Read Online The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) by Richard Estep - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Estep
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confidential whisper. “And unlike us, they do not have the men to spare.”
Berar considered that for a moment, and seemed slightly mollified. “There were a great many red jackets among the fallen,” he ultimately conceded.
“Indeed there were. Our losses can be made up, given a little time. Whereas the British are far from home, and at the far end of a very long chain of supply. Every redcoat that falls is a redcoat not easily replaced…not to mention a recruit for Kali’s special army.”
The army of the dead had occupied much of Scindia’s thoughts of late. Speaking to them through the mediumship of Jamelia’s possessed body, Kali the Dark Mother had promised them that the horde of resurrected corpses would somehow be led to victory against their mutual enemy, the British. If this is what victory looks like…had been his first thought, but he squashed it quickly. The Dark Mother had a proven ability to eavesdrop on the thoughts of mortal beings, and she was not known to be a merciful deity.
No, he had little choice but to take Kali at her word, and trust that everything would ultimately turn out for the best. She wanted the British ousted from the Maratha lands every bit as much as he and Berar did, and while Scindia recognized that he and his fellow potentates were little more than pawns in a much larger game in which she was one of the players, he still felt genuinely confident that he had fallen in with the winning side.
There was a sudden commotion at the edge of the column, out on the far right. Scindia looked over in that direction, and was surprised to see a woman – at least, based upon the dark-colored sari that the figure wore, he thought that it must be a woman, but it was hard to tell at this distance – staggering toward them. Her hands were both outstretched, grasping for the closest soldier. She tottered drunkenly on uncertain, stick-thin legs. From the way in which she moved, Scindia knew that they had encountered yet another victim of Kali’s enchanted blood-plague.
A keening wail carried to his ears over the baking late-morning air. Without prompting, one of the white-garbed guards broke ranks. Drawing his curved sword from its scabbard in a single fluid motion, he raised it above his right shoulder, paused for a second as though sizing the creature up, and then brought it down again in a smooth and graceful stroke. Scindia squinted to make out more detail, admiring the swordsman’s economy of movement. The keenly-honed blade split the creature’s head in two, slicing it along a diagonal that ran from the left temple down through the right corner of the mouth. As soon as the weapon bit deep, its wielder turned away, shielding his eyes and mouth from the inevitable splatter of black liquid, just as he had been trained. Viscous drops spattered against the side of his face and darkened the scarlet turban.
It was difficult not to be impressed by the guardsman’s professionalism. The thing’s mostly-headless body took two more halting steps, operating primarily on momentum, before sinking to the ground without ever reaching the column of marching troops. Seemingly satisfied, the swordsman ducked down into a crouch and cleaned his blade front and back on the dead woman’s sari, before returning it to its sheath and running to resume his place back in the order of march once more.
“They continue to attack us, and yet they are supposed to be on our side,” Berar hissed, jerking his head toward the fallen body.
Fool, thought Scindia, though he said nothing of the sort. Pray that the Dark Mother is not reading your thoughts at this very moment. “The Dark Mother has a plan,” he said instead, “and it is not for such lowly creatures as we to know its every intricacy and connotation.”
“I suppose that you are correct,” Berar said haughtily, finally catching on to the very real danger of criticizing Kali, whether out loud or in the supposed privacy of one’s own thoughts.
Berar considered that for a moment, and seemed slightly mollified. “There were a great many red jackets among the fallen,” he ultimately conceded.
“Indeed there were. Our losses can be made up, given a little time. Whereas the British are far from home, and at the far end of a very long chain of supply. Every redcoat that falls is a redcoat not easily replaced…not to mention a recruit for Kali’s special army.”
The army of the dead had occupied much of Scindia’s thoughts of late. Speaking to them through the mediumship of Jamelia’s possessed body, Kali the Dark Mother had promised them that the horde of resurrected corpses would somehow be led to victory against their mutual enemy, the British. If this is what victory looks like…had been his first thought, but he squashed it quickly. The Dark Mother had a proven ability to eavesdrop on the thoughts of mortal beings, and she was not known to be a merciful deity.
No, he had little choice but to take Kali at her word, and trust that everything would ultimately turn out for the best. She wanted the British ousted from the Maratha lands every bit as much as he and Berar did, and while Scindia recognized that he and his fellow potentates were little more than pawns in a much larger game in which she was one of the players, he still felt genuinely confident that he had fallen in with the winning side.
There was a sudden commotion at the edge of the column, out on the far right. Scindia looked over in that direction, and was surprised to see a woman – at least, based upon the dark-colored sari that the figure wore, he thought that it must be a woman, but it was hard to tell at this distance – staggering toward them. Her hands were both outstretched, grasping for the closest soldier. She tottered drunkenly on uncertain, stick-thin legs. From the way in which she moved, Scindia knew that they had encountered yet another victim of Kali’s enchanted blood-plague.
A keening wail carried to his ears over the baking late-morning air. Without prompting, one of the white-garbed guards broke ranks. Drawing his curved sword from its scabbard in a single fluid motion, he raised it above his right shoulder, paused for a second as though sizing the creature up, and then brought it down again in a smooth and graceful stroke. Scindia squinted to make out more detail, admiring the swordsman’s economy of movement. The keenly-honed blade split the creature’s head in two, slicing it along a diagonal that ran from the left temple down through the right corner of the mouth. As soon as the weapon bit deep, its wielder turned away, shielding his eyes and mouth from the inevitable splatter of black liquid, just as he had been trained. Viscous drops spattered against the side of his face and darkened the scarlet turban.
It was difficult not to be impressed by the guardsman’s professionalism. The thing’s mostly-headless body took two more halting steps, operating primarily on momentum, before sinking to the ground without ever reaching the column of marching troops. Seemingly satisfied, the swordsman ducked down into a crouch and cleaned his blade front and back on the dead woman’s sari, before returning it to its sheath and running to resume his place back in the order of march once more.
“They continue to attack us, and yet they are supposed to be on our side,” Berar hissed, jerking his head toward the fallen body.
Fool, thought Scindia, though he said nothing of the sort. Pray that the Dark Mother is not reading your thoughts at this very moment. “The Dark Mother has a plan,” he said instead, “and it is not for such lowly creatures as we to know its every intricacy and connotation.”
“I suppose that you are correct,” Berar said haughtily, finally catching on to the very real danger of criticizing Kali, whether out loud or in the supposed privacy of one’s own thoughts.
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