Sandokan: Quest for a Throne (The Sandokan Series Book 6)

by Emilio Salgari

  The shot resounded sharply in the immense hall and the Indian rolled to one of the doorposts, dropping his carbine, without a sound or gesture.

  “That’s one less of them,” Yanez said coldly. “If all our shots were that accurate, we’d dispatch the rajah’s Sikhs with several rounds to spare.”

  Two more soldiers had immediately taken the man’s place and fired into the smoke that marked where Burni had stood, but did little more than make some noise for the pirate had quickly ducked back down behind the barricade after he had shot his carbine.

  “My turn, now,” said Yanez. “I’ll show them what the chief huntsman can do.”

  Two shots thundered in rapid succession and the attackers fell, one tumbling to the elephant’s right, the other to its left.

  A cacophony of frenzied shouts filled the courtyard as the Sikhs scattered in retreat.

  “That ought to buy us five minutes,” said Yanez. “At least we’ll be—”

  A loud discharge shook the great hall, then a large portion of the ceiling fell to the ground a short distance from the pirates. The Sikhs, not daring to attack the Malays directly, had erected a cannon at the far end of the courtyard and opened fire.

  Yanez frowned.

  “Perfect,” he muttered. “What’s next, grenades?”

  A second blast, louder than the first, thundered from the courtyard; a cannonball whistled past the elephant, sailed over the barricade, and struck the far wall.

  “Well, at least their aim is off,” he said, trying to force a smile.

  A third shot struck the elephant in the back and sprayed the walls and barricade with a shower of flesh and blood.

  The echo of the blast had not yet faded, when a dozen Sikhs stormed over the dead beast’s corpse, howling fiercely and firing in all directions.

  The Malays had immediately raised their carbines to return fire, but Yanez stayed them with a gesture.

  “Wait until you have a clear shot!” he thundered.

  The Sikhs had reached the two bronze doors that had fallen onto the barricade, and were about to charge when the Portuguese cried out:

  “Fire!”

  A shower of bullets rained down upon the attackers and five Sikhs fell among the barricade, dead or dying. The others, their rifles empty after that opening volley, quickly scrambled back up the elephant and ran into the courtyard.

  “They’re a stubborn lot,” said Yanez. “You’d think they’d be more cautious after seeing what we can do.”

  “Eyes peeled, Captain!” exclaimed Burni. “They’re back.”

  Turbans and rifle barrels had appeared behind the elephant. A fierce battle cry tore through the air then an avalanche of men stormed over the elephant, firing briskly. The shots, however, did little more than scratch the bronze doors for the pirates were well protected by the barricade.

  “Return fire!” thundered Yanez.

  The Malays did not need to be told twice. Skilled marksmen, they fired without pause, taking down a man with every bullet.

  The Sikhs, undaunted, held their ground, returning shot for shot, while the cannon in the courtyard thundered again and again, firing cannonballs into the hall to bring the ceiling crashing down upon the rajah’s foes. Fortunately, the vault had been well built and only a few bricks and rubble rained down, projectiles that did no harm to Yanez and his men.

  The gunfire had quickly grown fiercer and more relentless. Each Sikh who fell was immediately replaced by another no less obstinate and no less valiant and just as quickly fell dead or wounded.

  About twenty men had already fallen, when the signal to retreat sounded through the air. That command had come at just the right moment, for the Malays had begun to struggle against so many opponents, their carbine barrels starting to burn in their hands.

  The Sikhs’ volleys had done little damage. A bullet had ricocheted and grazed Burni’s right ear lobe; but though it bled profusely the Malay was in no danger.

  “Can you see them, Captain,” asked Burni. “What are they up to?”

  “They’ve gathered about their cannon,” cried Yanez. “We’ve got to move.”

  The Malays scattered to the far ends of the barricade, out of sight of the line of fire. They had barely settled when the cannon erupted with a thunderous roar.

  The cannonball struck one of the bronze doors, bounced forward, crashed through the barricade of sofas, and lodged in the far wall.

  “It’ll take them awhile to smash through those bronze doors, Captain,” said the Malay.

  “Yes, but they’ll give away eventually,” said Yanez.

  Another blast followed and the cannonball struck the door and demolished another part of the barricade.

  “There it goes,” said Burni, shaking his head sadly.

  The cannon continued to thunder, rattling the hall’s windows. Cannonballs flew in all directions, strafing the elephant, pounding the bronze doors, and smashing large holes into the walls.

  Yanez and the Malays, unable to return fire, the Sihks keeping well out of their sights, remained crouched behind a sofa, clutching their rifles tightly.

  That shower of cannon fire lasted for thirty minutes, stopping at last when the two doors fell severed in half and the barricade was breached. Within seconds a man climbed over the elephant’s remains carrying a bayonet with a strip of white silk wrapped about its barrel.

  Yanez had sprung up from behind the barricade, ready to fire, but realizing the man had come to parlez, he immediately lowered his rifle.

  “What is it?”

  “The rajah sends me to ask you to surrender. Your barricade has been destroyed, you’re now defenceless.”

  “Tell his Highness that we still have our carbines, and that his chief huntsman still has the strength to outfight his royal guards.”

  “The rajah has sent me to propose terms, my lord.”

  “What are they?”

  “He’ll spare your life if you allow yourself to be escorted to the border of Bengal.”

  “And my men?”

  “They’ve killed men of higher caste and will be executed.”

  “Tell the rajah that I’ll defend my men for as long as I have bullets and the strength to fire my carbine. Now go before I shoot you!”

  The man quickly disappeared.

  “My friends,” Yanez said calmly, “I’m afraid we’re all going to die here. The Tiger of Malaysia will avenge us.”

  “So be it then, Captain,” said Burni, “We pledged to follow you into battle long ago. Not one of us here fears death, do we, my friends?”

  “We’ll fight to the last, Captain,” the Malays replied unanimously.

  “Then we’ll ready our final defense,” said Yanez. “When we run out of bullets, we’ll attack with our scimitars.”

  A deep silence had followed those cannon blasts. Unable to defeat those skilled marksmen, the Sikhs had dragged their cannon to the doorway and were gathering alongside it. Little remained of the elephant; those relentless volleys had destroyed much of its corpse, and the soldiers now had a clear view of Yanez and his men.

  “This is it!” said the Portuguese, who had watched them assemble. “Time to die like warriors.”

  A volley of gunfire thundered from the doorway, killing Burni who had peered up from behind the barricade to fire upon the Sikhs. Moments later, a second volley killed another Malay, then the guns fell silent and the envoy appeared by the doorway.

  “The rajah sends me to ask you to yield,” he shouted. “If you refuse, we’ll kill you all.”

  The situation was hopeless.

  “We surrender,” said the Portuguese at last, “provided he promises to spare my men.”

  “It shall be done.”

  “I have the rajah’s word?”

  “You have the rajah’s word.”

  “Fine then; we surrender.”

  He leapt onto the remnants of the barricade followed by his Malays, walked past the elephant and onto the step, where the cannon still smoked from the last
shot it had fired.

  The courtyard was full of Sikhs; the rajah stood among them flanked by his ministers and several torchbearers.

  Yanez cast down his rifle, pushed away a pair of soldiers who tried to grab him and walked to the rajah with his head held high, his arms crossed about his chest.

  “Here I am, Highness; I take you at your word.”

  “You’re a brave man,” said the rajah, avoiding the Portuguese’s eyes. “I’ve seldom had more fun than I’ve had this evening.”

  “So, Your Highness shows no regret for all this loss of life?”

  “They’re soldiers,” the rajah replied bluntly. “I pay them to die when they need to.”

  “Noble words indeed,” Yanez said coldly. “What will you do with me now?”

  “My ministers shall decide,” said the rajah. “I wish no trouble with the Governor of Bengal. You’ll be my prisoner until the matter is resolved.”

  “What about my men?”

  “They’ll be imprisoned.”

  “With me?”

  “No, my lord, not for the moment.”

  “Why not?”

  “For greater security. It would not be wise to lock you in the same room. Who knows what plots you could hatch.”

  “I must bring to your attention, Highness, that my men are also British subjects; they were born in Labuan.”

  “I’ve never heard of Labuan,” said the rajah. “But I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He made a gesture with his hand and four officers immediately grabbed the Portuguese tightly by the arm.

  “Take him away,” said the rajah. “Do not harm him.”

  Yanez let himself be led away without resistance.

  He had just entered one of the rooms on the ground floor when the Sikhs rushed at the three Malays like wild beasts, snatched their rifles and bound them firmly.

  Almost simultaneously, a colossal elephant entered through one of the large doors that opened into the courtyard, mounted by a fierce-looking mahout with a black beard. It carried a large flat block of wood in its trunk, which was curved slightly in the centre.

  The great beast was the Royal Executioner; every rajah’s court in India has such an elephant, trained to swiftly mete out justice.

  The Sikhs stepped back to let it pass; the great beast strode into the center of the courtyard, placed the block upon the ground, then pressed a foot against it as if to check its strength.

  “Bring the first prisoner,” commanded the rajah who had sat down in a large chair with a cigar pressed between his lips. “Let’s see if these men are as brave before death as they are in battle.”

  Four Sikhs grabbed one of the three Malays, dragged him before the elephant and forced his head down onto the block.

  At a cry from the mahout, the elephant took three steps back, lifted its trunk, trumpeted, then advanced toward the block, raised its left leg and brought it down upon the poor Malay’s head.

  The corpse was cast aside and covered with a large dhoti; then the two remaining Malays were brought forward and executed one by one.

  “Teotokris will be happy,” said the rajah. “And now to bed.”

  Dawn had begun to break.

  He stood up and walked towards the royal apartments followed by his ministers and his officers as the Sikhs began to gather the bodies of their comrades who had fallen in battle.

  The rajah had just stretched out upon his bed when a man rushed into the royal palace and hurried up the stairs to Yanez’ quarters, climbing the steps four at a time.

  Kechik was returning with the undelivered letter, a spy had followed his every move and by the time he had shaken him and reached Surama’s villa, Sandokan and his men were fending off the attack. When the house had caught fire he had run off to immediately warn the captain, unaware that it had been part of the Tiger’s plan.

  He pounded on the door; the khansama opened it moments later, red-eyed and overcome with grief. The poor man had taken refuge in the chief huntsman’s quarters when the guests had fled from the Hall of Elephants and had watched the entire battle from the window, looking on helplessly as Yanez surrendered and his men were executed.

  “Sahib!” he exclaimed as Kechik stepped through the door, “You’re in grave danger!”

  “What are you talking about, khansama?” asked the Malay, frightened by the man’s appearance.

  “His lordship has been arrested.”

  “What!” exclaimed the Malay.

  “And your friends have all been executed.”

  Kechik staggered back as if he had just been shot in the chest.

  “All dead!” he said hoarsely. “Tell me everything that happened!” he said, gripping the khansama tightly by the arm. “Don’t leave out a single detail.”

  After he had been told of the battle that had taken place there that night, the Malay rubbed his eyes several times and wiped away a few tears.

  “Do you think the rajah will execute my master?”

  “I can’t say for certain, but in my humble opinion, I doubt the rajah would dare execute an English lord. He fears the Governor of Bengal’s reprisals.”

  “Where did they take him?”

  “The dungeon beneath the grand courtyard.”

  “Could we break into it?”

  “No, there’s only one entrance; a thick bronze door that’s guarded day and night by a pair of Sikh soldiers.”

  “What about inside? Will anyone be keeping watch over the prisoner?”

  “There’s a pair of jailers that bring prisoners their food and look after them.”

  “What kind of men are they?”

  “I’m not sure who is on duty. The rajah switches them from time to time. I’ll find out and let you know.”

  “Fine. Can you get me out of the palace without anyone seeing me?”

  “Yes, we’ll take the servants’ steps.”

  “One last question.”

  “Of course, sahib.”

  “Where can we meet once you’ve gathered this information?”

  “I have a small house in Kochpara, a village a few hours from here. My wife lives there; I visit her twice a week and I’ll be there this afternoon. It’s easy to find, it’s the only red house in the village; all the others are white.”

  “You’re a good man,” said Kechik. “I should leave now before the servants get up.”

  “Come.”

  They crossed the small terrace behind Yanez’ quarters, descended a set of narrow steps that had been cut into the wall and went down into the rajah’s large gardens.

  Not a soul was in sight; the khansama led the Malay towards a small bronze door engraved with elephant heads and opened it.

  “I’ll meet you at my house this afternoon. I’ve grown fond of your master, and I swear upon Brahma that I’ll do whatever I can to help free him.”

  “You’re extremely kind,” said Kechik, moved. “If the master regains his freedom, he’ll reward you generously.”

  The Malay quickly walked away without looking back, heading for Surama’s villa, hoping to learn what had become of his friends.

  He had just spied the last columns of smoke rising over the remnants of the building, when a man coming from the opposite direction abruptly grabbed his arm.

  Kechik immediately reached for his pistol, but stayed his arm as his eyes caught sight of the man’s face.

  “Bindar!”

  “Yes, it’s me, sahib,” replied the Indian. “Surama and the Tiger of Malaysia are heading for the Benar jungle and I came to warn your master.”

  “Too late, my friend,” Kechik said sadly. “He’s been imprisoned and his men have been executed. It appears our plans have been discovered and that wretched Greek has won. You’ve got to return to the Tiger of Malaysia immediately and warn him of what’s happened.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll stay here to keep an eye on the Greek. I have a friend at court who’s spying for us; I can be of better service here in Guwahati than elsewhere.”


  “Do you need money? I just cashed a draft for Sandokan.”

  “A hundred rupees should suffice.”

  “Where can I find you?”

  “There’s a red cottage in Kochpara that belongs to Captain Yanez’ khansama. I’m going to hide there. Now go find the Tiger of Malaysia. Hurry! He’ll think of a way to free the captain.”

  Bindar handed him a hundred rupees, then ran off towards the river to acquire a small boat.

  Once the Indian was out of sight, Kechik resumed his march and headed towards the garment district. He found a Bihari merchant and exchanged his flashy clothing for less conspicuous Muslim attire, then after breakfasting at a modest dak bungalow, he set off into the winding streets towards Kochpara.

  Villages and cities in India are built very irregularly, without any plan or symmetry. There may be grand thoroughfares about the main palaces, markets and temples, but in most suburbs houses are crowded closely together and streets are often dirty and narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. A sewer usually runs through the middle of each street, an open drain that receives all the filth and rubbish from every surrounding house. The stench is quite strong and would be unbearable were it not for the marabou that gorge on the refuse from morning to night.

  It was not until three o’clock in the afternoon when Kechik, after several wrong turns, finally reached the khansama’s little red house. It was a square building, two-stories high, with a small garden shaded by seven or eight palm trees in the front.

  “A fine place,” muttered Kechik. “Let’s see if he’s already here.”

  He opened the wooden gate and headed beneath the trees.

  The khansama was sitting in front of his house beside a beautiful young Indian woman with lightly bronzed skin and long black hair adorned with flowers.

  “I’ve been expecting you, sahib,” said the khansama, rising to meet him. “I’ve been here for the last two hours. This is my wife. I’ve told her of your plight; you’ll be safe here and can stay for as long as you need.”

  “Thank you, you’re most generous. I’ve already made an appointment with my master’s friends to meet me here.”