The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) (13 page)

“Good morning.” Nayan was waiting for him, along with the shadowy forms of five other men. All were holding cloth sacks, just as Vinkesh was, and he saw that some had also filled communal waterskins from one of the village wells; these were the younger men, and it was implicitly understood that because of their relatively low position in the social hierarchy, they would haul the extra weight on behalf of the older men. Such was the way of the world.

“Good morning, my friend,” Vinkesh replied with genuine warmth. He liked Nayan, and always had.

“A fine day for it.”

The eastern horizon was little more than a purple band, barely brighter than the blackness of the starry sky above, and yet Vinkesh did not think that his friend was joking. It really
did
have the feel of a fine day, though he could not have said why if pressed.

Vinkesh merely grunted. “This is everyone?” he asked, gesturing at Nayan’s five companions.

“Yes. All the more for us, hey?” Nayan clapped Vinkesh on the arm, and the two men exchanged a laugh.

“I could not agree more, my friend. Shall we?”

The party of seven fell into a loose sort of order, mingling and chatting with one another as the mood took them. They kept the pace to nothing more than a stroll, but the men were used to hard work and were unencumbered, and so they made good time. As the sun rose, it would get hotter; it made sense to cover the majority of the ground now, in the coolness of the early morning. Chatting amiably, the men passed the time with idle gossip, which somehow seemed to make the miles flow more smoothly beneath their feet. The laughter and jokes ran freely, and by the time that the sun was halfway to the zenith, they had put many miles between themselves and Talwada. Stopping briefly for a few sips of water and a little dry food, they continued to bear eastward; all of them knew this region like the back of their hands, having been born and raised here.

It was perhaps two hours afterward that they first saw the dust cloud.

“Not nearly as big as last night,” observed Nayan, shielding his eyes with the flat of one hand.

“No, not even close,” agreed Hital, one of the water carriers.

“What we saw last night was an army on the march. Tens of thousands of men and animals.” Vinkesh frowned, squinting at the far horizon in puzzlement. “This…much smaller. Perhaps a detachment?”

“Perhaps.” Nayan’s mouth was set in a thin line. He didn’t seem to like what his instincts were telling him.

“Do you want to turn back?” asked Vinkesh. He was quite happy to defer to Nayan, what with his being a little older and therefore unofficially his senior.

“We are lions, not sheep,” the older farmer said at last, though clearly unhappy with this turn of events.

Vinkesh knew just how he felt. In his mind, the seven of them would simply walk up to the battlefield, hopefully deserted now that the nasty business of fighting was over and done with, and begin to pick it clean. But now, the dust cloud stood between them and their objective. It was also getting larger, which could mean only one thing: a party of men, heading straight for the band from Talwada.

He sidled up next to Nayan and asked quietly, “Are you sure about this, my friend?”

“Even if we turned back now,” Nayan whispered back, “whoever that is, they are heading directly for Talwada. Better to meet them here on the plain and determine their intentions first, wouldn’t you say?”

No, I really
wouldn’t
say. If they truly are coming for our village, then I would prefer to face them there, with every man at my back.

Yet Vinkesh said nothing. There seemed little point in arguing with his friend, particularly because there was no way to know whether the force heading their way marched under the colors of the British or of the Marathas…or how either faction would treat them when they first made contact.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There were hundreds of walkers, Vinkesh saw a little over an hour later. Well, perhaps
walkers
wasn’t quite the right word; these men shambled, rather than walked, with many dragging one leg along behind them as they came.

“They are British,” Hital observed confidently, referring to the sea of bright red uniforms that were coming toward the band of men from Talwada. The group of seven had stopped and were saving their energy, waiting for the mass of humanity to come to them. “Red coats. Redcoats.”

“Not entirely. Look.” Nayan pointed, picking out hundreds — no, more like thousands — of tunics in different colors, including white, yellow, blue, and green, with turbans to match. “Those are not British soldiers.”

“Allies, perhaps?” reasoned Vinkesh. “Purchased with British coin?”

“Perhaps.” Nayan did not sound convinced. Something about the horde was off, somehow. Perhaps it was the fact that every one of them seemed to be wounded, or at least to be moving in such a manner that suggested that they were. Surely even defeated soldiers ought to be marching more professionally than this? Yet they were in some semblance of order, shuffling along in what looked – if one was willing to be generous – a bit like ranks and files.

The seven passed around a water-skin between them, taking conservative sips and watching the army come closer. It soon became apparent that they had a leader of sorts; one figure, walking with an assured confidence that the others lacked, was out in front of the main body. The man must have seen them, because he was making directly for them.

Except that it wasn’t a man at all, Vinkesh realized with a frown: it was a she. The body was too lithe and slender. Not to mention the fact that this woman, whoever she was, appeared to be totally naked. His six companions picked up on this at about the same time, and the younger men began to jabber excitedly, nudging one another with their elbows and offering up toothy grins.

Vinkesh, for his part, remained silent. Leaving aside the fact that he felt no desire whatsoever for any woman other than his beloved Bhavika, there was something about this woman who came striding so brazenly out of the distance with an army of thousands at her back. Something almost indefinable, and yet...Vinkesh tried to put his finger on exactly what it might be. There was something in the way that she walked, dominant and assertive, as though she had been born to command such a vast collection of fighting men. Her head was held high and proud, and even from two hundred feet away, he felt as though the woman was sizing up both himself and his rag-tag bunch of friends.

“What is that sound?” Hital asked, referring to the low-pitched moaning that seemed to follow along with the massive body of men.

“It is them,” Nayan said, sweat breaking out on his brow as he indicated the shambling mass of rank and file in front of them. “They are moaning.”

Moaning? What manner of army moans? Vinkesh found himself wandering. But then again, what manner of army is led by a woman, of all things?

The woman walked with a grace that was almost catlike, the very opposite of the men at her back. She came to a halt a few paces in front of their small group. Despite the leers and lascivious smirks of just a few moments ago, now all seven of them – even the younger men, Vinkesh was surprised to note – maintained a respectful silence. Perhaps even more remarkably, their eyes remained above her shoulders at all times, never straying downward for even a quick, furtive look at her dark-skinned nakedness. There was simply something about her presence and bearing that commanded respect, a quiet dignity that was almost impossible to ignore.

She was not completely naked, however. A leather belt looped about her hips, from which hung a scabbard. Vinkesh risked a quick look, and guessed that from the length and curvature of the scabbard’s tip, this was a shortened version of the tulwar, a very popular style of blade in this vicinity since time immemorial. The woman stood comfortably, seeming totally at ease for someone who was practically nude in front of seven strangers. One hand rested lightly on the round pommel of the sword; the other gave a languid wave, which was all it took to bring the thousands of men who marched some two hundred feet behind her to come to a ragged halt.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” A tight smile danced across her lips, here one moment, gone the next.

“Good afternoon…lady,” Nayan answered on behalf of them all. The emphasized placed upon the last word was such that its validity seemed questionable, yet at the same time, Nayan bobbed his head deferentially toward her. It was almost as if he could not help it.

“It is a hot day to be out for a walk,” she observed, her eyes flicking from villager to villager. She seemed to be reading them like an open book, her gaze sweeping each from head to toe, quietly assessing and judging them – though for what, Vinkesh had no idea. “May I ask where it is that you are bound?”

All eyes turned to Nayan, who admitted without any reservation, “We heard the sounds of a mighty battle coming from beyond the eastern horizon last night.”

The woman laughed, high-pitched and melodic. “And so you thought to plunder the spoils that were left behind?”

“The dead have no need of material things.” Nayan dropped his gaze, more out of embarrassment than an attempt to ogle the beauty now standing in front of him. “We would have done no harm.”

“My men died on that field,” the woman said casually. The fire burning behind her green eyes did not match the false levity of her tone. “Many of my men. I have little time for grave robbers.”

“We meant no harm,” Nayan said again, as if repeating their lack of ill intent would somehow make her believe him.

Suddenly, her demeanor changed; just as the sun comes out from behind the clouds to brighten a gloomy day, her face assumed an expression of friendliness. “And no harm was done. Tell me, gentlemen, where is it that you came from, and how long have you been traveling?”

“From our village. It is some two days travel,” Vinkesh lied, before Nayan had the chance to speak. He gestured toward the south with a nod. “That way.”

The woman sized him up once more with her eyes, scrutinizing him carefully. After a moment’s pause for consideration, she said, “You do not look as if you have been walking for two days, and spent a night beneath the stars.”

What could he really say to that? Vinkesh simply stood mute, levelly meeting the gaze of those green eyes and trying to appear as casual and innocent as possible.

“What is the name of your village?” the woman enquired sweetly, turning her attention toward Hital. He looked toward Nayan, who steadfastly refused to meet his gaze.

“It is called Talwada,” Hital said at last.

“Talwada.” The woman rolled the words around on her tongue, as though tasting every syllable. “Talwada. And how many villagers live there, at Talwada?”

“Ssss!” Nayan hissed from the corner of his mouth, trying to push Hital to be silent.

The curved blade was clear of its scabbard before any of them could so much as blink. With a single stroke, it was slashed across the older man’s throat, leaving a neat red line in its wake. Nayan’s eyes bulged in disbelief, looking downward as his hands came up of their own accord to probe at the wound. During the space of the next heartbeat, hot arterial blood began to gush from the wound, spurting out to the time of his racing pulse. The blade was back in its scabbard before the first crimson drop had hit the ground.

Nayan pressed both hands to his throat in a futile attempt to stem the red tide, but it simply jetted from between his interlaced fingers. The woman had taken three graceful steps to her left, which was just as well; had she stayed where she was, the pressurized fountain of life would have painted her face and neck.

After the space of five or six heartbeats, the older man fell to his knees. The impact sent a shudder rippling through his body. Both hands dropped limply to his sides, like a child’s puppet whose strings had been cut.

Staring at the slashed throat with both horrified fascination and steadily mounting horror, Vinkesh could see tiny little bubbles forming around the fleshy lips of the wound.

His windpipe has been cut. There is no hope of saving him now. Vinkesh knew a lost cause when he saw one. He watched helplessly as the light of life withdrew from his friend’s eyes, and his limp body slammed face-first into the dirt. Blood pooled around its head and neck, pulsing much more weakly now. After a few more heartbeats, the once-mighty pump stopped, and the blood began to slowly drain rather than spurt. Nayan’s corpse gave one final all-over spasm, and then lay still.

“Excellent,” the woman said, clapping her hands and rubbing the palms together briskly. Then she turned her attention back to Vinkesh. “Now, I shall ask you again, one final time: How many villagers live at Talwada? I recommend that this time, you choose your words with greater care.”

“Perhaps two hundred, give or take,” Vinkesh said sullenly. He had the strangest feeling that if he lied, then the naked woman would somehow know it.

“And how many homes? Structures?”

He thought about it for a moment, wracking his brains for an accurate count. “No more than forty,” he concluded at last.

“Forty,” she repeated, smiling once more. “That shall more than suffice.”

“Suffice for what?” Vinkesh asked suspiciously.