The Devil's Regiment (2 page)

“Not necessarily, but India hasn't been the most stable place the British have ever been. Let's not give away any advantages.”

Callum nodded, and struck a match, kindling the cigarette.

“Did you get a chance to do any research before we set off?” he asked.

“Nothing that I'd care to put money on. There's a lot of old superstitions out here – and I can't be sure which of them are based in fact and which are just holdovers.”

The dragon-blood nodded grimly, and took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Something doesn't feel right here, Nathaniel. I can feel the tension in the building. They're nervous about us.”

“They should be. That letter I brought from the guild gives me legal authority to request anything I damn well please – that sort of thing worries military men.”

“I wonder why.”

An orderly stuck his head around the door, his eyes surveying the three.

“Mr Wittington-Smythe? Major Thomas will see you now.”

***

“I am not happy about this, sir. Not happy at all.”

“You've mentioned that Major. Repeatedly, in fact.” Nathaniel coolly remarked. “Nevertheless, you may notice that this letter is not only signed by your superiors at Horse Guards, but also her Majesty the Queen.” He leaned forward, planting his hands on the major's desk.

“Your feelings in this matter are irrelevant. Your actions are not. Are you going to assist us, or will I have to take the matter back to your commanders?”

The agent paused for a moment, then snapped his fingers.

“Quickly, Major, I haven't got all day.”

Major Thomas's bushy moustache bristled, his face turning red with anger. With a visible effort, the officer bought himself under control.

“I am a servant of her Majesty Mr Wittington-Smythe,I have been ordered to assist you in this nonsense, therefore I will.”

“Good decision.” Callum murmured.

“Very good, Major.” Nathaniel said. “We'll need weapons, horses and supplies.”

“It shall be arranged.” The Major snapped.

“Good.”

“I shall also be arranging an escort. I don't trust you, Mr Wittington-Smythe, and I certainly don't like this pandering towards the superstitions of the rank and file.”

Nathaniel, who'd turned towards the door, glanced back over his shoulder at the officer.

“I hope you're right about it being superstition, Major. God help us if it isn't.”

***

“You were rather hard on him.” Elizabeth noted.

“I liked it.” Callum grinned at Nathaniel as the trio walked through the corridor towards the stables.

“I don't have time to massage his ego.” Nathaniel said, striding ahead of them. “If Clarence is right, then we need to get to that fort as soon as possible – lives depend on it.”

“And do you think Clarence is right?” Elizabeth asked.

Silence hung between them as they walked.

“Let's just get to the horses.”

Evidently word had reached the orderlies of their approach, because three horses and a platoon of riders were waiting for them when they reached the stable. Whatever else he might have been, the Major was certainly efficient. Nathaniel surveyed the troops as Callum went immediately to the horses. The mount he chose shied away as he got close, smelling the difference between him and the pure-blood humans around him.

“Does that always happen?” Elizabeth asked, as he grasped the horse's reins and tried to calm the suddenly skittish beast.

“Every time.” Callum said sourly. “They can smell the magic.”

“That's going to make this trip interesting.” She said sweetly.

Callum shot her a cold glance, and lifted himself into the saddle. The horse froze for a moment, then relaxed as the dragon-blood stroked it's neck. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in response, Callum grinned at her.

“It's a knack.”

“Of course it is.”

***

“So Reg, what do you make of this lot?”

Corporal Reg Dunwit glanced up from securing his rifle to the holster on his horse's flank, and glanced at Private Harry Cavill.

“The girl's pretty enough, but they're bloody civvies. Ain't got not place coming out to the fort with us.”

“Lieutenant reckons they're inspectors.” Cavill said darkly, shooting a look in Callum's direction. “And that one gives me the bloody chills.”

“Should be thankful for that in this heat.” Dunwit grinned.

“Alright ladies, enough blathering on. Get those weapons secured.” Sergeant Ward said, his Welsh lilt musical amid the London accents.

“Yes Sarge.”

The pair started laying boxes of ammunition and supplies into the bed of the cart, stacking them neatly to prevent any unwanted accidents. Soon, sweat was pouring from their faces.

Callum, having steadied his mount's somewhat fragile nerves, dismounted and strolled over to them.

“Want a hand?”

Dunwit and Cavill glanced at each other. Their instincts were crying out to say no, but before they could come to a decision, Callum had picked up a box of bullets in each hand and was walking over to them. He passed a box to each of them, and turned back to the stack by the wall.

The two soldiers looked at each other. Each of the boxes weighed nearly thirty pounds. They heaved the boxes into the cart, then turned to watch as Callum turned back to them. Whilst the pair of them were sweating in the heat, the young man's features were dry, his face calm.

Dunwit took the box from him, and shook his head.

“How are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Lifting those boxes.”

A sly smile flashed across Callum's face.

“I eat a lot of vegetables. They keep me healthy.”

The two troopers stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

Chapter Three

Twenty-four people left the city of Bombay that night, and struck out for the distant fort of Kasharim. Accompanying the three members of the Order of Britain were twenty troopers, their eyes scanning the surroundings for any hint of a threat as they marched, and one rather young lieutenant. 

From a balcony above them, a young girl watched, her dark auburn hair pulled back from pale skin, her blue eyes watching with concern.

"Lucy, come back inside."

She turned at her mothers call and went back inside, trying to shake a sense of foreboding from her mind.

Lieutenant Roger Carlisle hadn't thought he would be drummed into action this quickly. He'd been assigned to the regiment in India in order to gain valuable experience – a trait firmly lacking in many of her majesties officers in these fat days of empire and peace. The young man desperately wanted to be a good officer, but to the hard bitten troops under his command, he was like a puppy – good, but rather too soft.

Sergeant Ward rather liked the lad – he certainly didn't want him to be killed first time out by a pack of the rebels who haunted the hills and wastelands of British India.

The veteran warrior glanced back at the three civilians. He hadn't wanted them on this trip, but his experienced eye was at least satisfied by what he saw. Wittington-Smythe was – ostensibly – in command of the trio, but treat the other two as equals. He and Miss Cartwright sat on the running board of the supply cart, their eyes as wary as any of the cavalry troopers. With an inward smile, Ward noticed that Nathaniel's hand was never far away from the service revolver he'd been given. He was surprised, however, by the professional way the girl held the Martini-Henry carbine.

Callum, on the other hand, was a mystery. He held himself like a fighter, but the only weapons he'd taken were a revolver and – strangely – a sword. The curved blade was slung across his back, easily reached over his shoulder. His hands, however, remained firmly on the reins, guiding the horse through the patchy terrain.

Of all the people in the small column, Callum was the only one who didn't seem to be unduly worried. If anything, that made Ward worry even more. The veteran turned back to his officer, his eyes querying.

“When did you want to set up camp, sir?”

Carlisle squinted at the horizon. A couple of miles in the distance, small rounded hills obscured the sky. He looked nervously at the sergeant.

“Just before those hills? I don't want to be moving through uneven terrain in the dark.”

“You're in command sir.” Carlisle flinched as Ward responded, the mild words striking as hard as any rebuke.

“Lets do that, then.”

Ward nodded, and glanced back at the platoon.

“Stephenson, Cole, go find us somewhere to bunk down!” he called.

The two troopers peeled off from the group, and rode ahead towards the hills, their mounts kicking up dust from the dry ground.

“Thankyou sergeant.” Carlisle said.

Ward shot him a piercing look, and wheeled his horse. He turned the beast to ride alongside Callum, who had passively watched the exchange.

“Can I ask you something, sir?”

“Only if you don't call me sir. It's Callum, sergeant.” 

“Alright then, Callum. Why are you here?”

“You don't know?” The young man said lightly.

Ward glared at him. Callum gave him a slight grin.

“All I know is that you're unsettling my lads, and I won't stand for that.”

Callum's eyes went cold. For a moment, the hairs stood up on the back of Ward's neck, but he held the young man's gaze. Eventually, Callum's face split into a wide grin.

“We're here to deal with an unpleasant situation, Sergeant Ward. We're not inspectors, and we're not here to scare your men. But it's probably good that your men are on edge.”

“Oh aye?”

“Definitely.”

“And why is that then?”

“If I told you, you wouldn't believe me. But there's far worse where we're going than me.”

***

Nathaniel stepped down from the footboard of the cart, and stretched. Around him, the process of setting up camp had already begun, the outriders having already got a campfire going, it's warm glow fading into the darkness as the sun set behind the foothills. 

Elizabeth shouldered her carbine and dropped to the ground.

“Any chance of a cup of tea?” She asked him.

“Do I look like the butler?” He glared.

“A little bit, yes.” She grinned.

He laughed, and headed for the nearest cook fire. Lieutenant Carlisle wandered over, a tin mug in his hand. The young officer gave her a smile, and handed her the mug. The delightful scent of freshly brewed tea wafted up to her nostrils. She fixed him with a  ravishing smile

“Why, thankyou kind sir.”

He grinned slightly.

“Well, we have been ordered to provide you with whatever cooperation we can.”

She flinched inwardly. Evidently Nathaniel's roughshod treatment of Major Thomas had made an impression.

“We didn't mean to cause this much fuss – and I'm sorry if we've caused you problems.” She said sincerely.

“No more than I had already, Miss Cartwright.” He said regretfully. “I'm starting to think I'm not really suited for this sort of thing.”

She patted his shoulder awkwardly.

“I'm sure it'll come to you. Trust me, if you can make it through this mission, you can make it through anything.”

“Well, Miss Cartwright, that's a rather large if, isn't it?”

***

Callum dreamed dreams of fire. He knew the dreams from long ago – the time he'd spent crucified in a pocket dimension, his blood being slowly drained to empower the serpent cult's tame vampires. During all the time, kept unconscious and in agony, he'd dreamed of the fire of his father.

The dragon Gorton had been another slave of the cult, and Callum's desperate attempt to rescue his reptilian sire has led only to his own capture and humiliation. He'd been kept insensate and powerless until being rescued by Elizabeth and the Werewolf gunslinger, Jim Ashwood. 

And now Callum had debts. He owed Jim for saving him, and he owed Nathaniel and Elizabeth for bringing him to England. He owed the guild for giving him a life and place to stay.

He turned in his sleep, and grumbled to himself. His blanket was caught around his ankle.

The explosion bought him to wakefulness in an instant.

***

Dunwit was been standing on picket, his pipe in his mouth, the curls of smoke slowly winding up into the darkness at the edge of the campfire's light. 

“You're not meant to be smoking on duty, corporal.”

Dunwit flinched as Sergeant Ward stepped from the darkness. The Welshman grinned viciously.

“I'll need to confiscate that, Dunwit.”

The corporal rolled his eyes, and plucked the pipe from his mouth. He passed it to the welsh sergeant, who popped the stalk into his mouth and took a deep puff.

“Where did you get this rubbish, lad?” 

“Regimental stores, same as everyone else.”

“No wonder it tastes like shite, half that stuff's bloody sawdust.” He took another long drag anyway, and passed the pipe back to Dunwit. The two men had served together long enough to keep their vigilance even in this companionable moment.

A noise in the darkness caught their attention, their hands leaping to their weapons. In the silence, the smoke from the pipe curled slowly upwards.

Their instincts kicked in automatically, and the pair dropped to  their knees as a rattle of rifle fire ripped the silence apart. 

“Enemies!” Dunwit yelled. He levelled his carbine at the flash of the barrels, and squeezed the trigger. A scream of pain answered his shot, and he pushed down the lever on the martini-henry. The spent brass case racketed out of the back of the rifle, and he pushed a fresh round into the breach. Next to him, Ward sighted and fired, trying to hit targets they had no way of seeing.

Around them, their fellow soldiers ran to their aid, weapons in hand. One of the troopers screamed and fell as a bullet struck him in the torso, a red bloom of blood spurting from his back as the round travelled through his body.

A barrel came rolling from the darkness, a fuse hissing in it's bunghole.

“Everybody down!” Ward screamed. 

The British soldiers threw themselves flat as the barrel exploded, it's cargo of black powder spraying earth and vegetation across them.