Aurangzeb considered cautioning Carvalho, but decided against it. Repeating himself would do no good, and only serve to insult the touchy ferenghi as he’d issued complete orders to the mercenary-cum-umara in a face-to-face audience. The artillerist knew his craft, and would only fire so long as he could be reasonably assured his pieces would not strike Aurangzeb’s own men.
He gestured for the messenger to retire and rest his balky mount.
While he’d been considering cautioning his captain of artillery, the infantry had pressed forward into the attack. Successfully in some areas, though the Rajputs in front of him attempting to take Lahore Gate were slowed by the deep ravine and rain-swollen creek they had to cross under the arrows of the garrison. Despite their shields and heavy armor, it seemed to Aurangzeb a great many of them had fallen even before they set ladders to the outer walls adjacent to the outermost, and lowest, gatehouse.
“Messenger to Samir Khan,” Aurangzeb said.
The next in line of his royal messengers came forward.
Aurangzeb did not look at the man as he rattled off his commands. “He is to deploy the camel corps in front of Carvalho’s battery and try and keep the heads of the garrison down. He should focus his fire to the left of the gate and on the left of the gatehouse proper.” He spared the man a look. “Repeat it.”
The rider flawlessly repeated his orders and Aurangzeb waved him to his duty.
Relative silence descended as the rider galloped away.
“Sultan Al’Azam?” Habash Khan said.
Aurangzeb looked to the Habshi, barely visible in the predawn murk, waving permission to speak.
“Something strange is going on…” the man said, eyes distant and expression slack as he regarded the fighting.
Aurangzeb returned his gaze to the battle, seeking those details that had made his umara call for his attention.
Why do their cannon not fire? He would have thought Carvalho’s guns were caught in the light of the flares as well and would prove a good target, but they had been silent since the beginning.
They watched in silence for a little while, Aurangzeb wary of disrupting the other man’s concentration. Father had once claimed to have developed a sense for the ebb and flow of battle, and insight for when and where to strike or withdraw. Aurangzeb knew he lacked the experience to have fully developed such a talent, but, he hoped, was wise enough to recognize it when he saw it. Unable to find it himself, he looked again at the Habshi and then followed the line of his gaze.
Sidi Habash Kahn’s attention had settled on the battle surging at the base of the walls to either side of Lahore Gate.
Aurangzeb’s Rajputs were over the low wall and dragging ladders into the space between it and the high inner wall. Hundreds of men, packed shoulder to shoulder…He cocked his head…sensing something…off.
“Ah!” Habash Khan sat bolt upright next to him. “They do not shoot as much as they might…Almost as if they want our men to…Merciful God!”
Aurangzeb understood then, too. He opened his mouth to shout for messengers when the gray-black of the last minutes before dawn suddenly lit with fire and light so intense it seemed the sun rose at the base of the wall. In the moment that followed, the young emperor felt his heart skip a beat before stuttering back into its normal pulse just as a muted, thunderous, evil roar reached his ears. Dara had mined the space between the walls! Men ran, made human torches when their hair, clothing, their very flesh, started to burn. Even those God chose to spare trembled at the thought of fighting on. Some broke, fleeing the horror. Aurangzeb did not even blame them.
The reinforcements Aurangzeb had sent slowed their rush to the walls, understandably reluctant to expose themselves to whatever hell lay in wait for them.
All but the Rajputs. They, incensed by—rather than fearful of—the garrison’s weapons, redoubled their efforts to climb the walls and come to grips with the enemy.
But whatever the flame weapons had been, they were not the only nasty surprise Dara had in store for his brother’s warriors.
The relative silence that persisted after the hellish mines had gone off was broken by a resumption of sharp cracks from the walls and towers of the fortress.
In the hell-light cast by the burning residue of the mines, Aurangzeb saw a defender level an odd-looking arquebus in the direction of a battery of Carvalho’s guns. The gunners went about reloading, sure in the knowledge that nothing but another cannon could reach them. A moment later a long plume of smoke shot from the end of the gun.
A measurable heartbeat later, one of Carvalho’s gunners folded.
Aurangzeb ground his teeth, but ordered another of his umara into the assault. So they had one or two of the weapons modeled on the up-timers’ guns, but they would not be enough to make any difference.
Two more artillerymen fell at almost the same time. Then an entire gun crew went down within the time it took to take one breath.
Stunned, Aurangzeb watched as four other men, easily found by the cottony plumes of gun smoke, manipulated their weapons, dropping fresh twinkling things into the breeches.
Another series of smoky plumes. More men fell at their guns, struck down from a seemingly impossible range.
Carvalho’s cannon kept firing. Retreat under fire was a death sentence as certain as staying, and fighting men such as those the Portuguese gun captain surrounded himself with would rather strike back than be killed while running from battle.
Two of Carvalho’s guns spoke at the same time. The fortifications topping the middle gate disappeared in a cloud of dust. The rumble was audible even over the other noises of battle.
The battle went on unabated. Still Dara’s cannon had not fired. As if his observation had summoned evil from them, the muzzle of the
