by Simon Hawke
The astonished soldier challenged them, and when Finn replied, told them to come forward.
“All right, here goes,” said Finn.”Cross your fingers. We may be able to pull this off yet.”
“You won’t find your friends,” said Drakov.
“What ‘ave you done with ‘em?” Mulvaney said, tightening his grip.
“Finn Delaney and Andre Cross have made good their escape,” said Drakov.
“How did you know their names?” Learoyd said.
“There is more involved here than you could imagine,” Drakov said. “Far more than I can allow you to interfere with. They understood how much was at stake, and they could not afford to concern themselves with you. Neither can I.”
He broke Mulvaney’s grip easily and threw him into Ortheris. Learoyd lunged at him with the knife, but Drakov was quicker. He blocked the thrust, turned Learoyd’s wrist, jerked him off balance, and chopped him to the ground. The Ghazis quickly closed in and the soldiers were taken.
“Now that I’m satisfied you’re no more than what you appeared to be, I can safely dismiss you from my mind,” said Drakov. “Unfortunately for you, I can’t let you go. You’d warn the Tirah force and upset my plans.”
“Don’t you worry, mate,” Mulvaney said. “We’ll upset more than yer plans yet.”
“Brash talk,” said Drakov, “and utterly pointless.” He opened the door to the cell and went inside to pick up the warp disc Mulvaney had tossed into a corner. He smiled as he came out. “If you had known what this was, you would not have treated it so casually. But then, you’ll never know. I have only one question for you. What became of the soldiers who were holding you here?
“I haven’t the foggiest notion,” said Learoyd. “If they had any sense, they went back to wherever it was they came from. It’ll take more than a few Ghazis and a handful of mercenaries to stop the Royal Indian Army, I can tell you that.”
“You may be right,” said Drakov. “It will take more. And there will be more. Meanwhile I have wasted enough time with you.”
“Then kill us and have done with it, you swine,” said Learoyd.
“Doubtless my friends would dearly love to slice you into ribbons,” Drakov said, “but I am not a barbarian and I see no point to having you killed. And you may be of some value to me later, one never knows. I will leave instructions for them to keep you alive.”
“How bloody gracious of you,” Ortheris said.
“I cannot promise more than that. After all, the British are my enemy, and I do not wish to appear too gracious. These cutthroats may decide to have some sport with you. Keep a stiff upper lip.” He smiled. “After all, I could have had you sentenced to the Death of a Thousand Cuts. Are you familiar with that quaint custom? The victim is tied down and slowly sliced with knives. Then thorns are pushed into the wounds as they’re sliced open. And that’s only one of the more creative amusements these people indulge in from time to time. We’ll see each other again before too long. And then you’ll have an opportunity to show me what soldiers in the Royal Indian Army are made of. Lock them up.”
Drakov watched as they were thrown into the cell, then turned and headed back toward the main chamber. He was convinced that the three soldiers posed no threat, but he was uneasy. At first he had suspected that they might be time commandos, but he never would have broken away from them so easily if they were. Martial arts worked well on 19th century British soldiers. With commandos from the 27th century, it would have been another matter entirely.
It had sent a thrill through him when he learned that the troops from the alternate universe, the commandos of the Special Operations Group, had captured Andre Cross and Finn Delaney. It was all coming to a head once more, and perhaps this time it would happen. He had failed to bring about the ultimate temporal disaster twice before. Both times Delaney, Priest, and Cross had thwarted him. This time he felt sure he would succeed. This time it would not be an army of cutthroats and killers recruited from periods throughout time, as his pirates had been, but an army of highly trained commandos from an alternate timeline, people who were the match of his father’s cursed First Division.
Drakov was insane. Perhaps it had begun from childhood, when his Russian Gypsy mother tried to explain to him how he had been born, but Vanna Drakova herself had not even fully understood it. Whatever she told her son about Moses Forrester, a father from the future—a man who had been lost and badly broken, whose life she had saved and with whom she had fallen in love—whatever strange version of the story she might have told him had only served to terrify the boy.
He could not comprehend how it was possible for a father to sire a son hundreds of years before his own birth. So his highly imaginative mind, already influenced by his mother’s Gypsy superstitions, led him to believe that he was born of some sort of supernatural union—a demon issue. This belief was only reinforced when he discovered that he did not sicken and that he healed from wounds with astonishing rapidity. It was reinforced further still as he got older and found that he did not age—or that he aged at a rate far slower than was normal. He did not know about such things as chronoplates or warp discs or antiagathic drug treatments until much later, but the seed of insanity was planted, nurtured by a hate for his father, who had left his mother alone and unprotected to die a violent death.
The seed of madness sprouted and began to grow when, as an adult in England, he met Sophia Falco, one of the leaders of a terrorist group known as the Timekeepers. When she learned the truth of his background, she used him to get back at Forrester. She seduced him, took him to the future with her, and obtained a black market cybernetic implant for him which, when programmed, gave him an education equal to that of a soldier in the First Division of the 27th century. And then, having fed his hate, she set the son against the father. She had failed and it resulted in her death, but she had not failed completely.
Forrester had never fully recovered from his guilt over what his son had come to, and Nikolai Drakov never understood why, at the crucial moment when he had his father at his mercy, he was unable to kill him. it had been too much. Too many things had happened to further unhinge an already unstable mind.
He escaped and formed the Time Pirates, composed of bloodthirsty mercenary soldiers from every period of time imaginable. Determined to strike back at his father and at the entire system that gave birth to him, he took upon himself the mantle of fate’s avatar. He stole a Soviet nuclear submarine and planned to use its missiles to fragment the timestream. His father’s commandos beat him once again, aided by the turncoat, Martingale. But they had not defeated him completely.
The consequences of that last great battle, Drakov was convinced, had brought about the confluence effect between two timelines. And he had been granted yet another opportunity. He would split the timeline, shatter it if possible into a thousand different timestreams, and in one of them, he knew, he would finally find peace. In his moments of lucidity, which came fewer and further between, he subsided into deep depression, an unutterable melancholy which made him weep for his mother and long for the normal life that might have been. At such moments he was tempted to escape, to find some tranquil period in time where he could forget it all and live out his extended lifespan in peace. But he was never able to escape from his worst enemy—himself.
The traitor Martingale had gotten away, but Drakov felt confident he would return. His father’s people now knew what was being planned, and they would retaliate. So much the better. The more chaos introduced into the scenario, the greater the chance of further disrupting history. He thought the commandos had been captured, and since there had been no report of Priest, he thought one of the other prisoners might have been him. He wondered what Lucas Priest’s reaction would have been when he was confronted by his twin. Now all three of them were unaccounted for. That bothered him. They were too damn resourceful, those three. And too damn lucky.
They would know about him being present on the scene now. He counted on them coming after him. it was one
of the things he had tried to impress upon the soldiers from the alternate timeline—their plan had to be a multileveled one with fallback positions. The commandos had never failed in an historical adjustment, and these three were the best of the lot. This time not even they would be able to stop it. They might stop one facet of the plan, but they would never stop the others. The moment the assassination of Winston Churchill was accomplished, and the moment the Tirah Expeditionary Force marched into the ambush, the advance team and he would move to execute the third part of the plan. They would teleport to Kabul and assassinate the Emir Abdur Rahman, pinning the blame on the Pathan warlord, Umra Khan.
The Russians would be certain to take advantage of their “friend” the emir being murdered by a Pathan warlord. They would march into Kabul and launch a punitive expedition against the tribes on the frontier, then not only control Afghanistan, but the British frontier buffer state between Rahman’s empire and India. It would lead to war, and history would be unalterably changed.
He activated his warp disc and clocked to his camp headquarters, materializing in his private chambers. Sadullah fell on his knees before him.
“I have failed, Holy One!” he moaned. “Forgive me! You have worked wonders to give me the chance to strike at the firinghi once more, and I have failed again. How can I make amends? How may I redeem my unworthiness in your eyes?”
“You have failed no one save yourself, Sadullah,” Drakov told him. “I warned you of this before. I did not expect for you to succeed at Chakdarra, only to light the flame of rebellion so that it would burn on after you had gone. Even now Hadda Mullah carries on your work. I am not displeased.”
“Oh, bless you, Holy One! Truly, you are the most charitable and forgiving of—”
“Charitable?” said Drakov. “Forgiving? Let me show you how forgiving I am.”
He beckoned Sadullah forward. The mullah followed him to one of the towers of the house, the entrance to which was barred by a heavy door. Drakov unlocked it. “In here,” he said, “you will see the price of failure.”
He swept his arm out to indicate that Sadullah should ascend the stairs. Fearfully the mullah went through the door and slowly climbed the stairs. Drakov waited down below. He did not have long to wait. Moments later, a shrill throat-rending scream came from the tower.
Sadullah had climbed to the top of the tower, where he saw himself. Knowing nothing of Zen physics, he did not understand that he, who had been brought from the alternate timeline where he had already lost his holy war, now confronted his own twin in this timeline, whose place he had taken. He only saw himself, staked out naked on the floor, dying the Death of a Thousand Cuts.
The man Sadullah saw was beyond reason. He had been kept alive for weeks, given only bread and water to sustain him while slowly, over a period of time, Drakov’s guards had made hundreds of small incisions in his skin, pushing in the thorns while the wounds were still raw and bleeding.
Those wounds now festered with infection. The gangrenous skin was turning mottled green and black. Flies covered the filthy, scrofulous body, which despite it all was still alive. Lice crawled in the long, matted white hair. The eyes, protruding from their hollowed sockets, stared blankly at the ceiling, seeing nothing. Bilious spittle ran out of the corners of the mouth and maggots writhed in the infected wounds.
The screams from the top of the tower continued unabated. Drakov smiled. After seeing that, the mullah would risk anything, even death in battle, to avoid that fate. Sadullah would not fail now.
“What an extraordinary adventure!” Churchill said. “Attacked by Ghazis, escaping, and then traveling all alone through miles of hostile territory to find safe haven with the regiment. Incredible. I will be sure to mention it in my dispatches. What a sterling example of indomitable English spirit!”
“If it’s all the same with you, Winston, I’d rather you not mention it at all,” said Andre. “A story such as that would only result in notoriety when I returned to England. I really have no wish to be deluged by requests to lecture upon my ‘harrowing adventures in Afghanistan.’ Nor would I wish to be known as an adventuress. I would much prefer to enjoy my privacy.”
Churchill nodded. “Yes, well, certainly, since you put it that way, I quite understand. I will accede to your wishes. There is no lack of things to write about. We have had ourselves quite a time since we departed the Malakand fort. I said earlier that you had found safe haven here, but I must admit I do not quite know how safe it is. We have had reports the camp will be attacked tonight.”
“Tonight?” said Finn. “Where did this intelligence come from?”
“The khan of Nawagai has informed us so. He states that he has ‘definite information’ that a determined assault will take place tonight. I shouldn’t be surprised. He will play both ends against the middle until he sees how it all comes out, whereupon he will give his allegiance to the victor. The politics of expediency seem to be a way of life with the tribes on the frontier. Friends one day, enemies the next, one battle decides the outcome and then the next is approached afresh.” He chuckled. “Much like the House of Commons, in a way.”
“How does General Blood plan to deal with this threatened attack?” said Andre.
Churchill shrugged. “There are no alternatives except to make a stand. Retreat in such uncertain political circumstances would be unthinkable. We must hold our position until General Elles arrives. The pass must be kept open, the khan ‘expediently’ loyal. And the Hadda Mullah’s Ghazis must not, under any circumstances, be permitted to join with the tribesmen of the Mamund. Therefore we are entrenched, a bold course, but soundly conceived. Our position is commanded by the surrounding heights, but unlike the Malakand, in this case the range is long. If an attack is launched, orders are to strike our tents, and all those not employed in the trenches must lie down, thereby reducing the risk of casualties. If they attack in force, we stand and fight.”
“We expected an attack last night, but only a half-hearted attempt was made, one easily repulsed. We lost one man. Prior to that there had been some skirmishing. The squadron lost one horse when Ghazis opened fire on us from a nullah, and that night one fool who strayed some fifty yards from his picket was killed by tribesmen lurking in the dark. It’s astonishing that you were able to get through. The enemy is always out there, creeping close at night and sniping or trying to kill the pickets. Everyone’s nerves are a bit on edge. You were fortunate. If you had come just one half hour later, you would most certainly have encountered savages taking advantage of the dark to get in close. They’re building up to it, that much is certain. Tonight may well be the night. I’m looking forward to it.”
“I don’t think I am,” Andre said.
“Never fear, Miss Cross. I shall keep close to you. You have had quite an ordeal, but it shall be over soon. Once the pass is forced, we will have broken their resistance. After that it will only be a matter of destroying the fortified villages and bringing them to complete submission.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Andre.
Shots cracked out in the night. Churchill paused to listen. “More sniping?” he said.”Or could this be the push?”
Further shots followed rapidly, and the answer came when the order to strike the tents was passed. The men took to the trenches while others lay flat on the ground, protected by the entrenchment walls, but there was still danger from the dropping bullets. The soldiers conserved their fire. There was nothing to shoot at, no definite targets in the darkness. No one walked unless it was absolutely imperative, and even then they did so at great risk.
“Somewhat ignoble way to spend the evening, don’t you think?” said Churchill, keeping his head low to the ground.
“I was tired anyway,” said Finn. “I needed to lie down.”
Churchill’s chuckle was lost in the screaming of the Ghazis who suddenly came charging out of the darkness on all sides of the camp. Volley after volley was poured into them and still they came, waving their swords, charging r
ight into the bayonets of the troops. The new magazine rifles, coupled with the lethal dumdum bullets, took their toll as Ghazis fell by the dozens. There was no panic. The soldiers maintained disciplined fire in the face of a frightening onslaught, and the big guns fired star shells to illuminate the field in a pale, surreal light.
For those lying on the ground, well behind the trenches, there was nothing to do but remain flat and hope a stray bullet would not find them. Only Finn and Andre had a great deal more occupying their attention. They had to keep constantly on the alert for anyone approaching. The first charge was stopped and whistles blew, signaling an end to independent firing. Volley fire was the order now, until another charge threatened to break through.
It was not long in coming. Screaming at the tops of their lungs, the Ghazis came once more, swarming like army ants out of the darkness. Again the devastating fire was resumed. Ghazis charged up to within several yards of the big guns, only to be blown in half when they discharged. The scene in the trenches was a bizarre juxtaposition of men firing while others next to them engaged Ghazis at bayonet point.
Finn and Andre could spare no time to worry about Ghazis. They were watching their own troops, craning their necks all around to see if anyone in a British uniform was moving closer. And then the mortar fire started. The first shell exploded some thirty yards to the left of the camp, taking out more than a dozen Ghazis as it burst. The second one came moments later, striking just in front of the trenches.
Finn leaped on top of Churchill and kept him pinned beneath his weight as bullets whipped past them.
“We’ve got to find the bastards before they zero in!” yelled Finn. At that moment a bullet struck him in the arm. “I’m hit!”
Churchill struggled to get up, but Finn pressed him down.
“Stay here!” shouted Andre.
Churchill never noticed Andre clocking out. Another shell landed, sending up clouds of dust and clods of earth as it struck the entrenchment wall. Men screamed. The Ghazi attack continued unabated as they charged the trenches again and again and the British soldiers kept up a punishing stream of fire.
