hind legs and gave a high-pitched squeal. The Captain gripped the reins and tried to control the animal, but so far as Jack could see he hadn’t been hit.
The cavalrymen wrenched out their pistols as the guide lined up another shot. The guide pulled the trigger and the hammer clicked down—
Nothing happened. The pistol must have fired off all its rounds at once.
Lefevre roared and the cavalrymen spattered a volley at the guide. The guide jerked as he was hit and the mule screamed, rolled its eyes and fell with its legs twitching, bright wounds along its side.
The guide lay trapped under the mule, injured but not yet dead, straining to free himself with hands streaked with blood.
‘Hold your fire,’ Sengar shouted as the French prepared to shoot again. He’d regained control of his horse, but his eyes simmered and his moustache was stretched thinly.
The cavalrymen lowered their weapons. But a second later Jack heard the pop of a musket and a chime near to him as a bullet hit a rail. More pops followed and a patter of bullets through leaves. The ground puckered and rattled as the missiles struck.
They’d been ambushed.
The Frenchmen shouted and their horses danced beneath them. Smoke puffed from the trees covering the left side of the gully, but the undergrowth was too thick for Jack to see the attackers. Bullets whispered past him – evil sprites. He leapt over the tracks and fell against the wall of the cutting, between two tree roots, but this provided little protection.
Damn Sengar for not giving him a weapon.
The French fired blindly up the slope. Lefevre’s top lip curled into a snarl. Kansal tried to aim at something with his pistol. In a matter of seconds, five cavalrymen had thudded to the ground.
Bullets sizzled into the earth wall near Jack’s head. He ducked down as far as he could. A tree root next to him was slashed open with a crack. His heart raced and his chest felt heavy.
He caught a powerful waft of sattva. Why could he smell sattva so strongly?
Sengar sat still on his horse, mouthing words silently, eyes closed. Suddenly the light in the gully went dim, as though cloud had passed before the sun. But when Jack looked up, the sun was still bright. Wind coursed through the trees, shaking branches and rippling leaves. The smell of sattva grew stronger. The French were unnerved and slowed the pace of their firing – perhaps even they could smell sattva now.
Sengar took on a strange glow. Only it wasn’t a glow, but a sharpening of his appearance, as if he were coming into focus through a spyglass. He opened his eyes – they were diamond-bright. He held his right hand before him in a fist and the air just beyond it crinkled as in a mirage. The wind stopped. For a moment there was a sharp silence in the gully and everything seemed still. Then the wavering air formed into a twenty-foot globe and throbbed into orange flame. The fireball roared and boiled and the heat scoured Jack’s face. The cavalrymen’s horses reared and whinnied.
Sattva-fire. Jack was sure.
Sengar bellowed something, opened his hand and the flaming ball flew straight at the slope, slashed through the trees and exploded with a peal that flung Jack back against the cutting. Branches, clods of earth, soot and sparks shot upwards. Trees cracked open and shrivelled with flame. Black smoke billowed and swayed and soon hid most of the slope.
Jack blinked dust from his eyes. The explosion had been as powerful as ten shells going off at once. Only a siddha could do something like that.
‘It must be the rebels. After them!’ Sengar leapt from his horse, drew his scimitar and charged into the smoke, his green turban bobbing for a second, then vanishing.
The French gave a joint cry of ‘Allah is great!’, jumped to the ground and raced after the Captain, leaving behind a couple of men to guard the horses. Kansal followed, struggling to draw his scimitar, which seemed to have caught on something.
Jack lurched up and
The cavalrymen wrenched out their pistols as the guide lined up another shot. The guide pulled the trigger and the hammer clicked down—
Nothing happened. The pistol must have fired off all its rounds at once.
Lefevre roared and the cavalrymen spattered a volley at the guide. The guide jerked as he was hit and the mule screamed, rolled its eyes and fell with its legs twitching, bright wounds along its side.
The guide lay trapped under the mule, injured but not yet dead, straining to free himself with hands streaked with blood.
‘Hold your fire,’ Sengar shouted as the French prepared to shoot again. He’d regained control of his horse, but his eyes simmered and his moustache was stretched thinly.
The cavalrymen lowered their weapons. But a second later Jack heard the pop of a musket and a chime near to him as a bullet hit a rail. More pops followed and a patter of bullets through leaves. The ground puckered and rattled as the missiles struck.
They’d been ambushed.
The Frenchmen shouted and their horses danced beneath them. Smoke puffed from the trees covering the left side of the gully, but the undergrowth was too thick for Jack to see the attackers. Bullets whispered past him – evil sprites. He leapt over the tracks and fell against the wall of the cutting, between two tree roots, but this provided little protection.
Damn Sengar for not giving him a weapon.
The French fired blindly up the slope. Lefevre’s top lip curled into a snarl. Kansal tried to aim at something with his pistol. In a matter of seconds, five cavalrymen had thudded to the ground.
Bullets sizzled into the earth wall near Jack’s head. He ducked down as far as he could. A tree root next to him was slashed open with a crack. His heart raced and his chest felt heavy.
He caught a powerful waft of sattva. Why could he smell sattva so strongly?
Sengar sat still on his horse, mouthing words silently, eyes closed. Suddenly the light in the gully went dim, as though cloud had passed before the sun. But when Jack looked up, the sun was still bright. Wind coursed through the trees, shaking branches and rippling leaves. The smell of sattva grew stronger. The French were unnerved and slowed the pace of their firing – perhaps even they could smell sattva now.
Sengar took on a strange glow. Only it wasn’t a glow, but a sharpening of his appearance, as if he were coming into focus through a spyglass. He opened his eyes – they were diamond-bright. He held his right hand before him in a fist and the air just beyond it crinkled as in a mirage. The wind stopped. For a moment there was a sharp silence in the gully and everything seemed still. Then the wavering air formed into a twenty-foot globe and throbbed into orange flame. The fireball roared and boiled and the heat scoured Jack’s face. The cavalrymen’s horses reared and whinnied.
Sattva-fire. Jack was sure.
Sengar bellowed something, opened his hand and the flaming ball flew straight at the slope, slashed through the trees and exploded with a peal that flung Jack back against the cutting. Branches, clods of earth, soot and sparks shot upwards. Trees cracked open and shrivelled with flame. Black smoke billowed and swayed and soon hid most of the slope.
Jack blinked dust from his eyes. The explosion had been as powerful as ten shells going off at once. Only a siddha could do something like that.
‘It must be the rebels. After them!’ Sengar leapt from his horse, drew his scimitar and charged into the smoke, his green turban bobbing for a second, then vanishing.
The French gave a joint cry of ‘Allah is great!’, jumped to the ground and raced after the Captain, leaving behind a couple of men to guard the horses. Kansal followed, struggling to draw his scimitar, which seemed to have caught on something.
Jack lurched up and
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