Part 29 (2/2)

They came soon. Although the artist didn't understand their language, their tone was urgent and angry. Evidently the marauders had found the bodies of the men who had tried to kill him. They knew that at least one member of the caravan remained alive, and they were determined to find him.

The majority of the horses galloped past. Some did not, however. The artist heard the animals shy from the stench, making it difficult for their riders to control them. Someone seemed to suggest that they pull the rocks off the mound and search through the bones. The others protested in disgust. The horses became more upset.

The hors.e.m.e.n finally galloped on, following the caravan's tracks down the slope. The artist a.s.sumed that other searchers pursued in other directions.

Feeling crushed by the bones, he took shallow breaths, working to control his nausea. His muscles ached from tension and cramps because of not being able to move.

He thought about the knotted rope with which an attacker had tried to strangle him. The weapon was favored by the Thug cult. But that didn't explain how they'd been able to overwhelm forty cavalry soldiers, forty natives, and one, if not two, members of his highly trained unit. Surely one of the soldiers could have fired a shot before being strangled, or else one of the natives would have cried in alarm. But all of them had died silently.

How was that possible?

The artist lay among the bones, s.h.i.+vering and brooding, trying to understand how the attack had occurred. Presumably the Thugs had watched from a distance and approached the wagons after dark.

But how had they soundlessly overwhelmed so many so quickly? Had some of the natives rebelled? But those natives had worked for the British East India Company many years. Why would they suddenly have become traitors?

The artist's mind retraced the route of the caravan. At one point, they had allowed a one-legged old man to join them so that he could travel to reach his son's family in a mountain village. Later, a wizened grandmother with a little girl had also joined the caravan. The little girl had needed a doctor's attention, and now they were returning home.

The artist had objected, but the natives had told him that it was customary to allow the helpless to join a caravan, and after all, how could a one-legged old man, a wizened grandmother, and a little girl be threats?

Rethinking the decision to let them come along, the artist couldn't disagree with that logic. There was no way that those weak people could have overcome so many natives and soldiers.

That took him back to his initial thought, that some of the natives had betrayed the caravan.

The vibration of hooves brought his mind to attention. He heard the rumble coming closer. Returning, the attackers sounded even more angry and frustrated. How he wished that he could understand what they were saying. Had they decided to stop hunting him? What were their plans? If he survived, he swore, he would learn as many local languages as he could.

They galloped back in the direction of the wagons. Soon, the artist heard the distant clatter of the caravan departing. Wary, he didn't move. Even after he could no longer hear the animals and wagons, he didn't move. Someone might have been left behind to study the landscape and see if he crept from cover.

The morning became silent. His arms and legs demanded to be allowed to move, but he remained immobile beneath the cold bones and the heavy rocks. The small amount of sunlight that reached him changed direction as morning turned to afternoon.

But he didn't move. He occupied his mind by trying to understand how the caravan had been overwhelmed.

The specks of light dimmed as the sun changed direction, afternoon turning to twilight.

Then everything was dark.

The artist had long since urinated on himself. His mouth was so dry that his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

He remained in place.

When he realized that despite his discipline and determination, he had fallen asleep, he bit his lower lip, drawing blood to rouse himself, and decided that if he didn't take the chance of leaving his burrow he might lapse into unconsciousness there.

Slowly, silently, he pushed rocks away from the bones. His arms didn't want to work. With small, careful movements, he emerged from the ma.s.sive grave, but no matter how deeply he breathed, he couldn't clear the odor of decay.

The night sky was again brilliant. Crawling so slowly that he hoped his movements would be imperceptible, the artist moved toward the stream. He plunged his head into it, the icy water shocking him into alertness. Like an animal, he looked cautiously around to make certain that he wasn't being stalked. He took a deep swallow. Another. And another. The cold water pained his tongue and throat, and made him more alert.

Scanning the area for moving shadows, he reached into his pockets and nibbled the remainder of the biscuits that he had taken with him the night before. His stomach protested, but he forced down the food, needing strength.

The departing wagons had gone to the west. His own direction needed to be southeast, toward the caravan that would reach this area in two weeks. Staying low, he followed the stream down the slope.

And stopped.

The bodies of the soldiers and natives he had traveled with beckoned him. As much as he wanted to leave, the dead men insisted. He hadn't been able to protect the caravan. That left him with the obligation of learning how so many men had been overwhelmed.

Mustering grim resolve, he turned and approached where the wagons had stopped the previous night. He was ready with his knife, expecting that at any moment a shadow would attack him. In the moonlight, he saw long objects on the ground. Some were pale.

They were bodies stripped of their clothing. Vultures had torn off parts of them. A wolf raised its head from eating, sensed how dangerous the artist was, and skulked away.

Perhaps one of the attackers had remained and pretended to be a corpse. The artist doubted it. The night was so cold that he couldn't imagine anyone being able to lie naked on the ground for hour after hour.

He would know soon enough. Ready to defend himself, he examined each body, eighty of them, plus his two comrades whose bodies he discovered at their sentry positions.

Eighty-two.

He a.s.sumed that the raiders would have taken the bodies of the two men who'd attacked him. But even so, there should have been eighty-five corpses, including the one-legged old man, the wizened grandmother, and the little girl. The latter three were nowhere to be found.

They'd been Thugs.

But it didn't make sense. How could a crippled old man, a bent-forward grandmother, and a little girl have silently overpowered so many people, including soldiers with combat experience?

The beginning odor of death hung over the moonlit field as the artist inspected the corpses to determine what had killed them. But in only two cases was the cause of death obvious-his two compatriots all had marks on their throats that indicated they'd been strangled. As for the others, except for what the wolves and the vultures had started to do, there weren't any injuries.

How is this possible? It's almost as if eighty people fell asleep and never woke up.

Fell asleep? At once, the artist understood what had happened. The crippled old man, the wizened grandmother, and the little girl had poisoned the food that was being prepared, probably adding powder to the pots of water that were boiled for tea. They must have been trained to do it so they wouldn't be noticed. After the poison had its effect, they had rung the oxen bell three times, signaling for the rest of their band to enter the camp and collect their spoils. The only reason that the artist and his two comrades hadn't been poisoned was that they'd put biscuits in their pockets and left while the meal was being prepared, wanting to use the activity in camp to conceal their stealthy movements as they chose their sentry positions.

Poison.

Yes.

The artist crept from the field of death. He ran southeast in a crouch for several miles, then felt safe enough to straighten. By then, the sun was up, adding its warmth to the heat generated by his urgency. Eventually he was forced to moderate his pace, eating a few biscuits from his pockets as he moved. Soon he ran again. When he slept, it was only briefly. At all costs, he needed to reach the next caravan. He couldn't take for granted that the Thugs would wait until the caravan reached this area. They might change their tactics and attack earlier.

He pushed himself to his limit. On the second day, he reached a farm, where he paid for food and a robe. All the while, he kept his wary attention on the farmer and his family, suspecting they might be Thugs.

He hurried on, watching for anyone who might follow him from the farm. He reached a village, but instead of entering, he veered around it during the night, suspicious that Thugs might live there. He descended relentlessly.

On the seventh day, he staggered across a field and found the next caravan. By then, he looked so haggard, windburned, and wild that a cavalry patrol challenged him, believing him to be a native.

”English,” he managed to say past his swollen tongue as they aimed rifles at him.

”That's right. We're English. Put your hands in the air.”

”No, I'm English.” His raw throat made his speech indistinct.

”The beggar can barely talk. Search him for weapons.”

”Wait. I think I recognize him. Robert? Is that you, Robert?”

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