The Maharajah's General (14 page)

‘We wait. Let’s hope they are feeling friendly.’

‘And if not?’ Isabel reached across, resting her hand on Jack’s leg as she sought reassurance.

Jack barely felt her touch. He sensed his body tensing as it did in the moments before battle. This time he was unarmed and completely unable to fight. He had never felt so impotent.

‘Then you turn the head of that damn horse around and gallop like the fiends of hell are chasing you.’

‘You won’t be able to keep up.’ Isabel’s voice was mocking, despite the danger.

‘I’ll not even try.’ Jack reached down and took her hand in a firm grip. ‘But you must.’ He squeezed hard to emphasise the seriousness of his words. ‘I will delay them and you will ride back to Bhundapur and beg for your father’s forgiveness.’

Isabel opened her mouth to protest, but Jack let go of her hand, silencing her with a raised finger. ‘You will do as I say, Isabel.’

He gave her no time to reply. Touching his heels to the sides of his horse, he eased it into a walk. He would not sit and wait meekly for his fate to arrive.

He gathered his reins into one hand, doing his best to adjust his weight to cover the slight tremor that threatened to topple him from the saddle. Then he lifted his free hand and rode to meet the Maharajah’s lancers.

The fortress rose sharply from the plain. It dominated the skyline, demanding attention. It was a prantara-durga, a hilltop fortress, and it had been the home of the maharajahs of Sawadh for centuries.

The walls were immense. Made from huge blocks of stone, they rose from the sheer sides of the hillside as if they had been carved from the very rock on which they stood. At their top, the battlements looked down on the wide plain with arrogance, the wide embrasures and merlons arrayed in tight, calculated patterns that would allow the defenders to pour a merciless fire on anyone foolish enough to try to assault the mighty fortress. Huge bastions had been built along the walls, bolstering the strength of the defences. This complex arrangement of wall and tower followed the contours of the hillside, forming five angled sides with a solitary gate at the very centre of the southernmost wall. The natural shape gave the fortress its name. It was the Taragarh, the star fort, and it was impregnable.

The wide stone walls of the fortress had been built as far out as the hillside allowed to create a wide area between them and the citadel that sat serenely in the very centre of the defences. Part palace and part stronghold, the Taragarh was the final bastion of the Maharajah’s power. It had been attacked many times in the five hundred years since it had first been built. Many local chiefs and rulers had cast envious glances at its imposing defences. None had come close to making good on their ambition, not a single assault breaching the walls, their hopes left to rot and fester amidst the corpses of their soldiers.

The fortress had not been left to idle complacently through the centuries. Successive maharajahs had sought to improve the defences, seeking to secure their advantage as the years passed and warfare changed beyond all recognition. Pragmatically-minded engineers had been summoned to the distant site, their knowledge used to apply the latest stratagems of warfare, adapting the stronghold to better counter the many advances in the art of war.

The power of gunpowder had brought about the most radical changes, to prevent the Taragarh becoming nothing more than a relic of the past, an easy target for the cannons and siege trains that could destroy the proudest and longest-standing fortress in a matter of days. The height of the massive walls had been reduced, whilst their base was thickened and strengthened. The pattern of crenellations and merlons had been altered to create wide embrasures for dozens of cannon to be aimed outwards, their overlapping fields of fire calculated with meticulous care. The ancient citadel was given all the power of the modern world.

Lest the cold application of mathematics and science leave the Taragarh barren and ugly, the maharajahs also summoned the finest architects and artists and employed the best craftsmen and painters to make sure that the palace hidden within rivalled the splendour of any other. Artworks, carvings and mosaics created a place of beauty within the steadfast fortress, a haven of luxurious tranquillity and charm wrapped in all the brutal trappings of war.

Jack’s neck ached from looking upwards for so long. He had stared in fascination at the fortress that loomed above them, its high walls and bastions towering over the small party that had made its way down from the high ground. The sheer sides of the hillside rose dramatically from the floor of the wide plain that surrounded it, the smooth rocky surface soaring upwards for a hundred feet even before the walls themselves began. It was an impressive sight, and he could easily understand why the first maharajahs had selected this location for their citadel.

The ground began to incline under the feet of the horses as they started on to a broad ramp that began hundreds of yards from the main gate, turning sharply left and right at least a dozen times to make the approach to the single entrance long and slow. The breeze that had cooled them for much of the ride picked up as they mounted the exposed slope, the blue and white pennants near the tips of the lancers’ weapons fluttering madly in the fast-moving air.

Jack turned in the saddle, grimacing as the movement scraped at the sore flesh of his thighs, rubbed raw by the long ride into the depths of the Maharajah’s kingdom. He looked across at Isabel, catching her eye and sharing a tired, fleeting smile as the end of their journey came into sight.

They had barely spoken since they had spied the Maharajah’s men. To their relief, the four lancers had been part of the force that had destroyed the Tiger’s stronghold. Their leader, a burly, heavily bearded fellow with thick gold bands on his sleeve, had recognised the couple as being the same white-faced foreigners they had rescued a few days previously. It had taken a great deal of gesturing and hand-waving to convince him that they were trying to return to the Maharajah, and Jack was still not sure if they now journeyed as guests or prisoners. Yet the lancers had escorted them in safety and now led them up the long ramp to the entrance into the beautiful but cruel Taragarh.

The gateway to the citadel dominated the top of the ramp. The enormous timber gates were covered in hundreds of spikes arrayed in an ordered pattern so that not one inch was left uncovered, a defence against the might of the elephants that could be used by an attacker to try to batter a passage into the fortress. Each of the two massive gates had been pushed open to admit the long line of carts and wagons that was making the laborious climb up to the fortress. The lancers were forced to dawdle behind the bullock-pulled carts bringing fresh produce to the garrison, the narrow ramp leaving no space for them to force a way past.

The delay gave Jack time to think and to prepare for meeting the Maharajah for a second time. As he studied the seat of the man’s immense power, he started to doubt the wisdom of their choice. He no longer thought of the Maharajah as the kindred spirit to whom he had been able to speak so freely. The man who commanded such a mighty fortress could never be a friend, an equal. Their decision to throw themselves on the mercy of the ruler of this strange, very foreign land suddenly seemed utterly foolish.

By the time they neared the top of the long ramp, he had convinced himself that the most likely outcome was a period of incarceration before they were swiftly sent back to the British authorities. That would be the pragmatic thing for the Maharajah to do. After all, it was the British who now administered his land, and the return of the pair of escapees would certainly garner him favour. With a heavy heart Jack resigned himself to facing the last moments of his temporary respite with as much grace as he could muster.

The cool of the gatehouse was unexpected. Once past the thick gates, the small group of horsemen entered a narrow passageway that first turned sharply to the right, before almost immediately turning to the left. Curious as ever, Jack craned his neck as they passed through the dark space, trying to count the vast number of chutes and arrow slits that covered its walls and ceilings. Any attacking force that somehow managed to force the gates would find themselves in this murderous place, their movements confined by the walls, under constant attack through the multitude of openings that would allow the defenders to bring down a dreadful storm of missiles on their heads, with God knew what horrors poured through the wide chutes in the ceiling. The thought sent an involuntary shudder through him, and he felt as much of an interloper as any attacking soldier.

As they reached the end of the passage, the small party was halted at the back of the queue of wagons that waited patiently for the guards to inspect each and every delivery. The guards were as neatly uniformed as the blue-coated lancers. Their livery was dark blue, with thick red seams running down their trousers. Their short coatees were decorated with red cuffs and collars with three rows of gold frogging across the front. On their heads were Kilmarnock caps, similar to those worn by Dutton’s native troops, with red piping decorating the dark blue cloth that matched their coats. Jack noticed that several sported bright red sashes; these, along with thick white stripes on their sleeves, presumably denoted their higher rank. They were as smart a group of soldiers as he had ever seen. Even their full black beards were neat and uniform. It was as if the Maharajah had been able to replicate a single perfect specimen over and over again, creating an army from one faultless mould.

Their uniforms may have been as fine as any seen on the parade squares of the British cantonments, but their weapons showed that these were not merely ceremonial soldiers. Each guardsman wore a curving sabre at his hip that hung from a thick blue sash belted tightly around his waist, with a vicious-looking curving knife held in a separate scabbard in the small of the back. Jack could not fail to be impressed, and he once again wondered why Dutton had been so dismissive of the Maharajah’s forces.

‘You!’

The single barked word took Jack by surprise. They had been slowly inching towards the guards. There was still one cart in front of them when one of the Maharajah’s men lifted a finger and pointed in Jack’s direction.

‘You there! I’m speaking to you.’

To Jack’s astonishment, the words were delivered in a thick Scottish brogue.

‘Are you deaf, man? I asked you a damn question.’

The cart in front of them pulled away, the driver turning to look fearfully over his shoulder as he heard the raised voices around him. Jack watched him go with envy, wishing his own passage into the fortress could be so swift.

The officer with the astonishing accent strode purposefully to stand at Jack’s stirrup. ‘Listen, laddie, I’ll try to make this easy for you. Start by telling me your name.’

‘Danbury. James Danbury.’ Jack used the name he had given the Maharajah when they had first met.

‘See! That wasn’t so hard, now was it? I am Subedar Khan.’ The guardsman introduced himself before turning away, issuing a rapid series of commands in a language Jack did not recognise.

The lancers who had brought them to the fortress were clearly being dismissed, and they seemed more than happy to abandon Jack and Isabel to Khan’s men, riding away without a backward glance. Jack wondered if they were relieved to have passed on the responsibility for the two foreigners.

‘If you and your lady friend could please dismount.’ Khan stood back as he spoke, clearly expecting Jack to obey immediately and looking up in obvious disappointment as he failed to do so. ‘Now.’ The subedar pointed at the ground, in case Jack was having trouble understanding the request.

Jack heard the tone in Khan’s voice. As a redcoat, he had become well used to unquestioningly obeying his superiors. They might have hailed from very different armies, but it was clear that the subedar was used to a similar level of instant obedience.

He looked across to Isabel and saw the same look of incredulity he was sure was on his own face. He shrugged and slid from the saddle, confident that Isabel would follow suit.

‘That’s better.’ Subedar Khan towered over Jack as they finally stood face to face. ‘You’re going to come with me. If you try any funny business, I’ll rip your head off and shit in the hole. You understand that?’

Jack nodded, doing his best not to smile at the subedar’s turn of phrase.

Khan grunted in disapproval and turned to lead Jack and Isabel out of the entranceway and into the fortress proper.

The antechamber was as comfortable as any room Jack had ever seen. Even the officers’ mess back in Aldershot, where he had served as an orderly, compared badly to the opulent chamber that spoke of wealth and luxury on an almost unimaginable scale. Slim silk-lined couches sat neatly on three sides of the room, each the deep purple of ripe plums and covered with a liberal layer of plump cushions decorated with intricate patterns of golden thread. The white marble floor was nearly completely covered with the deep reds and yellows of a Persian rug, whilst the walls were decorated with silk hangings that matched the colour of the couches. A series of richly coloured paintings ran around the room. They told the story of a hunt, a finely dressed rider depicted chasing down an enormous boar until, in the final picture, he stood astride the beast, his thick-shafted spear buried deep in the animal’s heart. Jack had a feeling that he would shortly know precisely how the boar felt. Isabel stood in front of this last painting, her fingers gently tracing the intricate carving on its frame, entranced by the detail of the work.

Yet for all its finery, the room had been chosen as a secure place to hold unwanted guests. There were no windows and the single door was shut tight; Jack had heard the sound of a heavy bolt being thrown when they were left alone. It was a room of charm and elegance, but it was still a prison, for all its opulence. Their cage might have been gilded, but they were as much prisoners now as they had been when captured by the Tiger and his bandits.

Jack rose swiftly to his feet the moment he heard loud footsteps outside the door to the antechamber. He had been perched on the edge of one of the couches, unwilling to lounge back into the luxurious seat lest he fall asleep the moment he relaxed.

The door was thrown back and Subedar Khan strode purposefully into the room, his face creased in a scowl. A thin-framed man followed him, trying to screen himself behind the guardsman’s robust body. He was dressed in a simple white kurta with a sky-blue pagdi wrapped tightly around his head and a matching sash tied around his bony waist. In his hands he carried a thick red ledger on which he had carefully balanced a fine white quill and an ornate china inkwell.