The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) (24 page)

Each man had fixed his bayonet, which was part silver and part steel, prior to making the advance. The blades glowed balefully in the starlight, yet so far, nobody in the village seemed to have noticed the weapons moving slowly and deliberately toward their home. They still sat around their fires, staring wordlessly into the flames and contemplating heaven knew what.

Dan Nichols was the only man in his part of the attack that lacked a partner, which was by design rather than by chance. He wanted to hang back, not through any lack of courage (no man who knew him could ever accuse him of cowardice) but rather because his place was to observe and direct, keeping a weather eye on the bigger picture.

For his part, Captain Campbell did the same. However, the tiger knew that the moment Jamelia's whereabouts were uncovered, he would spring into the attack. There was simply no other option; the tigress was more than capable of cutting a bloody swathe of carnage through the ranks of his men -- his men -- in the space of just a few heartbeats.

He wasn't prepared to let that happen.

The leading pairs had made it past the outskirts of the village now, and began working their way to the first buildings they came across. Darkened alleyways and gardens were cleared with maximum efficiency.

Then it was time to kick in the first door.

The wood was flimsy, offering next to no resistance to the redcoat's boot. Nichols had trained them to kick faster rather than harder, whether putting the boot into a door or sticking it in the balls of an enemy. Private Gareth Gregson had learned his lesson well. The door splintered, smashed into smithereens. Gregson stepped backward smartly from the ruined mess, allowing his partner to charge through the open door with the point of his bayonet leading the way.

"Clear!"

Gregson and his partner regrouped and then peeled off to clear the next hovel. All around them, their brothers in arms were engaged in exactly the same thing. From his vantage point at the top end of what looked to be the Main Street, their CSM was more than a little confused. He could see the bayonets going forward, questing from house to house, and hear the shouts of the redcoats as they went about their work.

Where the devil
was
she?

At the first sounds of breaking and entry, the villagers began to look up, their reverie broken. Seeing the redcoats swarming into the streets and houses, they broke and ran: Not for cover, Nichols noted, but for the edge of the village.

They know that things are about to get bad.

He fingered his own musket absently, holding it in a loose grip. He wasn't one for nervousness, generally speaking, but there was something about this whole setup that made him think it was...well, a
setup
. Surely the tigress hadn't taken up residence in Talwada all on her own, had she?

In the firelight up ahead, he could just about make out the shadowy outlines of more men; the captain's men, the second pincer moving in to join their own. So far there had been no musket shots; in fact, there had been little more disturbance than the sound of breaking doors and of men calling out: "
Clear!
"

Nichols made his way forward, rendezvousing with the friendlier of the two tigers that he expected to encounter this night.

"Still haven't found her, sir," he said, stating the obvious.

If Campbell was annoyed at the remark, he did not seem to show it. Then again, Dan wondered how exactly a tiger could show annoyance, short of baring it's fangs and growling; flicking its tail, perhaps? The captain's nose twitched. "She's here, CSM. I can smell her. We simply have to keep looking."

Which is exactly what the men did. The two pincers had merged into one know, which actually made Nichols feel a little better. The men were in a more favorable position to provide mutually supporting fire, to back one another up if things got out of hand.

"There's only the center of the village left," the CSM pointed out, nodding toward a big boxy shape looming out of the darkness. Some sort of communal hall, perhaps?

"Then let's go ahead and see what we shall see," Campbell agreed, leading the way. "Her stink is getting stronger with every yard."

The great cat padded toward the large structure, and now he did growl, a low, throaty rumble of challenge. Nichols wondered if the captain even knew that he was doing it, or whether it was slipping out purely by instinct.

When they arrived at the ramshackle hall, the two leaders walked all the way around it in a clockwise fashion, looking it over as best they could in the dark. One walked on two legs, the other on four, yet they both maintained the same slow, almost leisurely pace. More detail was visible to the captain's enhanced vision than to the CSM's. There was only one entrance and exit: A set of large wooden doors that looked a little heavier than those that had barred their way into the private residences.

"The trail leads here," Campbell confirmed, before the CSM had time to ask. "She's inside. She has to be."

"Take it by storm, sir?" Nichols sounded hopeful, but he half-expected his captain to jump in with both feet and want to take the tigress on all by himself, a one-on-one between the two great beasts.

For his part, Campbell was seriously considering doing exactly that. But he quickly discarded the notion. This wasn't a gentlemanly matter of officer facing off against officer in a duel; rather, it was about bringing a fugitive enemy combatant to heel. Why else had he brought half of his entire company along with him?

Odds of nearly fifty against one may not exactly be sporting, but all's fair in love and war. Besides, after what this cunning little bitch did the last time she went into action, I have no desire to let her out of my sight ever again.

"No," he said at last. Nichols regarded him with surprise. "We don't know what manner of traps may be laying in wait for us beyond those doors." The senior NCO gave a sharp intake of breath. "And before you say it, CSM, no...I am not going in after her alone, either."

"Surely you're not planning on waiting around for her to come out of her own accord, sir. I don't know how long one of your...er, one of her kind could go without food and water."

"Too long for our purposes. No, CSM, I have a better idea by far." Campbell looked toward the closest cooking fire, now abandoned by the two villagers who had been sitting there when the British entered the village. He gave a low growl and then sniffed at the air. "Have the men establish a cordon around the building. Doesn't smell as though there's anybody else inside, apart from Jamelia. Which means that anything which comes out of that building earns itself a silver bullet and a bayonet."

"Very good, sir." A broad grin began to spread slowly across Dan's face. He was starting to see where the captain was going with this.

"Then send six of the men to fetch some wood and stack it around the outer walls. As soon as we have a decent enough pile, we'll burn the place to the bloody ground."

Deep within the bowels of the village meeting hall, Jamelia lay comfortably on a bed made out of old rags and linens. She had gotten a decent amount of sleep today, which was surprising, considering just how hot and close the air was inside the sealed-off wooden structure. No matter what the temperature was, since her death and subsequent resurrection, she seemed to feel permanently cold.

How else should one expect death to feel?

She was still growing accustomed to this new state of being. Some of the things that had characterized her old life were no longer concerns for her; for example, she no longer needed to draw breath. And yet she still drew breath in when necessary, for how else was she to roar, growl, and speak?

Parts of her were beginning to rot. Her once-lustrous coat was beginning to shed, it's hair falling out in clumps, exposing bare patches of grey flesh. Some of those were also rotting away; beneath one such section of her right foreleg, she could see the gleam of bone between a gap in the striated muscle.

Her body still craved food, the same warm flesh that it had demanded before, but this time the hunger was a constant compulsion that drove her to distraction, gnawing away at her. She hadn't eaten for two days now, and had been meticulous about not feeding on the villagers. Her reasons for this were in no way altruistic; she simply wished to spill the minimum amount of blood possible, in case Wellesley (or one of his fellow vampires) smelled it when they arrived, as they inevitably must.

She had commanded the creatures in her army to feed sparingly, an order against which they had tried vainly to disobey. Her will was iron, and despite the mindless bloodlust that drove each and every one of them to feed upon living humans, they had all ultimately fallen into line. Each villager had provided a single bite, no more than two, to the ravening horde that had fallen upon their home. Then they had risen again, to join the ranks of their attackers beneath the banner of the Dark Mother.

And now the English were here. She had heard them approach, the soft tread of many pairs of leather boots upon the ground. No matter how lightly they stepped and how silent they tried to be, there was no hiding from the heightened senses of one such as she...unless a vampire approached, or another of her own kind, which she acknowledged was a very real danger. The vampire officers had no odor for her to pick up on, but it was safe to assume that they would come along with the men they led.

Fortunately, the British have none such as I among their ranks. The snobbery and elitism of the vampires precludes it.

Her sense of smell was severely handicapped in this place. There was very little air movement, and what little there was had to sneak in between cracks and small openings such as those around the doorframe. She had barricaded the door with wooden tables and other sturdy items that had been there for the taking when she entered. It wouldn't withstand a serious assault, but then again, it wasn't meant to; its sole purpose was to hold the British up, keep them occupied while she did what needed to be done.

And the time for that was now.

Jamelia closed her eyes, shutting out the world around her and sending out psychic feelers in all directions. She touched each and every one of her thousands of soldiers, and sent them all the same command:

Rise.

And as one, her army obeyed.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The redcoats eyed the building warily, bayoneted muskets at the ready. Nichols had tried the double doors, gingerly at first, and then with a little more force. They opened no more than half an inch inward before meeting resistance.

"Barricaded," he spat in disgust.

"Shouldn't be a problem, CSM." Campbell watched a pair of his Shadows walked up, each bearing a load of firewood cradled in their arms. They each dumped their burden up against the base of the outer wall, each faggot making a harsh clatter that seemed obtrusive in the otherwise still night. Then they went back to fetch another round.

The firewood was beginning to stack up nicely, Campbell noted with approval. Without knowing that he was doing it, the great cat kept unsheathing and retracting his claws, eager to be at Jamelia's throat.

Then another sound caught his ear. Something...something was not right. He half-turned, cocking his head to the right. The sound had come from perhaps twenty feet away, along the street of hard-packed dirt that the two wood-bearers had just taken.

It sounded like...crumbling, something breaking apart.

There came another sound, similar to the first, from somewhere off to their left, around the corner of the hall. Then a third, behind them.

In half a minute, the noises were everywhere.

"Sir?" Nichols gave him a quizzical look. "Something wrong?"

He didn't answer for a moment. There was no denying it: There was something wrong. The noise was now a cacophony, hundreds — no,
thousands
— of the strange sounds, all of them coming from ground level.

Or lower.

And suddenly, with a flash of intuition, he finally realized what was happening.

We've been humbugged. They were in the ground. They have been all along. No wonder the homes were all empty...

Dark shapes were emerging from the ground all around the astonished British soldiers. The human eye couldn't make out any more than shapes and outlines at first, but Campbell's preternatural night vision saw them for what they truly were.

Hands.

Arms.

Heads.

Bodies.

"Light the fire," Campbell ordered, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that was now taking hold deep within his gut. "Light the bloody fire
.
Now.
"

The first moans and wails were simply the capstone on what Colin Campbell now knew, with steadily mounting horror, to be true.

Talwada was a village of the dead.

And now they were rising.

The redcoats looked around them, momentarily stunned into silence by the sight of thousands of hungry corpses, all scraping their way out of hastily-dug shallow graves. In the flickering firelight, the disbelieving Shadows caught glimpses of the hungry dead emerging, their fingertips scraped bloody, often worn down to the bone by the process of burrowing into the earth like animals.