Siege lines
Grand battery
Carvalho was just finishing his report for Aurangzeb when the night sky above the walls was lit by a constellation of stars that rose to challenge the darkness.
A heartbeat later the quiet was rent by hundreds of gunshots, followed closely by the screams of wounded men.
The fire from the walls of Red Fort reaped a red harvest as the defenders opened up on those struggling to cross the ground between the deep ravine and the moat. The walls and towers of the fort erupted in smoke and what seemed a glittering silver rain as arrowheads caught and scattered the flarelight. Hundreds of men fell in those first moments, killed in a hail of arrow and ball.
Carvalho felt for them, even as he was glad his guns were out of reach of bows and aimed fire from the defenders. He had brought the guns of the grand battery to well within three hundred yards, the range he could be confident his own battery could reliably damage earth-backed walls and even aim with some precision once the sun rose.
Carvalho focused, projecting outcomes with the dispassionate eye a lifetime of conflict had trained him to. He wouldn’t have delayed, but had to decide if this surprise merited a change to his report.
More of Aurangzeb’s men rushed forward, a seemingly unstoppable flood. Such was the pressure of their numbers the men nearest the dead and dying were shoved forward over their unlucky comrades whether they wished to advance or not.
A minute passed. Another. The men continued to rush headlong into the killing field at the base of the wall.
“Go!” Carvalho shouted, deciding the flares were insufficient cause to substantially change the disposition of his guns. They simply decreased the wait he would have to begin accurate fire. He turned his face away as clods of earth pattered around him, shot from beneath the hooves of the messenger’s mount.
Talawat had been very clever. The fireworks they were using cast their light farther and far longer than anything Carvalho had seen before. Light enough he could see his own guns were nearly ready.
A grin stretched Carvalho’s lips. Unintended consequences made the Fates smile: the flares also allowed the attackers to clearly see their targets. Carvalho’s guns would soon punish the defenders for the gunsmith’s creativity.
Carvalho checked the positioning of his battery. They had used the light to good purpose, aligning on his own.
Satisfied, Carvalho blew on the match cord.
“Fire!” Carvalho bellowed, touching the red coal clutched in the stylized dragon’s teeth at the end of his linstock to powder.
One after another, all of his grand battery belched smoke, fire, and death at the walls of Red Fort. The men bent to the task of reloading as Carvalho assessed the damage wrought by his guns and the progress of Aurangzeb’s infantry.
Their fire did little but serve to keep the more fearful of the defenders from showing themselves for a few moments. Moments the infantry used to advantage, scaling the outer wall.
The defenders resumed firing down on the heavy infantry, dropping perhaps one man in five. It was hard to tell exactly how many were wounded but did not fall as the Rajputs’ use of opium-infused bhang in battle made them virtually immune to pain.
Men died, those who fell serving as fuel to fire the anger that sent men over the wall regardless of the cost, the danger, the pain.
The first man was over the wall. He died, was replaced by ten more, then twenty more Rajputs followed.
“Up!” his second yelled, when the great bronze piece was reloaded. Attention drawn by the shout, Carvalho set about aiming the gun when the wall disappeared in a sheet of flame.
The space between the outer and inner walls of Red Fort became a hell on earth as flames and screams rose to the heavens. No doubt seeking to quench the flames burning the flesh from their bones, men flung themselves from the top of the outer wall to perish on the rocks below.
Carvalho flogged his brain into some semblance of coherent thought: Some new type of mine. Stands to reason Talawat wouldn’t be caught idle when his original plan died in the explosion of the munitions factory.
Hoping there remained enough Rajputs to carry the wall, a sweating Carvalho pressed the linstock to the touchhole. He skipped back and out of the way as the cannon fired, sending its shot to slam into the red sandstone of the middle gatehouse. His careful aim was rewarded, as two of the crenellations topping that portion of the structure nearly perpendicular to his position exploded in red dust and flying stone fragments, killing the men shooting from within and dropping much of it into rubble. The murderous fire from the Sikh defenders slackened, at least for the moment.
Well drilled, his crew leapt to their tasks. A wet leather swab went hissing into the barrel. The rest of the men strained and heaved to drag the heavy gun back into position, began loading her.
Carvalho bent over the gun but spared a glance at the rest of the crews of the grand battery. Three gun bellowed as he
watched, closely followed by the auditory assault of guns four and five, then number six. Number two was still not in position to shoot again. The reason became apparent an instant later when the gun captain slumped over, the contents of his chest smeared over the barrel of his gun.
“Up!” his second shouted, letting his distracted captain know they were ready to correct, but Carvalho was still trying to figure out what had hit the man at the next gun. He’d carefully sited his guns to be outside the range of arquebusiers and bowmen on the walls and in a position to be fired upon by only two of Red Fort’s cannon. Laying out the path and final positions had been difficult, but they should have been safe from any but a freak shot from the walls.
Another crewman from gun two fell screaming, struck in the back by a heavy bullet. Carvalho sought the source of the fire, found an absurdly long plume of white powder smoke projecting from what appeared to be a single man’s gun above the gatehouse.
Must be one of those up-timer weapons I heard so much about. Thank God they don’t have more than a few of—
A man holding a similar weapon joined the first. Then Carvalho made out two more.
Mouth suddenly dry, Carvalho screamed at his men to adjust aim. More heaving and cursing had the gun lined up in time for Carvalho to see six or seven men armed with the up-timer weapons discharge their guns. A heartbeat later the maddeningly long-ranged guns began reaping Carvalho’s men like so much blood-soaked wheat.
Every fiber of his being screaming at him to hurry, Carvalho took his time and carefully lined up the shot. He could see the defenders rise up from behind the shelter of the parapet, leveling their long guns and fiddling with something on top of each weapon. He finished, powdered the touch and stepped aside just as the men atop the gatehouse disappeared behind a cloud of powder smoke.
He nearly missed the touchhole with the linstock as every man of gun three perished in a hail of bullets.
