by John Speed
“Spoken like a true soldier,” Iron laughs.
“I don’t need to,” Hanuman says.
“Better to try anyway,” Iron tells him. “It’s embarrassing to pee your pants in a fight.”
“Iron speaks from experience,” Tanaji says.
They pass through the second gatehouse: the gate is open here as well, but passing beneath the high stone arches seems to disquiet Hanuman. It’s not the first time he has been to a fort, but it’s the first time he has gone to capture one. As he moves beneath the gateway arch, he looks up into the machicolations, where defenders, if they wanted, could simply wait above the gateway to pour down boiling water, or a rain of arrows. Suddenly Hanuman regrets he didn’t say goodbye to Jyoti.
Hanuman doesn’t realize that such a feeling of dread is just what his ancestors intended—this fort designed by cruel and clever men fascinated by violence and death. The thick dark walls jut outward to rise menacingly over them; the narrow viewing slots peer down like empty terrifying eyes; the shifting, shadowed crenellations along the tops of the walls jut up like the spines of some ancient lizard made of stone; the vast wooden gate, made of whole tree trunks clenched by iron, black with age, bristle with black, barbed spikes. Every aspect of this structure was meant to unsettle and unnerve. It does its work on Hanuman, and on the rest of them as well.
Only Iron seems not to mind: He rides casually, hands easy on the reins. When he nears the great black gate, he tosses back his hood, rain be damned, and shouts, “Hey! Hey boys!” his big voice just audible above the blustering wind. “Hey boys, wake up! It’s Captain Hamzadin come on an inspection! Wake up, boys!” Rain pours from his turban and streams down his mustaches. He stares at the silent gate, eyes glittering.
They wait a long time. There’s nobody here, Hanuman thinks. We’ve come all this way for nothing. They’ve all got sick and died. Then Tanaji points his nose almost imperceptibly toward the wall; Hanuman follows his nod to one of the viewing slots. He wonders if he just imagines a darker shadow moving behind it. He notices for the first time that there is a banner on the flagpole; the green flag of Bijapur hanging limply, streaming with rainwater, like someone’s forgotten wash hung out to dry.
Iron just sits there, face out and open, friendly as a snake. The other four huddle behind him, seated on the captured horses, huddled in their prisoners’ dark cloaks, wondering if they will pass for the relief party. There are no hiding places here, and a forced retreat on that rough road would lead only to a spilling, tumbling dive to certain death.
This is a bad plan, Hanuman thinks. Five against ten. What fools we are. They’re trapped by their plan. Now there is no way but forward. He’s about to yell out: Turn! Run! But at that moment, the shadow moves away from the viewing slot and a hooded figure appears above the gate. “Hey, Iron! You’re a fucking liar! That ain’t the fucking captain!”
Still keeping his place behind Iron, by feel alone Hanuman notches an arrow on his bowstring beneath his cloak. He becomes aware of Lakshman stirring beside him, and knows that he has done the same.
“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” the sentry shouts.
“I think you’re fucking sober,” Iron shouts back. “But I can fix that.” He pats the bundle on the saddle behind him where he has hidden his battle-hammer mace. “Toddy, my boy. Toddy for his loyal guards, compliments of your shit-faced captain,” Iron yells. “Iron’s best brew, guaranteed to burn your guts out. Pure Hindu poison. Your captain’s already gone blind. He can’t remember his name. Your buddies here can hardly ride.” He waves an arm at the four men behind him. “Stinking drunk, the bunch of them, puking on themselves. Disgusting, aren’t they?”
“What’s wrong with the sergeant?” the sentry asks. “He don’t look right. Hey, sarge!”
“He’s passed out,” Iron shouts back. Behind him he motions subtly with his hand for the others to stay calm. “Lucky he got up here at all. If you call getting up to this pisshole luck. Hey, sentry, let’s just stand out here. I love getting soaked. Makes me feel like a man when my pecker’s freezing off.”
The sentry disappears from the wall. Hanuman wonders if he is the only one whose stomach is twisting. “When the time comes, don’t hesitate,” Tanaji had told them all. “You’ll have to move fast, faster than you want to. You strike, then think about it later. It’s the nature of a surprise attack that somebody’s going to die who doesn’t need to die. Let’s make sure it’s none of us.”
All right, thinks Hanuman. Let’s go. I don’t care anymore. I’m ready. Let’s go. He thinks of Jyoti suddenly, wondering what she’ll say when he comes back. What if he comes back dead? Don’t be a fool, he tells himself. You strike, then think about it later. So stop thinking about it now. In the lower part of the huge wooden gate, a smaller door opens, big enough for a horse. Hanuman slips his bow and arrow in front of him. A movement to his right suggests that Lakshman is doing the same. But Tanaji waves a hidden hand behind him: Calm, calm, wait for it.
Iron leads his horse to the open doorway. Hanuman can see him talking to the sentry but the rain and wind obscure the words. The sentry moves in the shadows and Hanuman sees him lift his hand. There’s something in it. What’s he doing?
Beside him, Hanuman hears Lakshman’s bow: thwoop, thwoop—two arrows slice through the rain. At that same moment, the sentry bangs a triangle alarm with a metal rod.
Almost instantly the sentry spins and falls when an arrow pierces his neck. Iron turns to Lakshman, his face a mask of rage, and then runs inside the gate, black battle hammer twirling in his hand.
Tanaji leaps off his horse and Lakshman follows. Together they race for the gate. Shivaji runs up to Hanuman. “Your brother’s a fool,” he shouts.
Hanuman feels his arrows rattling as he runs. How many did I bring? he thinks suddenly. Not enough. He steps through the horse gate and sees the sentry rolling in the mud, clutching his throat. Dark blood swirls in the rainwater. Hanuman turns and vomits. He looks up to see Iron swing his battle hammer. After the sentry’s skull cracks open, his body flops in spasms on the ground for a moment, then lies still.
“Who gave the order to shoot, dammit? He was supposed to be a hostage!” Iron whispers at Lakshman, his face contorted with anger.
“You should have taken him, then. Your inaction killed him, not me,” Lakshman replies.
“Shut up and apologize!” Tanaji yells.
“Shut up or apologize? Which do you want?” Lakshman shouts. Hanuman looks up, stunned by his lack of respect.
“Hurry,” Shivaji says. “He was signaling when we shot him.”
“When that fool shot him,” Iron says, and spits.
Lakshman picks up the iron bar from the dead sentry’s hand and walks toward the triangle. “Let’s try the doorbell,” he says.
Iron’s eyes grow wide.
“Go ahead and hit it,” Shivaji says.
“What’s the plan?” asks Hanuman.
“There is no plan,” Tanaji mutters.
“Just kill everything in sight,” Iron says.
Lakshman wails on the triangle like a delighted child.
“So much for surprise,” Tanaji says.
Lakshman returns to huddle with the rest behind a cannon. “Shit. I left my other quiver on my horse,” he whispers. Iron glares at him.
Shit, thinks Hanuman. I did the same.
The rain pounds harder then ever, spattering with soft cymbal sounds as the drops hit the cannon’s bronze. They wait, holding their breaths, weapons ready, water dripping from their hands.
Nothing happens.
Then they hear the clink of keys, the snap of a lock being opened, the rattle of short chains. Shivaji signs: Get ready.
From within the giant gate, the smallest door begins to creak, the one designed to admit a man on foot. Lakshman’s bow twangs as he lets an arrow fly. The point gets buried in the opening door.
“Move!” shouts Shivaji. “Move!” His cloak thrown back, his sword bare, he runs toward th
e gate, with Tanaji and Iron following close behind. Iron’s feet slide on the wet cobbles; he falls right next to Hanuman, but when Hanuman reaches to help, Iron shakes him off and thrusts forward on all fours. Lakshman chases after him, looking smug.
“Get through, get through!” Tanaji screams. “If they go up the wall we’re dead! Get through.” Now that they realize they’re under attack, the Bijapuris pull the small door closed. Shivaji, reaching the door just in time, drives his sword through the opening. He thrusts it violently, recklessly, wrenching it in the closing gap, hoping to keep the Bijapuris away from the latch and lock, twisting so hard he slips to his knees in the swirling mud. In a moment, Tanaji appears at his side, driving the blades of his mace’s bludgeon into the narrow opening, sending splinters flying.
Iron steps back, giving them room. Lakshman and Hanuman run up, but Iron keeps them from the door, pointing to the high walls above them. The twins twist nervously, swinging their bows to aim at every shadow.
“This is fun,” Lakshman says.
Shivaji leans away as Tanaji slams the mace against the door, making a hole just large enough to squeeze the bludgeon through. He rams the bludgeon against the frame and, using the heavy handle of his mace, levers the door open.
He screams as an arrow pierces his left bicep and pins him to the gate.
Tanaji starts to follow but Iron stops him. “Come on, boys!” he yells, waving the twins through the door instead. “Bowmen on the other side,” Iron shouts. “Go! Go!” The open door waits like the mouth of death. Bowstring drawn and arrow cocked, Hanuman runs through.
Beyond the gate is another narrow passage. Hanuman can’t see anything to shoot. He swings in arcs, hunting for a target. Rain pours into his face, spilling down his arms, down his pants. He could pee now and no one could tell. He hears Lakshman clambering through the door behind him.
An arrow whistles past his ear. “Shit.” He can’t tell if he says this out loud. Then he sees Shivaji, half-crouched behind a bench, his left arm, pulled unnaturally away from his body, pinned by an arrow to the black gate itself.
Shivaji raises his sword to a point above them. Behind one of the stones, Hanuman catches a glimpse of glinting metal. He looses two arrows and hears the thud of one striking home. A body tumbles from the wall.
Another arrow sings past his head, this from another direction. Shivaji points to a different wall, a different shadow, and again Hanuman shoots. He hears a thrashing, then a gurgle, then silence. Notching another arrow, he catches a glimpse of someone running away.
“You’re good,” a voice says behind him. He turns to see Iron standing next to him; Hanuman had no idea he was so nearby. “Done this before?”
“Not in a fort, uncle,” Hanuman answers.
Tanaji comes through the door, and moves quickly to Shivaji, looking over the arrow and the arm. “This isn’t bad, Shahu,” he says. Shivaji grunts.
At the end of the passage is a narrow, winding stair. “There’ll be swordsmen on those stairs, or I miss my guess,” says Iron.
“I agree,” Tanaji says. “Lakshman, give me your knife.”
“What’s wrong with yours?” Lakshman asks. But when his father blazes at him, he shrugs and takes his serpent blade from its sheath. “Careful,” he whispers as he passes it. One edge of the long wavy blade is toothed like a saw, the other edge as sharp as a razor.
“This might hurt,” Tanaji says as he saws with the toothed edge through the arrow shaft in Shivaji’s arm. Hanuman sees the shaft jumping and vibrating as Tanaji cuts; he watches Shivaji grimace. In a moment, though, the black-feathered shaft clatters to the wet stones. Carefully Tanaji lifts and slides Shivaji’s arm off what’s left of the arrow. Shivaji groans, and his eyes roll back. Tanaji lowers him to the ground.
“Watch the stairs,” Iron says to the twins. “I mean you, too,” he snarls at Lakshman. Then Iron and Tanaji stretch Shivaji out along the ground. Using Lakshman’s knife, Tanaji cuts Shivaji’s sleeve, and ties it in a thick knot around the wounded bicep.
“I’ve seen worse,” Iron says. But Shivaji doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s fainted. Iron slaps him. “Hey, Shahu, do you hear me? I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen plenty worse.”
“Shut up,” Shivaji mumbles.
Iron slaps him again. “No sleeping now, Shahu. Work to be done, boy.” Iron lifts Shivaji to a sitting position. “Time to get going.”
“Why don’t we just leave him,” Lakshman says.
“He might be captured, or even die. We need to get him moving.”
“We all need to get moving or we all will die,” Hanuman says. “Lakshman, watch the stairs!” For he sees shadows slide along the stairway’s edge.
“This is man’s work, boys,” Iron says. “Step aside and let us grown-ups show you how it’s done.” He looks up at Hanuman. “You. Come here and get him up. Get him to his feet, whatever it takes.” Then Iron stands, twirling his battle hammer in his hands so the black hammerhead spins like a top, and steps next to Tanaji. Iron whispers in Tanaji’s ear. Tanaji shakes his head, but as Iron keeps up his whispered talk, he slowly nods. The two come back, eyes trained on Shivaji.
“Us two, then you two. Then him.”
“I don’t think he …,” Hanuman begins.
“I can do it,” Shivaji says, but his voice is weak. “I can fight.”
“But look at him …”
“He looks good. I’ve seen worse. Haven’t you?”
“Sure,” Tanaji agrees.
“Right. That captain told us that there’s eight or ten up here. We got three—if you killed that last one, Hanu—so five to seven left. Good odds,” Tanaji says.
“One of them is sick. I heard the relief party talking about it; the cook is sick,” Hanuman says hopefully.
“Right,” Iron says, “even better. One of them is sick.”
“Well, one of us is sick, too. He’s not doing so good,” Lakshman says.
“I’m all right,” Shivaji replies, but his eyes have trouble focusing.
“He’s just shook up,” Iron suggests. “He’ll be fine in a moment.”
“And while we’re standing here, they could be getting ready to attack,” Lakshman complains.
“They won’t attack. They’ve seen you two shoot. They’re waiting for us,” Iron replies.
“Maybe we turn back now,” says Lakshman, glancing at his father.
“They’ll come after us,” Iron says. “If not these boys, then an attack party from Bijapur. We discussed this.”
“There’s only one path, son,” agrees Tanaji, nodding.
“Two, if you count dying,” Iron chuckles. No one laughs.
“You ready, Shahu?” Iron asks. Shivaji nods. “Let’s go, then.”
“Just five or six,” Hanuman says. “Just five or six.” He looks at Shivaji. “Har, har, mahadev,” he says.
Hanuman watches Iron and Tanaji run straight to the stairs. A moment ago, his father had been wrestling with his fear, but now he’s eager to face those shadows on the stairs. “Let’s go,” Hanuman says, turning to Lakshman. Lakshman smirks as though it were all a big game.
But as they start to run, Shivaji lumbers between them and races past.
“Hey,” Hanuman shouts, splashing across the courtyard, trying to catch up. “We’re supposed to be next. Wait!”
“Dammit,” Lakshman storms after him.
Through the rain they hear the clang of steel, the groan of men fighting, the kiss of metal meeting flesh.
As they reach the passage opening, a heavy body tumbles down, bumping down the stairs headfirst. The face is smashed and gone. For a moment, Hanuman thinks it is Iron, or that it’s his father, but then he sees that it’s only one of the Bijapuris. Just four or five to go, he thinks.
He and Lakshman mount the stairs together, the way twins can move in perfect unison, bows leveled, arrows ready. What’s left of the dim daylight disappears. It is madness. Five men going up ten feet of dark and narrow stairs. Weapons are nearly useless
here: as likely to bang and glance against the wet stone walls as to hit their targets.
But there is a thung as Lakshman looses an arrow, and a grunt as it pierces a Bijapuri’s heart. His body somersaults backward down the stairs like rag toy; Hanuman must jump aside to keep from tumbling down the stairs beside it. He sees Iron, hammer in hand, gaping at the empty place where his opponent stood; Iron’s thigh is cut and bleeding.
The air whistles before him. Hanuman sees a sword slicing through a Bijapuri’s body, like a knife through a roast; a sword held by Shivaji, face pale, mouth open, fighting for breath. The body sinks to its knees with a burbling cry, blood and shit pouring into the rainwater rushing down the stone stairs. As Shivaji tugs out his blade, foulness fills the air.
Shivaji drops, his hands on his knees, gasping. Blood and water drip from his left arm. Lakshman kicks the body down the stairs.
Hanuman’s eyes are drawn to the darkness higher up. A fight is raging: it must be Tanaji. They hear the muffled sounds of punches.
Hanuman pushes Iron aside, and runs past Shivaji, up the stairs. The steps grow narrow as he ascends; there is no room for weapons here.
He can just make out his father’s eyes bulging wide, the hands that grip his father’s neck. Using his elbow, Hanuman whacks his father’s foe across the head.
Hanuman punches the man, blindly, calling Lakshman for help. The attacker seems impervious to his blows. Tanaji has stopped even gasping.
Hanuman reaches into his quiver and takes out his few arrows. Holding them in a bundle, with all his strength he drives them into the man’s side, pulls them out and then drives them in again.
The man lets go his father’s neck. Tanaji clatters to his knees. The man, arrows still embedded in his side, lurches forward, falling against Hanuman, a burbling in his throat. Hanuman looks with horror into the man’s dying eyes and shoves him away. “Father?” he calls.
“Here,” Tanaji croaks, collapsing into his son’s arms. “You saved my life.”
Iron comes up. Hanuman glances at Iron’s thigh, the wound tied with a strip of cloth. “It’s not so bad,” Iron says. “I’ve seen worse.”
