The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) (12 page)

“Excellent. I do believe that it will be somewhat difficult for you to carry out your duties in your current form.” Wellesley shot him a look that was full of meaning. “Is it at all possible for you to change, as it were?”

“I believe so, General. Requesting permission to repair to my tent, in order to change into…more appropriate attire, sir.”

Wellesley’s eyes sparkled. He was enjoying the double meaning, it was quite plain to see. Caldwell also knew that the general favored Campbell for his soldiering abilities, and had done so ever since his almost reckless bravery in the escalade of Ahmednuggur. He was about as fond of the young Scot as a vampire could be of a mortal man, at any rate.

Changing back into human form wasn’t half as painful as becoming the tiger had been, and yet the pain and sheer wrongness of it still brought tears to Colin Campbell’s eyes. There was something fundamentally disconcerting about the sensation of one’s bones disarticulating, popping out of their joints, and undergoing the frankly brutal metamorphosis from human to feline and back again.

When it was over and done with, Colin lay on his back atop a rug that had been spread out on the dirt floor of his tent. Completely naked and drenched in sweat, the officer simply allowed his muscles to go limp and slack, panting with the exertion of it all. The tent interior was dark, illuminated only by the ambient light bleeding through the canvas walls, and yet somehow he seemed able to see without any real difficulty.

After a few moments had passed, Colin raised his head and took an appraising look along the length of his body. There were scars, long gouges where Jamelia had raked him with her claws during the final stages of the battle at Assaye; that must have been how she had transformed him into…whatever it was that he had now become.

Colin really hadn’t given that much thought. Until just a few short moments ago, his brain – half-crazed and terrified – had thought that it was dying. He had made his peace with God when he had been struck down on the battlefield, had known that the sheer extent of the vicious wounds were almost certainly not survivable. It had felt as if his insides had been hollowed out, cored like an apple being eaten by some fastidious diner with a paring knife. Yet he had not died; instead, his body had begun to burn, rapidly spreading until a firestorm was spreading throughout his belly and chest. The burning made its way throughout its entire body, bringing with it pain the likes of which he had never even imagined until now. Then he truly had been convinced that he was at death’s door, for what living thing could sustain pain like this for any length of time?

But now…

Was it just his imagination, or were the muscles of his arms more pronounced? He flexed his right arm, saw them bunching just beneath the skin. He had always been in prime physical condition – had made it a point of pride to remain so, whether in barracks or on campaign – but this was something different, something new. There was a fluidity and suppleness to the way in which his tendons and ligaments moved that hadn’t been there before. He felt as though he was reborn into a new body, stronger and faster than the old.

There was only one way to find out. Tensing his abdominal muscles, Colin suddenly flipped himself upward like a gymnast, coming to land gracefully on the balls of both feet, in the manner of a pugilist squaring off against an opponent in the ring. The movement had happened in the blink of an eye, and had taken almost no effort to perform. He frowned. Normally, performing such a dexterous feat would have drawn at least a grunt of exertion from him.

He laughed, and was surprised to hear that it was more growl than human laughter.

I appear to have inherited the grace and strength of the feline, even in my natural form.

The prospect pleased him. After all, how could this fail to make him a better warrior? His sword belt had been left on the field, but he kept a spare in one of the private chests that were stacked against the far wall of the tent. Padding over toward it, Colin flipped the lid back. The claymore was partially hidden underneath one of his spare uniforms. He reached beneath the thick red jacket and grasped the weapon by its hilt, and then, in a single fluid motion, drew it from its leather scabbard.

Colin flourished the weapon adroitly, slashing it through a figure of eight in the air, being mindful not to over-extend his reach and cut the canvas into ribbons. The claymore was a heavy weapon, countered somewhat by the sturdily-basketed hilt, and yet it felt perfectly balanced in his right hand. He felt as though he could have wielded it with ease all night, cutting down enemy after enemy without real exertion.

Then he remembered his orders. He was to convene an officers’ meeting, and sharpish. Returning the claymore to its scabbard, Colin cast around until he set eyes on the bucket full of lukewarm water that he kept handy for ablutions and suchlike. It wasn’t drinkable by any means, but somebody had changed it out for him, and it looked clean enough for the purposes of washing. Scooping out two palms full, he splashed the water on his face and the nape of his neck, then followed it up by doing the same to his armpits and groin. The water felt refreshing on his skin, sluicing away some of the sweat, grime, and filth of the last few hours. Finally, he crossed the tent until he was as far away from the rug as possible, and upended the bucket over his head. This time, the water hit him with a jolt, leaving him feeling invigorated and alert in its wake. Not quite his old self…no, this was something better. Better by far.

Colin toweled off, and then dressed hurriedly in a spare uniform. He couldn’t be entirely certain, but it seemed as though the shirt and jacket fit a little more snugly across his chest, particularly when he extended his arms out to either side experimentally. The same was true of his thighs, where the trousers seemed to cling tightly, in a manner that they had never done before.

You appear to have gained some muscle, he thought ruefully, hoping that he would not split the inseams of those trousers when he was seated at the dinner table. He would just have to be careful about how quickly he sat down.

CHAPTER TEN

The little village of Talwada was no different to any of the thousand other tiny little hamlets which lay scattered throughout the Maratha territories. Since time immemorial, the villagers had worked their fingers near to the bone in trying to eke out a living from the sun-bleached, desolate land…and to keep out of history’s way.

For the most part, they had achieved both objectives successfully. A small stream ran nearby, bubbling along behind the village and providing the farmers with a means of irrigating the ground to the point where a respectable yield of crops could be cultivated. Harvests were consistently good, if not spectacular, and none could remember the last time that any villager had been forced to go hungry, let alone starve. As to the second point, armies had marched and counter-marched the plains and foothills surrounding Talwada many times, shattering the peaceful air with the sound of blade upon blade, the throaty belch of the cannon, and more recently, the crack of the long arm and pistol. Yet always the village had survived such skirmishes, with little more damage than the careless trampling of its fields and pastures by the passing soldiers; when the opportunity presented itself, the villagers thought nothing of sneaking out at night, making their way to the scene of battle, and then stealthily looting the corpses of the fallen. Rich pickings were sometimes had, and what did the dead care for their possessions?

Vinkesh liked to think of himself as a simple man: simple, and also practical. He had lived in Talwada for every one of his forty years, growing from boy to man as he tilled its fields and tended its animal livestock. He had married his wife, Bhavika, there and raised two children: Elina, now full-grown and married with children of her own, and little Kranti, who had seen only ten summers and yet grew faster than he could ever have believed possible.

It was a good life, comprised of hard work and equally hard laughter. He and his family wanted for little, and Vinkesh knew full well that he ought to be happy with his lot. And yet…

Only the night before, the villagers had been gathered around their communal fires, laughing, telling stories, and sharing a meal. Children scampered around the edges of the firelight, making the most of every sweet second before being put down to sleep for the night. It had been a calm evening, with a clear sky and nary a gust of wind to offset the hot, dry air.

The fireside chatter had concerned the big find of the day, and little else. The very first thing that morning, just as the villagers were rising to greet the first rays of sun, a shout had gone up from a farmer named Nayan: it was not a shout of alarm, but rather one of excitement — Vinkesh had recognized that even from the confines of his tiny kitchen. Hurriedly pulling on his sandals, Vinkesh had rushed outside, curious despite himself to learn the nature of Nayan’s discovery. Vinkesh found him at the eastern edge of the village, shielding his eyes with the flat of one hand and pointing animatedly toward the rising sun with the other.

Toward the dust cloud.

This was no small company of horsemen, scouting the lands on behalf of some brigand master or other; that much was apparent straight away. The plume stretched all the way across the eastern horizon, as far as the eye could see.Vinkesh knew that for a body of men to generate such an enormous cloud, it had to be
big
: thousands, perhaps even
tens
of thousands of men and beasts, moving across the plain in one big mass.

In other words, an army.

The cloud was far away — many miles, in Nayan’s estimation, and Vinkesh agreed with him — and had dissipated long before noon. The army must have made camp for the day, he reasoned, and indeed, that was precisely what Colonel Stevenson’s army
had
just done. Had Vinkesh possessed a mount and ridden out to investigate further, he would have seen that the British commander had posted guards in a perimeter around his encampment, protecting the vampire officers as they slept through the heat of the day.

Shrugging, the men and boys went out into the fields as usual, while the females went about the business of everyday life, such as mending clothing and preparing food. When the day’s work stopped at dusk, the returning workers noticed that the dust cloud had returned once more. The menfolk stopped on the outskirts of Talwada and watched as it disappeared slowly, appearing to move away toward the north-east.

Once the fireside talk had died down, the villagers said their goodnights to one another and headed off to bed. Following Bhavika into their home, Vinkesh disrobed and lay down upon the stuffed bedding that they shared. The day had been a hard one, even for a man accustomed to toiling in the fields from sunrise to sunset, for Vinkesh was all too aware that he was no longer as young and limber as he once had been. Closing his eyes and wrapping his beloved wife up in a comforting embrace, he fell almost instantly asleep.

The thunder woke him in the dark of the night. He lay there, still cradling Bhavika and listening to the sound of her soft, rhythmic snoring upon his chest, along with the hollow rumble now coming from far off in the distance. He frowned. This was no ordinary thunder; it simply did not sound right. No, this had to be something else…and given the disappearance of the army to their northeast earlier that same evening, Vinkesh was confident that he was hearing the sounds of his first pitched battle.

He did not feel threatened by the clash of giants. After all, why would the invading British care about such a hamlet as Talwada? Theirs were the concerns of potentates and nations, not of farmers and villagers. In fact, Vinkesh thought idly as he slowly drifted off to sleep once more, the coming sunrise may bring opportunity for the villagers; battlefields sometimes usually provided rich pickings, for both vultures and human scavengers alike.

It was still dark when Vinkesh awoke, his body clock long accustomed to such pre-dawn starts after many years of working the land. The entire world was quiet. No sounds of violence carried on the early morning air, which could only mean one thing: the battle was over. One side had almost certainly won, and was probably even now in pursuit of the loser.

Which meant that there was plunder to be had.

“What will you do?” Bhavika asked softly, from the warmth and comfort of their bed. He knew precisely what she meant, and suspected that she knew the answer to her question already.

“I will visit the battlefield,” he said, dressing quietly in the shadows, “and see what pickings are to be had.”

“You will not go alone?” She was concerned for his safety, and perhaps rightly so. No matter who had won and who had lost the battle, there would be survivors on both sides. It was possible that they would not be well-disposed toward opportunists who sought to rob the bodies of their dead and wounded. As her husband stooped to pick up four rough burlap sacks, he pondered her question.

“There will be others,” he reassured her finally, rummaging around for a little food to tide him over on the coming day’s journey. “None of the elders, but those who still have the stomach for it will want to examine the leavings.”

Vinkesh was not a bad man, and certainly did not consider himself to be a thief. Yet there were certain harsh realities of life out here in the wilderness, and after all was said and done, what did the dead and dying need with the trappings of their former life? Surely it was far better,
fairer
even
,
for them to benefit those who still drew breath? Besides, he told himself as he belted the sword at his waist (a family heirloom some four generations old) and bade his wife farewell and closed the door quietly behind him, if he found wounded men who still clung to life, he could offer them water, a little respite from their torment, perhaps…and failing that, he could at least administer the final blessed relief. He patted the sword hilt absently, finding its solidity reassuring. He still remembered the day that his father had bestowed it upon him, recalled the quiet pride and solemnity of the occasion. Vinkesh had known on that day that he had truly attained manhood.