The Maharajah's General by Paul Fraser Collard Page A

him.
    She felt her body jerk into motion as if tugged forward by an invisible chain. She thought nothing of the silver revolver she still held in her left hand, the idea of resisting never once entering her mind. Her movements felt ponderous, as if the ground was cloying mud rather than dusty soil. Her eyes fixed on the face that observed her progress with serenity and she reached out her free hand, demurely offering it as if she were shyly accepting a suitor’s request for a dance at a dowager’s ball.
    She laid her small hand in the centre of the leather gauntlet and surrendered.
    The ambushers swarmed forward, surrounding the small group of sepoys, forcing Jack back into the fight. He flicked his sword out, deflecting a richly jewelled talwar that reached for his eyes, then brought his own blade around in a glittering arc to parry an ancient bayonet-tipped musket that was thrust at his stomach. More blades reached forward, the enemy’s courage growing with every second as the wild horde sensed the weakness in the tiring sepoys.
    The first of Jack’s men went down, a pig-sticking spear finding its way past his jabbing bayonet. The leaf-shaped head slid through the thick scarlet coat and into the sepoy’s flesh, the fiendish shriek of triumph emitted by its owner the last sound the dying soldier would ever hear. The sight of the first red-coated devil falling to the ground galvanised the rest of the mob. Those too cunning, or too fearful, to have been at the forefront of the attack sensed the change, belatedly pushing forward, their desire to fight kindled now that victory seemed certain.
    As one the mob closed on the small band of soldiers that had fought with such courage. Like a pack of wild dogs they flung themselves into the fight, each keen to wet their blade in the sepoys’ blood, eager for the gory proof of their valour.
    The surviving members of the escort did not stand a chance. The enemy swarmed around them, countless blades whirling, attacks coming from all sides. Yet still the sepoys fought on, stamping their feet forward, thrusting their bayonets at the bodies that pressed against them, their leaden arms and aching muscles forced to continue the fight, the soldiers of the foreign Queen refusing to submit meekly to their fate.
    Above the cacophony of the fight, Jack heard Isabel scream his assumed name. He shoved a naked fanatic backwards with his shoulder, using the point of his sword to tear a fist-sized hole in the man’s grease-covered stomach, then forced his way out of the vicious melee, his blunted sword bludgeoning those of the ambushers seeking to attack the rear of the sepoys’ fragile formation. He had no concept of how long they had fought, the passage of time meaningless in the grotesque struggle where a single heartbeat could pass between life and death. All he knew was that Isabel’s terrified scream was a call for help he had to heed.
    Free of the fight, Jack ran hard, ignoring the spasm of pain in the pit of his spine and the dreadful ache in his sword arm, focusing his attention on the tall figure that loomed over Isabel’s tiny frame. At any second he expected the man to turn, to react to the single foolish redcoat charging towards him. But the black-robed giant stayed facing Isabel, his back left undefended and exposed. It gave Jack an opportunity, and he strained every tired sinew as he strove to reach Isabel and somehow drag her to safety.
    The ground passed slowly under his boots, the uneven surface twisting each footfall. He was certain his legs would give way at any moment, buckling under the strain of racing down the slope to send him tumbling and falling to the floor. Yet somehow he kept his footing, and he counted off the seconds as he hurtled towards the black-robed figure. Yard by yard, step by step he closed the gap between them, no longer hearing the attackers’ shouts of victory or the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears.
    He screamed as he charged, the final few