“The same could be said of most armies.”
Pohlmann laughed. “True enough.”
“So what will you do with them?” she asked. The vampire turned in his saddle, regarding her levelly with baleful red eyes.
“What would you do with them?” he countered.
Jamelia thought for a moment, considering the tactical situation from every possible angle.
“Place them within the walls of Assaye,” she said at last. “Even the most brilliant tactician knows full-well the wisdom of preparing a fall-back plan, in the eventuality of the unforeseen taking them by surprise. You plan to meet the British head-on along the north bank of the river Kailna.” He nodded, inviting her to continue. “Assaye lies to the north of that, and would therefore serve as an excellent strongpoint, in the unlikely…highly unlikely event that we are forced to retreat. Berar’s men could be assigned to garrison the town and to harden its defenses in preparation for blunting any British attack there. Our forces could therefore fall back upon the village fortress if things do not go as planned, and thereby gain valuable breathing room for you to reassess the situation and to change your strategy accordingly.”
Pohlmann was silent for a long moment, assessing the merits of her advice.
“Despite the beliefs of some, not all vampires are as arrogant as this Arthur Wellesley is said to be. I shall take your advice. Berar’s men shall strengthen Assaye against any possible attack, while we shall do the same along the Kaitna.”
Giving his chosen battlefield one last critical look before the rising of the sun would drive him into the cool embrace of the earth, Pohlmann could not help but be impressed with the ground that was spread out before him. Assaye lay some two miles to the east, Borkardan to the west. In front was the River Kailna, and the majority of Scindia’s professional soldiers were deployed in a space that was marked out by two villages on the opposite bank to the south; Kodully and Taunklee were the sort of unremarkable, ramshackle little places that seemed to spring up everywhere in this part of the land.
Unremarkable people, thought the vampire dismissively, leading unremarkable lives. They sleep in complete ignorance of the fact that destiny’s hand shall descend upon their home this coming night, marking it in the annals of history forever after.
Each village had a ford, by which the villagers accessed the farmlands on the north bank. Those fords were two of the most obvious crossing points for the British army, and therefore Pohlmann had concentrated maximum firepower at each one, turning it into a deathtrap that was just begging to be sprung.
All told, Pohlmann’s defensive line stretched out to an incredible six miles in length from end to end.
On its far right, the line was anchored upon Borkardan, where that idiot Wellesley expected to find his main strength. There Pohlmann had posted his most numerous but also least effective troops, 70,000 irregular horse and infantry, who looked extremely impressive when viewed from afar but were far less likely to stand and put up a real fight than his regulars. Those men were true professionals, and he would willingly put them up against any other fighting army in the world — which he was about to, if all went according to plan. Pohlmann had only 15,000 of them, still twice more than Wellesley had under his command unless his two little armies were somehow miraculously able to unite.
Those 15,000 hardened killers he had chosen to deploy on some beautifully commanding high ground that gave them clear fields of fire down onto all of the known fords along the Kailna. No matter where Wellesley tried to cross, he would be walking into a storm of shot and shell that would do far more than simply bloody his not-inconsiderable nose; for in front of those crack infantry soldiers, he had deployed his entire contingent of artillery, some ninety heavy guns whose throats looked directly down upon the crossing points. Between them, the cannon and muskets of the infantry would scour all traces of life from the Kailna’s fords before a single redcoat set foot upon the north bank.
The stage was set for a slaughter the likes of which the Maratha lands had never seen before.
Pohlmann’s coffin was a magnificent affair, crafted out of the finest oak and emblazoned with a sigil of a war elephant rearing up on its two hind legs and thrusting its tusks towards the sky. By the time he had climbed inside and was lowered reverently into the earth by six men of Jamelia’s battalion, the defensive line which he had described down to the tiniest detail was already beginning to take shape along the Kailna’s north bank, overseen by the watchful gaze of his most trusted European officers.
“I have but one worry,” Pohlmann confided in Jamelia as he was stepping into his casket. She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “The fords,” he explained. “Every one that we know of is covered, and covered well, by our cannon and our infantry. If I am to lose sleep over anything, it shall be the possibility of an undiscovered crossing point, further out to the east or west. Do I make myself clear?”
“As glass.” Jamelia leaned forward and whispered in the vampire’s ear: “Sleep well, and do not worry about phantom crossings. All shall be taken care of.”
Seemingly satisfied, Pohlmann lay down and allowed one of the white-uniformed soldiers to place the lid of the casket over the top and seal him away from the outside world.
Once she had returned to her own battalion, which was placed at the extreme left of the Maratha line, Jamelia called for Bindusar.
“Take a detachment of men into the village,” she ordered him. “Rouse the locals. Be…persuasive, where necessary, but not brutal. Find out if there are any other fords across the Kailna, other than those about which we already know. If Colonel Pohlmann’s intelligence proves to be correct, than our battalion has been given the honor of guarding the easternmost ford. None should lie beyond it.”
Bindusar bowed low and went off to carry out her orders. The sun was just coming up, and her growling stomach was the first reminder that she had not eaten for far too long. Her tent had already been pitched, something for which she was extremely grateful, and Jamelia lay down in order to sleep and bank up some additional strength for what she felt sure was soon to come.
She awoke to a polite cough that was instantly recognizable.
“What news, Bindusar?” she asked groggily, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes with the heel of one hand. From the height of the sun that was shining through the canvas walls, it was already close to mid-day. She must have needed the sleep more than she had realized.
“We have questioned the villagers most thoroughly,” her second-in-command began.
“How many died?” Jamelia interrupted.
“None. I am not a butcher, mistress.” Bindusar chided her gently. “Though several will not be walking across the river until their legs have healed,” he was forced to confess.
“The unfortunate cost of our profession. Tell me about the crossings,” she commanded.
“There are none, mistress — as you said, the Taunklee ford to our front is the last safe place to cross the Kailna. The only alternatives lie to our west, in front of the guns of our comrades.”
“You are sure of this?”
“The villagers were most sure, mistress.” Bindusar spoke calmly, professionally, without a hint of malice or glee. “Our men were very encouraging. Were there another ford, I feel sure that we would have learned of it.”
“Very well,” Jamelia nodded, satisfied. Short of plunging a branch into every square inch of the river to test its depth, this would have to do. “Have the men bed down and get some rest — the usual rotating watch applies, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The British must come soon, Bindusar. Maybe tonight; maybe tomorrow night. But soon. We shall be best served if we are all rested and fresh before sending them to their deaths, don’t you think?”
A Clash of Scouts
Captain Le Foche prepared to go out on patrol again that evening. His brief from Pohlmann, along with both of his fellow captains, was twofold: ascertain the location of both of the oncoming British armie
s, and attempt to determine their axis of advance.
“You wish us to ascertain the direction from which the British will approach?” Le Foche clarified, to which Pohlmann offered a curt nod.
“Yes, if possible. As soon as night has fully fallen, I wish you to once again scout the British forces and glean whatever valuable intelligence you possible can of their commanding officer’s intentions.” Pohlmann’s eyes gleamed in the soft candle-light of his personal tent, which was more spacious and opulent than those of the captains by an entire order of magnitude. “Most importantly of all, I wish to know whether their general, Wellesley, still believes our army to be located at Borkardan, rather than deployed to the east of it.”
“We shall make every effort.” Le Foche had said, offering his superior a smart salute which was briskly returned. His two peers followed suit.
“Of that, I have no doubt, gentlemen.” Pohlmann looked each of them in the eye. “You may attend to your duties.”
Dismissed, the three vampire captains left their commander’s tent. The still night air was warm and close. Le Foche closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the calm of the early evening. This time, when the sun had only been below the horizon for a few brief moments and the first stars were beginning to emerge in the darkening sky, had always been his favorite time of the day. Accepting the Dark Gift had never changed that.
When he opened them again, Le Foche found himself alone, other than for the two guards who stood sentry outside Pohlmann’s tent. The other captains had already left, and he should also be about his business. Pohlmann was not a man who tolerated slackness in a subordinate.
Reaching down, Le Foche tightened the buckle of his sword belt one more notch. Usually, he kept it comfortably loose; but when one flew, the thing needed to be cinched firmly in place, lest it slide down and be lost in the slipstream.
It was then that he heard it.
Heard, or…perhaps sensed, he was not entirely sure which. But most assuredly, something was off. The feeling was subtle, but it was definitely there.
Le Foche closed his eyes again, clearing his mind of all conscious thought and simply letting himself be. After a time – he had no idea of precisely how long, because the concept of time simply did not exist for him in this meditative state – the sensation began to crystallize, becoming less vague. He followed the feeling back to its source, as one might do when tracing a long and tangled thread, inch by painstaking inch. Were he still human, beads of sweat would have broken out on his brow, such was the Captain’s depth of concentration.
Finally, he had the feeling localized. It was above him – several hundred feet above him.
It was another vampire.
His mind whirling as it ran through the implications of that particular fact, it did not take long for Captain Le Foche to arrive at the inescapable conclusion that this had to be a British spy.
Walking casually so as not to draw the man’s attention, Le Foche made his way into the bustling interior of the Maratha camp. He had a bead on the enemy spy’s location now, his vampire senses making it easy to track the interloper now that he was aware of his existence. The sensation of being watched got steadily weaker as the distance between them both grew, which told him that the target under enemy observation was Pohlmann’s tent, rather than Le Foche himself.
When he reached such a distance that he could hardly feel the other vampire’s presence at all, Le Foche was willing to bet that he had completely escaped the spy’s notice. Willing his body into a much lighter state of density, the captain rose slowly into the air. He allowed himself to climb higher and higher, going much further than he normally would during the course of his scouting duties, until the air itself became noticeably colder. He broke through the light scattering of clouds and basked in the moonlight for a moment, taking the time to loosen the silver-bladed sword in its scabbard just enough that it would draw easily and smoothly on the first attempt.
Beneath him, the Maratha camp sprawled in all directions. He could see the moonlight gleaming on the fast-flowing surface of the River Kailna, and on the barrels of Pohlmann’s ninety cannon that were ranged along its northern bank. Thousands of cooking fires flickered and glowed amber in the gathering darkness. They would probably be permitted to burn throughout the night, unless the British attacked, of course, for the Maratha army wouldn’t be marching anywhere before the dawn.
If the British should find out of their presence along the Kaitna, then the element of surprise would be lost. Pohlmann had made it very clear to his officers that he hoped for Wellesley, who still believed the bulk of the Maratha army to be at Borkardan, to blunder into the jaws of his trap and subsequently become so entangled that he would be unable to extricate himself before the Maratha artillery had reduced his army to bloody scraps.
A spy could ruin all that, forewarning the enemy general and springing Pohlmann’s trap prematurely.
If, of course, he were to make it back to Wellesley alive.
Let the hunt begin.
Le Foche tilted forwards in the air, gaining momentum with every passing second. The wind blew directly into his face and swept his dark hair back against his skull. He was several thousand feet above the British officer now, and the Frenchman did his very best to maintain a quiet mind, hoping that he would not broadcast his presence as the Englishman seemed to be inadvertently broadcasting his.
Drawing the blade from its scabbard, Le Foche was momentarily distracted by the glittering sheen of moonlight shining upon silver.
Maintain your focus, fool!
He kept a tight grip on the hilt, not wanting the extremely expensive weapon to be swept away in the rushing wind. Then, like a diver entering the water, Le Foche angled his body so that his head and shoulders were pointing straight downwards, and put on a burst of even greater speed, the sword held flat against the side of his right leg.
Directly ahead of him hovered a tiny figure that was wearing a bright red jacket, completely oblivious to the doom that now descended upon him from high up above. In his dark jacket and white breeches, Le Foche looked like nothing so much as an arrow fletched with white feathers, slicing through the air towards its unsuspecting target.
The figure was getting larger very rapidly. As he angled himself slightly to keep the British spy dead center within his field of vision, the French vampire brought the sword up and outward away from his body in preparation to strike. The move threw off his balance, just as he’d known that it would, and so he made a tiny correction, leaning to his left and extending that arm in order to counterbalance himself. This had the effect of slowing him down just a little, but he was still hurtling towards the Englishman at a great rate of knots.
Something – some instinct perhaps, or a slight change in air pressure – must have given him away at the last moment, because the red-jacketed vampire pivoted in the air, turning toward the onrushing Frenchman and throwing up his hands defensively.
It wasn’t enough to save him. Le Foche cut away to the Englishman’s right side, sweeping his blade out in a perfectly-timed arc as he did so. Traveling at over a hundred miles per hour, the silver-edged sword slashed into his right forearm just proximal to the elbow and sliced its way cleanly through flesh, sinew, and bone.
The forearm was completely severed and fell away towards the earth below. Dark black fluid gushed from the stump that remained, staining what was left of the red sleeve an inky black.
Williams hissed, reflexively exposing his fangs and clutching at his missing arm. The sheer force of the diving Frenchman’s wake had tossed him aside like a child’s carelessly discarded toy, and now he tumbled through the air, turning end over end. Struggling to right himself, the exploring officer somehow managed to slow his speed and pivot to face the follow-up attack that he knew must be coming – but from where?
The exploring officer looked wildly around him, trying desperately to find his assailant against the dark background of the earth and the night sky.
Le Foche was
nowhere to be seen, for the simple reason that his follow-up attack was coming from Williams’ one true blind spot – directly beneath his feet. The vampire was rising fast, sword held straight up above him in the manner of the Lady from the Lake wielding Excalibur, finally slamming his shoulders hard against the soles of his victim’s boots.
It had been perfectly timed and judged, as masterful a piece of bladesmanship as one could ever hope to see. As the tip of his enemy’s sword punctured his perineum and punched its way up into his pelvic cavity, Major Williams let out a shrill cry of such undiluted agony that even Captain Le Foche winced empathetically. Nonetheless, he added to the momentum of his charge by thrusting his sword arm even higher above his head, skewering the squealing British officer up to the hilt.
Under any circumstances, it would have been a mortal wound – but the sword point had made its way up through the vampire’s long-defunct intestines, slicing the stomach open as it went, then pierced his diaphragm before finally coming to rest inside the right ventricle of his almost-immortal heart.
No sooner had the silver edge come into contact with that most vital of organs than the vampire burst into an eldritch column of flame, spreading outward from his core and expanding to engulf his entire body in the spare of mere seconds. This was no ordinary fire; this was the death pyre of an undead being, and it burned like a new star in the heavens above the Maratha camp. Men below gazed up in wonder, pointing at the flailing fireball that had already begun its fall towards the earth.
Captain Le Foche could only watch in stunned awe as the burning body of what had until seconds ago been his opponent blazed its way downward, leaving a trail of fire that could be seen for miles around. He had never ended another vampire before, and the experienced soldier was more than a little surprised to find that he felt a twinge of…what? Remorse? Regret, perhaps?
He shrugged it off. Such were the hazards of a life and an undeath spent in uniform. It could just as easily have been him who was ending in an inferno of supernatural intensity. One took one’s chances in the world’s second-oldest, but certainly the deadliest profession.
Goddess of the Dead (Wellington Undead Book 2) Page 21
