Wellesley. Wellesley had ordered it. Wellesley, with his fancy vampire hearing. Bastard. Filthy, blood-drinking bastard.
Thomas blinked, was back in the present again. Where had that come from? Being flogged was an experience that he’d worked hard to forget, tried never to think about if he could help it; but looking into the Tipu’s eyes had seemed to draw the memories out of him once more.
Tipu was smiling once again, and this time it seemed genuinely welcoming rather than forced. “You have no love for this Colonel Wellesley, I am thinking, Private.”
Thomas looked him squarely in the eyes once, forced himself to not look away this time. “I ‘ates the bastard, sir.” He shivered again, not fear this time…something else.
“Something troubles you?” The Sultan was playing games again, that secretive little smile was back. Thomas frowned. He was sweating, but it was a cold sweat. Both of his hands had begun to tremble. They didn’t normally get like that unless he hadn’t had a drink in a day or two, but this was a little early for the shakes to be kicking in.
Thomas suddenly felt nauseous, fought the gorge that was rising up into his throat. His shoulder was beginning to burn now, but just like the sweat, it was an icy cold burning, the likes of which he had never felt before. What in God’s name was wrong with him?
“It is nothing to do with God, Private.” Again came the smile. All pretense at charm was gone this time. Thomas hadn’t spoken the words aloud, knew that he had not, and yet somehow the Tipu had known…
“But it has everything to do with me,” the Sultan finished. Thomas squinted up at him, blinking away the sweat from his eyes. He suddenly felt as weak as a newborn baby, and had to support himself with both hands on the cold tile beneath him.
The Sultan’s eyes were glowing a pale yellow, the irises black slits like those of a cat. His teeth had begun to elongate, stretching down from above and up from below. His pug-like nose was starting to broaden and flatten out. Weakly, Thomas attempted to back away, shuffling pathetically as he slid perhaps two or three feet backwards.
“You…” he pointed a trembling, accusatory finger. “You’re one of them. A drinker of blood! You’re a v…” Thomas was sobbing openly now, and yet the Sultan simply continued to smile as his face slowly changed.
“Oh no, Private Gilman. You are absolutely wrong in that regard. There are no vampires, as you call them, in Mysore, other than those which have led you here.” Tipu spread his arms out wide, the sword now dangling from his wrist, forgotten. He was standing directly in front of Thomas, and slowly leaned forwards until those feline eyes were mere inches away from those of the terrified private. “I am something far, far worse.”
CHAPTER FOUR
It took mere seconds for Wellesley’s insubstantial gaseous form to travel the five hundred yards or so to where he knew Ponsonby’s tent had been pitched. His body now held about the same physical consistency as a column of smoke, and yet somehow always managed to remain coherent when he took to the skies. Air currents did not buffet the vampire body, and it could be steered almost effortlessly by the use of pure willpower.
The analytical portion of Wellesley’s mind found it extremely interesting that he now found himself thinking of his non-corporeal form as a type of conveyance, regarding it as a means of travel in the same way that a horse or carriage was a means of travel, rather than being his body. Flight was a fast process. He’d tested it once, and had been able to cover the better part of twenty miles in what his fob watch maintained was only a quarter of an hour. It was also a physically draining process, however, even over relatively small distances and durations; being in the air, even if he was simply levitating at altitude rather than moving quickly across country caused Arthur’s blood thirst to swell and surge within him like few other things ever could.
It was fully dark by now, and the nebulous, swirling dark cloud that was Colonel Arthur Wellesley became substantial once more, his trim red-jacketed form materializing directly in front of two startled sentries. Both men immediately jumped to attention and presented their muskets at the salute.
“C-Colonel Wellesley, sir!” The men were stiff-backed and ramrod straight in an instant. Were he in less of a foul mood, they might perhaps have gotten a compliment.
“As you were,” Wellesley snapped irritably. Turning to one of the men, he asked: “Where might I find the officer of the day, Private?”
“That’s Captain Ponsonby, Colonel, sir...’e’s over by the-“
“Thank you, Private,” Arthur cut him off. For some reason, his telepathic abilities were every bit as stimulated as his anger was this evening. Without making a conscious choice to do so, he plucked the captain’s location from the upper strata of the nervous guard’s mind. “Carry on.”
Sensing Wellesley’s anger, both guards immediately took a single step sideways, allowing their Colonel to pass through into the battalion lines. Wellesley stalked off into the darkness, his temper simmering at the boiling point, ready to flash over at the slightest provocation.
It was actually rather rare for Arthur to grow angry any more. In fact, since his turning to vampirism, the intensity level of all of his emotions – whether good or bad - had been muted to something more on the order of a dull background whisper - ever present but usually little more than a distraction for most of the time.
And yet the capacity for cold, white hot fury was not entirely lost to him, and one of the triggers for that fury was gross incompetence on the part of a subordinate. Even when he had been alive in the commonly accepted sense of the term, Wellesley had never been able to stomach ineptitude. It was one of the few human traits that his acceptance of the Dark Gift had not blunted one iota.
Vampire hearing was several orders of magnitude more sensitive than that of a dog, when the vampire desired it to be so. Arthur so desired at the present moment, and so his keen ears methodically sifted through the multitude of different background noise patterns that emerged from an army still engaged in breaking up camp for the night.
Too slow, he thought angrily, far too damnably slow. We ought to be on the march by now…
Idle chatter and muttered complaints vied with the scrape of utensils upon pots, pans, and plates. Fires still crackled, not yet having been doused, and men rubbed their hands together vigorously before them in order to fend off the rapidly cooling Indian night. Dogs, horses, oxen, and a horde of other animals competed vocally with one another for ownership of the night air. And finally, there – just there, the sound of Captain Ronald Ponsonby’s unmistakably nasal voice, speaking plaintively to one of his juniors…Lieutenant Landridge, was it? Yes, Landridge.
“Damn it, Landridge, this is all that bally Sergeant’s fault, do you see?” The captain was at full steam, and Arthur could hear a definite slur to his voice. “General Harris will have my bloody guts for garters for this, you see if he doesn’t. If that bloody imbecile Belton had only stayed alert, blast his eyes-”
For his part, young Landridge was barely getting a word in edgewise, and so restricted himself to offering periodic grunts and nods of affirmation.
The man is making excuses already, I see. Well, we shall just have to see about that. Had he still been among the living, Wellesley’s face would have been flushed with anger. He strode determinedly in the direction of the two officers’ voices. He found the pair standing outside Ponsonby’s personal tent, which his manservant had not yet struck in advance of the night’s march - another strike against the man.
Ponsonby himself was a cadaverously thin rake – and a rake he truly was, if the rumors of his card-playing habits which circulated throughout the battalion lines held any substance. Ponsonby stood in stark contrast to the ruddy, red-faced Landridge, whose shorter and stockier frame plainly hadn’t missed many meals of late.
“—job for a sergeant or a corporal. I can hardly be held responsible for every last man in the blasted regiment, can I?”
Before Landridge could answer, Wellesley stepped from the shad
ows into the circle of firelight. Neither of the warm-bloods had seen him standing there, their night vision spoiled by the dancing orange flames.
“Captain Ponsonby. Lieutenant Landridge.” The two men both gave a start, heads whipping round to face the newcomer.
“Colonel W-Wellesley!” Ponsonby stammered. Wellesley raised an eyebrow. He might reasonably expect an ensign or a very junior lieutenant to react in such a way, but it was hardly appropriate for an experienced captain. Then again, it had long been his personal belief that in matters of guilt and deception, the culpable party tended to speak first, to speak fastest, and to speak the loudest.
“Colonel, sir.” Landridge braced smartly to attention. His tone was respectful enough, but contained an undertone of distinct unease.
“You may stand at ease, Lieutenant.” At Wellesley’s gesture, Landridge relaxed gratefully. Ponsonby, who had never stood to attention in the first place, now appeared even more awkward. Ignoring his discomfiture completely, Wellesley simply said: “Captain, I believe that you have some explaining to do.”
“W-Well, sir, if you are enquiring as to the events surrounding Private Gilman’s desertion—“
“That is precisely the subject of my enquiry,” Wellesley replied coldly. His blacker-than-black eyes glimmered in the firelight, seeking and holding Ponsonby’s red-rimmed gaze. The guilty man’s eyes darted nervously from side to side in quick, involuntary movements. He is already planning to shift the blame, Wellesley realized. The captain was the one who attempted to drop his gaze first, but Wellesley was now using a subtle glamor upon the mortal man, taking hold of Ponsonby’s mind with his own and steering it gently but firmly towards the direction in which he, Wellesley, wanted it to go: that of the truth. “Do not even think of lying to me,” the senior officer hissed vehemently, baring his fangs threateningly.
Ponsonby’s first instinct was to recoil sharply backwards, but he suddenly found himself utterly unable to move. It was as though his body would no longer obey the conscious commands that his brain was desperately trying to send out. Nor would his mouth speak the carefully fabricated words of defense that he had hastily constructed in preparation for this inevitable confrontation. Instead, the captain’s sharply-boned face went completely slack, the eyes glazing over. Ponsonby watched from inside the confines of his own skull in horrified fascination as his own mouth started to move independently of his will.
“Sergeant Belton is responsible for the men of Private Gilman’s company, sir. I can’t really be bothered to keep an eye on them myself. Such work is for underlings with stripes on their sleeves, not for a King’s officer like me. I had better things to do with my mind, Colonel.” Shut up, shut up, shut UP you blithering idiot! What the hell are you doing? Ponsonby’s brain screamed at him, but his mouth refused to go along with it.
“Of course you did, Captain Ponsonby. Of course you did.” Wellesley’s voice was completely different now, as smooth as silk that was wrapped around a razor-blade. “Pray remind me of what those…better things were, if you would be so kind.”
“I should be happy to, Colonel Wellesley. Happy to.” I was plotting our column’s route of march for tomorrow, Colonel, I swear it on my very life! At least, this was what Ponsonby wanted to say; but what actually came out of his mouth was: “I was getting drunk as lord, Colonel. On arrack. The stuff’s basically the worst kind of dog’s piss, I know, but there’s more than enough alcohol in it to get the job done. I’d never get through the day without it, to be quite honest with you. Steadies the nerves, you see.”
Wellesley nodded, seemingly deep in thought. Details, he thought. The Devil is always in the details. How many times did you notice the odor of arrack on this man’s breath, and simply write it off as nothing more than an occasional tipple taken to grease the Captain’s way through a long, hot day on the march – officers’ privilege?
“Lieutenant…Landridge, isn’t it?” Wellesley knew full well that it was, but he took the extra few seconds while the stocky young man nodded in affirmation to reach out and influence his equally vulnerable mind. At the same time, he still kept the Captain’s within his thrall. “I should like to know, Lieutenant, approximately how much in the way of arrack – and other alcohol, for that matter – Captain Ponsonby consumes on a daily basis.”
“At least several bottles of spirits, sir,” Landridge answered immediately. “He starts first thing in the morning and usually drinks three or sometimes four bottles before camp is set up.”
“A wonder, then, that he is still standing on his own two feet.” It was said lightly, but Wellesley’s eyes narrowed and showed that for the lie that it truly was. It had taken a little mental effort on his part to wring the truth from Ponsonby, but practically no effort at all to get Landridge to speak the truth without hesitation. Perhaps the rot has not yet set in with this one, Arthur thought. He did not even attempt to cover up for his Captain, which means one of two things. Either Landridge is possessed of that rarest of gifts, a sense of duty, or there is absolutely no love lost at all between these two men.
The vampire released both officers from his glamor at the same time, turning it off as one might casually snuff out a candle.
“Colonel, I, I…what I meant to say was—“Wellesley held up a hand with one finger extended to forestall Ponsonby’s desperate attempt at damage control. The fingernail curved to a sharp point.
“Lieutenant Landridge, you will fetch both the corporal and sergeant who had supervisory responsibility for the deserter.” It was stated as a command, not a request, and Landridge hurried to obey, leaving just Wellesley and Ponsonby standing alone in the circle of firelight.
A silence stretched between the man and the vampire. Wellesley intentionally allowed it to reach an uncomfortable length. He could hear the man’s heart beating ten to the dozen, pounding in his chest so hard that it must surely rupture; at least, it sounded that way to his augmented hearing. Beads of sweat burst forth from every pore, dampening the skin beneath Ponsonby’s shirt and heavy wool jacket. It was not the healthy sweat of physical exertion, an odor to which Arthur had been no stranger during the short span of his mortal lifetime, but rather that sickly stink of fear-tinged sweat that also had the mark of the victim about it.
Unbidden, Arthur felt his wickedly sharp incisor teeth begin to descend from their sockets, a naturally predatory response to the stench of fear with which he was now confronted. It was rolling off Ponsonby’s body in waves that competed with the ripe smell of the arrack for the vampire’s disgust.
“You, Captain Ponsonby,” the word “captain” was positively dripping with disdain and loathing, “are a disgrace to the King’s uniform. Further to that, sir, you are utterly unfit to hold the King’s Commission, least of all in as regiment as fine as the 33rd, sir. Fortunately, this is a situation which is quite easily remedied.”
Arthur circled the terrified man now. Seeing the glint of firelight upon the points of his colonel’s teeth, Ponsonby began to blubber. I have no time for this pathetic creature, Arthur thought disdainfully. He clamped his glamor down over Ponsonby’s mind again, but this time with significantly more force, perhaps even a little more than he had intended if the truth be told, but Arthur was angry – angry at Ponsonby for letting his drinking problem get so far out of hand, but every bit as angry with himself for not catching it before now. He prided himself upon having a meticulous eye for detail, was the same officer who had painstakingly weighed his men with fully loaded packs and then timed them over route marches at varying distances, in order to calculate exactly how far he should be able to move battalions and regiments over rough terrain on any given day.
The vampire walked around his intended prey in a circle, moving slowly and gracefully in a counterclockwise fashion. Its effect bordered upon the hypnotic, which was the entire point.
You have been a fool, Arthur Wellesley. This is quite the mistake. Mistakes must be paid for - and payment begins with this…he wanted to think of Ponsonby as a man, but
was quite unable to reconcile the shivering, silently trembling creature in front of him with that particular word.
The bitter smell of fresh urine assaulted his nostrils. Looking down, he saw that Ponsonby had soiled his britches. His nose wrinkled disdainfully. The glamor still held, though. Ponsonby wanted to bolt and run, his mind was pleading with his body to do just that, but it was as though he were caught in a steel trap, transfixed and utterly unable to move.
“A King’s officer, unable to contain himself.” Wellesley made no effort to keep the emotion from his voice now. “One wonders how you were even commissioned in the first place—“
The vampire struck with the speed of a cobra lashing out. The fingers of one hand snatched a handful of hair and jerked the astonished Ponsonby’s head backwards and to the side. Although his eyes bulged from their sockets, the still-glamored man’s facial expression did not change one whit. Wellesley sank his teeth into the exposed plane of his neck, just above the point at which the trimmed collar of the uniform jacket ended. Bright red arterial blood gushed from the two puncture wounds, spurting into Arthur’s open mouth.
It was as though a wave of sweet, fiery intoxication was sweeping through his body, working its way down from his head towards his feet. It burned as it traveled, this familiar, ecstatic wave; the life-giving essence working its way from cell to cell within the vampire’s body, cleansing, rejuvenating, exhilarating. Arthur was suddenly lost in a haze of delirium, staggered backwards two steps as he temporarily lost the steadfast iron grip that he usually maintained over himself.
With the vampire’s mind now elsewhere, the glamor released itself. Ponsonby’s body began to twitch and jerk spasmodically. Arthur clutched the dying captain’s lanky frame tightly to his own, almost crushing it with newly-invigorated muscles.
The men, he thought drunkenly. The men…must not see me like this, unmanned and devoid of control. Yet he could not tear himself away from the rich supply of that coppery sustenance; a thousand wild horses could not have done so. He waved one hand, and with a whoosh the fire went out in a shower of sparks, casting them both into a darkness lit only by the small pile of glowing embers which remained.
The Beast of Mysore (Wellington Undead Book 1) Page 5
