The Maharajah's General (19 page)

He heard the roar of the wounded animal before he saw it, a deep, guttural shriek of pain and anger. He could see the patch of undergrowth where the boar had gone down, a dense tangle of thorny bush covered thickly with vines. He braced his arm, readying it to strike, aiming to bring his horse directly past the matted bushes so that he could thrust his spear down and take the wounded animal from the side as he rushed by.

A shadowy figure flashed past his left-hand side, followed quickly by another. Jack had the sense of movement all around him, dark outlines erupting from the undergrowth on both sides. All thoughts of the wounded pig disappeared in a heartbeat as the first screams rang out, the cries of men launched to the attack echoing around him.

A figure burst out of the bush to Jack’s left. He was dressed in a filthy robe that might once have been white but was now torn and stained to a muddy grey. Yet the flash of his talwar was bright as he rushed forward, his mouth open wide in a war cry.

Jack twisted in the saddle, yanking on the reins as he tried to turn to face the sudden threat. The ambusher was on him the moment his horse slowed. There was no time to react and he could only watch in horror as the bandit raised his weapon. The talwar slashed forward, the blade flashing once in a beam of sunlight before it thumped into the neck of Jack’s horse.

The beast screamed in agony as the weapon ripped through its flesh, blood gushing from the dreadful wound. The stricken animal pumped its legs, still trying to obey its rider’s command. Yet it was too badly wounded. Its forelegs buckled, its strength failing fast.

Jack pushed against the saddle as he felt the horse going down, kicking the poor beast mercilessly as he struggled to get free. For one dreadful moment his boot stuck in a stirrup, but he ripped it out and threw himself to one side, thumping painfully into the muddy ground. In an instant he had scrambled to his feet, ignoring the flash of agony that followed the jarring impact, knowing he had only moments before he would have to fight for his life. As soon as he found his footing, he brought the heavy shaft of his pig-sticking spear across his body, his hands locked liked claws into the thick wood. He had barely a moment to plant his feet on the slippery ground before the ambusher was on him.

The talwar slashed forward, a controlled swipe at Jack’s neck that he parried with the shaft of his spear. The bandit leered as he attacked again, his mouth twisted with hate. The blows came fast now, attack following attack with such speed that Jack was denied any chance to counter, his bamboo spear hacked and splintered as he was forced to block blow after blow.

He was being driven steadily backwards, forced to give ground as the bandit came at him relentlessly. Somehow he kept his composure, an eerie calm descending on him as he fought. He read his opponent’s intentions in his eyes and each time he was able to place the thick shaft of his spear in the right place to counter the vicious blows. He defended patiently. Waiting for the chance to strike back.

The bandit’s foot came down on a patch of sodden earth layered with a slimy crust of brown mould. It took him no more than a heartbeat to feel himself beginning to slip, but it gave Jack the opening he had been waiting for. The instant he realised what had happened, he whipped the spear around so the point was at his assailant’s stomach, then stamped his foot forward just as he had been taught in a hundred sessions on the grey, damp training grounds of England, using the spear as an improvised bayonet and musket.

An explosive grunt was torn from his mouth as he thrust the sharp point into the bandit’s stomach. The heavy spear was designed to pierce the tough hide of a wild boar, and it punched into the man’s body with ease. He tore the spearhead free from the wound and thrust again, mercilessly hammering it past the man’s hands, which were desperately trying to wave it away. The tip tore through the man’s throat, ripping a grotesque hole in his neck, the sudden eruption of blood bright red against the backdrop of matted jungle.

Jack felt no shame at his vicious assault. There was no time for remorse now that the ambush had been sprung. As the first bandit dropped to the ground, he was already turning to find where the rest of the shadowy figures had gone.

The sounds of combat came from no more than a dozen yards away, but the dense undergrowth prevented Jack from having a clear view of exactly who was fighting whom. He had no idea who had come to attack the hunters, but he did not care. There would be time for understanding later. Without a backward glance he charged towards the noise. It was time to see how the arrogant young man was faring against an opponent who fought back.

The shouts of anger and confusion grew louder as Jack ran. The thick swathe of jungle masked some of the sounds, the dense vegetation muffling even the harsh noise of combat. It made it unlikely that any of the other groups of hunters would be able to hear the fight. Jack knew then that he and his three fellow spears were on their own.

As he burst from the undergrowth, he realised that a desperate struggle was taking place. Two of the riders were still in the saddle. Their horses reared and plunged as a press of bodies circled around them, looking for an opportunity to attack. The third horse was down and Jack could see nothing of the rider beneath the hacking talwars of three bandits. A dozen bandits were attacking the three horsemen, each as filthy and dishevelled as the one Jack had already struck down. Only one wore black robes.

Jack felt nothing of the madness that had erupted from the blackest depths of his being at the Alma. In its place was coldness, his rational mind holding sway against the insanity of battle. He tasted the bitter tang of fear, the gut-churning horror that he could be about to die. Yet still he threw himself forward without hesitation, gambling on violence and speed to overwhelm the attackers.

He leapt over a fallen log and rammed his heavy spear into the back of one of the bandits circling the riders. A thin mail coat over heavy blue robes protected the man, but the vicious spear punched through it all as if it were silk. The force of the attack drove the spear clean through the man’s body, the tip erupting in a gory explosion from his stomach, his anguished howl of horror the last sound he would ever make.

Jack was drawing his new talwar even before the man had hit the ground, abandoning the heavy spear now that it was inextricably embedded in the man’s body. The bandits’ heads whirled around at the unexpected assault from the darkness of the jungle, their eyes showing white under their tightly bound pagdis. His second target had no longer than a single heartbeat to glimpse his attacker. It was time enough for his mouth to gape open in shock before Jack’s talwar slashed across his neck, ripping out his throat.

The proud young nobleman roared as Jack flew into the bandits like a berserker of old. The boy was brave, fighting hard. He spurred his horse forward, using the confusion that Jack’s attack had caused to thrust his spear down into the breast of one of his assailants.

His companion was not so lucky. The black-robed Tiger sensed his men’s fear at the sudden assault and pushed himself to the fore, striding into the vicious battle. His heavy talwar drove forward, cleaving the closest rider’s spear in two, the raw power of the assault unstoppable. The terrified hunter dropped the ruined weapon and reached for his own talwar, but the Tiger was simply too fast. Recovering his sword from the blow, he brought it around in a glittering arc above his head before smashing it across the mounted hunter’s breast. The talwar drove deep, tearing a wide gouge that gushed forth a torrent of blood. The man toppled silently from the saddle, two of the bandits pouncing before he had stopped moving, driving their own blades into his dying body.

Jack fought on, slashing his sword forward, only to scream in frustration as his next victim turned in time and parried the blow, driving both blades wide. Jack ignored the wild defence and stamped forward into the opening, slamming his head forward so it crashed viciously into his opponent’s face. The bandit crumpled, his nose pulped, the blood smothering the hands that he clutched to his battered face. Jack was merciless and he immediately thrust his sword down, piercing the man’s body as it fell, driving the tip through his back and into his heart.

A shriek of horror came from Jack’s right and he twisted on the spot, his latest victim already forgotten. The young man who had thought nothing of insulting the white-faced stranger had finally been thrown from his horse, the brave beast succumbing at last to the dozen wounds it had taken. The youngster hit the ground, his sword knocked from his grasp as he crunched with bone-jarring force on to the jungle floor. Two bandits came at him the moment he fell, their teeth bared in delight, like a pair of wolves going for the kill, their swords thirsting to be buried in his flesh.

All trace of the boy’s arrogance was gone. His face was ashen with fear as he looked up and saw the bandits charging towards him, death in their wild eyes, and he screamed in horror, his terror bright in the darkness of the jungle.

Jack threw himself at the boy’s attackers, no time for anything other than a wild charge. Leaping over the body of the first man he had slain, he lowered his shoulder and hit one of the men with a force that knocked him sprawling to the floor. The impact nearly threw Jack off his feet, and he stumbled, lurching to one side, fighting to stay upright; it saved his life.

The second bandit had a moment to react to Jack’s sudden arrival, and he used it to redirect his blow, turning his blade in mid-air so that it sliced across Jack’s path. The blade keened as it stung the air before scoring a thin line across his fine new uniform coat, missing his stomach by no more than half an inch. Had he not slipped, he would have been sliced in two.

Jack threw himself forward despite the flash of fear as he saw the blade whisper past his stomach, and crashed into the man who had so nearly killed him, knocking him violently to the ground. He felt the man’s body underneath his own, and immediately drove his elbow down, smashing it into the bandit’s windpipe. It was a vicious blow, the kind so common in the gutter fights he had been brought up with, and it crushed the bandit’s throat, choking him.

There was no time for pity. Jack sensed movement behind him and pushed himself to his knees, using the choking bandit’s body for leverage. By some miracle he had managed to keep a firm grip on his talwar, and he slashed the blade around his waist, using its momentum to bring him face to face with the new threat.

The talwar rang with a violent impact that jarred Jack’s already battered sword arm. His instinct had saved him. As he spun around on his knees, he saw that he had driven his sword into the side of the bandit he had knocked to the floor. The man had quickly scrambled to his feet thinking to bury his own sword in Jack’s unprotected back. Instead he had been cut down, his intended victim turning with an astonishing speed. Jack saw the man’s shock before he fell face first to the ground, his body giving a single violent shudder before it lay still.

Jack hurt. The twin collisions sent waves of pain scoring through his veins. Stabbing his talwar down into the ground, he forced himself to his feet. As he rose, he saw the look of astonishment on the young nobleman’s face, terror alive in his wide-eyed stare. There was no time to spare the young man a word. Jack hauled the astonished boy upright. He might be young, but Jack would need all the help he could muster if he were to bring them both out alive.

For the fight was far from over. Jack had fought hard and saved one of his fellow spears from death. But he had spied the man in the black robes and he now knew who was attacking them. If he were to somehow save them both, he would have to face the man who had already bested him once in combat.

He would have to face the Tiger.

‘Get ready, boy.’ Jack spat a wad of phlegm to one side as he growled the words. ‘Let’s see if you can fight as well you can talk.’

He saw the boy swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he pushed down his fear. The youngster raised his talwar. He held the blade low, ready to rip out the guts of the first man to charge him, handling the sword with obvious familiarity. Someone had trained him well. Jack nodded in encouragement as he saw the boy’s weight move to the balls of his feet as he found his balance. His talwar was a thing of beauty, its long blade decorated with a fine tracery of swirling lines so that it seemed to pulse with life as the sun caught it. It was a fabulous weapon, the kind only the very wealthy could afford.

The surviving bandits faced the two hunters with obvious confidence. There was no haste in their movements, no sign of panic despite the sight of so many of their brethren struck to the ground. At their centre the black-robed leader walked calmly to the fore, bringing his enormous two-handed sword round as he readied himself to fight on.

‘He cannot be killed.’ The boy whispered the words, his voice cracking as he recognised the bandit leader.

‘Bollocks.’ Jack spat out the word. The pause in the fight was starting to stretch his nerves.

‘He is the Tiger. He is a prince of the darkness. He cannot be killed.’ The boy sounded close to panic.

Jack quickly counted off the bandits. The black-robed leader had five men left, less than half the number he had been able to command when he unleashed the ambush, but still too many for Jack to fight on his own. He looked across at the boy. He could see the youngster’s terror, the point of his sword beginning to twitch as the fear took hold of him. He would not be able to fight.

‘Fuck it!’ Jack screamed the words, trying to summon the madness he knew he needed. He took a deliberate pace forward, lifting one bloodstained hand so that it pointed straight at the Tiger.

‘You!’ He shouted the word, jabbing his finger so there could be no doubt who he was addressing. ‘You, you black-robed arsehole. Just you and me.’

He stalked forward, his talwar hanging casually at his side. The madness he craved stayed stubbornly distant, but there was something in the sheer folly of what he was trying to do that was intoxicating.

‘Just me and you. You understand?’ He lifted his talwar, taking a firm two-handed grip on the handle as he saw the black-robed man raise his hand and gesture for his men to hold. ‘That’s it, you bastard.’

Jack’s heart hammered in his chest. His fear flared bright, the foolishness of his action screaming through his mind. Yet even as his emotions started to burn, a part of his mind remained calculated and calm, planning the fight he was summoning, seeking a path to victory despite the violent emotions that stirred in his soul.

He looked into the pitiless black eyes of the Tiger and he felt his confidence wane. He remembered the intensity of the bandit leader’s attack, the speed of his sword and the dreadful power of his blows. He could feel fear beginning to win the battle for his soul, the madness he craved swamped by the icy rush of terror that was surging up from the pit of his belly.

‘That’s it. Just you and me.’ The words calmed him, his own voice reassuring. The Tiger kept coming, his men obeying his command to hang back.

‘Time to dance, you bastard!’ Jack screamed the words aloud and threw himself forward. He would have to banish his fear. This time he would not submit. He would kill the man who could not be killed.

Or he would die.

Jack’s talwar scythed through the air. He kept the movement controlled, his muscles already braced for the Tiger’s parry. The blades came together, the noise of metal grinding on metal loud in the enclosed space in which they fought. Jack recovered his blade just as he planned, twisting his wrist before slashing his sword backhanded, battering it against the huge talwar that flickered out to meet it.

Again and again the two men slashed and parried, their swords glittering in the dappled sunlight as they flashed back and forth. Jack fought with restraint, concentrating on his speed, never once trying to land a telling blow but flowing through the impacts, trying to find a gap in the Tiger’s defence.

He grunted as the Tiger parried, the huge sword meeting every attack, the man matching his speed with ease. He could see the smile behind the mass of beard that covered so much of his enemy’s face, the black eyes that gleamed with perverse enjoyment, as if the two men were contestants in a hard-fought sport rather than deadly foes fighting for their lives.

Jack took a half-step back, pretending to give ground. The Tiger came after him in a heartbeat, the talwar slashing hard at his guts. But Jack had planned the feint and he twisted past the fast-moving blade, driving off his heel and stabbing his own talwar forward with a lightning-quick jab. He yelled as he felt the tip of his sword tear into the black-robed man’s flesh, the sweet roar of victory surging through him. But the Tiger was fast, quicker than any man Jack had ever fought. Before Jack could thrust his full weight behind the blow, the bandit leader brought his sword back in a frantic parry. The wild blow knocked Jack’s talwar aside, the sharpened tip only able to score a deep gouge across the Tiger’s front rather than the killing blow Jack had hoped for.

The tantalising glimpse of blood flecking the tip of his sword gave Jack hope. But the Tiger recovered quickly from the momentary lapse. His great sword rose to deflect Jack’s next riposte before driving forward and forcing him to parry quickly lest he be caught himself.

Now the Tiger began to chant, his deep, melodic voice clear despite the animal grunts as the two men kept up the pace of the fight. It was just as Jack remembered, the rhythmic resonance of the words sending a shiver down his spine. There was no pause in the bandit leader’s attack as he chanted; indeed, he began to push Jack backwards with a series of blows even faster than before. Jack parried one after another, his arm beginning to feel like lead as the onslaught continued. Again and again the Tiger attacked, the blows ringing down. Jack’s defence began to falter, and twice the Tiger nearly had him, the tip of the talwar whispering past, his weakening parries only just doing enough to deflect the merciless assault.

The Tiger bellowed the last word of the chant, his voice rising in a crescendo loud enough to wake the dead. His sword flashed past Jack’s face, a final mighty sweep of the blade before he lifted it above his head, readying the killing blow.

One Jack had seen before.

He dived forward, hitting the ground with his shoulder. He sensed the Tiger’s sword scything down, the dreadful edge reaching for him, the heavy talwar cutting through the air where he had just been standing. He scrabbled on the ground, twisting around in the matted undergrowth before driving his boot forward and smashing the heavy heel into the huge man’s groin.

The Tiger grunted in pain but his sword continued its descent, hunting for its prey. The blade cut into the undergrowth, missing Jack by no more than an inch, and stuck fast in the spongy ground. Jack rolled away and stabbed his own talwar upwards. It had been badly battered but the point was still sharp, and it punched into the Tiger’s body, tearing through flesh and gristle as Jack drove it deep. Blood ran down the blade, washing over his wrist and arm and falling to stain the front of his blue uniform coat, yet still he twisted it, tearing the life from his foe.

With the blade still buried deep in his body, the black-robed bandit leader toppled to one side. He made no sound as he fell, his huge sword dropping to the ground as his nerveless hands lost their strength.

Jack scrambled to his feet, never once taking his eyes off the huge man he had just defeated. Unable to comprehend that he had won.

With their leader struck down, the bandits fled into the jungle, running for their lives despite the fact that Jack was battered and exhausted. At that moment a washerwoman with a kitchen knife could have defeated him, but the bandits clawed at each other in their haste to get away, the jungle hiding them from view as they scattered in every direction.

Jack walked to stand over the body of the black-robed Tiger. He looked down at the face of the man who could not be killed. He did not see a prince of the darkness. Nor did he see a man who had been feared and hated in equal measure. He simply saw the lonely face of someone moments from death. The Tiger’s eyes were open, the vitality of life still alive in the blackness. They moved as Jack stood beside him, fixing him with a hard, flat stare of hatred.

The Tiger’s lips began to move. At first the words were barely audible, but from deep in his soul he found the strength to speak louder. As he did so, he kept his eyes fixed on Jack. The words flowed from him, their pace and tone steady, with the same deep, melodic rhythm that had so unsettled Jack when they fought.

Jack sensed the presence of the nobleman he had saved. The youngster came to look down at the man who had so terrified him.

‘He is cursing you.’ The boy spoke in no more than a whisper, his fear still very real.

Jack felt a shiver run down his spine as he met the Tiger’s merciless stare, the terror he had kept contained for so long once more writhing deep in his belly.

‘What does he say?’ He spoke firmly, wrestling with his emotions as if they were a demon to be fought and imprisoned. He felt the calmness begin to return as he regained control, the fear forced to the recesses of his mind, committed to the darkness in his soul.

‘He is condemning you to a life without hope. A life alone.’ The boy’s voice trembled as he told Jack the meaning of the foreign words, translating them with reverence and no trace of vindictive pleasure.

The Tiger stopped abruptly. Jack never once let his eyes move from the bandit’s unwavering stare, and he saw the glimmer of life flicker, then leave the pitiless black eyes for ever.

The man who could not be killed was dead.

The crowd jostled around him. Jack felt his exhaustion build, his body craving rest. The bewildering hubbub continued unabated, shouts and questions bellowed back and forth in the language of the Maharajah’s court that Jack did not understand. The young noble he had saved stood at the centre of the melee, surrounded by a crowd of men who were all talking at once. Jack recognised the urgency of their words, the hurried interrogation of people desperate to find out what had happened so they could either claim some share in the victory or steer well clear of the blame.

The young noble’s higher-pitched tones cut through the deeper voices of the men who challenged him, carrying an authority that silenced them. He spoke quickly and firmly and the crowd pressed forward as they listened to his hurried account, captivated by the drama.

Jack wanted no part of the inquest. He had done what he had felt to be his duty. Now that the vicious fight was over, he wanted nothing more than to fade back into the background.

The Maharajah and his entourage arrived, the ruler’s huge white stallion flecked with mud and sweat; it had clearly been ridden hard to get here. Jack saw the distress on the Maharajah’s face, the strained expression of someone seeking news they knew could change their life for ever.

The entrance of their king silenced the throng that had gathered at the site of the ambush. With an athletic bound the ruler of Sawadh leapt from the saddle and rushed towards the young noble who now owed his life to the white-faced foreigner he had treated with such disdain. Without stopping, the Maharajah reached forward and crushed the boy to his chest, enveloping him in a fierce embrace, the bright prick of tears in his eyes.

Finally Jack realised who the youngster was, and why his comrades had been so ready to laugh loudly at his quips. Jack had just done the British government a great disservice.

He had saved the life of the Maharajah’s heir.

‘There are no words to convey my thanks, Jack.’

Jack could not meet the Maharajah’s intense stare. He looked to his boots but the Maharajah reached forward, lifting Jack’s hands and enclosing them in both of his own. The touch was intimate, the Maharajah’s hands warm and the feel of his flesh shocking. Jack felt intensely uncomfortable at the contact, his natural reaction to withdraw, but the Maharajah held him firm.

‘You saved my son. I am in your debt.’

‘I did what had to be done, sir.’ Jack’s reaction was stilted.

‘You English. You are so bloody stuck up!’ The Maharajah dropped Jack’s hands, smiling at the obvious relief on his face. ‘I thank you anyway. Whatever you say, I owe you a great deal. My son has told me what happened here.’ He turned and looked at the dead bandits that his men were dragging unceremoniously into a grotesque heap. ‘You certainly do know how to fight.’

‘I’m a redcoat. It’s what we are trained to do.’

‘My son said he has never seen anyone quicker.’ The Maharajah’s voice was full of admiration. ‘You killed that black-robed bastard. For that alone I owe you a reward.’

‘I do not ask one, sir. You have already shown me favour by allowing me to stay in your court.’

‘One of the best bloody decisions I ever made.’ He turned and gestured for his son to come to him. ‘I am forgetting my manners. I suspect you have not been properly introduced. Jack, this is my son, Abhishek. He will rule after I am dead and gone. Thanks now to you.’