In the Heart of Darkness by Eric Flint & David Drake

A maniac. Obvious.

“Oh, Christ,” muttered Valentinian, replacing his bow. “Another philosopher. Maniacs, the lot of ’em.”

In truth, Valentinian was finding it hard not to goggle himself. Finally, after all these months, he had met the legendary Raghunath Rao. And—

The man was the most ordinary looking fellow he had ever seen! Valentinian had been expecting an Indian version of Achilles.

He studied Rao, now standing atop the boulder some thirty feet away and ten feet up the side of the ravine.

Shortish—by Roman standards, anyway. Average size for a Maratha. Getting a little long in the tooth, too. Must be in his early forties. Well-built, true—no fat on those muscles—but he’s no Hercules like Eon. I wonder—

Rao sprang off the boulder and landed lithely on the floor of the ravine ten feet below. Two more quick, bounding steps, and he was standing next to Valentinian’s horse. Smiling up at him, extending a hand in welcome.

Mary, Mother of God.

“The Panther of Majarashtra,” Valentinian had heard Rao called. He had dismissed the phrase, in the way veterans dismiss all such romantic clap-trap.

“Be polite, Valentinian,” he heard Anastasius mutter. “Please. Be polite to that man.”

The bodies had been rotting for days, with only two small windows to let air through the thick mudbrick walls. The stench was incredible.

“He’s a demon,” snarled Udai. “Only a soulless asura would—”

“Would what, Udai?” demanded Sanga.

The Rajput kinglet gestured to the pile of festering corpses.

“Kill enemies? You’ve done as much yourself.”

Udai glared. “Not like this. Not—”

“Not what? Not from ambush? I can remember at least five ambushes which you laid which were every bit as savage as this one.”

Udai clamped his lips shut. But he was still glaring furiously.

Sanga restrained his own temper.

“Listen to me, Udai,” he grated. Then, his hard eyes sweeping the other Rajputs in the room:

“All of you. Listen. It is time you put this—this Malwa superstition—out of your minds. Or you will never under­stand the nature of this enemy.”

He paused. When he was certain that he had their undivided attention—not easy, that; not in a charnel­house—he continued. His voice was low and cold.

“Some of you were there, in the Emperor’s pavilion, when Belisarius ordered his cataphract to execute the prisoners. Do you remember?”

Jaimal and Pratap nodded. The other four Rajputs, after a moment, nodded also. They had not seen, themselves, but they had heard.

Sanga waved at the bodies heaped in a corner of the relay station.

“This is the same man. The Malwa think—did think, at least—that he was a weakling. Full of foolish soft notions. Not ruthless, like them. Not hard.”

A soft chuckle came from the Pathan tracker kneeling by the bodies. “Did really?” he asked. Then rose, his examination complete.

“Well?” demanded Sanga.

“Soldiers all kill same time.” The tracker pointed to a crude table collapsed against one of the relay station’s mudbrick walls. One of the table’s legs was broken off cleanly; another was splintered. Stools were scattered nearby on the packed-earth floor.

“Come through door. Think at night. Quick, quick, quick. Soldiers eat. Surprise them at sitting.”

He pointed to the blackened, dried bloodstains on the floor, the wall, the table, the stools. Scattered pieces of food, now moldy.

“That was battle.” Indifferent shrug. “Not much. Think two soldiers draw weapon before die. Maybe three. Do no good. Sheep. Butchered.”

He paced back to the pile of bodies.

“Then wait for couriers. Eat soldier food while wait. Pack away other food. Round up horses in corral. Make ready.”

The Pathan bent over and seized one of the corpses. With a casual jerk, he spilled the rotting horror onto the floor. The impact, slight as it was, ruptured the stomach wall. Half-liquid intestines spilled out, writhing with maggots. The Pathan stepped back a pace, but showed no other reaction.

“First courier. Tortured.”

He leaned over the putrid mess, picked up a wrist, waved the hand. The thumb fell off. The index and middle fingers were already missing.

“Two finger cut off. Want information. How many courier come after?”

He dropped the hand, straightened.

“Good method. Cut one, say: ‘Tell, or cut two.’ Cut two, say: ‘tell, or cut three.’ That mostly enough. Good method. Very good. Quick, quick. Have use myself.”

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