The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Richard Estep
moment to orient himself, striving to locate the last known position of the regimental surgery. Listening carefully, he could pick out the tell-tale sound of Doctor Reed Caldwell’s heartbeat, thumping hard beneath his breastbone just like that of the men around him. Turning in that direction, the vampire adjusted the composition of his body to become less dense, allowing himself to rise slowly and gracefully into the purple sky of dawn. He could feel his hair beginning to burn, as if an invisible torch flame was being held to it, and yet he dare not move too quickly, for he feared the consequences of jostling Campbell’s body any more than it already had been. Millions of tiny clots were already starting to form, but Wellesley could still hear the faint sound of occult blood loss, leaking from the vessels and ruined tissue within the Captain’s abdomen, chest, and pelvis. So frail, so delicate…
And so he took the burning for what it was, little more than a painful irritant at this point in time, but given just a few minutes more, Arthur knew that it would be something else entirely.
Pray God that he was not too late, for both their sakes.
CHAPTER THREE
Despite his being in possession of one of the finest medical minds to ever have served in the army of King George, Doctor Reed Caldwell was (although it pained him almost beyond measure to admit it) utterly flummoxed. His knowledge of the biological life-sciences was practically unparalleled, the result of a first rate education and a lifelong passion for and fascination with all things medical…and yet, try as he might, he was unable to unlock the answer to the mystery which plagued his every waking moment — how, and perhaps more importantly why, were the dead rising up and walking again?
At least, that much had been true until sunrise this very morning, when a new (and entirely more urgent) concern had taken priority in his mind, rudely shoving aside his original preoccupation. Because now, for he and his comrades staffing the regimental surgical post, it was now all about one simple thing: survival.
Theoretically, the surgical post was supposed to be located a comfortable distance behind the front line — close enough for the wounded redcoats and their native allies to be transported there to receive aid before they bled to death, and yet not so close that the non-combatant medical staff would be exposed to enemy fire, or threatened by his cavalry. Typically this did indeed turn out to be the case, particularly under the auspices of Major General Wellesley, for he was a canny officer with a meticulous eye for detail; when Wellesley sited the various parts of his army, whether combatants or non, it was done with a larger picture in mind. The supporting train had to be within arm’s reach, it was true, but also out of harm’s way, even though a contingent of troops was always detached from the main body and detailed to protect it.
That was all well and good on an ordinary day, when the army marched under cover of darkness and camped under the baleful eye of the Indian sun; and yet, today was no ordinary day, not by a long chalk. If the camp gossips were to be believed (and they were usually exceptionally accurate) then the General had been taken unawares this time. He had expected the Maratha army to be farther away than it actually was, for reasons unknown to the good doctor, and his vanguard had all but blundered into its heavily-fortified position along the banks of the River Kailna.
There had been but two choices open to him: attack or retreat. Unsurprisingly, Wellesley had chosen the former.
Unfortunately, the army’s baggage train had been halfway up the arse of the main force during last night’s march, its officers distracted by what seemed like a constant trickle of undead attacks from all sides. Such attacks were growing more frequent, and they often picked off one or two camp followers, whose hungry body would
And so he took the burning for what it was, little more than a painful irritant at this point in time, but given just a few minutes more, Arthur knew that it would be something else entirely.
Pray God that he was not too late, for both their sakes.
CHAPTER THREE
Despite his being in possession of one of the finest medical minds to ever have served in the army of King George, Doctor Reed Caldwell was (although it pained him almost beyond measure to admit it) utterly flummoxed. His knowledge of the biological life-sciences was practically unparalleled, the result of a first rate education and a lifelong passion for and fascination with all things medical…and yet, try as he might, he was unable to unlock the answer to the mystery which plagued his every waking moment — how, and perhaps more importantly why, were the dead rising up and walking again?
At least, that much had been true until sunrise this very morning, when a new (and entirely more urgent) concern had taken priority in his mind, rudely shoving aside his original preoccupation. Because now, for he and his comrades staffing the regimental surgical post, it was now all about one simple thing: survival.
Theoretically, the surgical post was supposed to be located a comfortable distance behind the front line — close enough for the wounded redcoats and their native allies to be transported there to receive aid before they bled to death, and yet not so close that the non-combatant medical staff would be exposed to enemy fire, or threatened by his cavalry. Typically this did indeed turn out to be the case, particularly under the auspices of Major General Wellesley, for he was a canny officer with a meticulous eye for detail; when Wellesley sited the various parts of his army, whether combatants or non, it was done with a larger picture in mind. The supporting train had to be within arm’s reach, it was true, but also out of harm’s way, even though a contingent of troops was always detached from the main body and detailed to protect it.
That was all well and good on an ordinary day, when the army marched under cover of darkness and camped under the baleful eye of the Indian sun; and yet, today was no ordinary day, not by a long chalk. If the camp gossips were to be believed (and they were usually exceptionally accurate) then the General had been taken unawares this time. He had expected the Maratha army to be farther away than it actually was, for reasons unknown to the good doctor, and his vanguard had all but blundered into its heavily-fortified position along the banks of the River Kailna.
There had been but two choices open to him: attack or retreat. Unsurprisingly, Wellesley had chosen the former.
Unfortunately, the army’s baggage train had been halfway up the arse of the main force during last night’s march, its officers distracted by what seemed like a constant trickle of undead attacks from all sides. Such attacks were growing more frequent, and they often picked off one or two camp followers, whose hungry body would