In rage and defiance, he let his arrow fly. Seeing the flash of metal, his people cheered, knowing what a mighty weapon their Chief had loosed upon the enemy. The arrow streaked through the air straight and true as a star in flight across the heavens. It struck the black Shaitani in the chest. The villagers whooped in delight, but as the arrow hit the shining carapace it snapped, shattering in pieces, falling without effect to the ground. The villagers went silent.
A line of Shaitani stepped from the shadows. They shined dully in the light of the fire. Their very skins seemed to be made of metal akin to the Chief’s prized arrowheads, strange symbols of some evil enchantment written upon their bodies. The line of Shaitani stretched from the village to within a few paces of where the women and children huddled together. Between the Shaitani and the fire, they were surrounded.
The Chief swallowed hard, doing his best to steady his voice. They had no defense against so great an enemy, but he hoped that perhaps a few of them could survive if he had courage to do what a Chief must.
“Pull them apart like bugs. That will be their weakness.” The Chief’s word was passed among them. “When the battle comes, Pakkea and those with young families must provide for the escape of the women and children.”
“Yes, my honored father,” said Pakkea in return.
“Take them deep into the forest, spread out. That is your only hope. We will fight them as long as strength remains in our bodies.”
“But where are we to go? Where will we be safe?”
“Courage, my son,” the Chief said, putting an affectionate hand to Pakkea’s shoulder. He looked deep into his eyes as if to remember him always. “Find your way to Pakali; but go in secret; the Shaitani will know the paths and will search the river.”
“To the Marsh King?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s so far away.”
“None of the villages have strength enough to challenge this threat. Warn them if you can.”
“Yes, father.”
They embraced.
“Hurry now, be ready. May luck and the Almighty be with you.”
Pakkea began to spread the word. Those men with young families nodded sullenly and collected what they could for protection, if only a rock or a burning stick to add to their ceremonial accoutrements. Those men with sons of a suitable age gave instructions and, then, ordered themselves near their Chief.
When all was ready the Chief said, “Now, we will attack first. Split into two groups. Saska will take the left side, and I will lead the right.”
A queer sort of horn blew, a sound harsh and piercing. The red Shaitani raised his club into the air and shouted. The stick made a crack like thunder and spewed a brilliant flash into the night sky.
The Shaitani army held their clubs out in front of them. The horn sounded again, and the weapons flashed and cracked. Many warriors fell to the ground, struck dead or clutching bloody wounds. The women screamed, and the children cried at this new horror. With a last note from the terrible horn, the Shaitani charged. The Chief shouted the call for battle, and they rushed to meet the attack.
Chapter 2
There was something troubling about this place, a feeling of emptiness that could not be explained. On the surface, all was as it should be. The wind blew through the leaves of the trees, and the little river complained of rocks in its path. Small animals chattered noisily as they gathered food. By these signs, Rakam knew there was no immediate threat. But there was something else, something inexplicable. It was almost as if a dreadful presence lingered, finding shadow places to dwell, lying unseen behind trees or under rocks.
“What is it that worries you, my friend?” asked Sachem in a whisper. “Do you sense an enemy?”
“The quiet,” said Rakam, forming only crude sentences, for his knowledge of Sachem’s language was not fluent. “There is nothing here, no laughing or crying children, no errant husbands or angry wives. This is supposed to be a land populated with many villages. Where are all the people?”
“Maybe we are lost,” Sachem suggested gravely, exhaling a gust of weary breath.
Stifling a more discourteous reply, Rakam said, “Who can get lost going up river? The two of us are not so young as to be utter fools, never having slept away from our mammas or hunted on our own.”
“Who knows?” Sachem shrugged. “Maybe we took the wrong fork. There was that wide place, remember, where the way was uncertain. Such a thing has happened to travelers before. We would not be the first, you know. It’s not so easy to travel the world without taking a misstep from time to time.”
In his travels, Rakam had heard much talk about a tribe named the Losli that tamed beasts of burden standing taller than a house. These wondrous creatures were used to plow fields, to move stones, and to travel great distances. It was said they could even knock down trees and haul them away in a single piece. Stories often grew larger in the telling, but if only a fraction of what he had heard were true, then he wanted to see these wonders for himself.
The Chief of the Village of the Purple Fern had told Rakam how to find the Losli villages and what he should expect of their customs, the friendly reception that visitors often received. He said Rakam would find himself an honored guest; and, if he weren’t careful, a beautiful Losli wife.
The Chief had even gifted Rakam with his nephew Sachem as guide and protector, though Rakam was beginning to believe there might have been other motivations behind that decision. But they had traveled long and had seen nothing of the Losli or the beasts that carried their name, and Rakam was certain he could not have gotten lost so easily.
After a short while, Rakam and Sachem turned a bend in the river and came to a waterfall. The laughing waters tumbled down from a deep cut in the cliff. At the summit there was a white rock that looked curiously like a dog. Smiling, Rakam made his way up the stony cliff face to where the rock lay.
“This is it,” he called down to Sachem. “Take a look. This is the sign your uncle said would mark the village of the mountain Losli where the young beasts are trained.”
Resting his feet in the water, Sachem shouted back, “Are you sure? That rock doesn’t look much like a dog to me. It’s a long way up, and it won’t prove an easy climb for someone who isn’t half monkey, I’d wager. Maybe we should turn back. I’m sure my uncle would be glad to see you, and my sister fancied your company.”
Rakam remembered the Chief’s sense of humor and was sure now he was the object of some joke. Hearing the story of Rakam’s Jaribu, the tradition of the Kasisi to travel the world to find their true purpose, the Chief had taken mind of his wayward nephew. Though capable in his own way, a voyage such as this was proving to be quite a trial for poor Sachem.
“Get up here, you lazy bum.”
Reluctantly, Sachem took his feet from the stream and stood, seeming to have the weight of a Losli beast as tall as a house resting upon him. “If you insist, but if this turns out to be a mistake, let it be known I did my best to warn you.”
Shaking his head in surrender, Rakam went to have a closer look at the sign the Chief of the Purple Fern had spoken of. This dog-shaped rock was reputed to be magical. People were said to have found healing by washing its smooth surface with the cool waters of the river. Rakam knew from his work with his Great-Grandfather that enchanted rocks seldom cured anything, unless the hurts were of the spirit and not of the flesh. There was a difference.
On closer examination, Rakam found the rock scorched and chipped. The magic symbols that would have been carved upon its surface were gone. Such a desecration could only have been the work of an enemy, but none that he knew would dare defile a holy place in this way, not even the holy place of the conquered. These things were simply not done, lest the wrath of some devil, expecting heathen worship, be raised.
Tracing his fingertips upon the rock where a symbol might once have been, Rakam was seized by the feeling of starlight in the heavens. Discarding his spear and satchel, he bent in a posture of prayer. He had lea
rned at these times to quiet himself, to allow the Almighty to work His Purpose, to accept the gift of True Sight.
Images flashed in Rakam’s mind, perceived through an awareness that is beyond the worldly senses. Once there had been a happy people in this place. They had made good lives for themselves. He saw babies being born and their parents dancing for joy. He saw courtships and marriages. He saw old men dying and their wives weeping as their bodies were put into the ground. There was hunger and plenty, happiness and sorrow. All that a village was, an honorable thing, a good thing, passed in an instant. Then, he saw the fire.
Some shapeless evil had come, a people that he had no power to fix his mind upon, a ghost race. The shapeless ones burned the huts and bins to the ground. They stole all the food they could carry and destroyed the rest. They led the women and the children away, burning the bodies of the dead in a great pile. They destroyed everything, even scattering the rocks that had once held fire in the village circle.
Shivering, Rakam felt the starlight run from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers and to the ground. The vision was gone. He still knew very little of what this enemy was, but such gifts were unpredictable. Sometimes he was meant to work for the answers to these puzzles. Exhausted by the ordeal, he took a long drink from the river and lay back to rest.
While he and Sachem had traveled the lonely river, Rakam had become used to the sounds of the running water. More than once he had felt the river itself was speaking to him, asking him to come to this place. The people of his village would say such a notion was blasphemy. The gods of the waters, the trees, and the mountains were false, devils that had tricked the heathen tribes into worshipping them instead of the One True and Almighty. As he lay at the river’s edge he wondered if it were perhaps one of these devils that had called to him, corrupting his faith, or if he were being charged with some holy mission he did not yet understand.
“Are you all right?” Sachem said, breathing hard as he crested the ridge. “I feared you had been attacked by spirits.”
“No, not attacked,” Rakam answered without looking up. “Blessed.”
“This One Almighty of yours has given you another vision?”
“Yes.”
“And so what are we to do?”
“You are listening to me now, are you?” Rakam said, his taunts feigned, a half smile concealed by the slight turn of his head. “Have our travels together taught you to believe as I believe?”
“Come on, you’re not going to make me listen to another sermon, are you?”
“You’re the one who wanted to come along.”
“Yes,” Sachem said petulantly, “to trade, to find a pretty village girl, or two, to spend time with. But this place is as empty as my father’s heart.”
“Perhaps you are the one to fill your father’s heart.”
“There you go again,” said Sachem, plopping down on the ground next to Rakam. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“Look here, there is a path, or what remains of a path. Let us see what we may. The vision has told me much, but I think there is more that I must find out for myself.”
Briefly discussing the vision as they went, Rakam and Sachem followed the overgrown tract leading away from the once sacred stone. The trail led to what was once the village circle, where the fires of the community were lit. But here the pit that would have held encircling stones was gone, just as Rakam had seen in the vision. New growth sprouted everywhere, perhaps three or four rains old. This place would soon return to the forest. Perhaps it was better that way.
The tree at the far end of the circle was tall and ancient. Rakam examined the trunk for the religious figures that were certain to be there, symbols that protected the tribe and provided for bountiful harvests and plentiful game. There were no such markings to be seen, but there were places where whole sections of the tree had been hacked away.
Most of these wounds had healed in the fashion of trees, but down low where the oldest and most powerful symbols would be, the bare patches had turned to rot. Insects were at the tree, and the wood was spoiled. The tree would be dead soon, if not eaten from the inside by insects, then pushed over by some great wind when the Long Night came.
Standing, Rakam said a prayer over the tree. Though he was in the heathen lands, he thought such an act would please the good wood and noble protector all the same, for all things were the creation of the Almighty and so deserved respect.
“Let us see if the village has more to tell us,” Rakam said after a polite silence.
“Do you think it wise? The skin on my back is beginning to prickle. Either your silly ghost stories are beginning to affect me or what you say is real.”
“I would not have it so, Sachem. I wish I could pretend it didn’t happen or that I knew what purpose the visions served.” Rakam shrugged and put his hand on Sachem’s shoulder. “We should be cautious, but I think it will be safe to have a look.”
“Yes, you are correct, as usual, but I will string my bow just the same.”
Down a small rise was a clearing where the village should have been. The huts were conspicuously absent, and the growth of saplings seemed to be three or four rains in age. Even the heavy stones that would have been used by the tribe’s women to grind grain and prepare feasts were nowhere to be found. It was a puzzle to Rakam, this kind of destruction, and the vision continued to swim unhelpfully in his memory.
“This place is rich in fertile soil for crops and pastures. The forest must be filled with game. Water abounds,” Sachem pondered aloud. “Why would an enemy not have stayed? Take what you want of the people as servants and whatever valuables you can find and just leave? Perhaps it makes sense if they were concerned about holding onto what they had conquered, but the mountain is empty. No. To me, it makes no sense.”
“In my country the elders tell stories when the night grows long and evil encircles us like hunting packs,” Rakam began, looking about him as if he expected that by naming these fears they might appear before him.
He went on with his story, saying, “Shaitani might act in such a way. It is said that they came from distant lands, farther than anyone has ever traveled, even farther than your Village of the Purple Fern. And, when the Shaitani came, all they wanted to do was destroy. They were not interested in the conquest of land. They took what they could of men and women and children alike, and it was said they used them for labor and for food and, most especially, for the working of their black magicks.”
There was a noise, the snapping of dry brush close by. It wasn’t loud, certainly not enough for an army, but it was something. Rakam paused, listening, trying to peer into the dark places the forest gloom concealed. He heard the noise again.
Gathering himself mentally for the encounter, Rakam made a quiet sign to Sachem. Something had moved in the forest, not twenty paces into the undergrowth. Cursing his foolishness in a place of such obvious danger, Rakam readied his spear and crouched low. The new growth provided good cover, and though he was not a seasoned warrior, he possessed sufficient woodcraft to stay hidden.
The noise happened still another time, closer now. Whatever made it was big, he guessed, judging from the sound. More curious now than fearful, for somehow he did not feel he was being marked as a victim, Rakam motioned for Sachem to stay where he was in the grass.
Deciding to chance a few steps closer to the forest, trying to have a look at the creature, wondering with all hope if it were one of the Losli beasts he had heard so much about, Rakam carefully moved forward. He would risk all but his life to see such a sight, if only just once.
Then, there it was, through a patch of open forest, a bit of grayish skin that seemed higher than any beasts should be. But that was all he could see. He could make out no shape of the animal. Determined now, Rakam took a few more hasty steps toward the forest, but his foot struck a stone. The beast in the trees made a wild sort of trumpet and crashed off into the thick growth.
“Stop! Stop! I’m a friend. Come, and I will
help you. Do not be afraid!” Rakam shouted as he ran, not thinking it might turn on him. But as he entered the cover, he saw the animal could travel faster than he. It was gone.
“You fool, you’re lucky you weren’t trampled,” Sachem said, laughing as he caught up to Rakam at the forest’s edge.
“But it was a Losli, I’m certain of it,” said Rakam, disappointed. Remembering the danger he had seen in his dream and feeling foolish for his eagerness, Rakam made much of studying the forest and readying his spear.
“I don’t know why this is so important. You act like a child about this.”
“Maybe it would seem that way to a man with a closed mind, a man who does not appreciate the wonders of Creation,” Rakam said sharply. “Have you seen a Losli?”
“No, I have not seen one of these beasts for myself,” Sachem said dismissively, “but in my village such a sight is not counted as so great an accomplishment. A man from the other side of the mountains like my friend Rakam is far more rare a sight to my people than the Losli. It happens perhaps only once or twice in an entire lifetime.”
Rakam took note of the serious tone in Sachem’s voice. “You speak as if you were leaving me. My apologies, Sachem, I hope I did not offend you with my harsh words. I have not been as courteous to you as I should have.”
“No, no, not at all.” Sachem laughed, clapping his hand on Rakam’s back and saying, “Listen, my friend, the migration of the Losli will trouble you all the way across the plain. You will soon become sick of the sight of them.”
“So, you are leaving.”
“Yes, I’ve come farther than I planned already. There is no profit in trading with these lands. And, though I try not to show it, in my heart I’m troubled by what I have seen. I owe it to my uncle to report what we have witnessed here. Am I correct in thinking that you too find this land accursed?”
“Yes, something bad has happened.” Pausing for a moment, Rakam continued, “It must be the Shaitani the stories of my people speak of.”
Reign of the Nightmare Prince Page 2