Read Online The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) by Richard Estep - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Estep
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“The Dark Mother knows what is best, of course.” He cast a surreptitious glance skyward, as though expecting to be struck down by a bolt of lightning flung from the heavens. The sky remained resolutely clear and blue, broken only by the occasional opportunistic carrion bird in search of its next meal.
Scindia clapped him on the shoulder and said, “It is but a few days’ march to Gawilghur, my friend. You will feel much happier when we arrive.”
“I shall make it my sole purpose in life to turn the fortress into a death trap for the British,” Berar promised, as much to himself as to Scindia. “I have already formulated plans, Scindia – and such plans, if you could only see…”
“I believe you, my friend.”
“Gawilghur shall be the graveyard of the British Army. Mark my words.” Berar clenched a fist. His eyes stared off into the far distance, Scindia noticed, no doubt envisioning wave upon wave of redcoats being slaughtered in a vain attempt to climb the fortress walls. “Death shall follow their every footstep.”
Scindia shot him a sideways glance.
And so, my “friend,” shall it follow yours…
CHAPTER SIX
A blight and a pestilence unlike any other within living memory has befallen India.
This is not the first time that we have witnessed the newly-dead rising to prey upon the living. The annals of civilized history record multiple instances in which thousands of such hungry corpses have plagued humanity, perhaps most infamously when the remnants of the Imperial legions serving under Caesar fought tooth and nail to withstand the brutal onslaught of the undead horde at the very gates of Rome itself.
These disturbing occurrences appear to be cyclical in nature, and seem to occur (on average) once or twice every hundred years. They have been reported on all continents, and have threatened the United Kingdom itself several times. Despite the best efforts of the finest scientific minds of each generation, no satisfactory explanation for these unholy resurrections has ever been discovered; whether it is a disease of the physical variety, or a supernatural malady, remains to be seen — and indeed, the answer to this most vexing of questions may never be known at all.
We must hope, however, that such pessimism turns out to be ill-founded. Driven purely by a ceaseless thirst for the blood and flesh of the living, these nightmarish creatures first emerged during the early stages of this campaign that we now wage against the Marathas, shambling forth from the streets and hovels of Ahmednuggur in the aftermath of our assault and escalade upon that fortified town. They were few in number at first, but their burgeoning ranks were soon swelled by the bodies of both the British and Indian dead who had laid down their lives on that night of blood and fire. The fiends pursued both British armies — both mine, and that of Colonel Stevenson — as we, in turn, pursued the enemy forces of Scindia and the Raja of Berar, slowly but inexorably whittling away the ranks of my redcoats and the camp followers who came along in their wake. For every living, breathing human being who fell victim to those relentlessly-snapping jaws, another shambling foot-soldier was soon added to the tally of the risen dead.
Finally, on the outskirts of a little remarked-upon township named Assaye, matters came to a head. Probing forward aggressively (perhaps a little too aggressively, if I am to be completely frank about it) my leading elements unexpectedly encountered the entire Maratha army, taking up a battle line along the banks of the River Kailna. Riding at the vanguard, I soon realized that few viable options remained open to me.
Simple mathematics alone dictates that this situation cannot continue for long.
From the journal of Arthur Wellesley, 1803.
Colin Campbell screamed.
“Well,” said Doctor Reed Caldwell, leaning over his patient and placing the palm of one hand against
Scindia clapped him on the shoulder and said, “It is but a few days’ march to Gawilghur, my friend. You will feel much happier when we arrive.”
“I shall make it my sole purpose in life to turn the fortress into a death trap for the British,” Berar promised, as much to himself as to Scindia. “I have already formulated plans, Scindia – and such plans, if you could only see…”
“I believe you, my friend.”
“Gawilghur shall be the graveyard of the British Army. Mark my words.” Berar clenched a fist. His eyes stared off into the far distance, Scindia noticed, no doubt envisioning wave upon wave of redcoats being slaughtered in a vain attempt to climb the fortress walls. “Death shall follow their every footstep.”
Scindia shot him a sideways glance.
And so, my “friend,” shall it follow yours…
CHAPTER SIX
A blight and a pestilence unlike any other within living memory has befallen India.
This is not the first time that we have witnessed the newly-dead rising to prey upon the living. The annals of civilized history record multiple instances in which thousands of such hungry corpses have plagued humanity, perhaps most infamously when the remnants of the Imperial legions serving under Caesar fought tooth and nail to withstand the brutal onslaught of the undead horde at the very gates of Rome itself.
These disturbing occurrences appear to be cyclical in nature, and seem to occur (on average) once or twice every hundred years. They have been reported on all continents, and have threatened the United Kingdom itself several times. Despite the best efforts of the finest scientific minds of each generation, no satisfactory explanation for these unholy resurrections has ever been discovered; whether it is a disease of the physical variety, or a supernatural malady, remains to be seen — and indeed, the answer to this most vexing of questions may never be known at all.
We must hope, however, that such pessimism turns out to be ill-founded. Driven purely by a ceaseless thirst for the blood and flesh of the living, these nightmarish creatures first emerged during the early stages of this campaign that we now wage against the Marathas, shambling forth from the streets and hovels of Ahmednuggur in the aftermath of our assault and escalade upon that fortified town. They were few in number at first, but their burgeoning ranks were soon swelled by the bodies of both the British and Indian dead who had laid down their lives on that night of blood and fire. The fiends pursued both British armies — both mine, and that of Colonel Stevenson — as we, in turn, pursued the enemy forces of Scindia and the Raja of Berar, slowly but inexorably whittling away the ranks of my redcoats and the camp followers who came along in their wake. For every living, breathing human being who fell victim to those relentlessly-snapping jaws, another shambling foot-soldier was soon added to the tally of the risen dead.
Finally, on the outskirts of a little remarked-upon township named Assaye, matters came to a head. Probing forward aggressively (perhaps a little too aggressively, if I am to be completely frank about it) my leading elements unexpectedly encountered the entire Maratha army, taking up a battle line along the banks of the River Kailna. Riding at the vanguard, I soon realized that few viable options remained open to me.
Simple mathematics alone dictates that this situation cannot continue for long.
From the journal of Arthur Wellesley, 1803.
Colin Campbell screamed.
“Well,” said Doctor Reed Caldwell, leaning over his patient and placing the palm of one hand against
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