Alwar, a few days after the Rajputs' decision.

  The synchronized flourish of war cornets and the deafening blare of cannons aroused the man from sleep, and as his eyelids parted, he caught many a pair of frightened eyes staring at him.

  About six people, dressed in their armor and wielding swords, were huddled around his bed. As he straightened his back against the wall, he was dazzled by the blinding lights of the oil lanterns and glass-enclosed candles that lined the verandah and the lower ceiling.

  Without, all-consuming darkness contrasted with blinding illuminance as the cannonballs and flamethrowers burst into numerous tiny specks of fireworks, turning stone into dust and the darkness into light.

  "Wake up, Sipah-i-salar! You're not supposed to be sleeping when your men are being butchered like pigs!"

  "W-what is the matter? Why are your swords drawn and your faces clouded with such anxious features?"

  "Commander, we are under a siege" said one of them.

  "And seriously disadvantaged, given that the enemy artillery has laid to waste our protective walls and destroyed two of our ammunition chambers,"

  "Presently some of our frontal gunmen have engaged the enemy in a deadly and brutal skirmish, but given the suddenness of the attack and our unpreparedness, it doesn't seem that they will be able to contain the foe's advance."

  The general, yet to grasp the gravity of the precarious circumstances he found himself in, rested his forehead on his right arm. He remained moot for a few moments, staring blankly into the blazing sky.

  Frankly speaking, despite his curvy moustache and intimidating pitch-black eyes, he was considered naive and infantile, for he was prone to a sudden violent burst of unmitigable rage, laughed uncontrollably at the pettiest of things, and had a propensity for indecisiveness; even when he did take the lead, his actions were dictated by passion alone. Throughout his deployment in Alwar, he had disaffected steadfastly loyal generals—who often refused to comply with his commands and often went about military matters their own way—and had earned the animosity of the local residents and troops alike. The residents resented him for being unable to contain crime and lawlessness in the city and the troops detested him for his failure in providing them a proper place to live, food to eat, clothes to wear, and money to sustain themselves.

  The fact that they had neither the requisite artillery nor firearms was merely the icing on the cake.

  "How many men do we have, general?"

  "It would be difficult to estimate the numbers given that many of men might have been captured in the ensuing pandemonium, but nevertheless, I believe that we have about one thousand soldiers, Akhilesh Sahib"

  "This does not include those operating the cannons; however, they are but a few in number, and are being taken down as we talk!"

  The young man closed his eyes as he pondered over the possibilities. To start with, he could keep the besiegers engaged to buy time for reinforcements to arrive, but could his starving, dysfunctional and underprepared troops realistically defend the fortress against what seemed a far more disciplined, well-resourced, and possibly numerically superior force for a sufficient while? Moreover, what guaranteed the timely arrival of reinforcements? The closest fort was about thirty miles away, and it was certainly not tailored to provide soldiers to repel an invasion of such magnitude.

  As he opened his mouth to speak, an ear-splitting explosion sounded just outside the compartment. All men were flung into the air and crashed against the brick walls.

  Amidst dust, groans, and rubble, and a vision blurred by the swift gush of warm blood, Akhilesh saw that the floor beneath his bed-chamber had caved in and the wall surrounding it had been blown away.

  For the first, his eyes spoke of fear.

  ***

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Lucknow.

  "Make way! Make way for the nawab!"

  A portly figure, whose ostentatious garments evermore heightened his heaviness (and his vanity), was led cautiously through a swarm of grumbling men. They sneered at him, called him various names, and even attempted to throw their weapons at him. Whichever alley his entourage passed through, he was booed at and treated with unrestrained contempt.

  Despite being heavily guarded, he couldn't stop bathing his gown in sweat.

  The soldiers guarding the fortress were initially reluctant to let his entourage in, despite receiving several pleas, which soon turned to outright threats of infiltration. When they refused to relent after nearly two hours of shifting pleas, petitions, and threats, the person-in-charge of the nawab's entourage decided to force themselves in and liberate the forces from the rebels.

  When the news of the planned seizure reached the nawab's ears, he was beyond horrified. Fearing possibly brutal reprisals and absolutely terrified of losing his head, he refused to authorize the besiegement, and instead, offered to negotiate with the rebels.

  Seeing their king walking towards them in dignified silence, but with a sense of silent resignation in his eyes, the resolve of the soldiers started wavering. After all, subservience to the seniors was an essential aspect of military training, and the soldiers couldn't easily unlearn it.

  "Greetings, my men! How may your eternal servant help you? What troubles you so much that you deny a tenant entrance to his own house?"

  There was some mumbling amongst the soldiers, which was hushed when they saw a familiar figure approaching them at a distance.

  The nawab stole a glance and recognized the face. It belonged to none other than the Commander-in-Chief himself.

  "My sincerest apologies, Sire. These were not the circumstances under which I had expected to meet you. Unfortunately, my men have abandoned all discipline and rectitude, and no amount of force can restrain them."

  "Understandable, my commander. Whips cannot restrain a hungry lion."

  They can very well discipline gluttons like you, thought the commander.

  "Sir, the presently hostile circumstances are not reflective of my men's true characters; a hungry stomach and an empty pocket have forced them to assume such brutish demeanours. Due to improper rationing, ramshackle accommodations, sparse clothing, and meagre salaries—which often go unpaid for months—the soldiers have become hapless and furious."

  "Such conditions are unfortunate indeed."

  The commander gave the nawab a cold stare.

  "Had you aristocrats not stolen what rightfully belonged to the people, these conditions wouldn't have arisen indeed."

  "What do you mean?!" shouted the nawab, recoiling in shock.

  "Let me say this to you plainly: their anger is directed at YOU. While that servant of prostitutes actively neglects the army's woes, your ministers ensure that our grievances remain unsolved and our dues unpaid. Let alone ameliorate; you haven't even considered representing us in the Court. Instead, you decided to feast on our harvests and continued treating us as subhuman."

  "Say, whence is your power derived?"

  The nawab answered swiftly, "Why, from God!"

  His response was received with reverberating laughter.

  "How infantile of you! Oh, how you bask in the glory of your make-believe world! Behold! Your power is derived from this sword!"

  "And a rusted sword hurts more than a sharp one."

  "What do you want from me?"

  "Let us discuss inside."

  ***

  The general was escorted outside the damaged compartment with difficulty, as most of the officers were gravely injured themselves: some were missing an arm, some were missing a digit, and some were inundated in warm blood. One of them had been struck directly by the cannonball, and his remains were scattered across the room, the sight of which caused the characteristically timid general to vomit.

  The entourage advanced towards the terrace of the fort, narrowly avoiding swift arrows, gunshots and crumbling sandstone under their feet. During this ordeal, they were forced to walk on a protruding column so narrow that one couldn't cross it transversely; any slight error in judgement would lead to a gruelling and certain death tens of feet below, and a slight deviance from concentration would make you an easy target for the gunners and spear-throwers lined along the lower walls.

  As he clung to the exposed rocks, Akhilesh heard the distinct clinking of metals striking one another, and the distant cries of soldiers falling (or exploding to, if you may) to their death.

  He gulped to let go of his apprehension, for he feared it would make him lose his ground, both literally and figuratively.

  As they climbed onto the terrace, which was heavily guarded, a full view of the ensuing carnage was revealed. The general, in both awe and horror, beheld his soldiers being butchered, sliced, speared, and even sodomized to their deaths. Some fell while fighting an enemy, some were ambushed from behind, some were cornered, while some were caught in the crossfire.

  " 'Tis hell, 'tis hell!"

  "What-"

  "The demons have descended from the netherworld! 'tis not a battlefield, 'tis a butcher's yard! What do I behold! Blood; nothing else but repulsive blood!"

  Akhilesh's gait staggered as he fought to gain composure. In his trance, his ears were grazed by a stray arrow, while a cannonball erupted a few metres from him, sending his body flying across the terrace. The soldiers ran after him frantically, stretching their arms to catch him and save him from imminent death.

  As for the man himself, the goddess of sleep overcame him briskly. He felt peace when the world closed around him.

  To him, 'twas a journey to heaven.