Prologue

SHERPUR FORTRESS, KABUL, AFGHANISTAN, 1879

Peter staggered in a daze to the breach in the wall. The side of his uniform from collar to puttees was splattered with blood, he could feel it wet on his face - freezing in the bitter air. He shook his head to clear his thoughts but the overwhelming screaming was swamping his mind. Hundreds of voices clashing and blending; howling war cries mixed with the screams of the wounded. He clapped his hands over his ears to shut it all out; he wanted it to stop so he could think - just a moment's quiet to let him think but the howling horde was getting closer.
Through the swirling gun smoke raced the religion-crazed, Afghan zealots holding their black banners aloft, leading the unstoppable charge across the arid rocky ground towards the weakening defenders.

"Canister! Independent targets!" He shouted out the fire command through the choking dust to both of his Bombardiers. In the wild activity they acknowledged his order with a quickly raised hand. Thank God both of them were still unhurt.

He looked up at the firing platform on the wall above him where the 4th Sikhs were loading, firing and dying, amid gun smoke and blood. Hundreds of empty brass cartridges littered the ground at their feet but the hail of bullets fired from their Martini Henry rifles was still not enough. Nearly one third of the Sikh company had fallen while most of the survivors now showed wounds through their torn and bloodstained uniforms. He wiped his smoke-blackened hand across his sweating face.