He sent Bister, Mooktu, and Mullins to circle past the cult’s pickets. “They’ll have more than one or two along the road into the estate, close enough to town to have time to race back and warn those at the chateau of our approach. Take positions between them and the chateau, as close to the chateau as possible without being seen from the building, and stop any messenger, any warning, getting through. We’ll meet you there once we’ve gathered our forces.”
The three nodded and went.
Dorcas and Arnia followed, dispatched to find the priest and get his church bell tolling.
Gareth looked at Watson, met the older man’s eye. “You need to stay here—you know what to do.”
Watson nodded. “I do. I will.”
Turning back to the gathering rabble—older locals as well as an increasing number of sailors and others who had days before formed part of their impromptu militia—Gareth waved at the door. “Let’s take this outside. Form up, and I’ll tell you exactly what we must do.”
Must do. Exactly. He needed these men, but if he didn’t control them, neither Emily nor he would see England again.
Sixteen
Tied securely to a once-elegant chair in the middle of a dusty half-derelict drawing room, Emily stared wide-eyed at the old Indian man her captors had delivered her to. Garbed in traditional Indian dress of dun-colored trousers and tunic, with a colorful woven vest, hat, and a shawl in deference to the cold, he appeared almost kindly, until one looked into his eyes and saw the fanatical light gleaming in the darkness.
She wasn’t sure he was entirely sane.
He was, however, indisputably in charge. The three who had brought her there, the knife pricking her side all the way, had bowed and scraped and looked thrilled to receive just a word in reward.
The old man—Uncle, they’d called him—was the commander Gareth had suspected existed, the one charged with halting Gareth’s mission.
As she’d been marched through the chateau, she’d seen many cultists, ready, battle-primed, some sharpening their knives. They’d glanced at her as she’d passed, but their dark gazes had slid away—they were already thinking of other things. Of killing.
Killing Gareth and the others—she knew he, and all the rest, too, would come after her.
That, it seemed, was the old man’s plan.
What horrified her, held her stupefied with terror, was how he apparently planned to fill in the time.
His back to her, he was tending a collection of implements, perfectly ordinary implements from kitchen, smithy, and barn, the sight of which caused not the slightest alarm—not until they lay heating on a bed of red-hot coals in a brazier set before a crumbling hearth.
If that weren’t bad enough, to one side a once-superb gaming table displayed an array of knives. Not ordinary, run-of-the-mill knives. Many she’d seen only rarely, on docks, at the fishmonger’s or the butcher’s. Filleting knives. Flaying knives.
Her blood had run cold long ago. She looked at the knives and felt sick.
She didn’t know what to do. With her feet tied and her arms lashed at elbow and wrist to the chair arms with old curtain cords, she was helpless to move, but she wasn’t going to simply sit and be burned and cut.
It took effort to force her mind to work—to think of what might distract this man—Uncle—from his grizzly entertainment, at least long enough for Gareth to reach her.
She couldn’t think beyond that point. She didn’t need to. Once Gareth reached her, nothing would stop them. Together they would win through.
But what could she do to gain time?
Was there any way she could make it easier for him to find her, so he could reach her more quickly?
She recalled the chateau as she’d seen it from the drive. Most of the windows were shuttered, except for this room. Because of the fumes from the smoking fire in the hearth and the brazier, they’d opened the shutters and set the windows ajar. As with all the front rooms on the ground floor, those windows opened to a paved terrace that ran the length of the house.
Talking seemed her best option.
She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir?”
He glanced around, arrested, as if surprised she could talk.
Her expression innocent, she raised her brows. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”
He frowned, straightened, a pair of hot pincers in one hand. “I”—he set his other fist, closed, to his chest—“am a representative of the great and mighty Black Cobra. You are here on my master’s orders, and soon you will die a most painful death—to the great glory of the Black Cobra!”
She fought to ignore the vision his words conjured, to ignore the heated pincers he held. She forced a confused frown. “You’ll pardon me if I seem a trifle obtuse, but…I’ve never met this Black Cobra person. Why would my death mean anything to him?”
Uncle blinked at her. “But…” Then he drew himself up. “You were instrumental in delivering the letter a Captain MacFarlane stole in Poona to a Colonel Delborough in Bombay.”
She opened her eyes wide. “That letter? Was it important? I had no idea. I thought it was a personal message from the captain to his commanding officer.” She did her best to look intrigued. “What’s in it?”
Uncle hesitated, then said, “I do not know.”
She frowned harder. “You mean you’ll kill me—and presumably many others—and you don’t even know why?”
He bridled; his dark eyes lit. “It is my master’s orders.”
“So he gives orders and you obey—even though you don’t have any idea why?”
He looked down his nose at her. “That is the way of the cult. It is how cults are.”
She had no difficulty looking unimpressed. “Regardless, I don’t see how killing me will in any way help your master. I don’t know anything about the letter, and I certainly don’t have it—I gave it to Colonel Delborough months ago.”
“You may not have it—but Major Hamilton might!”
“Gareth? Are you sure?” She looked unconvinced. “He hasn’t said anything to me about it.”
“He has it—or a copy. This is why I have been sent.”
“To find the copy?”
“Yes.”
“Was that you all along—back in Aden and on the Red Sea?”
He answered, and she knew she was safe for just a little while—as long as relating their journey and the cult’s many actions would take. Like many such men, Uncle was vain enough to want to claim any and all victories he could. She was careful to preserve a suitably innocent mein, encouraging him to impress her with tales of his guile and standing.
He spoke in ringing tones, declaiming and making grand statements.
She asked her questions as loudly as she could.
All the while she listened, strained to hear any activity outside.
Any sign that rescue had arrived.
Inwardly, she prayed.
If the cultists in the chateau saw Gareth’s impromptu army marching up the drive, the first thing they would do was slit Emily’s throat.
Gareth knew that for an absolute fact. He was consequently unbending in imposing absolute authority over his ragtag forces.
He’d collected those who knew the chateau’s grounds, and kept them with him at the head of the ranks as they marched in good order out of the town. He halted them all at the bottom of the chateau’s long drive, and impressed on everyone the need for absolute silence from then on.
With quite remarkable stealth, they crept further up the drive. Those familiar with the place told him how far they could go without being seen from the chateau windows, or even from the roof.
Seated on a flat rock by the drive’s edge, Mullins was waiting at that very spot. He stood and saluted Gareth. “We caught two of the blighters hurrying back to warn their friends.”
Mullins whistled—a bird call. An instant later, Bister appeared from one side, then Mooktu came out of the bushes on the opposite side of the drive.
Gare
th nodded. Now came the trickiest part of his plan. He’d spent the march to the chateau juggling options, seeing if any fitted the situation better, but…he glanced at the five “lieutenants” he’d appointed, each leading a group of men. “Here’s what we’ll do.” He assigned each of the five groups their positions—two groups to circle the chateau and attack from the rear, another two to cover the sides and the front, the last to spread out and block any attack from cultists who might still be closer to town and inclined to fall on them from behind. “But before anyone makes so much as a sound, I and my men will go in, and find and rescue Miss Ensworth.”
“One set of windows in the front are unshuttered,” Bister reported. “Otherwise, all activity’s at the rear.”
Gareth nodded, and returned his attention to the assembled men. “Three of us will go in and liberate Miss Ensworth.” Knowing the cult’s ways, he felt certain she would still be alive. He prayed she was also unharmed. “Once we have her safe, Bister will signal to Mullins here.” Gareth tipped his head to the grizzled veteran. “Mullins will then give the signal to attack. Once you receive that signal, you can overrun the place. You do not need to hold back—I assure you they won’t. They will fight to the death, because that’s their way. Don’t expect them to fight by our rules—they have their own rules, and they worship death.”
He swept his gaze over the eager faces, read the determination and resolution beneath. He nodded. “Good luck.”
Many murmured the same words to him as he turned to the chateau. He glanced at Mooktu. The big Pashtun nodded and joined him.
Bister was shifting from foot to foot. “We ready?”
Gareth nodded and waved. “Lead on.”
Bister turned and went, sliding through the shadows beneath the old trees, leading them up and over the slight ridge that hid the dip where their army was gathered from the chateau beyond.
The building was a typical rectangular structure in stone. What had once been a wide parterre was overgrown and choked with weeds. Bister led them to the left corner of the building. A raised, paved terrace ran all along the front. With the windows mostly shuttered, they could approach and climb up with little risk of being seen.
Gaining the terrace, Gareth caught Bister’s shoulder, leaned close to whisper, “No guards?”
Bister shook his head. “Seems they’re relying on the pickets. We found six strung out, but only two reported back.”
Gareth nodded. He studied the open terrace for a moment, listening…a faint murmur of voices reached him. Someone was in the room with the open windows. The faint tang of smoke teased his nose.
Drawing the primed pistol from his belt, he cocked it, then, holding the weapon ready in one hand, he walked silently, step by step, along the chateau wall toward those open windows.
There was rubble on the terrace. He was careful to avoid it. He didn’t need to check to see if Mooktu and Bister did the same, or even if they were following. They’d fought together for so long, in situations like this they acted as one.
Halting two feet from the slightly open window, more accurately a French door, for which he gave thanks, he listened again. Getting into the room would be easy, but he needed to know if Emily was there, and how many men there were.
An older male voice reached him, the cadences distinctly Indian. “So we knew the major and his party would be trapped on the coast…and so, here you are.”
A pause ensued, filled with burgeoning malevolence. The hair on Gareth’s nape rose. Was it Emily the unknown man was talking to?
The voice went on, now cloyingly crooning, “And soon—very soon—the major will arrive, and then you will learn why you are here.”
“You think to use me—to torture me—to make him give you the letter?”
Emily, and her voice was strong.
“Why, yes, dear lady. Don’t you think that will work?”
Gareth signaled to Mooktu and Bister, then, pistol raised, stepped across the French door, kicked it wide, and went through.
Emily, at first glance unharmed, was tied to a chair. An older, black-bearded man—the cult commander Gareth had seen in Aden—was standing, stunned, beside a brazier before the hearth.
Gareth scanned the room, pistol tracking as he searched for guards, and found none. Halting between Emily and the old man, he lowered the pistol. Behind him, Bister and Mooktu worked to cut through the cords binding Emily.
Slack-jawed, the old man glanced from him to the window. “Where are my men?”
Emily abruptly stood, massaging her wrists, stamping her feet free of the cords. The old man looked back at them, at Gareth. Realization washed over his face.
He did something none of them had imagined he would—he shrieked. Not a scream, but a sound of pure rage, one that pierced the walls and echoed down corridors.
Gareth jerked up his pistol and fired.
But the man had lunged at the weapons in the brazier; the shot struck him in the shoulder and spun him away. He stumbled back and abruptly sat down before the hearth.
Just as the door burst open and six cultists stormed in.
Gareth swore and drew his sword. Mooktu already had his scimitar flashing. Behind them, Bister leapt for the window. Hands to his mouth, he let out a piercing whistle, then ducked a slash from a cultist and raced back to Gareth’s flank, drawing his own sword as he swung to face the enemy.
Trapped behind the three men, Emily gritted her teeth. More blood and knives and wretched cultists. They were more or less in the center of the room. She sensed her men trying to back, being forced back as they strove to prevent any cultist getting behind them. She grabbed the chair to which she’d been tied, went to shove it aside, saw a cultist trying to come around Bister—she heaved and sent the chair crashing into the cultist, knocking him back.
Bister shifted postion to cover that angle. Both Gareth and Mooktu stepped back.
Emily couldn’t see much past their shoulders, but she’d fought cultists with these three before—this fighting was different.
These cultists were stronger, better trained. She remembered Gareth saying the leader would most likely have some of the cult’s feared assassins with him. Mooktu and Gareth shifted. She managed to peek between them, and realized matters were even worse. More cultists were pouring through the door.
She glanced around wildly, searching for some weapon.
But there was nothing. Nothing….
Except for an old, mildewed curtain.
Two steps took her to it. The windows were tall. She grabbed the curtain with both hands and yanked. The material parted from its anchors and fell, covering her in dust and musty, disintegrating silk, but the cotton lining, although thin, was intact.
Intact enough. She flung out the curtain, then, arms stretched to her sides, swiftly gathered the fabric in both hands as she hurried up behind Gareth. As she prayed….
She halted immediately behind him. “Gareth—duck!”
She waited only to see him start to move, then with all her might she flung the curtain up and out.
Mooktu leaned away to let the material whip past him. The curtain fell on the three assassins facing Gareth and Mooktu, trapping their blades, enveloping them in its folds.
Three seconds later, there were three less cultists.
Four more pushed in, but were hampered by the tangle of bodies.
Behind the four, another cultist leapt into the air and flung a dagger—at Emily. She yelped and ducked—felt the blade sheer through her sleeve and graze her upper arm, but only shallowly. “I’m all right, I’m all right!”
Gareth halted his instinctive turning to her. Teeth gritted, he met the cultists before him with renewed ferocity.
Never had he fought with such unfettered recklessness. Never had fear and fury so controlled him.
He slashed, countered, and inwardly swore. Bister had risked his life to give the signal. Where the hell were his troops?
Almost on the thought, he sensed the change—the turning of the
tide. Cultists to the rear of the pack pulled back, listened, then rushed for the door.
Grim determination gripped him. With Mooktu at his shoulder, Bister close on his left, he redoubled his efforts, beating back the assassins.
He and Mooktu simultaneously felled the pair before them, then looked up, and realized all the others were at the door, rushing out. The last in line was the old man, moving surprisingly swiftly.
In the doorway he turned, features contorted, dark eyes blazing.
He raised a hand and threw a knife. Not at Gareth. Past him.
Gareth flung himself back and to the side, connecting with Emily and taking her to the floor.
He felt the impact of the knife. A second passed, one of sheer horror and desperation, before pain bloomed and he realized the blade was embedded in his shoulder, not in her.
He sagged. “Thank God.” Head hanging, he almost wept with relief.
She was wriggling, exclaiming, pushing at him.
Slowly, he eased back from her, then sat up.
“My God! The bastard hit you!” She sounded as if she wanted to tear the old man limb from limb. She looked up at Mooktu and Bister. “What are you waiting for? Go after him!”
Mooktu and Bister were only too ready to rush after the assassins.
“No!” Gareth’s firm order had them halting on their way to the door. His left arm held tight against him, he propped himself up on his right. “We don’t know if there are any others lurking. We need to remain here, and let the others finish it. Let them do what they came to do, what they’ve trained to do. What they need to do to salvage the honor of their town.” He paused to breathe in through the pain. Managed to keep his voice steady to say, “We’ll wait here until they’re done.”
Mooktu and Bister understood. They turned and came back.
Emily glared at him, then, lips tight, looked up at Mooktu. “In that case, you can help me get this out.”
By the time the sounds of battle finally died away, Gareth was sitting on a wobbly chair Bister had found in another room, the wound in his upper arm tightly bound. Mooktu had jerked out the dagger—a long, fine krislike blade that, luckily, hadn’t struck anything vital. His arm still worked.
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