Destiny's Shield

"We're family men," complained the garrison commander. He was squatting in the middle of the fortress' gun platform, where Kungas had chosen to interrogate him. Kungas himself was standing by one of the great siege guns, five feet away. Near him, Kujulo sat on a pile of stone cannonballs.

"They told us this was just garrison work," whined the captured officer. "A formality, sort of."

Kungas studied the man quivering with fear in front of him. It was obvious that the garrison was not one of the Malwa's elite kshatriya units. Technically, true, many of the gunners were kshatriya. But, just as there are dogs and dogs—poodles and pit bulls—so also are there kshatriya and kshatriya.

Kungas realized that Rao's savage guerrilla war had stretched Venandakatra's resources badly. The Goptri of the Deccan didn't have enough front-line troops to detail for every task. So he had assigned one of his sorriest units to garrison Suppara's fortress.

And why not? he mused. Suppara's on the coast side of the Western Ghats. Too far away for Venandakatra to worry about. Too far away for Rao to strike at, even if he wanted to.

But none of his good cheer showed on his face. Kungas eyed the captive stonily.

The garrison commander flinched from that pitiless gaze.

"We're fathers and husbands," he wailed. "Way too old for this kind of thing. You won't hurt our families, will you? We brought them with us to Suppara."

Kujulo sat erect, his eyes widening. With a little sideways lurch, he slid off the pile of cannonballs and strode over to the Malwa commander. Then, leaning over the frightened officer, he barked, "Brought your families, did you? Women, too? Wives and daughters?"

The garrison commander stared up at Kujulo's leering countenance. The Kushan's expression was venery and lust personified. Gleaming eyes, loose lips—even a hint of slobber.

Now completely terrified, the officer looked appealingly toward the Kushan commander.

"Depends," growled Kungas. Face like an iron mask.

"On what?" squeaked the officer.

Kungas made a little gesture, ordering the man to rise. The Malwa sprang to his feet.

Another gesture. Follow me.

Kungas walked over to the edge of the gun platform. A low stone wall, two feet high, was all that stood between him and a vertical drop of about a hundred feet. The western wall of the fortress, atop which the gun platform was situated, rose straight up from a stone escarpment. To the northwest, the town and harbor of Suppara were completely within view. View—and cannon range.

Gingerly, the Malwa officer joined Kungas at the wall. Kungas pointed at the harbor below. To the three war galleys moored in that harbor, more precisely.

"It depends on whether—"

He broke off, seeing that the Malwa officer was not listening to him. Instead, the garrison commander was staring to the southwest.

Kungas followed his eyes. On the horizon, barely visible, were the sails of a fleet. A vast fleet, judging from their number.

"Ah," he grunted. "Just in time."

He bestowed his crack-in-the-iron version of a smile on the Malwa officer. "Such a pleasure, you know, when things happen when they're supposed to. Don't you think?"

The garrison commander transferred his stare from the distant fleet to Kungas. Again, Kungas pointed to the three galleys in the harbor below.

"Depends," he growled. The Malwa's eyes bulged.

"You can't be serious!" he exclaimed.

Kungas flicked his eyes toward Kujulo. The Malwa's eyes followed. Kujulo, standing fifteen feet away, grinned savagely and grabbed his crotch.

The Malwa recoiled, pallid-faced.

"Depends," growled Kungas. "Depends—on whether you and your men destroy those three ships for us. Depends—also—on whether you show us how to use the cannons."

Silence followed, for a minute. The garrison commander stared at the galleys below. At Kujulo.

Listened, again, to the growl:

"Depends."

The first cannon fired when Shakuntala's flagship, in the van of the fleet, was not more than three miles from the entrance to the harbor. The Empress and her peshwa, standing in the bow, saw the cloud of gunsmoke; moments later, heard the roar.

Another cannon fired. Then, a third.

"Are they firing at us?" queried Holkar. Ruefully: "I'm afraid my eyes aren't as good as they used to be."

The Empress of Andhra had young eyes, and good ones.

"No, Dadaji. They are firing at something in the harbor. Malwa warships, I assume."

Holkar sighed. "Kungas has done it, then. He has taken the fortress."

Young eyes, good eyes, suddenly filled with tears.

"My Mahadandanayaka," she whispered. "Bhatas-vapati."

She clutched Holkar's arm, and pressed her face against his shoulder. For all the world, like a girl seeking shelter and security from her father.

"And you, my peshwa."