The Maharajah's General

by Collard, Paul Fraser

  But Jack was faster. His talwar cut through the air as he lifted it into position to parry the attack he had sensed was coming. He flicked his wrist as the weapons came together, turning his rising blade so that Fenris’ sword sliced along its edge, the cowardly attack blocked and battered away.

  In a heartbeat, he went after Fenris. He punched the talwar forward, ready for the inevitable parry, already switching his weight so that he could bring his blade round, slicing it at the red-coated officer’s side. He followed the attack with another, flowing through the movements, his mind watching from afar as Fenris was forced to back away, his sword only just managing to beat aside the series of blows. They came so fast that the lieutenant was given no time to counterattack, and Jack smiled as he fought, feeling the speed coursing through him.

  Fenris was panting with exertion, sweat slicking his dark hair to his forehead. For the first time, Jack saw panic reach his opponent’s eyes, the terror building as he felt the presence of death looming at his shoulder.

  In desperation, Fenris gambled. He stumbled backwards, moving quickly away from the dreadful talwar that came at him at such speed. The tip of the blade scored across his chest, splitting open the fabric of his scarlet coat. Yet it failed to touch his skin, and the manoeuvre gave him space, his gambit leaving Jack’s defences open.

  The moment Jack’s sword went wide, Fenris flung himself forward, driving the tip of his sabre at his opponent’s guts. He had risked his life to launch the attack, and he howled in joy as he saw the blade slip into Jack’s stomach.

  Jack felt the prick of steel against his flesh. He flung his sword at Fenris’ blade, his calm detachment disappearing in a moment of wild panic. The talwar keened as it whipped through the air, driven by every ounce of strength that Jack possessed.

  Fenris’ howl of victory turned into a bitter shriek of frustration as Jack’s sword punched his blade to one side before he had time to drive it home.

  Jack sensed the madness blazing through him. He could feel the ooze of blood on his stomach, the bright pain of the wound flashing across his skull. A feral roar escaped his lips as the wild emotion wrestled away the last of his self-control, the delirium of battle filling every fibre of his being.

  He threw himself forward, battering his talwar at the red-coated officer who had come so close to killing him. He let the madness have its head, hacking at Fenris, who was forced to scramble backwards, his sword trying desperately to beat aside the dreadful series of attacks.

  Fenris screamed as the first blow pierced his defences. The talwar sliced into his side, gouging a thick crevasse in his flesh. Blood poured from the wound, flowing down his body to stain his white breeches. Another attack followed, knocking his sabre from his hand, the last of his defences torn away. As the fight ebbed from his body, he lifted his arms, shielding his face in a pathetic gesture of utter defeat.

  ‘Don’t kill me! Please! I beg you.’ The strength left his legs and he fell heavily on to his backside. ‘Don’t kill me!’ He sobbed the words, waving his arms in from of his face as if he could ward off the killing blow he knew was coming. He tried to shuffle backwards, his arms scrabbling at the rocky ground in a desperate bid to flee, the blood pulsing from his wound leaving a gory smear on the ground.

  Jack advanced after the man he had defeated. The madness of the battle still roared in his ears, and he braced his arm, ready to thrust the talwar forward, any thought of mercy driven from his mind.

  ‘Stop!’

  The command came from behind him. It was a voice of authority but it would not stay his hand. He took a pace forward, ready to kill the pathetic creature begging for his life at his feet.

  The crack of a revolver echoed loudly in the confines of the valley. The heavy ball crashed into the rock in front of Jack, the whine of the ricochet whistling past his ears.

  ‘I said stop.’

  The sound of the revolver’s chamber rotating reached Jack’s ringing ears. He considered ramming home his sword regardless, the bitter desire to finish the worm that crawled on the ground in front of him almost too strong to resist.

  ‘Jack Lark. I order you to stop.’

  Jack felt the rage leave him. He lowered his sword and turned his back on Fenris, leaving the beaten man to sob in relief as he realised he had been spared.

  Major Proudfoot smiled, smug satisfaction writ large on his face.

  ‘Thank you, Jack.’ The revolver was still in his hand, a thin trail of smoke leaving the barrel. ‘I am genuinely sorry that I have to do this, but it really is for the best.’

  He smiled at Jack before he pulled the trigger.

  Jack flinched as the revolver fired, every muscle tensing as he anticipated the impact of the bullet. The sound of the shot echoed in his head but he felt nothing. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Fenris’ body lying on the ground, blood pooling around his twisted corpse. The man who had come to hate Jack was dead, shot through the heart by a single bullet.

  Proudfoot laughed. ‘Not you, Jack.’ He threw his head back and laughed at the sky. ‘You should see your face.’

  Jack tried to swallow and found he couldn’t. He felt his body trembling, the shadow of death walking across his soul.

  ‘Why?’ His voice cracked as he forced out the question.

  ‘Because he was a party to all this. I wanted to finish it.’

  Jack spat out a thick wad of phlegm. ‘Making everything neater.’

  ‘Something akin to that.’ Proudfoot was urbane in his reply.

  ‘So you are executioner as well as judge and jury.’

  Proudfoot laughed at Jack’s bitterness. He plucked at the sleeve of his scarlet uniform. ‘I’m a redcoat. Isn’t that what we do? Besides, had I not interrupted you, I rather fancy you might have killed him yourself. I wanted that honour.’

  ‘So you got your war.’ Jack spat again, the words souring his mouth. ‘And we gave you your victory. I hope you think it was worth the cost.’

  ‘The cost?’ There was a trace of fire in Proudfoot’s voice now. ‘I would say that for bringing a whole kingdom under the Company’s control, it was a veritable bargain.’

  ‘You bastard.’

  Proudfoot frowned, as if chewing on something unpalatable. ‘I wouldn’t quite put it like that.’ His face cleared, the joy of his success still too fresh to be soured by Jack’s condemnation. ‘But I have to thank you. I rather think we might have lost had it not been for you.’

  Jack shuddered. It was akin to being thanked by the devil. He had done what he had believed to be his duty. The notion that he had been nothing more than Proudfoot’s pawn shamed him.

  Proudfoot saw the look on his face. ‘Now, now. There is no need to be so modest. You are a killer, Jack. That is what you do. I saw you fight. You have a talent for it. Besides, I suspect you enjoy it.’

  The words hit home. Jack shivered as he remembered the thrill of the battle, the soul-rending madness that had overwhelmed him. A part of him savoured the memory. Proudfoot had summed it up best. He wore a red coat. Killing was his trade.

  ‘I must ask you to do one last thing for me.’ Proudfoot absent-mindedly toyed with his revolver. Jack heard the gentle grind as the chamber moved around to bring a fresh cartridge under the hammer.

  ‘What?’ Jack felt the chill of fear.

  ‘Run.’ Proudfoot chuckled at the look of surprise on Jack’s face. ‘Come now, Jack. With Dutton and Fenris dead, you are the last man alive who knows all that has happened. Besides, you are a murderer. Didn’t I just witness you kill Lieutenant Fenris in cold blood? Added to your other crimes, there really is no other option. But I owe you a debt for what you did today, so I will allow you to try to escape.’ He lifted his arm, aiming the revolver at Jack’s heart. ‘Run, Jack, run.’

  Jack’s mind raced. He was tempted to stand his ground, to let Proudf
oot administer a solution to his despair. He thought of Isabel, of the dreams he had foolishly allowed to grow. Her words before the final battle haunted him. She did not deserve to live with the constant fear of discovery, with only a killer to turn to for love. She deserved much more than he could give her. He thought too of Lakshmi, sensing the emotions she had awakened. Despite everything he had endured, he felt the will to live like a knot in his belly. He was a charlatan, an impostor, a thief and a killer. He would never submit meekly to his fate.

  Proudfoot barked with laughter as he read the play of emotions on Jack’s face. ‘You are a fool, man. Did you ever truly imagine a future with that girl? Would she really give up everything for you? You are cursed, Jack Lark. I believe you will come to a very sorry end.’

  Jack shivered, the echo of the Tiger’s curse in Proudfoot’s verdict. He looked up into the major’s eyes. He saw nothing but death.

  So he ran.

  The ground was treacherous, the scree slope uneven and scattered with rocks lying ready to trip the unwary. Jack lurched into motion, his movements clumsy. He made it no more than half a dozen paces before he stumbled, his ankle twisting on the uncertain footing. He went sprawling, any last shred of dignity gone.

  Proudfoot cackled wildly. ‘Run!’ He screamed the single command, his voice rising in pitch as he laughed at the sight of the proud charlatan scrabbling on the ground in his desperation to get away. Proudfoot feared the impostor. He had watched in awe as the man fought, terrified by the brutality as he hacked at the enemy. To reduce such a man, such a killer, to nothing more than a floundering fool desperate for life was as great a victory as the one he had won over the Maharajah of Sawadh.

  He raised his revolver, aiming squarely at the back of the man who was trying so frantically to escape. He had had his amusement.

  It was time to end the charade.

  Jack sucked in a last breath, filling his lungs with the scorching air. He nearly choked on the dust his fall had kicked up, but he forced himself to still his quivering muscles. He slipped his hand across the front of his body, hiding the movement from Proudfoot. He heard the man’s laughter but ignored it, refusing to let the flare of anger overwhelm him. He had to be in control. He closed his eyes, summoning the calm he would need.

  The holster was unbuckled and Jack slipped his revolver free.

  In one motion he scrambled to his feet and brought his arm around. He saw the look of surprise on Proudfoot’s face as the barrel of the revolver appeared, heard his laughter cut off abruptly as the man he had believed to be fleeing for his life turned to fight.

  Jack felt the tension of the trigger underneath his finger. He had seen too much death that day, enough to stain his soul for a lifetime. Yet he did not hesitate as Proudfoot’s terror-stricken face filled the simple sight at the end of the barrel.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The blast of the revolver was loud. Jack walked forward, emerging from the inevitable cloud of powder smoke, keeping the weapon pointed at the man who had been the cause of so much death. He fired again, the action instinctive, the second bullet following within a heartbeat of the first.

  The echo of the twin shots reverberated around the high ground before silence once again reclaimed the deserted, lonely hillside.

  Jack’s aim had been true. Proudfoot lay spread-eagled on the ground, striking as dramatic a pose in death as he had in life. Blood pooled around his body, which twitched as the last vestige of life escaped. Jack watched until at last Proudfoot lay still. The devil had taken another soul.

  Jack stood over Proudfoot’s body. The first bullet had hit the major in the chest, killing him instantly. The second had taken off the political officer’s shoulder, the heavy bullet tearing a grotesque hole in what had been living flesh. The grey pallor of death had already laid claim to Proudfoot’s face, his last, dreadful look of horror now fixed for ever.

  Jack felt no remorse at having killed a fellow countryman. The man had deserved to die. He turned and savoured the peace. He was quite alone, only dead men for company.

  Proudfoot’s words settled in his heart, the echo of the Tiger’s curse hardening like lead in his soul. He knew then he was destined to be alone. To be the killer everyone expected him to be.

  It was time to leave.

  He worked quickly. It did not take long to drag the two corpses to the horse that would carry them. Lifting them took more effort, but the lancer’s horse was well trained and stood still, even as its nostrils flared at the sweet tang of the blood that still poured from the dead bodies. With an effort, Jack draped the bloody corpses across the saddle, using the long stirrups to bind them in place.

  He pulled himself into the saddle of Proudfoot’s sable mare, keeping a firm grip on the lead rope of the horse he had taken from the field of battle. He did not look at the body of the man he had just killed and that he now left behind for the vultures and the dozens of other animals that would relish a feast on such fresh flesh. He eased the mare’s head round, turning his back on Bhundapur. With a click of his tongue and a gentle nudge of his heels, he eased the horse into motion, settling down into the slow walk that would take him up the steep side of the valley and away from the scene of so much death.

  The tower stood silently as Jack approached, watching his progress with serene indifference. The last moments of the long ride brought back memories. He saw again the place where the Tiger and his men had ambushed the picnic party. He recognised the spot where he had fought the black-robed bandit leader, a shiver running down his spine as he felt again the presence of death at his shoulder.

  The village was empty. The few who had survived the Tiger’s ravaging horde had abandoned the place that had become a graveyard for their greed and their futile ambition. Jack rode along the dusty paths alone, only breaking the silence to click his tongue to urge on the pair of tiring horses, which strove to do his bidding despite their exhaustion.

  The white-robed priest watched him approach. The man was old, his dark face creased and wrinkled with the passage of time. At his side was a boy. The youngster could not have been more than seven years old, the body under the simple langoti just sinew and bone. The priest laid a protective hand on the shoulder of his new apprentice before ushering him forward to help the white-faced stranger who had brought his dead to the tower.

  Jack helped the boy with Fenris’ body, his nose wrinkling in distaste at the stench of dead flesh. Together they dragged the corpse to the door of the tower, the officer’s heels leaving twin trails in the sandy soil.

  The white-robed priest did not say a word as the man walked away. Yet he stared for a long time at the back of the tall, lean officer with the hard grey eyes before he turned to the orphaned boy he had found hiding in the rubble of his grandfather’s house, his days of goat-herding ended with the slaughter of his meagre herd and the massacre of his family.

  The British officer did not turn back.

  Jack had seen the lancers long before they spotted him. They rode towards him slowly. He waited for them patiently. He knew there was every chance that they would take one look at the white-faced man in the blue lancer’s uniform and kill him out of hand, but still he sat and waited, the bloodstained talwar left in its scabbard.

  The lancers came close. There were eight of them. All were old men whom he did not know from his time in the fortress. But he recognised the man who led them.

  ‘He should’ve listened.’ Jack spoke loudly as the lancers approached, his bitter words the only greeting he would give.

  Count Piotr Wysocki said nothing. He halted his escort and contemplated the weary rider in front of him.

  He finally broke the silence. ‘He is a proud man. He did what he thought was right. We cannot judge him.’

  Jack clenched his jaw, biting off his anger. ‘Were you there?’

  The count shook his head. ‘I was l
eft behind.’

  Jack heard the acid in the words. The former commander of the Maharajah’s lancers had remained in the fortress with the rest of the old men and the boys too young to fight. The only ones not trusted in battle. Now the party of decrepit lancers was the sole force the beaten Maharajah could muster, the ancient warriors forced back in the saddle to do their master’s bidding once more.

  ‘Yet you stayed.’

  Count Piotr nodded, his face grave. ‘Yes. I stayed. I had started to think my time here was done. Now, I think, it has just begun.’ He looked Jack hard in the eyes. ‘It is a strange thing, loyalty, is it not, Jack? It binds us to our fate, no matter how much we like to think we can choose.’

  Jack thought on the count’s words. His own notion of loyalty had bound him to the British. It had led him to forsake the Maharajah, to fight against the man who had saved him. In the aftermath of the battle, Proudfoot had claimed that he had made the difference, that his actions had been decisive in handing the British their victory. The notion shamed him.

  ‘He will listen to you now.’ Jack forced himself to speak, to not dwell on the emotions the count was stirring. He was no longer certain where his loyalty lay, what path his future would take.

  ‘He will. He has no one else. The rest have forsaken him. They have abandoned the palace, taking anything of value. Only Lakshmi remains. He has lost everything.’

  Jack turned in the saddle. He looked at the pathetic corpse draped over the saddle of the horse he had taken from the field of battle. The Maharajah had paid a high price for his ambition.

  ‘I would take him his son.’

  The count kept his eyes on Jack’s. Then he nodded, acquiescing to the request.

  Nothing more was said as the lancers formed up behind their former general, taking position around the body that Jack had brought out of the bloody carnage. Their brooding silence wrapped around him. He gave no command, but walked his horse forward, knowing they would follow.