The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) (22 page)

“You have a point, General,” Stevenson conceded. Lewis maintained a politic silence.

“Argaum appears to be the last viable choke point along the path to Gawilghur.” Arthur fixed Stevenson with a meaningful look. “If you, Colonel Stevenson, were Scindia, or Berar, then pray tell me this: Can you see a more suitable place at which to turn around and face your pursuer? Or at the very least, to mount a rearguard action and attempt to buy more time?”

Stevenson scrutinized the map carefully, his gaze darting to every nook and cranny. Finally he had concluded with no small amount of reluctance that he could not.

The Colonel took out his fob watch and opened its lid. Even under the starlight, his keen eyes could pick out the hands easily. It was going on for four o’clock in the morning. Another hour’s march remained to them, he reasoned, maybe an hour and a half, but no more than that. He sneaked a sideways look at Wellesley. The General seemed lost in his own universe, probably trying to anticipate the events of the coming days. That was all well and good, in Stevenson’s eyes at any rate. After all, seeing the future should be a general’s primary focus.

He just hoped that in this case, Wellesley saw it clearly. Otherwise there would be a lot of British blood on his hands.

It wasn’t a battle.

It was a slaughter.

The people of Talwada never stood a chance. Before the village was awake and ready to farm the fields, the undead were at their doors. Hundreds of the creatures thronged the narrow streets, pushing past one another, shoving one other aside in their haste to get at the warm, succulent flesh that awaited them inside each of the houses.

Thousands more of the creatures waited on the outskirts, equally hungry but nonetheless obedient to the mental commands issued by their mistress. Admittedly, it took a little sustained effort in order for her to retain her concentration in order to keep them in check, she had found, but Jamelia was becoming increasingly skilled at doing so with every passing hour.

While the majority of the horde thronged the village perimeter and simply waited, the chosen few who were fortunate enough to have been allowed entry into Talwada went about their assigned purpose with gusto. A few weapons were raised here and there – swords, mostly, along with the occasional knife or kitchen implement – and one or two injuries were inflicted on the invaders by their panicking victims, but by and large the slaughter was one-sided.

Jamelia forced the creatures to exercise restraint, or at least what passed for it among their kind. Blood was shed and flesh devoured, true, but none of the villagers were torn apart. After all, the tigress reasoned, they would make a useful supplement to the ranks of her army.

When the killing was finally over and the dust had settled, Jamelia wandered down into the streets to see things for herself. Some of the first villagers to be attacked were already beginning to rise again, staggering drunkenly out of their doorways and gazing upon the new day with looks of confusion on their faces.

The buildings were all still mostly intact. A door had been broken in here, a curtain torn down there, but no damage had been done which she could not personally repair over the space of an hour or two.

Perfect.

As she had ordered, her ragtag band of ‘soldiers’ had left a few of the villagers alive. Scared almost halfway out of their wits, ten of them were herded into a walled-off garden, watched over by a bunch of slavering former redcoats. Every time one of the living took so much as a step in any direction, the hungry undead countered it with a threatening growl.

All that remained now was to bait the trap. Closing her eyes and falling into a state of deep concentration, she called out to the mass of creatures on the outskirts of the village, bidding them to come and join her inside the dusty streets.

“You are afraid,” Jamelia croaked, through vocal chords that were dead and beginning to hurt. She paced in front of the ten people, each of whom was an adult, and all that remained of the population of Talwada…at least, all that still lived and breathed. “That is understandable. Already the bodies of your loved ones are rising up from death and taking their place among the ranks of my army. An army which serves the most munificent goddess, Kali.”

Frightened murmurs passed between them at the mention of her name. The Dark Mother was both feared and respected throughout the entire region.

“The Dark Mother’s army has one purpose: To drive the most hated English from our lands for all time…or failing that, to exterminate them on the field of battle, to the last man. You and your fellow villagers will play a pivotal role in this most glorious of causes.”

The villagers seemed less than convinced, which really wasn’t surprising when one considered the fact that the bodies of people they had known and cared for were now eyeing them hungrily, as though sizing them up for their next meal. Jamelia decided to take a different tack.

“The British are coming here. They are on their way to us now.” She eyed an older man who wore a grey robe. The man was fat and had a long grey beard. A mane of grey hair ran down the length of his back, disheveled and unruly. He seemed to possess an air of leadership, slight and dented though it might have been. “We shall meet them here, in the center of the village.

“Once the battle is over, the goddess will return all of your loved ones to their former condition, warm and breathing once more.” Jamelia was lying through her teeth. The Dark Mother had given her no such undertaking. She wasn’t even sure if such a thing was possible, even for a deity as powerful as the goddess. But Jamelia needed the villagers to be motivated, and there was no greater motivator than hope – it even defeated fear. The survivors were afraid now, terrified of being eaten alive by the ravenous beasts surrounding them. She had just offered them a way out, and she suspected that they would be only too willing to clutch at that last desperate straw.

In fact, she was counting on it. And based upon the sudden change of expression she saw on the villagers’ faces, they were already buying into it..

Of one thing, there was no doubt in her mind whatsoever: Talwada hadn’t seen its last bout of slaughter. Not by a very long shot.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Shadows kept up a brisk, yet still sustainable pace throughout their long trek. Their new captain was sensible enough to let the CSM set their speed of march. Colin was still getting accustomed to the fact that he was developing astounding new levels of strength, speed, and agility. He could feel the increasing potential already, surging through his veins and arteries with every beat of his heart. Left to his own devices, the were-tiger could quite comfortably have run all the way to Talwada and fought an infantry battalion all by himself when he got there; at least, that was how his new body now felt.

“Reckon we’re covering about four, maybe five miles an hour,” Nichols remarked, taking one of his canteens out and drinking a mouthful of the precious water. It was a quarter past noon, and the heat was beginning to bake everything on the barren plain. “We should be there by nightfall at this rate, or not long after, if what that villager said was true.”

The men had kept up easily, and both the officer and the NCO were pleased to see that none had fallen out, a casualty of either heat exhaustion or too much arrack. The latter plagued Wellesley’s army – as it did the entire British contingent throughout India – and a combination of both drunkenness and dehydration could incapacitate a soldier far more effectively than an enemy musket ball. Despite the commanding general’s propensity for dealing harshly (sometimes fatally) with such offenders, the ranks were still thinned by a steady stream of drunkards who sought to escape the drudgery and discomfort of life under the Indian sun.

“Something’s been bothering me, CSM,” Campbell said after a moment. “All morning, I’ve been unable to shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. And now I’ve just realized what it is.”

“Sir?”

“The undead. We haven’t run into any. Not a single one since we broke away from the main force.”

Thinking about it for a moment, Nichols realized that the captain was right. On their long march from Ahmednuggur to Assaye, the army had fought off attacks by the hungry dead on a daily (and also nightly) basis. They had ranged in size from individual creatures, small packets of twos and threes, all the way up to gaggles of ten or more. No wonder every man, woman, and child in the column had been perpetually on edge.

The small half-company had run into no such resistance, at least not so far. It may be that this part of the Deccan was so desolate. They had passed no villages, settlements, not even the occasional nomad. No life at all, except for the ever-present vultures riding the thermals above them.

“You’re right, sir. It is a bit peculiar.”

“Damned peculiar, if you ask me.” Campbell agreed, sounding perturbed. “We’d do well to keep a sharp eye out.”

They trekked on for the better part of the day. True to CSM Nichols’ prediction, the sun was barely below the western horizon when the point man, a soldier by the name of Wedding, stopped in his tracks and held up a hand in warning.

The half-company halted. On either flank, the men dropped to one knee and turned to face outward, cradling their muskets loosely but ready to bring them into the ready position upon command. Five men formed the rearguard. They about-faced, and did the same thing, each man scanning the desolate landscape out to the far horizon.

Nothing stirred.

Each man welcomed the onset of nightfall, coming as it did to provide relief from the daytime’s brutal heat. Every collar was sweat-soaked, and the Shadows gave silent thanks that their captain was enough of a non-traditionalist to allow them to dispense with the stiff leather stocks that regulation specified British soldiers wear around their necks. The devices were intended to force a man to keep his head up, front, and facing the enemy. Every redcoat hated them, for the rough material bit into the underside of his chin, chafing the jawline until it bled.

Nichols had been canny enough to collect every one of the damned things when he was promoted to Company Sergeant Major, and although he had been tempted to dump the lot of them into the closest river, knew the army well enough to suspect that one day, some overly zealous cock of a quartermaster would scrutinize the company ledger and demand to know exactly what had become of them…at which point, he would be financially liable for their loss.

Compromising, Nichols had stuffed the lot of them inside a pair of unused grain sacks and stuck them with the baggage train. Let the bullocks haul the bastards, he had thought to himself smugly.

He saw that the Captain was making his way forward to join Wedding. The way that he moved had changed ever since his transformation, Nichols noted: the man stalked rather than walked, every step he took a predatory one. The CSM went over to join them on the low rise, squatting alongside them.

“There we are,” Campbell said, sotto voce. He pointed into the distance. “Talwada.”

Although it was difficult to judge accurately in the dark, Nichols thought that the small group of dark shapes was about a mile away, perhaps a mile and a half. Several points of dancing orange light had to be cooking fires, the CSM reasoned, which made a lot of sense. Dusk was suppertime, after all. He couldn’t make out a great deal apart from that. The Captain, on the other hand, had enhanced night vision, and could see a lot more.

“A few clustered buildings, all of them just a single floor. Five small fires.” Campbell squinted into the darkness. His nose twitched. “They’re roasting meat for their dinner. Goat, by the smell of it.”

Nichols and Wedding exchanged a look. Neither of them could smell a thing on the arid early evening air. Just how sensitive was the Captain’s sense of smell now?

“There are a few people sitting around the fires,” Campbell went on. “I can’t be entirely sure at this distance, but I’d say that there are at least seven, maybe eight.”

“That isn’t a lot,” Nichols frowned.

“No, it isn’t,” the Captain agreed, “and it’s a little early for everybody to have gone to bed, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would, sir. Do you think it’s a trap?”

“Anything is possible, but I fail to see quite how. Unless there’s an enemy force hidden somewhere in the surrounding area.” Campbell rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“What about inside the village?”

“Doubtful, CSM. For starters, it looks to be pretty small. Not that many buildings, and they’re not all that big. Of course, I’d like a closer look before making any decisions.”

“Sounds good to me, sir.” Nichols let out a long breath. “So what happens next?”

“Nothing tonight. At least, nothing from you lot.” The Captain unbuckled his sword belt, setting it carefully beside him on the ground, and began to unbutton his red tunic. “Put the men into a defensive position for the night, CSM. Let’s say a fifty/fifty split; half of them sleep and eat while the other half are on guard.”

“Very good sir,” Nichols nodded. “I assume no fires of any kind?”

“You assume correctly. No fires at all. The lads can drink water only – no bloody arrack, understood? – and eat cold rations. One night won’t kill them, and tomorrow we can go back to cooking fires.”