The Maharajah's General by Paul Fraser Collard

fight. His fusillade drove the ambushers away from him as he cut a dreadful swathe of death through their ranks. It gave his sepoys an opening, and they threw themselves into the gap he had created, their bayonets reaching for the enemy, their shrill banshee cries the last sound many of the ambushers would ever hear. They thrust into the mass of bodies, wielding their bayonets in the short, professional jabs they had learnt on the drill square. The ground under their feet was littered with the dead and the dying, the hideous stench of blood and opened bowels filling their nostrils as they surged forward, seeking the next victim for their blades. It would have taken a brave man or a fool to stand in their way, and the disparate horde recoiled from the disciplined charge.
    Jack let his men push past him. His blood thundered with the need to throw himself back into the melee, but he forced himself to still the urge, his need for knowledge overriding the visceral instinct to fight. The sepoys’ thrust into the enemy’s ranks gave him a few precious seconds to try to make sense of the desperate struggle. Seconds he could not afford to waste if he was to defy the gods and snatch a bloody victory from the gaping jaws of defeat.
    The ambushers were giving ground, melting away from the horror of the sepoys’ volley and their merciless bayonets. Yet despite their bravery and brutal efficiency, the red-coated soldiers were still outnumbered. The mob might have been giving ground in front of the assault, but more and more were moving to the flanks, swarming around the handful of British soldiers.
    When they rediscovered their courage, Jack’s command would be overwhelmed.

Isabel crouched behind the boulder, transfixed by the gory spectacle going on no more than two dozen yards from where she hid. For as long as she could remember she had read about battle, captivated by the dry, urbane accounts of campaigns and set-piece war written by generals and commanders. She had devoured every book she could find, from Livy to Wellington, yet she had never before contemplated the brutality that she saw unfurling before her. The dusty, emotionless words did nothing to convey the dreadful struggle in which men hacked and gouged in a desperate fight to kill or be killed. There was no glory in war, and the sordid, squalid sight she was witnessing left her struggling to control the waves of nausea that lurched through her body.
    The black-robed leader of the enemy horde detached himself from the fighting. Even across the yards of scrub she felt his eyes bore into her. Her throat constricted in fear as he eased his charger round, turning its head to face where she hid, before kicking the mount into motion, riding straight for her. He never once let his eyes leave her, staring into her terrified gaze as he rode down the slope.
    ‘Danbury!’ The scream tore from her throat as the heavily armoured figure slid from his horse a few yards in front of her. The man was huge, a figure from a nightmare, his robes the colour of night, his black eyes pitiless. He was a vision of hell manifest on earth.
    Agile despite his bulk, the huge warrior landed gently on his feet. Isabel saw the purpose in his action. Fear surged through her, a visceral wave of animal terror more powerful than anything she had ever known. It burst out of her like a river in flood breaching its banks.
    ‘Danbury! Danbury!’ She shrieked his name in panic, her voice shrill.
    The black-robed figure was unmoved, no trace of emotion visible behind the beard that smothered his face. He lifted a single gauntleted hand, holding it towards her as if inviting her to dance. Her fear reasserting itself, she stood mute, powerless to resist.
    ‘Come.’ The man’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and Isabel struggled to hear the single command over the cacophony of the fight that carried on regardless of her plight. The fingers encased in thick black leather gloves flexed, beckoning her to