The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) by Richard Estep Read Free Book Online

before. Beaten? Actually, routed might be a better term, and a routed army rarely regained cohesion within a day or even two, particularly with an enemy force constantly at their backs. No, he would have bet a year’s pay that the Marathas would keep on running, perhaps all the way back to their fastness at Gawilghur.
    Perfect. Let it be so.
    Now it was time to consider the greater and more immediate threat: the undead creatures. Arthur knew that the Maratha army had been badly mauled on the plain of Assaye, and that his own force had paid a substantial price in doing the mauling. Each and every dead man from either side (unless he had taken a grievous wound to the head or spine) would become a threat, further swelling the ranks of the undead swarm and harrying the redcoats.
    The good news, however, was that Colonel Stephenson’s army had remained separate from Wellesley’s own, shadowing the main force on a parallel track. Their absence had made things harder for Arthur’s men during last night’s assault, but now they presented him with a relatively fresh reserve force; with them, he could maintain constant pressure on the fleeing Maratha troops, snapping at their heels overnight, dogging their every step and preventing them from re-forming into anything that even remotely resembled a threat to Wellesley’s now-smaller British army.
    If they could only survive until nightfall…
    And therein lay the genesis of Arthur’s sudden epiphany. The Marathas were no longer an imminent threat. The undead creatures were a very real threat to the mortal redcoats, but the same could not be said for the vampire officers: they would be safe and sound three feet beneath the ground. It would be a little hotter than they were accustomed to, granted – but as the old soldier’s saying went, nobody ever died of discomfort. Let the foul creatures roam the plain above until darkness fell, and then there would be a reckoning. The first of many…
    “You. Corporal Solomon.”
    “Me, sir?” asked the only Shadow whose sleeve bore stripes, turning away from the entryway to face him.
    “Yes, sir. You, sir.” Arthur was almost smiling now, his famously-dry sense of humor starting to return. “I presume that you are in charge here?”
    Solomon nodded vigorously. “I am, sir. Least, there ain’t nobody more senior here. Don’t know where any of the Sarn’ts are, sir, or CSM Nichols, sir.”
    “They shall have to look out for themselves.” Wellesley’s manner became suddenly grave once more. “Here are your orders, Corporal. I want you to detail three of these four private soldiers to assist the burial party in securing the officers” – with a nod of his head, he indicated the Shadows who were digging for all that they were worth, just behind him – “while you and one another continue to secure the door.
    “Once the last officer is in the ground – and make no mistake about it, the last officer to be buried shall be me, Corporal – you shall then lead all fifteen of you to locate the most senior officer still remaining on the battlefield; doubtless it shall be a Captain, perhaps even a Lieutenant, but it matters not either way.”
    Arthur removed a small bundle of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket, along with a small nub of a pencil. The paper had been folded four or five times until it was compressed into suitably tiny squares. It seemed to have survived immersion rather well, though it was a little damp and soggy in places.
    “Turn around.” Obediently, Corporal Solomon did so, and Arthur used the man’s broad back as a makeshift writing desk, spreading the paper out between his shoulder blades and scribbling rapidly across one of the unfolded sheets.
     
    To whom it may concern,
    You are hereby ordered to round up every surviving British and allied soldier, camp follower, and attached supernumerary. Our goal this day is not to attrite the foul horde which assails us, but rather to ensure the survival of our