The Maharajah's General (33 page)

Jack flinched as the revolver fired, every muscle tensing as he anticipated the impact of the bullet. The sound of the shot echoed in his head but he felt nothing. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Fenris’ body lying on the ground, blood pooling around his twisted corpse. The man who had come to hate Jack was dead, shot through the heart by a single bullet.

Proudfoot laughed. ‘Not you, Jack.’ He threw his head back and laughed at the sky. ‘You should see your face.’

Jack tried to swallow and found he couldn’t. He felt his body trembling, the shadow of death walking across his soul.

‘Why?’ His voice cracked as he forced out the question.

‘Because he was a party to all this. I wanted to finish it.’

Jack spat out a thick wad of phlegm. ‘Making everything neater.’

‘Something akin to that.’ Proudfoot was urbane in his reply.

‘So you are executioner as well as judge and jury.’

Proudfoot laughed at Jack’s bitterness. He plucked at the sleeve of his scarlet uniform. ‘I’m a redcoat. Isn’t that what we do? Besides, had I not interrupted you, I rather fancy you might have killed him yourself. I wanted that honour.’

‘So you got your war.’ Jack spat again, the words souring his mouth. ‘And we gave you your victory. I hope you think it was worth the cost.’

‘The cost?’ There was a trace of fire in Proudfoot’s voice now. ‘I would say that for bringing a whole kingdom under the Company’s control, it was a veritable bargain.’

‘You bastard.’

Proudfoot frowned, as if chewing on something unpalatable. ‘I wouldn’t quite put it like that.’ His face cleared, the joy of his success still too fresh to be soured by Jack’s condemnation. ‘But I have to thank you. I rather think we might have lost had it not been for you.’

Jack shuddered. It was akin to being thanked by the devil. He had done what he had believed to be his duty. The notion that he had been nothing more than Proudfoot’s pawn shamed him.

Proudfoot saw the look on his face. ‘Now, now. There is no need to be so modest. You are a killer, Jack. That is what you do. I saw you fight. You have a talent for it. Besides, I suspect you enjoy it.’

The words hit home. Jack shivered as he remembered the thrill of the battle, the soul-rending madness that had overwhelmed him. A part of him savoured the memory. Proudfoot had summed it up best. He wore a red coat. Killing was his trade.

‘I must ask you to do one last thing for me.’ Proudfoot absent-mindedly toyed with his revolver. Jack heard the gentle grind as the chamber moved around to bring a fresh cartridge under the hammer.

‘What?’ Jack felt the chill of fear.

‘Run.’ Proudfoot chuckled at the look of surprise on Jack’s face. ‘Come now, Jack. With Dutton and Fenris dead, you are the last man alive who knows all that has happened. Besides, you are a murderer. Didn’t I just witness you kill Lieutenant Fenris in cold blood? Added to your other crimes, there really is no other option. But I owe you a debt for what you did today, so I will allow you to try to escape.’ He lifted his arm, aiming the revolver at Jack’s heart. ‘Run, Jack, run.’

Jack’s mind raced. He was tempted to stand his ground, to let Proudfoot administer a solution to his despair. He thought of Isabel, of the dreams he had foolishly allowed to grow. Her words before the final battle haunted him. She did not deserve to live with the constant fear of discovery, with only a killer to turn to for love. She deserved much more than he could give her. He thought too of Lakshmi, sensing the emotions she had awakened. Despite everything he had endured, he felt the will to live like a knot in his belly. He was a charlatan, an impostor, a thief and a killer. He would never submit meekly to his fate.

Proudfoot barked with laughter as he read the play of emotions on Jack’s face. ‘You are a fool, man. Did you ever truly imagine a future with that girl? Would she really give up everything for you? You are cursed, Jack Lark. I believe you will come to a very sorry end.’

Jack shivered, the echo of the Tiger’s curse in Proudfoot’s verdict. He looked up into the major’s eyes. He saw nothing but death.

So he ran.

The ground was treacherous, the scree slope uneven and scattered with rocks lying ready to trip the unwary. Jack lurched into motion, his movements clumsy. He made it no more than half a dozen paces before he stumbled, his ankle twisting on the uncertain footing. He went sprawling, any last shred of dignity gone.

Proudfoot cackled wildly. ‘Run!’ He screamed the single command, his voice rising in pitch as he laughed at the sight of the proud charlatan scrabbling on the ground in his desperation to get away. Proudfoot feared the impostor. He had watched in awe as the man fought, terrified by the brutality as he hacked at the enemy. To reduce such a man, such a killer, to nothing more than a floundering fool desperate for life was as great a victory as the one he had won over the Maharajah of Sawadh.

He raised his revolver, aiming squarely at the back of the man who was trying so frantically to escape. He had had his amusement.

It was time to end the charade.

Jack sucked in a last breath, filling his lungs with the scorching air. He nearly choked on the dust his fall had kicked up, but he forced himself to still his quivering muscles. He slipped his hand across the front of his body, hiding the movement from Proudfoot. He heard the man’s laughter but ignored it, refusing to let the flare of anger overwhelm him. He had to be in control. He closed his eyes, summoning the calm he would need.

The holster was unbuckled and Jack slipped his revolver free.

In one motion he scrambled to his feet and brought his arm around. He saw the look of surprise on Proudfoot’s face as the barrel of the revolver appeared, heard his laughter cut off abruptly as the man he had believed to be fleeing for his life turned to fight.

Jack felt the tension of the trigger underneath his finger. He had seen too much death that day, enough to stain his soul for a lifetime. Yet he did not hesitate as Proudfoot’s terror-stricken face filled the simple sight at the end of the barrel.

He pulled the trigger.

The blast of the revolver was loud. Jack walked forward, emerging from the inevitable cloud of powder smoke, keeping the weapon pointed at the man who had been the cause of so much death. He fired again, the action instinctive, the second bullet following within a heartbeat of the first.

The echo of the twin shots reverberated around the high ground before silence once again reclaimed the deserted, lonely hillside.

Jack’s aim had been true. Proudfoot lay spread-eagled on the ground, striking as dramatic a pose in death as he had in life. Blood pooled around his body, which twitched as the last vestige of life escaped. Jack watched until at last Proudfoot lay still. The devil had taken another soul.

Jack stood over Proudfoot’s body. The first bullet had hit the major in the chest, killing him instantly. The second had taken off the political officer’s shoulder, the heavy bullet tearing a grotesque hole in what had been living flesh. The grey pallor of death had already laid claim to Proudfoot’s face, his last, dreadful look of horror now fixed for ever.

Jack felt no remorse at having killed a fellow countryman. The man had deserved to die. He turned and savoured the peace. He was quite alone, only dead men for company.

Proudfoot’s words settled in his heart, the echo of the Tiger’s curse hardening like lead in his soul. He knew then he was destined to be alone. To be the killer everyone expected him to be.

It was time to leave.

He worked quickly. It did not take long to drag the two corpses to the horse that would carry them. Lifting them took more effort, but the lancer’s horse was well trained and stood still, even as its nostrils flared at the sweet tang of the blood that still poured from the dead bodies. With an effort, Jack draped the bloody corpses across the saddle, using the long stirrups to bind them in place.

He pulled himself into the saddle of Proudfoot’s sable mare, keeping a firm grip on the lead rope of the horse he had taken from the field of battle. He did not look at the body of the man he had just killed and that he now left behind for the vultures and the dozens of other animals that would relish a feast on such fresh flesh. He eased the mare’s head round, turning his back on Bhundapur. With a click of his tongue and a gentle nudge of his heels, he eased the horse into motion, settling down into the slow walk that would take him up the steep side of the valley and away from the scene of so much death.

The tower stood silently as Jack approached, watching his progress with serene indifference. The last moments of the long ride brought back memories. He saw again the place where the Tiger and his men had ambushed the picnic party. He recognised the spot where he had fought the black-robed bandit leader, a shiver running down his spine as he felt again the presence of death at his shoulder.

The village was empty. The few who had survived the Tiger’s ravaging horde had abandoned the place that had become a graveyard for their greed and their futile ambition. Jack rode along the dusty paths alone, only breaking the silence to click his tongue to urge on the pair of tiring horses, which strove to do his bidding despite their exhaustion.

The white-robed priest watched him approach. The man was old, his dark face creased and wrinkled with the passage of time. At his side was a boy. The youngster could not have been more than seven years old, the body under the simple langoti just sinew and bone. The priest laid a protective hand on the shoulder of his new apprentice before ushering him forward to help the white-faced stranger who had brought his dead to the tower.

Jack helped the boy with Fenris’ body, his nose wrinkling in distaste at the stench of dead flesh. Together they dragged the corpse to the door of the tower, the officer’s heels leaving twin trails in the sandy soil.

The white-robed priest did not say a word as the man walked away. Yet he stared for a long time at the back of the tall, lean officer with the hard grey eyes before he turned to the orphaned boy he had found hiding in the rubble of his grandfather’s house, his days of goat-herding ended with the slaughter of his meagre herd and the massacre of his family.

The British officer did not turn back.

Jack had seen the lancers long before they spotted him. They rode towards him slowly. He waited for them patiently. He knew there was every chance that they would take one look at the white-faced man in the blue lancer’s uniform and kill him out of hand, but still he sat and waited, the bloodstained talwar left in its scabbard.

The lancers came close. There were eight of them. All were old men whom he did not know from his time in the fortress. But he recognised the man who led them.

‘He should’ve listened.’ Jack spoke loudly as the lancers approached, his bitter words the only greeting he would give.

Count Piotr Wysocki said nothing. He halted his escort and contemplated the weary rider in front of him.

He finally broke the silence. ‘He is a proud man. He did what he thought was right. We cannot judge him.’

Jack clenched his jaw, biting off his anger. ‘Were you there?’

The count shook his head. ‘I was left behind.’

Jack heard the acid in the words. The former commander of the Maharajah’s lancers had remained in the fortress with the rest of the old men and the boys too young to fight. The only ones not trusted in battle. Now the party of decrepit lancers was the sole force the beaten Maharajah could muster, the ancient warriors forced back in the saddle to do their master’s bidding once more.

‘Yet you stayed.’

Count Piotr nodded, his face grave. ‘Yes. I stayed. I had started to think my time here was done. Now, I think, it has just begun.’ He looked Jack hard in the eyes. ‘It is a strange thing, loyalty, is it not, Jack? It binds us to our fate, no matter how much we like to think we can choose.’

Jack thought on the count’s words. His own notion of loyalty had bound him to the British. It had led him to forsake the Maharajah, to fight against the man who had saved him. In the aftermath of the battle, Proudfoot had claimed that he had made the difference, that his actions had been decisive in handing the British their victory. The notion shamed him.

‘He will listen to you now.’ Jack forced himself to speak, to not dwell on the emotions the count was stirring. He was no longer certain where his loyalty lay, what path his future would take.

‘He will. He has no one else. The rest have forsaken him. They have abandoned the palace, taking anything of value. Only Lakshmi remains. He has lost everything.’

Jack turned in the saddle. He looked at the pathetic corpse draped over the saddle of the horse he had taken from the field of battle. The Maharajah had paid a high price for his ambition.

‘I would take him his son.’

The count kept his eyes on Jack’s. Then he nodded, acquiescing to the request.

Nothing more was said as the lancers formed up behind their former general, taking position around the body that Jack had brought out of the bloody carnage. Their brooding silence wrapped around him. He gave no command, but walked his horse forward, knowing they would follow.

The Taragarh looked deserted. Jack led his escort up the long sloping ramp towards the heavily protected gates. This time there was no traffic, no carts jostling and pushing as they were forced to wait for entry. The gates were open and unguarded. The mighty fortress of the maharajahs of Sawadh had finally been overcome. Not through siege or escalade, but by the complete defeat of the army that defended the walls and guarded its gates.

A single rider rode to greet them. At first Jack thought it was a boy, the only one left to greet the remnants of the lancers who had ridden from the same fortress with such hope and pride just days before.

He halted the lancers, letting the rider approach. It was only as it got closer that Jack recognised the slim figure, the face that had once beguiled him now grey and stricken with grief and fear. Lakshmi’s eyes searched his face, as if trying to find something she had lost.

Jack watched as she looked past him and saw the body he had come to deliver. Her eyes betrayed nothing, yet he saw the tears as she pulled at the reins, turning away from the man who had come to destroy any lingering hope in her heart.

He followed her, entering the Star Fort for the last time.

‘You are a brave man, General Lark. Or a foolish one.’

Jack turned as he recognised the voice. He had been standing in the room of the Ramayana paintings. He had walked the familiar corridors of the palace, the memories of his life there haunting him. The place was deserted, the fabulous decorations intact but somehow now faded, as if life itself had fled. He had found himself in his favourite place, his feet taking him there without conscious thought. He had thought to rest, his battered body begging for some respite. He was still wrapped in the grime of the battlefield, the blood of his enemies mixed with that he himself had shed. He had hidden the filth under the dusty blue uniform he had retrieved from its hiding place, and now he faced the Maharajah dressed in the trappings of the life he had forsaken.

‘It was my duty.’ Jack’s own voice was cold.

The Maharajah said nothing. He stared at Jack for a long time. Neither flinched from the scrutiny of the other. Jack saw the pain etched into the king’s face, the grey pallor of grief stealing the vibrancy from his face. He looked as empty as his palace, his vitality swamped by the bitterness of defeat.

‘Thank you.’ When the Maharajah spoke, it was barely even in a whisper. ‘Thank you for returning my son to me.’

‘He needed to be brought home. I was honoured to escort him.’ There was little sympathy in Jack’s voice. There had been too much death for him to feel pity.

The Maharajah cupped his hand over his eyes. Jack could see the shudders that racked his body. When the hand fell away, he saw an old man.

‘You and the Count were right. You English do not accept defeat.’ The words were spoken without emotion, the Maharajah’s eyes blank.

‘You must do as they tell you now. You will be treated well.’

The Maharajah waved the words away. ‘Nothing matters any more.’

‘Of course it matters.’ Jack’s voice was brittle, but it was sharp too. ‘Your people need you more than ever. You led them to this place. You cannot forsake them now.’

The Maharajah looked as if he had been slapped. ‘Do not dare to tell me my duty.’ He was vibrating with emotion, his face stricken with a mixture of grief and despair.

‘I dare tell you, for it must be said.’ Jack spoke without hesitation, the voice of an officer to a subordinate. ‘You chose to go to war. Now you must deal with the peace you have forced on your people.’

He let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. His fingers brushed the sharkskin grip. It was mottled now, stained with blood and with sweat. It was no longer the pristine weapon of a prince. It was the bloody tool of a killer.

The blade rasped as he pulled it from the scabbard, the noise loud in the quiet of the room. The balance of the weapon was still perfect, and Jack held it in his hand, feeling the power of the beautiful steel.

He reached across with his left hand and took hold of the blade. The edge was notched and pitted, the marks of combat etched deep. He had done his best to clean it, but flecks of blood were still stuck in the swirling script that decorated the talwar’s faces, the residue of men’s lives embedded in the steel.

He hefted the sword, then turned the blade, offering it hilt first to the Maharajah. ‘This is yours.’

The Maharajah said nothing. He looked at the sword. His hand twitched, the fingers reaching instinctively to take the grip, then went still. He looked at Jack, fixing him with a stare that contained a spark of his former power.

‘No. I have no need of a sword any more. The days of fighting are done. It is yours and yours alone.’ He stood back, taking a step away from the man he had once sheltered. ‘You are right to chastise me.’ He looked at Jack for a long time without speaking. ‘I think perhaps I underestimated you, Jack Lark.’

‘Perhaps.’ Jack had endured enough of kings. He felt the urge to leave, to get away from men with ambition. He suddenly felt foolish, standing holding out his sword in some theatrical gesture. He reversed the blade and thrust it back into its scabbard, a flicker of anger forcing away the sadness that had engulfed him since he had first seen Lakshmi riding towards him.

‘Perhaps.’ The Maharajah repeated the word softly. Then his face hardened. ‘I will do as you say. I must lead my people, even though my heart is broken and my country will be swallowed by you monstrous British.’

‘You must. The time for resistance is over. A new agent will come. He will treat you better than Proudfoot. He will ask you to sign another treaty, one that will let us rule here. Your time is done.’

Jack had nothing more to say. Too many men had died for him to feel sympathy, their lives sacrificed at the altar of the Maharajah’s pride and Proudfoot’s ambition. He took a step back, preparing to leave the Maharajah for the last time.

‘Where will you go?’ The Maharajah stopped him before turning and sitting heavily in a gilded chair that faced the window.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What of Miss Youngsummers?’

Jack bridled at the sudden flurry of questions. ‘She has no need of me. She needs a good man, not a killer.’ He remembered Isabel’s face as she had dressed the wound to his arm. He had seen her fear, her tiredness. He could not stay in her life. She deserved more.

‘Perhaps you are both.’ The Maharajah looked past Jack. He was staring at the small courtyard outside the window. The ornate fountain at its heart was silent, the water that gave it life gone.

Jack looked at the man who had once been king. ‘No. I am one and one alone.’

He said nothing more. He left the Maharajah to stare into nothingness and walked away.