✦ I. Drums on the Coast
The Bay of Bengal lay flat as hammered tin when the orders were given.
In the parade ground of a coastal cantonment under the Madras Presidency, two Regiment stood in square formation:
red-coated European companies in front,
sepoy companies behind,
colours fluttering,
drums rattling like distant thunder.
Colonel Edward Fitzroy—a veteran of minor wars and major paperwork—rode along the front on a grey horse.
His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscle twitched.
Beside him, on another horse, Captain Jonathan Harwood watched, eyes narrowed.
"At last," Fitzroy muttered. "We stop scribbling reports about that Rayalaseema fellow and send proper soldiers."
Harwood didn't answer.
He looked down the ranks instead:
men sweating already under wool and leather,
new recruits trying to look brave,
sepoys with expressions that mixed obedience, curiosity—and something else.
Weariness.
A major stepped forward, barking orders.
"On command from the Madras Presidency," he shouted, "Two full Regiment(8000 soldiers) will proceed inland to restore order in the Rayalaseema districts! Objective: retake Kadapa, break the back of local rebellion, and make an example of those responsible!"
"'Restore order'," Harwood thought.
The phrase tasted like chalk.
Fitzroy turned to him.
"You've been shouting in everyone's ear about this 'lion' for months," the colonel said. "Consider this your hunting party."
Harwood's gaze did not leave the men.
"Colonel," he said slowly, "if I may be frank—"
"You usually are, whether permitted or not," Fitzroy snapped.
Harwood continued anyway.
"This is not just a matter of marching to a fort and firing a few volleys," he said. "The man we face has already:
sabotaged our powder,
taken a fort without leaving a clear banner,
coordinated disturbances across hills, forests, and temple towns.
He thinks in patterns. If we march as if this is a neat little punitive expedition, we will be walking into his lesson plan."
Fitzroy snorted.
"I've put down mutinies before you learned which end of a musket points forward," he said. "Local anger burns hot, then runs out of kindling. Two Regiment with proper artillery behind them…"
He swept his hand toward the field.
"Let's see your lion roar when he hears those coming," he finished.
Harwood held his tongue.
"It's not the roar he'll aim at," he thought grimly. "It's the throat. The ankles. The water."
On the distant horizon, clouds gathered, thin and mean.
Not enough for a storm.
Enough for humidity.
Enough to make sweat feel like an extra skin under the coats.
II. The Lion Hears the Footsteps
In Uyyalawada, the news arrived not by rumour, but by schedule.
Trinetra had watchers in coastal taverns, in the servants' quarters of cantonments, in the markets where quartermasters bought grain.
A small, coded message reached the mansion before Fitzroy's column even cleared the city limits.
Sri read it.
One brow arched.
She walked into the Map Room, where Narasimha was arguing with a potter about grain storage jars.
"Simha," she said calmly, "you may want to put aside your passionate debate about mud thickness. The British have just decided to take you seriously."
He turned.
Her expression told him enough.
"How many?" he asked.
"Two Regiment," she replied. "Mostly European companies, but sepoys too. Artillery trailing. Marching inland."
Ayyappa, leaning in the doorway, let out a low whistle.
"That many?" he said. "Someone in Madras is finally sweating properly."
Narasimha stepped to the map.
Sri placed a small marker at the coast.
"Trinetra says they've been ordered to retake Kadapa and 'pacify' the region," she said. "Estimated… perhaps two and a half thousand men? More, if camp followers and support are counted."
A younger commander sucked in a breath.
"That's…" he began.
"A lot," Narasimha finished for him.
His fingers traced a ghost route inland.
Roads.
Rivers.
Villages.
Low passes.
Forests.
"The Company is hoping we meet them head-on," he murmured. "Proudly. A big glorious field battle where they can line up, close ranks, and let their guns do what guns do."
Ayyappa scratched his beard.
"Will we?" he asked bluntly.
Narasimha smiled, humourless.
"Do I look suicidal?" he asked.
He tapped the map again.
"I do not intend," he said, "to stand my men in front of two Regiment and let them become red paste to prove we are brave. This is not about bravery. This is about staying alive long enough to make our rebellion matter."
Sri leaned over the map.
"So what do we do?" she asked. "You have that look again."
"What look?" he said absently.
"The 'I'm about to annoy the gods and the British at the same time' look," she said.
He exhaled slowly.
"We make them bleed without seeing our faces," he said. "We make them doubt their maps, their wells, their guides, their luck—until by the time they reach Kadapa, their hearts are already defeated."
He rested his hand on three little symbols on the map:
a bridge,
a cluster of wells,
a milestone.
Ayyappa watched.
"You're thinking of poisoning," he said quietly.
The room cooled.
Narasimha didn't answer immediately.
He stared at the wells marked.
Venkanna's entrance was silent, but his presence wasn't.
"You knew we would talk about this eventually," the Guru said softly.
"Guru," Narasimha said, jaw tight, "if I do nothing, two Regiment march into Rayalaseema fully-fed, fully-watered, ready to break villages and forts alike. If I meet them straight, we lose too many. If I harass only at the edges, they still arrive strong."
Sri watched him carefully.
"So you intend to make their march itself the battlefield," she said.
"Yes," he said. "But not by tossing poison into every bucket in sight. We are not butchers."
He looked at Venkanna.
"You taught me once," he said, "that when a man raises a sword at your family, and you have a chance to make his hand weaker before he swings, dharma doesn't require you to stand idle and wait for the blow."
Venkanna's eyes were sad.
"True," he said. "But it also demands you consider who else the weakness will strike."
Narasimha nodded.
"I know," he said. "So we choose. Wells used only by military encampments. Canals they divert for their camps alone. Not village sources. Not temple tanks. If there's a chance a farmer's child drinks from it, we leave it untouched."
Sri's shoulders eased fractionally.
"Subtle poison then," she murmured. "Not in their bodies. In their confidence."
Narasimha's smile returned, thin and sharp.
"And in their boots," he added. "And their roads. And their bridges. We'll fray them without letting them see who holds the knife."
III. Council of Lines
They gathered that night in the Map Room under lamplight.
On the map:
Fitzroy's expected route inland was a dark snake.
Trinetra estimates of daily march distances were marked.
Villages, rivers, and possible camp sites sparkled with tiny symbols.
Narasimha stood at the head.
"This is not one operation," he said. "This is… a slow suffocation. Every night, for as long as they march, something goes wrong."
Sri began listing.
"First," she said, "we handle their water. Trinetra tells us which wells along their likely route are used as staging points—old caravanserais, abandoned small forts, waystations. We send men ahead to:
muddy some,
quietly foul others with herbs that cause stomach sickness, not instant death."
A younger officer frowned.
"Why not kill?" he blurted. "If the water can be poisoned, why not just—"
Narasimha looked at him.
"No," he said flatly. "Slow death from poisoned wells hits everyone. Camp followers. Civilians who wander in. Children. We are not here to prove we can be more monstrous than the Company."
He pointed.
"We use mild herbs," he said. "Enough to give them cramps, weakness, fevers. Enough to make them fear every cup they drink. But not enough to leave a trail of corpses by every roadside."
Ayyappa nodded approvingly.
"And their bridges?" he asked.
Sri tapped small cross-marks over several river crossings.
"Basava and our engineers," she said, "will weaken key supports on certain wooden bridges. Not so they fall immediately—the first few uses should pass without issue. Only when a full column with heavy guns marches will the strain show. One bridge cracking under artillery weight…"
Her eyes gleamed.
"…and suddenly every stream becomes a question mark. 'Will this crossing hold? Should we camp early? Can we trust the road?'"
Raghava spoke up, quiet but firm.
"Then we add whispers," he said. "Our people in villages along the route spread rumours:
'A strange sickness follows the King's men.'
'Fields dry after they camp.'
'Those who guide them come back… changed.'"
"And false guides?" Avuku Raju added. "We have no shortage of men who know how to lead a guest in circles politely."
Narasimha smiled, genuine this time.
"Trinetra will arrange for certain guides to be 'recommended' to them," he said. "They'll lead columns along routes that are:
longer,
more marshy,
filled with biting insects and bad sleep.
Nothing obviously malicious. Just… bad luck."
Sri wrote a list:
water,
bridges,
guides,
rumours.
Venkanna watched the spiderweb of lines grow.
"This is… a different kind of battle," he murmured.
"Yes," Narasimha said. "One where sweat and fear do half our work."
Ayyappa cracked his knuckles.
"So when do we hit them properly?" he asked. "I am all for letting their boots blister and stomachs cramp, but at some point, my boys will want to actually swing swords."
Narasimha's eyes hardened.
"We wait," he said. "Until they are:
tired,
uncertain,
slower than they think they are.
Then we strike—not to annihilate them, but to show them how vulnerable they've become. A night raid here. An ambush on a supply wagon there. Enough bodies sent back to Madras to make the high tables sit up straight."
He looked at each of them.
"Listen carefully," he said. "This is the Company's first attempt to crush us with real force. How we handle this will shape how they march next time. If we make them think Rayalaseema is a swamp of unseen knives, they will hesitate before sending more columns."
"And if we fail?" Sri asked quietly.
Narasimha didn't flinch.
"If we fail," he said, "the Regiment arrive at Kadapa in full strength, and we face a siege we cannot afford. I will not dress it in nicer words."
Silence.
Then Ayyappa slapped his thighs and stood.
"Well then," he said, voice grim but bright, "let's make every step they take feel like a mistake."
IV. March of Men, March of Doubt
The British column moved inland under a punishing sun.
Drums beat.
Boots thudded.
Dust rose.
From above, to an eagle or a god, it would have looked like a neat centipede crawling across the land.
From within, it felt more like a furnace.
"Keep in line!"
"Left! Left! Left-right-left!"
Carts creaked under the weight of:
tents,
ammunition,
barrels of powder,
chests of coin,
cooking pots.
Artillery trundled.
The first days were easy.
Villages along the way, warned in advance by their own fear, turned quiet as the column approached.
Doors shut.
Women vanished indoors.
Men bowed, eyes lowered.
The officers took this as respect.
Harwood knew better.
"This silence is not deference," he thought, watching one old man hurriedly hiding a small idol as they passed. "It's… bracing. The way trees go still before wind hits."
On the fourth day, they reached the first major staging well near a ruined caravanserai.
Soldiers rushed to fill canteens.
Some dunked their heads in, laughing.
The water looked clear.
It smelled fine.
It tasted…
…bitter, almost too faint to notice.
"Ugh," a private grunted. "Well needs cleaning."
His friend shrugged, gulped, wiped his mouth.
"Water's water," he said.
That night, in camp, a dozen men doubled over with cramps.
By morning, thirty.
By the next camp, more.
Nothing dramatic.
No one foaming at the mouth.
Just:
men pale and sweating,
frequent runs to the bushes,
weakness in limbs.
Fitzroy snarled.
"Damn this heat," he snapped. "And this native water. Should've brought more from the cantonment."
A camp surgeon shook his head.
"Heat alone doesn't do this," he said quietly. "It's like the wells are… tainted. Not fatally. Just enough to… discomfort."
Harwood asked, "Any pattern?"
The surgeon hesitated.
"Men who drew from the main caravanserai well seem most affected," he said. "Separate from the village wells the sepoys preferred. Curious."
Harwood's gaze went cold.
"Curious," he echoed.
He remembered Narasimha's eyes.
"Not monstrous," the rebel had said once in a report.
He won't poison villages, Harwood thought. He'll poison us.
V. Bridges Remember Their Makers
A week into the march, the Regiment reached a river swollen by recent rains.
A wooden bridge spanned it:
thick beams,
stout posts,
British engineering stamped on local labour.
The first company crossed.
The second.
Carts.
Then came one of the guns—heavy, iron, grumbling on its carriage.
Halfway across, there was a sound:
A deep, low crack.
"STOP!" someone shouted.
Too late.
One support beam, already weakened in its hidden heart, gave way under the combined weight:
rotten wood finally giving up,
sabotaged fibres tearing.
The bridge shuddered.
The gun carriage tilted.
Men yelled.
The central section sagged violently.
The cannon's left wheel snapped through the planks, dragging the whole gun sideways.
Iron tore through wood.
The carriage toppled.
Three men went with it.
Two were crushed as it slammed into the side of the bridge.
One fell into the river, armour dragging him under.
The gun itself crashed, half hanging, half submerged.
"Ropes! Get ropes!" an officer screamed.
Soldiers scrambled to secure the listing mass of iron.
Water frothed.
Wood splintered.
In the end, they saved the wrecked cannon from plunging fully—but it was ruined.
Barrel dented.
Carriage shattered.
More importantly:
Everyone had seen.
Drums fell silent.
The column backed up chaotically.
Harwood stood on the bank, hands on hips.
He saw, just under the edge where the beam had broken, a faint scar on the wood—like an old chisel mark.
"'Local labour,'" he thought bitterly, remembering the smug pride of some engineer years ago. "'We had the natives build this. Cheap and fast.'"
Fitzroy raged.
"Shoddy construction!" he snapped. "We must write to the engineers. This is unacceptable!"
Harwood's jaw clenched.
"…or very patient sabotage," he said under his breath.
The delay cost them:
a full day to secure a makeshift crossing,
another half-day to drag the other cannon around via a shallow ford.
Soldiers watched the rushing water with new suspicion.
Every stream now felt like an enemy.
VI. A Night of False Guidance
Two weeks in, the column's pace had slowed.
Cramps, diarrhoea, heat, bridge delays—none of them catastrophic alone.
Together, they ate at:
energy,
patience,
morale.
It showed in the way men trudged instead of marched.
In the slack discipline at the tail of the column.
In the way jokes turned sour faster.
When they reached a junction where two paths angled toward the interior, a guide awaited.
A thin, middle-aged man with a cloth around his head and a walking stick.
He bowed low.
"Sahib," he said to Fitzroy through an interpreter. "This road"—he gestured to the left—"goes to your fort quickest. But many hills. Hard for your big carts."
He pointed to the right.
"This road longer," he said. "But easier. More villages. More wells."
Fitzroy eyed him suspiciously.
"Why warn us away from the shorter route?" he demanded.
The guide smiled nervously.
"My cousin," he said, "died last year when a bullock cart overturned on those steep paths. I think of him when I see big loads like your guns. I don't want another accident."
Harwood watched the man closely.
His body language.
His eyes.
The way his fingers worried the edge of his cloth.
Too good, he thought.
Too careful.
Too… rehearsed.
He stepped closer.
"In your village," Harwood said in rough Telugu, surprising the man, "do you have children?"
The guide blinked.
"Yes, sahib," he said warily.
"How many?"
"Two daughters. One son."
Harwood nodded slowly.
"What would you do," he asked, "if a big army like this walked near your home?"
The man's jaw tightened despite himself.
"Hide my children," he said bluntly. "From both sides."
Harwood's lips twitched.
"You answer honestly at least," he said.
Fitzroy was impatient.
"Well, Captain?" he snapped. "Are you interrogating the man about his domestic arrangements or shall we march?"
Harwood hesitated.
Then, against his instincts, he said,
"We'll take the shorter route."
The guide stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Harwood caught it.
Fitzroy smirked.
"You see?" he said. "They always try to protect their hill trails. They'd rather we stuck to the big roads where their cousins ambush tax caravans."
The guide swallowed.
"Of course, sahib," he said quickly. "Shorter road… fast. Very fast."
No one noticed the tiniest sag of his shoulders.
Or the way his eyes flickered to the tree line, as if seeing someone… disappointed.
VII. The Long Short Road
The shorter path was shorter in distance.
In experience, it was much longer.
The first day, the gradient was manageable.
Men sweated, but moved.
By the second, the road narrowed.
Carts moved single-file.
Steep drops glared from the sides.
Shades of rock and thorn cast shifting shadows.
At one point, a mule slipped.
It brayed, cargo falling, nearly dragging its handler off the path.
A sepoy grabbed the man, pulling him back.
Cursed in two languages followed.
The guide walked ahead, muttering prayers under his breath.
At night, they camped in a shallow bowl between hills.
No village nearby.
No locals.
Mosquitoes, however, were abundant.
By midnight, half the camp was slapping and swearing.
By dawn, the combination of cramps, bites, and bad sleep had turned many faces grey.
Fitzroy fumed.
"Who mapped this road as 'serviceable'?" he demanded.
A junior officer stammered.
"Local maps, sir. Temple routes. Caravan paths…"
Harwood sat on a rock, studying the land.
"It's not so bad we must turn back," he thought. "But it's just bad enough to grind at them every hour."
He looked at the guide, huddled by a small fire.
His eyes were haunted.
"What game are you playing, Narasimha?" Harwood wondered. "Is this man yours? Or just another victim of you pulling at threads?"
That afternoon, as they rounded a bend, the column halted abruptly.
Noise ahead.
Voices.
A rider galloped back.
"Sir!" he called. "There's a bridge ahead over a ravine. It's… gone. Collapsed long ago, by the look of it. Or…"
Fitzroy swore spectacularly.
"Sabotage," Harwood finished softly.
The ravine was not wide, but steep and nasty.
Crossable, with effort.
But:
artillery would be difficult,
carts would have to be unloaded, carried, reloaded,
another full day would be lost.
Fitzroy's face reddened.
"Who suggested this cursed road?" he snapped.
All eyes went to the guide.
The man flinched, as if struck before any blow.
"Bridge—bridge was there, sahib," he stammered. "Last month, a trader crossed. Perhaps… recent rains…"
Harwood stared at him.
The fear looked real.
But fear of what?
British anger?
Or someone else's?
"Colonel," Harwood said quietly, "this is not random. Wells. Bridges. Now this. Someone walked this road in our minds long before we did."
Fitzroy glared at him.
"Enough with your mysticism," he snarled. "We will cross here. We will fix the damned road. And when we reach Kadapa, we will hang enough men to repair my mood."
VIII. The Final Straw – A Fire in the Night
By the time the column camped within a few days' march of Kadapa, it was a shadow of its formal self.
Not numerically.
They had lost some men to disease, accidents, and a few skirmishes with "bandits" (who never stayed long enough to be seen clearly).
But morale…
That had bled away in:
sleepless nights,
suspicious glances at water,
delays,
broken equipment,
the constant, nagging sense that someone was ahead of them, laughing quietly.
That night, under a sky smeared with thin clouds, Narasimha decided it was time to show them that the laughter had teeth.
On a rocky outcrop not far from the British camp, he lay prone beside Ayyappa, Devudu, and a few Tiger Corps men.
Below, rows of tents glowed faintly with lamplight.
Fires flickered.
"Look at them," Ayyappa murmured. "They look strong. Lines. Bayonets. Flags. But listen—"
They listened.
The camp noises were wrong.
Fewer songs.
More coughing.
Quarrelsome voices.
The sound of a man vomiting behind a tent.
Narasimha's mouth set.
"Good," he said softly. "Then this will not be kicking a fresh wall. Only a cracked one."
He turned to the men.
"Remember," he said, "we are not here to slaughter in their sleep. We are here to show them, unmistakably, that they are already in a war they cannot see. We:
hit their supplies,
cut their horses loose,
hamper their gun-lines,
create chaos.
If you can avoid killing sleeping men, do so. They wake up terrified and tired. That is better for us long-term than corpses neatly counted."
Devudu grinned.
"You always choose the more complicated path," he whispered.
Narasimha sighed.
"Trust me," he said. "If I wanted an easy life, I'd have stayed a minor zamindar arguing about irrigation."
On cue, from a different direction, a small group of their men approached the edge of the camp disguised as villagers with firewood.
A guard yawned.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
"Firewood, sahib," one of them said in accented Hindustani. "For your kitchen. Told to bring. Good rate."
The guard, already tired of the thin local fuel, waved them through.
Within the camp, those "villagers" moved with apparent idle curiosity.
Dropping bundles here.
Leaning bundles there.
Near:
a stack of powder barrels,
a rope corral of horses,
a pile of canvas and spare kit.
Hidden within the bundles were:
oiled rags,
small pots of pitch,
slow-burning fuses no longer than a finger.
Outside, on the ridge, Ayyappa tensed.
"They're in," he whispered.
Narasimha's heart beat steady.
"Wait," he said.
In the camp, the "villagers" finished their delivery.
Accepted a few coins.
Slouched away, seemingly casual.
Just outside the light, their faces changed.
Masks off.
Tiger eyes back.
They melted into scrub.
A long moment passed.
Then in three places, almost at once, small flames blossomed.
One among the spare hay near the horse-lines.
One at the edge of a canvas stack.
One on a pile of crates containing not powder, but dry food.
"Not the powder?" Devudu muttered.
"If we blow their powder now," Narasimha said, "they will simply retreat fully, screaming 'cowardly rebels' and come back with more guns later. We want them to continue forward, but shaken. Hungry. Slow. We take the legs, not the lungs."
Below, shouts began.
"Fire! Fire!"
Men ran.
Buckets.
Flailing cloth.
Horses shrieked as smoke hit their noses.
Some reared, broke ropes, and tore into the night.
One flame died under frantic stomping.
Another leapt to the corner of a tent, racing up the canvas.
In the confusion, a few small shapes darted through shadows, cutting straps, slashing a few critical tent ropes.
A gun-line, carefully arranged, devolved into a tangle of half-collapsed awnings.
A pile of rations went up in thick smoke.
Harwood burst from his tent, boots half-laced.
He took in the chaos.
"Get those horses under control!" he roared. "Keep men away from the powder wagons! You, there, that tent—cut it down before it carries the fire further!"
He moved fast.
Competently.
Some of the damage was contained.
But the psychological blow had already landed.
In the glow of the fires, more than one British soldier looked at the darkness beyond the camp and felt, not enemy faces, but enemy presence.
"When did they come?" one muttered.
"How close were they while we slept?" another whispered.
Overhead, Narasimha watched, expression unreadable.
"This is enough," he said at last. "We've told their nerves what we needed to."
Ayyappa looked at him.
"You could have ordered more," he said quietly. "Knives in sleeping throats. Arrows into tents."
"I know," Narasimha replied.
He exhaled.
"Every life I take," he said, "is a stone I tie to my future self. Some stones are necessary. Others… I refuse to carry if I don't have to."
Devudu snorted softly.
"Your conscience is going to need its own kingdom soon," he said.
Narasimha smiled tiredly.
"I'd rather that than an empty one," he replied.
IX. The Breaking Point
By morning, two things were clear:
Half the horses were still jumpy.
A significant portion of the column's food stores was ash.
A lieutenant reported tremulously to Fitzroy.
"Sir, the ration calculations…" he began.
Fitzroy glared.
"Spit it out," he snapped.
"With the loss of last night," the man said, "we either:
reduce rations for the men,
or send a detachment back to requisition more grain from villages along the route."
Fitzroy slammed a fist into the table.
"Damn these ghosts!" he snarled. "We haven't even seen them properly. They nip at us, break wood, poison wells, and scurry away."
Harwood spoke up quietly.
"Sir," he said, "that's the point. They are shaping the march itself. Every delay, every sickness, every lost horse—by the time we face them, we will not be the army we think we are on paper."
Fitzroy rounded on him.
"What would you have me do, Captain?" he demanded. "Turn around? Tell Madras, 'We couldn't reach Kadapa because someone made our bellies ache and our bridges wobble'?"
Harwood looked at the map.
"We have two choices," he said. "Press on and reach Kadapa with weakened men and low supplies, facing an enemy who has prepared for exactly that scenario. Or… change our objective. Establish a fortified camp sooner. Hold territory while we re-supply. Force the rebels to come to us instead of us chasing them into their den."
Fitzroy's pride warred with his sense.
"Retreat, you mean," he said.
"Redeployment," Harwood countered. "A temporary anchor while we reassess their… ingenuity."
Outside, in clusters, soldiers muttered.
"I heard the wells ahead are cursed," one said.
"My cousin in another regiment wrote," another lied, "that in these parts, rebels call jackals to their side with whistles."
A sepoy spat.
"Rebels or not," he muttered in his own tongue, "this land will not welcome us. Every branch looks like a hand ready to pull us down."
For many, the war had already begun to feel unwinnable before a single formal volley had been exchanged.
X. Madras Hears of "Difficulties"
When the first courier rode back with Fitzroy's initial, guarded report, the wording was careful:
"Progress inland has been impeded by unforeseen logistical challenges: compromised local water sources, poor state of civil infrastructure (notably bridges), and increased bandit activity. Morale among men remains serviceable but affected. Request additional engineering support and clearer intelligence on rebel dispositions before engaging in decisive operations near Kadapa."
The Collector-General read it and frowned.
"'Unforeseen logistical challenges,'" he muttered. "That boy's learned how to complain politely."
Harwood's separate, private note to a trusted superior was blunter:
"Sir, it is my belief that none of these 'logistical challenges' are entirely natural. Someone in the Rayalaseema region is orchestrating targeted sabotage of our march without presenting a field to fight upon. Wells used primarily by our troops are consistently tainted. Bridges fail under artillery but not under civilian traffic. At least one guide appears to have been influenced by hostile elements.
We are not facing scattered anger. We are facing strategy. I strongly advise reconsidering any assumption that this is merely a local uprising lacking central coordination."
His superior sighed.
"Harwood and his lion," he said. "If he is right…"
He looked at the map of the south on his wall.
Threads that he could not see tugged at his imagination.
"…then we are marching blind into a web," he finished softly.
XI. Gods Weigh the Cost
In the heavens, the slow ordeal of the marching Regiment appeared as a series of dimming lights.
Men who had swaggered at the coast now moved under a haze of doubt.
Lakshmi watched the poisoned-well moments with a careful eye.
"He walks a knife's edge," she said.
Parvati's gaze was sharp but contemplative.
"He did not poison village wells," she noted. "Only the ones they diverted for their own use. He did not blow the powder when he could have. He burns their bread, not their hearts."
Saraswati plucked a grave note.
"This is not the bloody clarity of battlefield kurukshetra," she said. "This is… attrition. Slow tightening."
Maheshwara's voice rumbled.
"Destruction wears many masks," he said. "Sometimes it is a sword. Sometimes it is a broken bridge."
Vishnu's eyes flicked briefly toward futures:
convoys in Marvel-age wars ambushed by IEDs,
supply lines cut by hackers instead of saboteurs,
armies weakened before battles by invisible hands.
"He is learning," Vishnu murmured, "a lesson all future strategists will rely on: you don't always have to kill soldiers to defeat an army. You break what they stand on."
Brahma wrote:
British response: Two Regiment marched inland. U.N.R. implements 'march disruption' strategy: selective well-tainting (non-lethal), pre-weakened bridges, false guidance, coordinated minor attacks on supply and camp. Result: reduced morale, logistical strain, and delayed progress. No decisive battle fought yet; psychological warfare establishes Rayalaseema as high-risk operational zone. Harwood perceives central coordination; higher command remains partially in denial.
XII. Lion on the Ridge
From a ridge overlooking a plain where the column now crawled like a wounded centipede, Narasimha watched through a spyglass.
He saw:
bandages on too many heads,
the unusual number of men riding in carts instead of walking,
officers arguing with gesticulations that carried even at a distance.
Ayyappa stood beside him, arms folded.
"You've done it," the commander said. "They're half-beaten before we've even shown them our proper fangs."
Narasimha lowered the glass.
Up close, the men were not red ants, but human beings.
"I see more than uniforms," he said quietly. "I see… boys who joined for pay. Men ordered to march where their maps tell them is 'the Empire'. Some would flog without blinking. Others would hesitate. Yet all of them wear the same coat, carry the same flag."
He exhaled.
"Am I cruel?" he asked softly. "Making them suffer the heat and sickness and fear without giving them the honesty of seeing my face?"
Ayyappa considered him for a long moment.
"If you marched us straight at them," he said, "you would kill five hundred of ours to prove a point about looking your enemy in the eye. Is that kinder?"
Narasimha didn't answer immediately.
Then he shook himself.
"Remind me," he muttered, "to apologise to my next birth for all this karmic calculus."
Ayyappa chuckled.
"That's future-you's problem," he said. "Present-you needs to decide: do we let them reach Kadapa at all?"
Narasimha looked once more at the struggling column.
"No," he said.
A glint of steel returned to his gaze.
"We will let them come close enough to see the fort's outline and then realise that every step beyond that is a cliff made of spiders' threads."
He turned away.
"Send word to Kadapa," he said. "They are to prepare—not for a grand, last-stand battle, but for a siege in which the besiegers will starve faster than the besieged."
Sri, arriving with fresh Trinetra notes, grinned crookedly.
"You're planning to beat an empire with:
bad water,
broken bridges,
misleading maps,
and selective fires," she said. "If the gods wrote a play about this, everyone would accuse them of being unrealistic."
Narasimha smiled, genuine this time.
"Reality," he said, "doesn't care if it sounds realistic."
He glanced toward the horizon, where a tired British flag fluttered faintly.
"Let them keep marching," he murmured. "Let their officers suspect sabotage. Let them search for culprits they can't find."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"By the time they finally look up and see me on the battlefield," he said, "I want them to already fear the ground they stand on."
The ridge wind rose, carrying dust and distant, weary drumbeats.
Far below, two Regiment trudged onward, each step heavier than the last.
Above, the Deathless Lion walked away to plan the next turn of the web,
knowing that in this war between Bharat and an empire —
and in a future where Marvel's worlds would layer atop this one —
victory would not belong to the loudest roar,
but to the quietest, most persistent hand
that knew exactly
where to pull.
✦ End of Chapter 35 – "British Strike Back" ✦