Free The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) by Richard Estep Page B

their way, for the sounds of ferocious combat at Assaye would have been heard for miles around last night; Stevenson would be all too aware that Major General Wellesley’s force had engaged the enemy, and would most likely have begun marching to the sound of the guns as soon as he heard them.
    The hours and the miles ground slowly by in an interminably tedious haze of heat, sweat, and exhaustion. Although he was ashamed to admit it, Rice actually fell asleep in the saddle on more than one occasion, lulled into a fitful, dreamless sleep by the rhythmic plodding of his mount. Jolted awake after one such episode, the captain looked about him guiltily, hoping that nobody had heard him snoring, as he felt sure he must have done. If anybody had, they showed no sign of it. Each infantryman’s tanned face was slack and lifeless, and much like the captain who commanded them, many were marching like automata with their eyes closed, lost in a world of half-sleep.
    It was just after a quarter past four when the light dragoons returned, four tiny dots that suddenly appeared on the western horizon. Replacing the fob watch in his pocket, Rice pulled out a brass telescope and extended it fully. Bringing it up to his eye, he swung the glass impatiently toward the specks. Even before they resolved into the discernible figures of British horsemen, the captain knew that they were friendlies: after all, they galloped through the outermost screen of native horse scouts without any attempt being made to stop them.
    “Beg leave to report, sir.” The sergeant in command of the small party reined his horse to a halt alongside Rice’s. The captain simply nodded, his eyes full of unspoken questions. “We found Colonel Stevenson’s column, sir – about three miles nor-nor’east of here.” He jabbed a finger in that direction for added emphasis. Rice’s eyes followed it, tracked out to the far horizon. There was a slight dust cloud there, nothing that one would have spotted without knowing of its presence.
    “Excellent, Sergeant. You have informed the outliers?” Rice jerked his head to indicate the outermost cavalry screen.
    “Yes sir. They’re making straight for it, sir.”
    “Jolly good. Thank you. Fall into the column, Sergeant. I should say that you have earned your pay for today.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    A salute was exchanged between officer and NCO. Dismissed, the latter wheeled his mount away and trotted off to rejoin his comrades, with the other three falling into line behind him. For his part, Rice let out a sigh of quiet relief. Well, that was that. The two British columns should be able to link up before nightfall. Then it was just a question of establishing a safe harbor for the night – he seriously doubted that General Wellesley would want to march the men far, if at all, after the events of the past thirty-six hours – and settling in to get some desperately-needed rest.
    Perhaps they had a chance after all.
     
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
    “So tell me, Irishman…have you missed me?”
    Arthur felt as if he had only just pulled the coffin lid in place over his head when the familiar voice began speaking to him from out of the darkness. His eyelids fluttered open. Just as he had expected, he was surrounded by nothing but darkness on all sides, completely immersed in it.
    This was how their conversations always started. As much as he hated to admit it, he had rather begun to miss them. These dream-world discussions helped him keep his verbal skills honed to a fine point.
    “Yes,” Arthur admitted frankly, “I have.”
    The figure of the Tipu Sultan stepped forward out of the shadows. His frame was short and squat, but carried as much muscle as it did fat. The potentate wore his traditional garb of baggy green pantaloons, a golden vest that was belted at the waist with a knotted red sash, and a turban of sky blue silk which was fronted with an enormous red ruby. Appraising him, Arthur thought