“He told you rightly, CSM. General Wellesley will of course expect his daily briefing from me once he awakens, but we both know that he’ll try to pry the high points out of you the instant that his coffin lid comes off, what?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir,” Dan smirked, “but better safe than sorry.”
“Quite so, CSM. Quite so. Now, first things first…you’ll recall the thorny little problem that you left me with before you hit the hay this morning?”
“The walking dead bodies, sir?” Nichols couldn’t think of any other little grenades that he’d dropped into the lieutenant’s lap before retiring.
“Exactly. Our own men, Sergeant — our own bloody men, men who ought to be resting peacefully in their graves with honor and dignity. Instead, some vile sorcery has robbed them of that peace. When I get my hands on the vermin that dreamed this up…”
“Any luck finding out who precisely that was, sir?”
“Not the slightest bloody clue, CSM. The four that you…well, I don’t suppose that killed is the proper word, but you know what I mean. How about put out of their misery? At any rate, those four were only the beginning, as it turns out. The patrols found over twenty more of them, wandering the city and looking for victims.”
“That is worrying, sir.” Dan’s brow furrowed as he considered the implications. “Did we get them all?”
“Every last one, CSM, fret ye not. Your tip about destroying the head came in damned useful. You’ll forgive us for having taken the time to test your theory, of course…one of the poor sods took fourteen shots before we finished him off. Fourteen! Can you credit it?”
Nichols could credit it. He had seen the monsters in all of their horrifying glory with his own two eyes. An involuntary shudder coursed through his body.
Those were our men…our mates. What was done to them was bloody obscene.
“Any of our lads hurt rounding them up, sir?”
“Just a couple, and nothing more than a few scratches and bites.”
“Bites?”
“One or two, yes,” Campbell said airily, waving his hand in dismissal. “As I said, there was no real harm done…two of the men got a little too close to the creatures and got nipped.”
“Our lads, sir?”
“If by our you mean the 33rd, CSM, then yes. At least, one of them is. The other’s a chap from the 74th.”
“Who, sir?”
“A Private Clarke, if I recall correctly.”
“Rob Clarke, from Third Company?”
“Yes, that’s the fellow, if memory serves.”
Dan knew Robert Clarke in passing. The man was the bookish type, unusual for a ranker. Ironically, he had been a bank clerk in civilian life; a secret compulsion for gambling had gotten out of hand, and a judge had left him with two choices at the assizes— a debtor’s prison, or enlisting in the army. Clarkie, as his friends called him, had jumped at the chance to join up and serve overseas, as far away from his creditors as was humanly possible. Since then he had sworn off the cards and seemed to have found religion, though he was not the sort to proselytize. The man had a reputation as a solid soldier, well-liked among the ranks.
“The bite’s not bad, sir?”
“Mister Caldwell says not,” Campbell replied, referring to the 33rd’s regimental surgeon. The newly promoted captain clapped the CSM supportively on the arm. “So cheer up, eh? Whatever this devilish business is, it looks as though we’ve got it contained.”
“Let’s hope so, sir.” Dan said doubtfully. “Are we sure we’ve gotten all of those…things?”
“There could be the odd one lurking, I suppose.” The lieutenant stroked his chin thoughtfully. “But I really rather doubt it. They cause enough bloody mayhem when they get around living people, in case you hadn’t noticed. I find it hard to believe that they’d simply sit and wait.”
“I suppose not, sir.”
“At any rate, CSM, on to bigger things, eh?” Dan nodded, forcing the rising sense of unease to the back of his mind. “We’ve had word from Colonel Stevenson. His army is close — within a day’s ride of ours, in fact — and he’s requesting further orders from the General. I suspect that we are about to rejoin forces and give the Marathas a bloody good kicking.”
And not a minute too soon, Dan reflected. But the buggers outnumber us ten to one, if the rumors are true. It’s going to be a bloody one, if we go toe to toe with Scindia’s lot.
Blood Magick
The General accepted a cup of freshly-warmed blood from the Company Sergeant Major, as had become their long-established habit. Arthur listened intently as Nichols described the events of the day, and although he found the incident of the reanimated corpses disturbing, his mind was focused far more intently on the broad strategic picture. Although a full and proper briefing would come soon, delivered by Lieutenant Campbell in his capacity as officer of the day, Arthur still preferred to hear the salient points beforehand from his CSM. It was a foible, he realized, but a harmless one when considered in the grand scheme of things.
“Less than a day’s march, you say?” he asked, as Dan assisted him with hitching his sword belt around his waist.
“So the Lieutenant tells me, sir.”
“Scindia and the Raja of Berar cannot have gotten too far away,” Wellesley mused, picturing the surrounding terrain in his mind. He had made several long night flights over the past few weeks, committing the topographical features into his practically eidetic memory; every river, hill, bluff, and stand of tope was in there somewhere, and could be recalled with just a little concentrated effort. “We shall bring them to battle on terms of our choosing, if I have anything to say about it.”
“The odds are pretty heavily stacked against us, sir,” Dan said, risking the ire of his general with the doubtful remark. Surprisingly, Wellesley conceded the point with a gracious nod, his black eyes twinkling in the light of the scattered candles.
“Numerically, yes— the enemy outnumbers us significantly, CSM. But take heart…there is more to the tale than mere numbers.”
“Like what, sir?”
“Like the steadiness of our troops. Most of the Maratha cavalry are nothing more than amateurs, good for putting on a show of force, I will grant you, but of precious little value in a fight. Not that they’re cowards, mark you — but they are undisciplined. They shan’t stand against steady troops.”
“But aren’t the infantry European-trained, sir?”
Again, Wellesley conceded the point with a nod. “Trained, yes, and with a leavening of European troops among their ranks to boot; but their quality is still not up to that of the British redcoat, on that you may depend.” He looked at the NCO calmly. “You are still not convinced, I take it.”
“It’s not that I doubt you, sir…” Dan replied hastily, his loyalty — and no small measure of fear — rushing to the fore.
“That’s quite alright, CSM. Between us, Colonel Stevenson and I have slightly less than 15,000 men, counting the infantry, cavalry, and artillerymen. The enemy have somewhere in the region of 100,000. Only a madman would not balk in the face of those odds.”
“I know that it’s not my place to question your strategy sir…I mean, I’m just a Sergeant Major…but if they outnumber us that badly, how can we possibly win?”
“It’s really quite simple, Nichols. Riddle me this…how does one eat an elephant?”
Dan was gobsmacked, turning the problem over and over in his mind. None of the solutions that presented themselves to the General’s riddle made much sense to him. “I don’t know, sir,” he concluded lamely.
Arthur smiled, the upwards curl up his lip exposing the tip of one gleaming fang.
“One bite at a time, CSM. One bite at a time.”
Dan laughed, although he wasn’t entirely sure whether the General was joking or not. The vampire’s wry smile could have been taken either way, but the tension was broken at the very least, and he let out a breath that he hadn’t even realized he had been holding.
“Now,” Wellesley continued, fussing with the high collar of his uniform jacket. “I have business with Colonel Harness. If you should be so kind as to fetch him, please, I should be most appreciative.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good man. Once that little matter has been taken care of, I shall convene the officers for supper and for orders.”
“Very good, sir.”
The CSM disappeared into the recesses of the tent, heading off to locate the colonel of the 78th. Arthur watched him go.
Do they all doubt that we shall be victorious in this campaign? Nichols is usually a paragon of optimism.
He wondered what it was that had shaken the CSM’s faith so. This nasty business with the resurrected corpses? Such incidences of newly-dead corpses rising from the grave was not completely unknown, although it was relatively rare in the annals of British recorded history. Had the Marathas enlisted some local necromancer to aid their cause? If so, it would be a nuisance, he acknowledged, but little more than that.
Arthur searched his distant memory, struggling to recall some of his early schooling on such matters. This was blood magick, he knew, the oldest kind in existence. Not the sort of thing with which vampires would be involved; no, this had to be a mortal sorcerer of some description, hoping to be a thorn in the side of the British invaders, perhaps to delay their advance or handicap their army in other ways — fear of the newly-risen dead being just one that he could think of. But one thing that he did know of blood magick was that, in order to reanimate more than a handful of corpses, it would take a significant amount of power, far more than that which would be available to a mere Hindu holy man.
No, in order to do any real harm, that would take…well, that would require the power of a god.
Arthur chuckled dismissively. He didn’t believe in gods, for the most part — except for one, of course; no, he was far more concerned about the actions of a tigress.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Now sit down, Captain Campbell."
There was one more piece of business to be taken care of before the command staff meeting. Shortly after he had been exhumed from his grave, Arthur pulled Colonel Harness aside for a quiet word.
“I can’t say as I like it, sir,” the aristocratic colonel said unhappily when Arthur had revealed his intent. “However, you are of course the commanding general, and I shall of course bow to your wishes.”
Arthur regarded him soberly for a moment. “Sure you can see, Harness, that this is for his own good, as well as that of the army?”
“It does an officer good to broaden his horizons every once in a while,” the 78th’s colonel conceded. “And there’s no doubting that it will be good for his career.”
“Then we are agreed.”
Harness knew from long experience that when Wellesley spoke in that manner, it was meant to be taken as a statement of fact, rather than as a question.
“Yes, sir.”
Clapping a hand on his shoulder, Arthur remarked with rather more cheer: “Look on the bright side, Harness. You may be losing an officer, but I am gaining a damned fine adjutant.”
The officers assembled around the large wooden table as usual, fussed over by the mess servants as they were provided with their meal of choice. In the case of the vampire officers it was to be a liquid meal, as were they all once a man accepted the Dark Gift. The mortal officers were to be graced with the rather more conventional side of beef and such vegetables as could be scrounged.
Ting-ting-ting. Wellesley tapped the rim of his crystal goblet with the flat edge of a knife blade.
“Gentlemen, your attention please.”
The good-natured banter and general hubbub around the table quietened down. His eyes twinkling in the candle-light, their general regarded them with a suddenly serious mien.
“Before we eat, and subsequently discuss the future movements of this army, we have an item of business to take care of.” He exchanged glances with Harness, who from his expression now seemed to be more resigned than annoyed. Wellesley gestured towards the lower end of the table, where the more junior officers were seated. “Mr. Campbell, stand up, if you please.”
Casting his eyes around furtively as though seeking to discover the nature of whatever trouble he now found himself in, Colin Campbell climbed slowly to his feet. Standing at attention, he reached down and self-consciously tugged at the hem of his red jacket, straightening it as though for inspection.
“Lieutenant Campbell,” the general continued sternly, “it seems that we must discuss the matter of your actions during last night’s escalade of the Ahmednuggur pettah.”
Campbell’s face froze into an unreadable mask.
“Of course, sir. If I might be permitted to explain…”
“Oh, by all means, Lieutenant.” Arthur leaned backwards in his chair, taking a leisurely sip from the goblet of blood. It left the slightest tinge of red around his lips. “By all means, please do explain yourself.”
Clearing his throat, Campbell searched for the right words. He was painfully aware that every officer gathered around the very large table was watching and listening intently. “Well, General, it’s rather like this, you see…” He looked at Wellesley beseechingly, but the General simply raised his eyebrows in a gesture to indicate that he should proceed. “I, um, saw that the escalade was in trouble, sir — and looking back on it now, I know that it was rash, so I must beg your forgiveness — but I just had to do something, sir…anything, as long as it got the attack moving again. It was hotheaded of me, I do understand that now, but in the heat of the moment…”
His words tailed off, fizzling out like a gunner’s burning taper when dipped into a bucket of filthy cold water. The Lieutenant’s face had turned a deep crimson in color.
For his part, Major General Wellesley slowly steepled his hands in front of him.
“Mister Campbell,” he went on in his most intimidating tone, deliberately injecting the tiniest fraction of supernatural amplification into his voice in order to give it a little gravitas. “Are you really…are you really…standing here, before the assembled officers of this army…” Campbell closed his eyes, wishing that one could actually physically die of embarrassment rather than endure the lambasting that was surely now upon him. “…and apologize for your outstanding success?”
A colossal roar erupted from the officers, who began pounding their fists and cutlery upon the tabletop in approbation. Each had known what was coming, of course; their general’s sense of humor rarely showed itself, but when it did emerge, it was usually worth waiting for, particularly if General Wellesley happened to be on fine form, as he was tonight. The captain seated next to him clapped Campbell hard on the shoulder and then took his hand, pumping it vigorously. Cries of “huzzah!” did a circuit of the table. Even Old Nosey himself was smiling, though taking care to largely conceal it behind one strategically-placed hand.
Finally, the ruckus calmed itself again. Colin remained standing when the other officers sat, feeling every bit as shell-shocked as he had last only last night when his skull had taken a definite beating on the scaling ladder. To Arthur, he looked like nothing so much as a startled fawn.
Time to put him out of his misery, Wellesley decided, and then get on with the bloody business of soldiering.
“Lieutenant Campbell,” he began, causing the younger officer to brace to a ramrod position of attention once more. “As a Major General in the army of His Most Britannic Majesty King George, I am afforded a number of…allowances, if you will. Some can most definitely be considered indulgences, but some are also absolutely necessary to the conduct of this war. I have been most remiss in one particular aspect of my generalship, though it pains me to admit it. Do you know to which aspect I refer?”
Campbell racked his brains for a respectable amount of time before finally replying that he did not. Even if he had been able to think of such a thing, he would never have dared to speak its name in the first place.
“As the
commanding officer of this army I am entitled, according to the order of battle, to one adjutant, an officer dedicated to meeting my administrative needs. We currently have no such billet filled, Mr. Campbell.” Arthur leaned forward, fixing the Lieutenant with his steely gaze. “Are you willing to undertake the position?”
“Indeed I am, sir,” Colin answered without hesitation.
“Then we find ourselves with a problem, for this is not a position which the authorities at Horse Guards deem to be suitable for a mere lieutenant.”
“I understand, sir,” said Colin stoically, though truly he did not. Crestfallen, he wondered why Wellesley had been so cruel as to dangle the promotional carrot directly in front of his face, only to snatch it away gain in an instant.
“No, I really don’t think that you do.” Arthur’s voice warmed as he fired his final salvo. “It is also within my authority to promote you to the rank of Captain, a right which I shall hereby exercise. Now sit down, Captain Campbell.”
Yet again the table erupted in cheers of congratulation. Several of the other lieutenants — who had been, until just seconds ago, Colin’s peers — attempted to conceal their envy, with varying degrees of success. Some had been commissioned into the army before him, and therefore held seniority over the young Scot, but Wellesley cared more for sheer ability and potential than he did for seniority, station, or birth.
With a stupid grin plastered across his face, Colin sat down a little too heavily.
Captain Campbell.
He could hardly believe it.
Back in Command
Once they were both clear of the pettah gates, Jamelia had shape-shifted into her feline form. Achalraj had at first not turned away, but as she began to shed her clothes Jamelia favored him with the glare of the unrepentant killer, causing the priest to finally turn his back. It was not the nakedness of her human form that she did not want him to see — Jamelia was fiercely proud of her body, for she had worked long and hard to train it to its current peak condition — but rather the actual transformation into a great hunting cat. Shape-shifters would no more voluntarily change form in front of a non-shifter than a gentleman would drop his britches and defecate in polite company. It was simply too ugly a thing to contemplate.
Goddess of the Dead (Wellington Undead Book 2) Page 15
