Contents
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
Death at the Oasis
Temple of the Goddess
CHAPTER TWO
Shadows of the Past
Matters of Faith
CHAPTER THREE
The Goddess Speaks
The Best-Laid Plans
CHAPTER FOUR
Reconnaissance
Council of War
Enemy at the Gates
The Emissary
CHAPTER FIVE
Assault on Ahmednuggur
CHAPTER SIX
Escalade
CHAPTER SEVEN
Repulsion
Double-shotted
Into the Pettah
Slipping the Noose
CHAPTER EIGHT
Resurrection
An Assassin Strikes
CHAPTER NINE
Hearts and Minds
The Seed is Sown
CHAPTER TEN
A Nightmare at Sunrise
"The head, lads!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Banishment
Bitten
Blood Magick
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Now sit down, Captain Campbell."
Back in Command
"On whom would you wager?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Who Shall Command?
Borkardan
A Medical Opinion
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Side By Side
A Side of Beef
Fears in the Darkness
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Three Europeans
A Stage Set for Slaughter
A Clash of Scouts
Humbugged
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Consequences Be Damned
A Hidden Ford
Flanked!
"Wellesley is no fool..."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Form the Line
Out of the East
Advance on the Guns
"...a favor to us..."
A Bloody Idiot
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Volley Fire
Unleashing the Beast
A Disaster Unfolds
Once and For All
Orrock's Folly
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lost For Words
Now is the Time to Break Them
Counterattack
Death of the Picquets
From Out of the Shadows
CHAPTER TWENTY
Revenge at Last
Go For the Throat
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A Fall From Grace
The Last Stand
This Waking Nightmare
A Walk Among the Mortals
Author's Note
For my dear friend Keith Richardson on the occasion of his 38th birthday.
May your supply of cawfee never run out.
CHAPTER ONE
Death at the Oasis
July, 1803 - The Deccan Plateau
The noon-day sun was riding high in the sky when Lieutenant Philip Goodchild, in command of a detachment from His Britannic Majesty’s 19th Light Dragoons, reined in his horse at the top of a low rise, and cursed.
It was starting to get hot. Damnably hot. The lanky young officer wiped his brow with a tunic sleeve, smearing a long streak of sweat across the expensive fabric.
Goodchild’s mount apparently shared his discomfort, because the tall brown gelding tossed its head and flicked its tail back and forth irritably. Scanning the horizon, he reached down and patted the horse’s neck absently.
“There, there, Bellerophon.”
The British cavalry patrol had been abroad for the past two days, with orders to try and intercept the armed brigands who had brought terror to the region of late. At first, it was only merchant caravans that had been preyed upon by these rogues, but they had lately turned their attention to the supply trains of the British Army — and that simply could not be tolerated; which is how Lieutenant Goodchild and his patrol of sixteen men found themselves trudging across the stark plains, hoping to locate the bandits’ trail.
So far, their luck had been poor. Other than a few carrion birds picking at the sun-bleached bones of some unidentifiable animal victim, nothing appeared to be stirring as far as the eye could see. Goodchild raised a hand to shield his eyes and squinted against the sun’s merciless glare, scanning the horizon for signs of life.
Nothing.
“Damn it.”
A stand of thick, coarse trees — known locally as tope — some two hundred yards to their front was the only terrain feature which broke up the vista of nothingness, just earth and sky as far as the eye could see. The lieutenant eyed it carefully and thought for a moment. The patrol had been riding since sunrise, and while their pace had been relatively sedate, simply being exposed to the late-morning temperatures had a way of sapping the strength and making one tired.
“Sergeant Kiernan.”
“Sir?”
Frank Kiernan cantered his horse to stand alongside that of his commanding officer. The dark-haired young NCO from Dublin followed Goodchild’s outstretched arm, which was pointing towards the stand of tope.
“That looks like a suitable place for the men to halt and rest for a while.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take the patrol across into the shade, Kiernan. Have the men water their mounts and take one half-hour of rest.”
“Certainly, sir.”
The relief was plain to hear in Kiernan’s voice. Getting out of the sun and enjoying a little tepid water looked like it was shaping up to be the highlight of the patrol’s day. Gesturing for the enlisted cavalrymen to follow him, the Irishman guided his mount towards the stand of tope at a leisurely pace that would spare their mounts any further exertion.
Goodchild allowed them all to pass, sitting patiently and continuing to sweep the horizon with his eyes. A wispy haze marked the boundary where the earth met the sky. The lieutenant sighed, wondering if they would be forced to return to the British lines empty-handed. He truly hoped not; General Wellesley was not considered by most to be a forgiving man.
Seeing that his men had dismounted and were now taking shelter amongst the trees, Goodchild eased his horse into a slow walk towards them.
When he arrived, Kiernan saluted him smartly. Goodchild returned it in a rather more languid manner.
“Sentries are posted, sir, and the men have been instructed to rest once they have taken care of their mounts.”
The lieutenant looked beyond the sergeant’s left shoulder to where the cavalrymen were feeding their horses and giving them water. More than one soldier was patting his mount on the nose or stroking its mane, betraying the affectionate bond each man had for the horse that had accompanied him on the long voyage out from England.
All was as it should be.
Goodchild removed his canteen from its usual place behind Bellerophon’s saddle, removed the stopper, and took a long draught of tepid, brackish water. The shade was a genuine mercy, he reflected - practically heaven-sent. Even with the sun’s rays being screened by the leafy canopy above, the air was still stiflingly close.
One by one, as their horses were attended to, the enlisted men found their own shady spots and flopped down onto the ground to rest, doffing their heavy shakoes and settled in to enjoy their own water. The cavalryman’s mantra remained the same as it had always been, passed down through generations of soldiers since time immemorial — first you took care of your weapons, then took care of your mount, and lastly, you took care of yourself.
Ten minutes passed witho
ut incident, the men enjoying their rest in companionable silence under the watchful eye of four posted sentries. Sergeant Kiernan changed the guard again after a few moments, allowing everybody an equal chance to rest.
It was then that they chose to strike.
Neither the lieutenant or any of his men had even the faintest idea that they had been hiding in the branches above their heads; so focused had they been upon their mounts or, in the case of the sentries, the far horizon, that not one of the British cavalrymen had ever thought to look up.
The black-garbed figures fell from above their heads like rain — a rain of death. Each wielded a curved blade with brutal precision, and as they landed amongst the astonished British soldiers, the wickedly-sharp steel weapons flicked out expertly, opening throats and puncturing organs in a spray of bright red blood.
Within the space of a few seconds, the peace and quiet within the stand of trees was suddenly shattered by the screams of dying horsemen. Agog, Lieutenant Goodchild fumbled at his waist for one of the brace of pistols which always hung there, tucked into his belt. He drew one successfully, and fought to cock the weapon with trembling fingers. Adrenaline was already surging through his veins, causing his hands to shake, but Goodchild raised the pistol shakily and sighted it on one of the black-clad ambushers, who was repeatedly thrusting the point of a blade into a shrieking cavalryman’s chest and belly.
The lieutenant closed one eye and pulled back on the trigger. The pan flashed, causing Goodchild to flinch. It was the first time he’d ever fired a pistol in anger, and he was amazed to see the lead ball fly relatively straight and true, taking his target high up in the throat, just beneath the chin. The man was wearing some kind of scarf or mask across his face, so Goodchild couldn’t see anything of his features, but it was gratifying to see his head snap backwards, blood gouting from the entry wound in a pressurized spray that followed his body down into the undergrowth.
“Well shot, sir!”
“Thank you, Kiernan.” Hoping that his voice sounded much calmer than he actually felt, Goodchild replaced the empty pistol and removed its twin. He shot a second adversary in the back, placing the ball right between his shoulder blades.
That was it. He was down to the saber now.
For his part, the Irish sergeant had let his own carbine drop and was in the process of drawing his saber from its scabbard; before it was more than halfway clear, one of the shadowy assailants pounced on him from behind, dragging the sergeant’s head back by the hair and drawing a knife blade cleanly across his throat. The neat red slash glistened wetly and blood began to pour from it, drenching the front of Kiernan’s jacket, but evidently that was not quite satisfactory enough for his attacker, who sawed the blade back and forth repeatedly until the Irishman’s head was separated from the bleeding ruin of his neck.
The sudden explosion of violence was beginning to terrify the horses. Their reins were tied to tree trunks, and so the wide-eyed, suddenly-skittish beasts — usually so steady on the field of battle — simply danced in place, tossing their heads and manes back and forth in a desperate attempt to escape. For just the briefest of moments, Goodchild considered slashing through the reins of the closest charger with his blade, leaping into the stirrups, and making good his escape. The idle temptation was gone as quickly as it had arrived, dismissed in the sure and certain knowledge that such conduct was unbecoming of an officer in His Majesty’s army.
Goodchild turned to find Corporal Paddock locking blades with an attacker, the flat of his cavalry saber grating against that of his opponent’s curved tulwar. With a grunt, the masked man rolled his wrist in an attempt to slide his own sword over the top of the corporal’s guard, seeking to drive the point into a vulnerable spot. Reacting in the fashion of the true London gutter-rat, Paddock threw all subtlety to the wind, choosing instead to drive forwards from his left foot and kick his boot out towards his opponent’s crotch.
The man yelped, not quite sinking to his knees, but definitely sagging. His free hand went instinctively to guard his family jewels, while his sword arm sagged just enough that Paddock saw his opening and struck, reversing the saber for a backhand cut that took a respectable chunk out of his enemy’s chest.
The point beats the edge — always. Goodchild remembered that particular refrain from his first fencing master, a grizzled old veteran by the name of Campbell, but he had also been taught that in a pinch, the edge was better than nothing. Certainly the competing pain in both chest and balls seemed to have unmanned Paddock’s adversary, who tottered unsteadily backwards for a few steps, the tip of his blade drooping to rest limply in the dirt beside him. The corporal ended it quickly, ramming almost a foot of sharpened steel into the guts of the man in black, twisting it viciously through ninety degrees, and then jerking it back out again. Purple-blue entrails bulged around the edges of the ragged, gaping tear in his enemy’s abdomen, falling out in loops as the intestines were dragged down and out of the abdominal cavity by their own sheer weight and momentum.
Paddock turned away dismissively.
“Nicely done, Corporal.”
“It’ll serve, sir,” the big NCO grunted. Paddock was tall for a cavalryman, topping six feet in height, and broad at the shoulders to match. He would have been a natural recruit for the infantry, but at this particular moment in time, Goodchild was delighted to have the man watching his back.
The lieutenant looked around anxiously, trying to make some order out of the chaos that surrounded them. It looked as though the fight was not going well for the dragoons. At least seven or eight of their bodies lay sprawled across the ground inside the stand of trees, half in and half out of the shadowy vegetation.
None of them were moving.
Goodchild hastily reckoned that there were close to twenty of the dark-garbed ambushers still on their feet, and they were beginning to encircle the desperate British survivors in groups of twos or threes, working together to first open up a hole in their enemy’s guard and allowing one of them to exploit it, sinking in a blade up to the hilt to finish the job, or in the case of one luckless cavalryman, dispatching him with a pistol ball straight into the heart.
Finally, only Goodchild and Paddock remained.
The two men stood back to back, officer and NCO using their sabers to protect one another as best they could, fending off the attacks of the six warriors who had encircled them.
“Sell your life dearly, Corporal,” the lieutenant ordered. “I expect you to fetch a damnably high price.”
Paddock grunted an acknowledgment, too busy focusing on keeping the enemy tulwars at bay to answer his officer’s order.
Both men knew that it was only a matter of time.
Finally, the enemy seemed to tire of their resistance. At the same moment that Corporal Paddock was answering a flurry of blade strokes to the very best of his ability, one of their assailants stepped in close on his left-hand side. This is it, the big corporal thought as his peripheral vision registered the black form raising its arm to strike, there’s no way I can turn in time…
It took another heartbeat for Paddock to realize that the attack wasn’t meant for him.
The sound of the pistol firing at such close range was almost deafening. Paddock flinched, but fought down the instinct to raise a hand to his ear protectively. He felt several razor-sharp somethings slice into the back of his skull, followed by a splash of something warm, wet, and viscous — fragments of his lieutenant’s skull and a mess of brain matter, released from their bony cage by the pistol ball which entered just above Goodchild’s right ear.
“Enough of this,” came a voice from beneath one of the black masks directly in front of Paddock — the man with whom he had just been matching blades. Two cold hazel eyes glared at the NCO, their mood impossible to determine without seeing the rest of the face.
Paddock did not recognize the words, as they had been spoken in the native dialect, but the man’s intent was all too clear.
Slo
wly, the black-garbed warrior reached up and removed the covering from his face, allowing the loop of cloth to dangle at the side of his head.
Paddock did a double-take. The facial features were graceful, their angular lines framed by strands of long, dark hair. It was a beautiful face.
“You’re a woman…” Paddock gaped. How had his squadron been wiped out by a gang led by a woman? He could hardly credit it. Mr. Goodchild, he felt sure, would have said that it just wasn’t proper.
“I am,” she acknowledged slowly, as though speaking to a backward child. She spoke perfect English. “And unfortunately for you, one with little time to waste on Englishmen.”
From sheer force of habit, the corporal moved to correct her. He wasn’t an Englishman at all; he came from Galway.
The woman never gave him the chance.
“Finish him.”
His world exploded in a blinding ball of light and pain.
Temple of the Goddess
The holy man knelt on the cold stone floor, abasing himself in supplication before the altar that was dedicated to his goddess. His forehead was pressed lightly against the ground, forming a point of spiritual connection with She to whom he had devoted his entire being. Out of the entire thirty-eight year span of his life, Achalraj had spent the past thirty-five engaged in blissful worship to the Dark Mother, and never once had she failed to answer his prayers — though perhaps not always in the exact manner that he had hoped for…
Worship of Kali was widespread throughout the Maratha lands, as it was throughout much of India, and was seen by some as a sign of the troubled times in which they now lived. The Dark Mother was a goddess of fire, bloodshed, and destruction; a vengeful deity who reveled in the destruction of her enemies, and rewarded those of her loyal followers who displayed the greatest capacity for strength, aggression, and sheer ruthlessness. Hers was not a divinity best suited for the weak and feeble.
This temple was but one of many dedicated to Her divine glory, but it was the one in which Achalraj felt most at home; perhaps more importantly, it was one which the goddess, by her own admission, also personally favored. A circular chamber some two hundred feet wide and one hundred feet high, it had been hewn from the solid rock with crude tools and manual labor, although not even the most revered and holy elders among Kali’s devotees could say precisely how long ago; the most educated guesses ran to somewhere between five and six hundred years in the past.
Goddess of the Dead (Wellington Undead Book 2) Page 1
