Tiger Claws (62 page)
Authors: John Speed
“Stop talking like a woman!” Iron replies, pushing him away.
Afzul Khan drops the entrance flap behind him. Shivaji takes a seat at the far end of the tent. Behind him stands Bandal, the tiger claws hidden between his fingers. It dawns on him that this could be the last place he ever sees. He glances at Shivaji, but from behind there’s no way to tell whether Shivaji looks confident or frightened. I’ll just do my best, he thinks, and hope the gods will help.
The tent is tall enough for Afzul Khan to stand comfortably. He prowls the edge of the tent, first one way, then the other, like a bull elephant choosing a place to rest. He stops beside the low camp table that is covered with green cloth.
What the hell is it with that table? Bandal wonders. Something about it seems wrong. It seems so out of place.
When he first entered and saw it, Bandal had lifted the cloth, expecting maybe an assassin to be hiding there. But it was just a table, some strange design of bamboo slats, probably fashioned to be light and portable. Easy to see that there was no one hiding there. While the young captain watched, Bandal had replaced the cloth. But even now Bandal’s eyes are drawn to it. Something about it gnaws at him. Something about it is all wrong.
Afzul Khan nods to the young captain, who hurries forward, placing a cushion close to the central tent pole. Afzul Khan then sits on the cushion. His knees jut up into the air, as though his huge thighs are unable to relax, and his hulking shoulders hunch forward.
Afzul Khan’s voice is soft. “Ever been to Khirki, mouse? Ever sleep with some fool’s wife there, and then run away? Ever done that, mouse?” Shivaji stares back, silent. “Well, you wanted this parley,” Afzul Khan says. “Speak.”
A moment passes. Bandal looks at Afzul Khan’s glittering turban pin, suddenly troubled that he didn’t look at it more closely. But then Shivaji’s cool voice says, “I’m here to offer you a deal, general. Leave my territory. Now.”
It takes a moment for Afzul Khan to collect himself. “What kind of deal is that, little mouse?”
“Leave and live. That’s a good deal.”
Afzul Khan begins to chuckle, then he laughs, a low, growling laugh. “I thought you were a coward, mouse. Now I see you are a fool. Maybe we’re both fools, who can say?” The general lumbers to his feet. “Come and embrace me, and we will talk as brothers.” He spreads his arms.
Don’t do it! Bandal thinks, as Shivaji stands.
No! Bandal calls out, only his voice isn’t working. Shivaji steps forward, lifting his arms.
Afzul Khan folds his arms around Shivaji. He clutches him to his chest. His huge arms squeeze so tightly Shivaji’s heels leave the ground. Shivaji groans as Afzul Khan wraps him tighter. The general’s face grows taut with the effort of squeezing Shivaji, his thick neck begins to swell, and he leans backward, pulling Shivaji from his feet.
The general nods to the captain. With a sudden gesture, the captain whips the cloth from the table, and suddenly Bandal recognizes it. A cage! Lying on its side—a cage like the one that holds that babbling prisoner outside! But before Bandal can move, the young captain has knelt to the side of the cage and flipped its top open. Afzul Khan drags Shivaji toward it, step by step, as Shivaji struggles furiously, his muffled voice groaning.
Do something! Bandal thinks. He lurches forward, reaching out for Afzul Khan. As if in a dream, he notices the blades of the tiger claws protruding between his fingers. With a yell, he drives them into Afzul Khan’s shoulder.
His next image is of Afzul Khan’s hideous, twisted face turning toward
him. He hears Afzul Khan’s voice roaring like a bull, sees an anvil fist whip toward his face, sees Shivaji pulling free.
him. He hears Afzul Khan’s voice roaring like a bull, sees an anvil fist whip toward his face, sees Shivaji pulling free.
Then Bandal’s sight explodes in a starburst of pain as he’s hurled backward. He falls against the tent poles near the entry, and heavy cloth collapses on him. He pulls himself free of the tangled cloth only to see the young captain’s foot swinging for his head. He turns aside, but the captain’s shoe catches him by the ear and sends him spinning.
Bandal scrambles to his feet. His vision is a swirling blur of light and pain. He catches a glimpse of Afzul Khan and Shivaji circling each other, and sees some sort of weapon in Afzul Khan’s hand.
Then a blow strikes the back of his neck. He collapses. A savage kick catches him in the ribs, flopping him onto his back. The captain drops to drive his knees into Bandal’s chest.
Only then does the captain discover them, the black steel blades glinting between Bandal’s fingers. The razor points slice his shirt and glide along the glistening skin of his chest. Then they catch the flesh and dig deeper, so sharp his wounds gleam white before they start to bleed. Then they rip into the captain’s throat and shred his neck. His head flops forward and he falls.
Bandal feels the warm blood pumping from the captain’s wound, feels the captain’s body shuddering. But he hears behind him grunts and blows and remembers Shivaji and Afzul Khan. Somehow he manages to shove the captain’s body from his chest, somehow manages to stagger to his feet.
Despite his dizzy vision, Bandal sees Afzul Khan attacking Shivaji. The general’s arm bleeds from Bandal’s stab, but not enough to stop him. In his hand is a bright knife, its handle the jeweled turban pin. It was a hidden weapon after all, Bandal thinks stupidly. He stumbles forward. But Afzul Khan sees him. He swings the jeweled knife in a wide arc, slashing Bandal across the throat.
Bandal tries to scream, but he cannot. He reaches for his neck, and his fingers slip into the wet gash, as if he has a new mouth. He gasps and quivers as he struggles for air, for there’s an emptiness where his throat should be. Blood bubbles over his tongue and pours over his lips; blood gushes down his arms. He’s staring up at the top of the tent now, but he doesn’t know when he fell. As he dies he hears the gagging as he drowns in his blood.
“Now who will help you, mouse?” Afzul Khan laughs.
Shivaji watches as his cousin shudders into his death, then backs away.
Afzul Khan’s face is flushed with triumph. “My knife or my cage, mouse. You decide,” he growls. With unexpected speed, he lunges, knife held high, point toward Shivaji’s heart. The force of the blow knocks Shivaji down, but the blade is turned by his tunic of mail. Shivaji springs to his feet.
Afzul Khan’s small eyes gleam. “You won’t fool me that way again.”
Shivaji steps backward, his eyes fixed on Afzul Khan’s bloated face. Again Afzul Khan lunges, this time the knife’s blade aimed for Shivaji’s unprotected face.
Shivaji ducks, and the blade drives through his turban, piercing the helmet above his ear, but breaking before it can kill him. Afzul Khan stares at the jeweled hilt of the broken knife. Then with a laugh he tosses it aside. “Now we are equals, mouse. Now it is just you and me.”
Moving backward, Shivaji bumps into one of the tent poles. He tugs it, as if to use it as a weapon. But when he pulls it from its place, part of the tent comes crashing down, burying him and Afzul Khan in darkness.
Afzul Khan curses and thrashes in the cloth. Shivaji crawls backward, and bumps against Bandal’s wet, warm body. A few feet away, Afzul Khan emerges from the fallen tent, his face a mask of rage.
The knife cut Shivaji’s scalp, and now blood streams from beneath his helmet, into his eyes. Blindly he feels along Bandal’s body. He feels the hand and finds the fingers, feels the fingers and finds the
wagnak.
He tugs at the steel rings, cutting his own hands as he peels the weapon from Bandal’s death grip.
wagnak.
He tugs at the steel rings, cutting his own hands as he peels the weapon from Bandal’s death grip.
There’s a sudden moment when the rings slip free and Bandal’s hand falls, leaving the
wagnak
in Shivaji’s grasp. As Afzul Khan staggers toward him, Shivaji slips the tiger claws onto his own hand. He squeezes his fingers and Afzul Khan sees the black blades.
wagnak
in Shivaji’s grasp. As Afzul Khan staggers toward him, Shivaji slips the tiger claws onto his own hand. He squeezes his fingers and Afzul Khan sees the black blades.
“A coward’s weapon,” he says. “A toy. You think that will stop me?” Afzul Khan steps closer, spreading his arms. “Come then, mouse. Come and scratch me with your tiny claws.” With that Shivaji rushes forward, fist clenched tight. Afzul Khan does not flinch or move away. He wraps Shivaji in his massive arms and squeezes tight.
Pinned down so, Shivaji can slide the blades across Afzul Khan’s torso—but only a little, for his arm is pinioned in a crushing embrace. Afzul Khan begins to pound Shivaji’s body even as he holds him, battering him with fists like stones. Shivaji groans with every thudding blow. All his concentration bends to freeing his arm, just a little, just a little.
Somehow, amidst the blows, Shivaji gains a little space. He can lift his
arm! In a flash he drives his blades with all his strength into Afzul Khan’s side. Again and again he plunges the blades, but Afzul Khan is so padded with fat that the
wagnak
seems only to scratch his skin. The general never stops his blows. He squeezes Shivaji hard still. Shivaji gasps for air.
arm! In a flash he drives his blades with all his strength into Afzul Khan’s side. Again and again he plunges the blades, but Afzul Khan is so padded with fat that the
wagnak
seems only to scratch his skin. The general never stops his blows. He squeezes Shivaji hard still. Shivaji gasps for air.
Unknowingly, though, Afzul Khan is squeezing Shivaji’s blade hand, actually pressing the
wagnak
deeper into his own side.
wagnak
deeper into his own side.
Shivaji hears Afzul Khan groan. He feels something give. Suddenly the blades sink deep. The general’s arms loosen. Shivaji thrusts his arm into Afzul Khan’s wound. He smells the blood and shit. Afzul Khan screams. He strikes out wildly, trying to get away from the claws that rip his insides.
Shivaji thrusts upward, again! Again! A rain of blows falls on him, but he does not stop. With his hand twisting in Afzul Khan’s gut, Shivaji leans into the massive chest, and pushes with all his might.
Afzul Khan staggers, but he will not fall. Instead with a roar he clenches his fists together, and smashes them against Shivaji’s back. The blow is staggering: Shivaji crumples to his knees. As he falls, his arm, wet with black blood, pulls out from Afzul Khan’s side.
Shivaji looks up to see Afzul Khan’s face, contorted in triumph and pain. “You cannot kill me!” Afzul Khan shouts, and with those words hammers his foot into Shivaji’s ribs. The blow hurls Shivaji within inches of the bamboo cage. “It is I who will kill you!” Afzul Khan staggers toward him. Blood gushes from his side, but he comes on, unheeding of his wounds. He pulls back his foot for one more kick. Twisting, Shivaji stabs, catching Afzul Khan from below, ripping the tiger claws up his thighs, his balls, slicing his lingam. Afzul Khan screams and plunges forward.
Into the cage.
At the last moment, he manages to turn his head.
One spike breaks; the other pierces his ear, emerging bright red through the white folds of Afzul Khan’s turban.
Outside the tent, the guards wait. They began by watching each other with grim faces, but as the tent collapses, as the muffled shouts and groans emerge, their eyes grow tight with tension. What should they do?
When the first tent post fell, Tanaji rushed forward, but one of the Abyssinians spurred his horse to block his way. The two stood, eyes locked, listening to the grunts and unintelligible words.
Now the whole tent collapses, and worry slips across the Abyssinian’s face.
“We’re going in!” Tanaji yells to the Marathis. He lifts his mace like a club, with two hands, and the Marathis bare their swords. Jedhe waves Shivaji’s
farang
sword, still sheathed, above his head. The Abyssinians quickly form a line to stop them, but they look at each other with troubled faces.
farang
sword, still sheathed, above his head. The Abyssinians quickly form a line to stop them, but they look at each other with troubled faces.
“We should all go in!” Tanaji shouts to the Abyssinian. “Something’s wrong in there! Let’s go in together!”
The Abyssinian captain, glancing to the part of the tent that now twists and squirms like a living thing, considers for a moment. “No,” he says.
Then the tent stops moving.
From within, no more muffled voices. Silence.
Tanaji looks at the Abyssinian and sees a face as troubled as his own.
Then the tent begins to move once more, as someone pokes and thrashes toward the entrance flap. Tanaji steps forward, wanting to help, but again the Abyssinian bars his way.
And then a man emerges: feet bare and soaked with blood, legs bloodstained, shirt slashed, turban gone.
Shivaji lifts his bleeding head to see the sky. His helmet, cracked and mangled, tumbles from his head, and his blood-soaked hair falls in thick wet ropes across his shoulders. He lifts the bloody
wagnak
so that all may see.
wagnak
so that all may see.
“Bring me my sword!” Shivaji cries.
The grizzled Bijapuri captain stands in his stirrups and shouts, “No one move! Not one inch!” The Abyssinian guard scowls at the captain and lifts his lance. “Stop! Keep still! Not one inch, I say!” the captain screams.
Shivaji now moves quickly to Jedhe, who stares at him with horror. “Do I look that bad?” Shivaji asks. The white teeth gleaming from that red-streaked face look like a demon’s. “Courage, cousin,” Shivaji says. “Give me my sword.”
“It is yours, lord,” Jedhe cries and hands over the ram-hilt blade.
As Shivaji takes it, he sees that he still wears the bloodstained tiger claws. He tears them off and hurls them to the ground. Then he grasps the sword and tears off its sheath. The
farang
blade, polished mirror-bright, sparkles in the sunlight. Shivaji holds the sword high, walking toward the road.
farang
blade, polished mirror-bright, sparkles in the sunlight. Shivaji holds the sword high, walking toward the road.
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