Tiger Claws

by John Speed

  “Be ready for my signal, Onil,” Shivaji answers.

  “Go with God,” O’Neil replies in English, and hurries on.

  Near the gate they find the ten guards Tanaji selected. Shivaji points to two. “You two are excused. Get with the others and await my signal.”

  “They’re good men, Shahu,” Tanaji protests. “I’ll vouch for them.”

  “I want you and Jedhe in the guard,” Shivaji answers. “Tanaji, you’ll hold my katar. Jedhe, you’ll hold my sword, Bhavani.” Not waiting for answer, he turns and begins to stride ahead.

  “Lord, I beg you once more, take the wagnak!” Bandal whispers urgently. But Shivaji shrugs him off and he strides across the courtyard. Bandal struggles to keep up. As they march through the gate, soldiers cheer. Shivaji lifts his hand casually, exuding confidence.

  “First no one can find him, now he’s everybody’s hero,” grumbles Tanaji.

  “What’s that, uncle?” Jedhe asks, pointing to a metallic glint that shines through the trees.

  “Those are howdahs of the war elephants,” Tanaji replies, hurrying behind Shivaji on his way to the parley. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  The Bijapuri army has pushed to the very top of the new road, and now stands packed into a tight line aimed at the parley tent. At its head, war elephants stand three abreast, howdahs gleaming. The sounds of the great army echo from the fort walls.

  As they approach the parley tent, Tanaji smells the elephants: a rich, rancid odor of shit and sweat. With it, the smell of hot wax, for the soldiers have lit the fuses of their matchlocks.

  Tanaji catches Jedhe’s eye and nods with his chin toward the birds circling in long spirals over the road. Vultures. Jedhe’s eyes drift to the trees. “Look only at the road!” Tanaji snarls.

  “I just wanted to see where the men are hiding—”

  “I know what you wanted! Do you want the Bijapuris looking there?”

  At the parley tent, Tanaji snaps out orders, arranging the men. From their howdahs, the Bijapuris offer mocking comments. “Ignore them!” Tanaji snarls. Stretching down the hillside are dozens of elephants and hundreds of horses, and in the wide clearing below Jedhe sees an ocean of men surging forward. How can we ever hope to defeat them? he wonders.

  Suddenly a commotion erupts on the new road; the throbbing blare of war trumpets, the clatter of cymbals and booming of drums. The Bijapuris cheer. The elephants squeeze to the edge of the road, as twelve riders come forward.

  One by one the horsemen emerge between the elephants and peel off in a row, facing the Marathi guard. All are Abyssinians. Though he’s seen their scarred, branded faces before, even Jedhe’s heart quails at the sight.

  Last of all comes Afzul Khan, dressed in green silk robes and a white turban fastened by an emerald pin fashioned like a peacock feather. His horse sags beneath his bulk.

  Oh gods! It was him! Tanaji thinks. It was Afzul Khan we saw in Khirki! Afzul Khan that Shahu made a cuckold! The night we rescued Maya—the night it all started. It’s been fated from the beginning!

  Behind Afzul Khan rides his bodyguard, the young captain. But the Bijapuri procession is not yet finished: up the hill comes the oxcart carrying the prisoner captain in his bamboo cage. He’s babbling; drool hangs from his lips, and his head flops with each bump, yet somehow he manages to avoid the sharp spikes only inches from his eyes.

  Afzul Khan dismounts and strides to the captain with the grizzled beard. “Remember!” Afzul Khan shouts so everyone can hear. “No one is to move without my order!” He points to the cage and shouts again, “Remember the penalty for disobedience!” Then Afzul Khan takes a step closer to the old captain. “Are my orders clear, captain?”

  “General, look,” the older captain answers defiantly. “There stands that traitor—standing in Shivaji’s honor guard! This is a trap, not a parley! Why else would Shivaji give a traitor a place among his guard?”

  “Because he is arrogant, or stupid, or both,” Afzul Khan replies. “For the last time, captain: Obey my orders or face my wrath!” The captain’s eyes glare with such fierceness that a line of fire seems to burn from them.

  Afzul Khan turns to Shivaji. He frowns, as if seeing Shivaji had awakened some distant memory. But he lets it go. “All right,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

  “Not here. Inside, as we said,” Shivaji replies. Shivaji’s head barely reaches Afzul Khan’s shoulders.

  “You see the forces I array against you?” Afzul Khan replies. “You see the might of Bijapur ready to assail you? Where are your armies, little mouse? Cowering behind those walls?” Afzul Khan laughs. “Huddled around the treasure you have stolen? How long can they survive? How long will those gates keep out my elephants, eh?”

  Shivaji’s eyes grow hard. “If you think yourself invincible, why parley? You asked for this. Let us go inside and talk.”

  Afzul Khan squints at Shivaji, sizing him up. The sapphires and diamonds of his turban jewel glitter in the sunlight, the gold embroidery of his green silk robes gleams. In his white shirt, Shivaji looks as plain as any farmer. “All right. We’ll talk. You and me, alone.”

  “No!” Tanaji comes forward. “Each with a bodyguard, as we agreed. And with no weapons, as we agreed.”

  Afzul Khan’s black eyes gleam as he turns his heavy face toward Tanaji. “Does this puppet speak for you?”

  “He only reminds us. I know you keep your word.”

  “Yes, unlike your coward father, I keep my word.”

  “Then let your man be searched,” Tanaji snaps. Afzul Khan scowls, but nods to the young captain, who steps forward. Face taut and pale, he lifts his arms. Bandal pats his sides and legs, then probes his turban.

  “Now the general,” says Tanaji. Afzul Khan’s face grows dark, but after a pause, he too lifts his arms.

  Bandal scarcely needs to lower his head to pass beneath the general’s arms. When he pats the silken robes, he must make two passes, so wide is the general’s form. Bandal steps back. “Your turban, general.”

  Afzul Khan looms over him. “Be careful of my jewels.” He slowly bends at the waist, until Bandal can just reach the thick white silk of his turban. Bandal works quickly. Then he steps back, and Afzul Khan settles his turban and its gleaming jeweled pin with a vain, almost feminine gesture. “Now you,” he says to Bandal.

  Bandal lifts his arms. The Bijapuri captain pats his sides and legs, and then his turban. He doesn’t notice the two dark rings on the fingers of Bandal’s hand. “Now you, sir,” the captain says to Shivaji.

  Shivaji lifts his arms. The captain feels the mail beneath the cotton shirt and hesitates. “Don’t take all day,” Afzul Khan mutters. The captain looks at Shivaji uncertainly, then probes his turban as well. Again he hesitates. “Well?” says Afzul Khan. “A weapon?”

  “No,” the captain says, uncertainly. “No weapon …”

  “Then step inside,” the general growls. “What are you waiting for?” The captain shrugs. “Now you,” Afzul Khan says, nodding to Bandal. Bandal glances at Shivaji and steps through the entrance flap.

  “You go first, mouse,” Afzul Khan says to Shivaji. “It’s my tent.” Shivaji at last walks into the tent, and Afzul Khan, stooping carefully, follows.

  Over the battlements of Pratapghad peek a thousand hidden eyes. The villagers have crept up the tower steps to watch. They huddle in clusters, peering around the basalt stones, through the bow slits, at the confrontation near the tent.

  Maya hunches near a shepherd and his family. In vain she searched for Gungama. Shivaji looks to her like a king from the old tales; Afzul Khan like a rakshasa. “Daddy, where have all the soldiers gone?” the shepherd’s daughter asks. “No one’s here. Who will protect us?”

  “Hush,” says the shepherd. “Shivaji will protect us.” But Maya sees his fingers check for his knife. “And if he fails, I will protect us.” Maya realizes that he will kill the girl if he must.

  And who, Maya thinks, will protect me?

  “I see him! S
hivaji’s there!” Hanuman whispers.

  “Where?” whispers Iron, crawling up beside him. “Are you sure?”

  Hanuman points through a small clearing in the underbrush. “Look, there by the tent.”

  “I can’t see a thing with all these damned elephants,” Iron mutters.

  Hanuman looks again. “And now I can’t see anything either.” He turns to Iron. “It had to be him.”

  Iron tugs his mustache. “If it was Shivaji, it means our attack is on.”

  “What if he doesn’t come out, uncle? What if Afzul Khan comes out?”

  Iron scowls. “Shit, I don’t know. Worry about that later. They’ll only be in that tent for a short while. Spread the word: time to get ready.”

  Hanuman suddenly gives Iron a hard embrace. “When the signal comes, there won’t be much time. I’ve enjoyed your company, uncle.”

  “Stop talking like a woman!” Iron replies, pushing him away.

  Afzul Khan drops the entrance flap behind him. Shivaji takes a seat at the far end of the tent. Behind him stands Bandal, the tiger claws hidden between his fingers. It dawns on him that this could be the last place he ever sees. He glances at Shivaji, but from behind there’s no way to tell whether Shivaji looks confident or frightened. I’ll just do my best, he thinks, and hope the gods will help.

  The tent is tall enough for Afzul Khan to stand comfortably. He prowls the edge of the tent, first one way, then the other, like a bull elephant choosing a place to rest. He stops beside the low camp table that is covered with green cloth.

  What the hell is it with that table? Bandal wonders. Something about it seems wrong. It seems so out of place.

  When he first entered and saw it, Bandal had lifted the cloth, expecting maybe an assassin to be hiding there. But it was just a table, some strange design of bamboo slats, probably fashioned to be light and portable. Easy to see that there was no one hiding there. While the young captain watched, Bandal had replaced the cloth. But even now Bandal’s eyes are drawn to it. Something about it gnaws at him. Something about it is all wrong.

  Afzul Khan nods to the young captain, who hurries forward, placing a cushion close to the central tent pole. Afzul Khan then sits on the cushion. His knees jut up into the air, as though his huge thighs are unable to relax, and his hulking shoulders hunch forward.

  Afzul Khan’s voice is soft. “Ever been to Khirki, mouse? Ever sleep with some fool’s wife there, and then run away? Ever done that, mouse?” Shivaji stares back, silent. “Well, you wanted this parley,” Afzul Khan says. “Speak.”

  A moment passes. Bandal looks at Afzul Khan’s glittering turban pin, suddenly troubled that he didn’t look at it more closely. But then Shivaji’s cool voice says, “I’m here to offer you a deal, general. Leave my territory. Now.”

  It takes a moment for Afzul Khan to collect himself. “What kind of deal is that, little mouse?”

  “Leave and live. That’s a good deal.”

  Afzul Khan begins to chuckle, then he laughs, a low, growling laugh. “I thought you were a coward, mouse. Now I see you are a fool. Maybe we’re both fools, who can say?” The general lumbers to his feet. “Come and embrace me, and we will talk as brothers.” He spreads his arms.

  Don’t do it! Bandal thinks, as Shivaji stands.

  No! Bandal calls out, only his voice isn’t working. Shivaji steps forward, lifting his arms.

  Afzul Khan folds his arms around Shivaji. He clutches him to his chest. His huge arms squeeze so tightly Shivaji’s heels leave the ground. Shivaji groans as Afzul Khan wraps him tighter. The general’s face grows taut with the effort of squeezing Shivaji, his thick neck begins to swell, and he leans backward, pulling Shivaji from his feet.

  The general nods to the captain. With a sudden gesture, the captain whips the cloth from the table, and suddenly Bandal recognizes it. A cage! Lying on its side—a cage like the one that holds that babbling prisoner outside! But before Bandal can move, the young captain has knelt to the side of the cage and flipped its top open. Afzul Khan drags Shivaji toward it, step by step, as Shivaji struggles furiously, his muffled voice groaning.

  Do something! Bandal thinks. He lurches forward, reaching out for Afzul Khan. As if in a dream, he notices the blades of the tiger claws protruding between his fingers. With a yell, he drives them into Afzul Khan’s shoulder.

  His next image is of Afzul Khan’s hideous, twisted face turning toward him. He hears Afzul Khan’s voice roaring like a bull, sees an anvil fist whip toward his face, sees Shivaji pulling free.

  Then Bandal’s sight explodes in a starburst of pain as he’s hurled backward. He falls against the tent poles near the entry, and heavy cloth collapses on him. He pulls himself free of the tangled cloth only to see the young captain’s foot swinging for his head. He turns aside, but the captain’s shoe catches him by the ear and sends him spinning.

  Bandal scrambles to his feet. His vision is a swirling blur of light and pain. He catches a glimpse of Afzul Khan and Shivaji circling each other, and sees some sort of weapon in Afzul Khan’s hand.

  Then a blow strikes the back of his neck. He collapses. A savage kick catches him in the ribs, flopping him onto his back. The captain drops to drive his knees into Bandal’s chest.

  Only then does the captain discover them, the black steel blades glinting between Bandal’s fingers. The razor points slice his shirt and glide along the glistening skin of his chest. Then they catch the flesh and dig deeper, so sharp his wounds gleam white before they start to bleed. Then they rip into the captain’s throat and shred his neck. His head flops forward and he falls.

  Bandal feels the warm blood pumping from the captain’s wound, feels the captain’s body shuddering. But he hears behind him grunts and blows and remembers Shivaji and Afzul Khan. Somehow he manages to shove the captain’s body from his chest, somehow manages to stagger to his feet.

  Despite his dizzy vision, Bandal sees Afzul Khan attacking Shivaji. The general’s arm bleeds from Bandal’s stab, but not enough to stop him. In his hand is a bright knife, its handle the jeweled turban pin. It was a hidden weapon after all, Bandal thinks stupidly. He stumbles forward. But Afzul Khan sees him. He swings the jeweled knife in a wide arc, slashing Bandal across the throat.

  Bandal tries to scream, but he cannot. He reaches for his neck, and his fingers slip into the wet gash, as if he has a new mouth. He gasps and quivers as he struggles for air, for there’s an emptiness where his throat should be. Blood bubbles over his tongue and pours over his lips; blood gushes down his arms. He’s staring up at the top of the tent now, but he doesn’t know when he fell. As he dies he hears the gagging as he drowns in his blood.

  “Now who will help you, mouse?” Afzul Khan laughs.

  Shivaji watches as his cousin shudders into his death, then backs away.

  Afzul Khan’s face is flushed with triumph. “My knife or my cage, mouse. You decide,” he growls. With unexpected speed, he lunges, knife held high, point toward Shivaji’s heart. The force of the blow knocks Shivaji down, but the blade is turned by his tunic of mail. Shivaji springs to his feet.

  Afzul Khan’s small eyes gleam. “You won’t fool me that way again.”

  Shivaji steps backward, his eyes fixed on Afzul Khan’s bloated face. Again Afzul Khan lunges, this time the knife’s blade aimed for Shivaji’s unprotected face.

  Shivaji ducks, and the blade drives through his turban, piercing the helmet above his ear, but breaking before it can kill him. Afzul Khan stares at the jeweled hilt of the broken knife. Then with a laugh he tosses it aside. “Now we are equals, mouse. Now it is just you and me.”

  Moving backward, Shivaji bumps into one of the tent poles. He tugs it, as if to use it as a weapon. But when he pulls it from its place, part of the tent comes crashing down, burying him and Afzul Khan in darkness.

  Afzul Khan curses and thrashes in the cloth. Shivaji crawls backward, and bumps against Bandal’s wet, warm body. A few feet away, Afzul Khan emerges from the fallen tent, his face a mask o
f rage.

  The knife cut Shivaji’s scalp, and now blood streams from beneath his helmet, into his eyes. Blindly he feels along Bandal’s body. He feels the hand and finds the fingers, feels the fingers and finds the wagnak. He tugs at the steel rings, cutting his own hands as he peels the weapon from Bandal’s death grip.

  There’s a sudden moment when the rings slip free and Bandal’s hand falls, leaving the wagnak in Shivaji’s grasp. As Afzul Khan staggers toward him, Shivaji slips the tiger claws onto his own hand. He squeezes his fingers and Afzul Khan sees the black blades.

  “A coward’s weapon,” he says. “A toy. You think that will stop me?” Afzul Khan steps closer, spreading his arms. “Come then, mouse. Come and scratch me with your tiny claws.” With that Shivaji rushes forward, fist clenched tight. Afzul Khan does not flinch or move away. He wraps Shivaji in his massive arms and squeezes tight.

  Pinned down so, Shivaji can slide the blades across Afzul Khan’s torso—but only a little, for his arm is pinioned in a crushing embrace. Afzul Khan begins to pound Shivaji’s body even as he holds him, battering him with fists like stones. Shivaji groans with every thudding blow. All his concentration bends to freeing his arm, just a little, just a little.

  Somehow, amidst the blows, Shivaji gains a little space. He can lift his arm! In a flash he drives his blades with all his strength into Afzul Khan’s side. Again and again he plunges the blades, but Afzul Khan is so padded with fat that the wagnak seems only to scratch his skin. The general never stops his blows. He squeezes Shivaji hard still. Shivaji gasps for air.

  Unknowingly, though, Afzul Khan is squeezing Shivaji’s blade hand, actually pressing the wagnak deeper into his own side.

  Shivaji hears Afzul Khan groan. He feels something give. Suddenly the blades sink deep. The general’s arms loosen. Shivaji thrusts his arm into Afzul Khan’s wound. He smells the blood and shit. Afzul Khan screams. He strikes out wildly, trying to get away from the claws that rip his insides.