Reign of the Nightmare Prince

by Mike Phillips

  As the sitting Shaitani busily attended his weapon, the one building a fire had completed his efforts. Rakam watched in admiration as the Shaitani created fire with a small, ornately decorated box. The Shaitani closed the box with a surprisingly elegant flourish of his thick fingers, the flames spreading quickly to the structure of wood it had constructed. A smile crept onto Rakam’s face despite his overwhelming fear.

  Unlike his people, these MaShaitani had no magic fire. The shiny box was a device of some sort. This certainly was an advantage to Rakam’s people, for fire was a very useful tool and grew from powerful magic. Perhaps then, he thought suddenly, the weapon stick was a tool and not a magic thing. If a tool, then perhaps he and his people could learn to make and use such weapons for themselves, perhaps they could learn to have a power equal to that of the MaShaitani.

  Without a prayer of thanksgiving, the MaShaitani carved portions of the kill and began roasting them upon spits. Thinking he had learned all he could at the present, Rakam began to back away from his hiding place. He had not gone far when a small animal was roused at his passing.

  The unseen animal chattered its protests, its companions adding to the din in moments. Rakam heard movement from the Shaitani camp, their crashing gate heading in his direction. He grabbed Betu and began to run, blindly, wildly, through the forest.

  A crack like thunder broke the sky, a tree erupted in front of him, splintering into pieces as Rakam changed direction and continued running as fast as his legs would carry him. Again the thunderclap broke the air, but this time the effect of the unseen missile was lost in the forest.

  Seeing a swampy area ahead, Rakam knew a stream or river must be nearby. He made for the cover of the thick vegetation. The MaShaitani were coming on steadily; and though they moved through the forest with little skill, they were fast and weren’t giving up their pursuit. Rakam knew he would have to play a trick to lose them and hoped soon he would find the means to do so.

  Plotting a winding course through the trees, the now familiar sound of the Shaitani weapons erupting around him as violently as the worst storm in the Long Night, Rakam at last reached the swamp. There, as he had hoped, was plenty of good cover. Bushes and grass grew thickly. Stones jutted from the surface of the still water and muck like sacred markers in a village circle.

  There was a large tree in front of him, surrounded by a wide pool of stagnant water. Its branches were dead, and most of the bark had fallen from its trunk. On the far side of the tree, Rakam found what he had hoped for, a hollow, a place to hide. He had gained some ground in the travel through the swamp, enough time to make use of the shelter he had found.

  The MaShaitani appeared moments later, wary, acting much cleverer in the way of the forest than they had while stalking their other prey. They were cautious, working together as they searched. Rakam watched through a crack in the tree as the MaShaitani made silent gestures with their hands to each other, their features obscured by the head shields in a way that made them seem even more menacing than they had been before.

  Passing him by, the MaShaitani split apart, widening their path. Rakam sat quietly in his hiding place, waiting until they disappeared from view. Holding the otter tightly in his arms, Rakam left the shelter of the tree hollow and doubled back the way he had come.

  All around the sounds of the forest were in turmoil. The small animals bawled their objections to the MaShaitani with impunity, not knowing what terrible creatures they dared offend. For the moment, Rakam relaxed. He believed he was safe, that he had eluded his pursuers. He made his way carefully back toward the Shaitani camp, listening to the sounds of the forest, constantly searching for signs of danger.

  Something grabbed him from behind. Rakam instinctively turned away, dropping Betu and rolling toward the ground. The Shaintani’s grip was solid, and Rakam could not break free. But he still had his spear in his other hand. With a cry of desperation, he jabbed the spear at the Shaintani’s head. The tip glanced under the helmet, sinking deeply into the Shaintani’s flesh. Blood spurted red and thick as the Shaitani let go of Rakam and grasped his throat, the flow not lessened by the placement of desperate hands.

  Afraid the contest wasn’t over, Rakam lashed out at the vulnerable neck. This time he made a wide slice in the soft place under the chin where the armor held no protection. The Shaitani was large and strong, but slow. The shock and ferocity of Rakam’s attack knocked him on his back. Knocking the helmet clean off the Shaintani’s head, Rakam struck again and again, first aiming his blows at the face, then once again at the neck. Soon the Shaitani struggled no more.

  A crack of thunder sounded. The tree above Rakam’s head exploded. Desperate, angry with himself for wasting so much time with the frenzy of the kill, Rakam took his spear and sprang to his feet. Having no time to think, he grabbed the helmet by one of two thongs, thinking it necessary to bring to Mabetu and the others. He went for the deathly-thundering-stick, as well, but the other Shaintani’s weapon cracked and kicked up a spray of dirt near his hand.

  Stooping down to take Betu by the scruff of the neck, Rakam ran headlong through the forest. The thunder cracks followed, but before long they became more and more distant. He was getting away. After running for some time in silence, he found a stream that flowed in the direction of the great river. Heedless of the dangers of the water, he dove in and swam away.

  Chapter 8

  Debris was scattered everywhere, littering the beach with what had been their ship, the only escape from this dark and alien world. The pieces were sometimes large and might be salvageable for other purposes, the refined metals were especially precious and could be melted down for knives or axes or nails, but the rest was useless trash.

  Colonel Crenshaw had been among the first to come to this place. He had started his career as a scout and knew how to make his way through a forest even as thick as this one with relative ease. Often he would allow himself the luxury of a walk in the wilderness, and that was his intention in rising early to make the final journey to the water’s edge.

  Dreams had troubled his sleep, and he thought the walk might clear his head. Sometimes when he was alone, able to take in everything around him with no distraction, it seemed this place was alive in a way like nowhere else he had ever been, like the fairy lands of children’s stories, filled with magic. It was certainly a wondrous land, with striking waterfalls, delicious fruits as sweet as apples, rich game better even than beef, and beautiful, delicate flowers that would make any woman swoon.

  But there were hazards, too. Remembering a particular flower so rare a shade of blue, he sucked his thumb. Thorns had pricked him. The wound was still unhealed. Watching the waves tumble over what had once been his ship, he realized this place was very like the flower. It was dangerous in unexpected ways.

  He bent and picked up a small piece of metal. Its edges were jagged and sharp. There were no markings, and though he knew the craft as intimately as the lines of his own hands, he could not place where this piece had come from. He tossed the piece of metal out of the reach of the surf, so that later it might be gathered.

  Further down, a cask was floating in the water, riding the crashing waves. He ran into the water, rescuing it, and saw the whiskey label happily branded on the outside. The discovery brightened his mood. He had found a prize, indeed.

  Rolling the cask higher up on shore, he chanced to look down. Beneath his sodden feet were some bits of broken glass shining in the sun. They looked like gemstones, the bits of glass, lovelier than the crown jewels of a hundred kings. Not knowing the reason why, he stooped to pick some up, but as he did so the pieces of glass sprouted legs. Where none had been before, Crenshaw saw heads with edges as pointed as the teeth of puppies and extraordinarily long antennae.

  The brightly colored beetles of glass began to scurry about. Fear took him as he realized they had recognized him as prey. The beetles of glass swarmed all around his feet, crawling up his boots and onto his legs, searching for the vulnerable places in his
armor.

  “Colonel! Colonel!” Hayes came running from the forest, stopping abruptly as he came to the place where Crenshaw stood.

  The Colonel looked down at the brightly colored debris on the beach. It was all just the ruin of his ship once again. There were no beetles.

  Doubled over, breathless from the run, Hayes said, “Jenkins, he said something happened. Where is the ship?”

  Without answering Hayes’s questions, Crenshaw merely lifted his hand in a sweeping arc to indicate the beach and what lay upon it.

  “Oh, no, how’d it happen?” said Hayes desperately. “Was it an attack?”

  “Who knows?” Crenshaw said absently, wondering about the dream or whatever the vision had been. “Men are never so fierce as when they are fighting over disputed lands. But if it were an attack, I’d guess you wouldn’t find much of anything left, no less all this.”

  “What else could it be then?”

  “Weather, it was probably during that storm a few nights ago.” Realizing his mistake, Crenshaw corrected himself, “Well, you know, this damn place and its sun, back when we were in that canyon. We only left ten men to look after her. If they’ve had half the trouble we have, we’ll be lucky to find their bodies. I’d bet the rest of it went down to Davy Jones’s locker.”

  “I’ll begin the search immediately. If we get a look at some of the big pieces, it might tell the tale.”

  “Good thinking, but while you’re at it, have the men salvage anything of value. We won’t be coming back here again for a long time, hopefully ever.” Crenshaw began walking down the beach again, inspecting the remains intently. “Oh, and make it quick. We won’t be staying long. The dark phase is coming up fast now, and we’ll want to rejoin the others and figure what we’re going to do.”

  * * *

  Standing at the four outside corners of the tent, the guards traded concerned looks as the strange noises began once again. Moans of pain and remorse came at them from behind the canvas, a howling cry lonelier than any wolf could make even on the coldest winter’s night.

  Though they were hardened men in control of their own emotions, these sounds, this weeping, this torture of the heart was more painful to them than any wound. The Colonel was dreaming again, and each of them knew somewhere in the nightmares of this man their destiny lay. The thought troubled their hearts.

  Guarding the Colonel had become a dangerous responsibility. The last two times he had taken to his bed, the Colonel had woken in a fright. In answer to the threat of some demon of the mind, he had lashed out in the way he knew best. The reports of the pistol shots had sent lizards into the trees and men into the dirt. No one had been injured, but the guards feared more of the same now that the cries had returned.

  “Morning, sir,” the duty officer said, snapping to attention as Lieutenant Hayes appeared, carrying a plate and cup.

  The Lieutenant gave a distracted look around, trying to act unperturbed by the sounds coming from the tent, by the danger he knew could erupt at any moment. “Yes, if this shithole ever really has a morning,” he said with a sort of humor, looking up and making a smile as a more piteous moan began. “Still, we’ve all been in worse spots, haven’t we? The Colonel won’t let us down.”

  The officer nodded, but Hayes knew that look. What he had said had done little to ease the man’s doubts. But he had no words of comfort or inspiration for them. They knew their situation as well as he did. With what had happened, their chances of getting home were about zero, and now to add to their troubles was this thing that was happening to the Colonel. The sickness, if it were sickness and not madness, had sealed their fate.

  Hayes said soothingly, “Why don’t you all go down to the mess. Cook’s got some eggs. Harding found a whole mess of them, but better go fast before they’re all gone.” This news cheered the guards somewhat, and they ambled off at a quick walk, probably just as happy to be away as they were looking forward to a good meal.

  “Colonel Crenshaw? This is Hayes, sir. May I come in?”

  The dream sounds ended abruptly. Crenshaw replied, “Come in.”

  Hayes entered obediently, unzipping the tent flap with the hand that held the cup and pushing through his plate with the other to avoid disturbing the food. When he turned around, Crenshaw was sitting on the edge of his cot, feet on the floor, looking wrung out and sweating thickly. His hair was drenched, and his body glistened as if he had just finished a long run.

  “Eggs, sir, and something that almost tastes like bacon,” Hayes offered hopefully.

  Wiping his brow with a handkerchief, Crenshaw put on a cap and said, “What? Eggs?”

  “Well, not chicken eggs, not even bird eggs, I’m afraid. Harding found a bunch of them in a nest by the river. They’re edible, over easy just how you like them.”

  “Really?” Crenshaw said, astonished, taking the plate and breathing deeply. “That’s wonderful. They don’t smell too bad. I suppose they’re from some reptile, but if they taste half as good as they smell, that’s good enough for me. I used to love turtle eggs as a boy, you know.”

  Handing over a fork and knife and setting the cup down on a small table at the bed’s side, Hayes said, “I’m glad you like them. Get any sleep?”

  Taking the first bite with a satisfied grimace, Crenshaw said, “No, not really, as you can imagine I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. And, then there’s that damnable sun. I tell you it’s like a cancer eating away at my brain. I’m tired all the time, can’t think straight anymore. That tonic or whatever we got in medical makes me groggy. Still, better than pushing up daisies.”

  Hayes pulled a folding chair from the table and sat down uncomfortably next to the Colonel. “So, you, uh?”

  “I’m no longer keeping my pistols under the pillow,” the Colonel replied with a sidelong glance, the muscles in his jaw tense.

  Hayes said quickly, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “Oh, no, your concerns are quite correct. It’s just stress, that’s all. I’m a bad sleeper at the best of times, and what with all this nonsense, well, I’ll start taking naps. That’s all I need, a few good naps. It’ll pass, always does.”

  The silence between them grew protracted and uncomfortable. Crenshaw ate his breakfast voraciously while Hayes waited.

  “So,” Hayes began at last, looking to the floor, “have you decided what you’re going to tell them?”

  “Tell them? Why, the truth, of course. There’s nothing else to say, no way to make it anything other than what it is. We’re marooned.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s it.”

  The Colonel finished breakfast and, putting the utensils loudly down on the plate, handed it over. “Tell the cook that was wonderful.” He downed the contents of the cup, bitter coffee, and stood. “Okay, out with it. What’s the problem?”

  “You should know that, well, that’s if I may presume to make an observation.”

  “Come on, Bill, spit it out. You’re the last one to offer any disrespect so don’t worry if I’m going to get mad. Tell me what you have on your mind.”

  “It’s the Captain,” Hayes began slowly. “Jones, sir, I’ve heard him talking to a few of the men.”

  “And? What did he say?”

  “Well, he isn’t happy about the way things have gone, even before the, uh, situation with the equipment started.”

  “And now?”

  “Well, I’m just saying if you come back with bad news, he just might do something.”

  “Something like mutiny?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “Considering the situation, knowing Jones like I do, having listened to his whining during this whole expedition as I have, I’d have to say that you’re probably right on target.”

  “You make it sound like this isn’t news to you.”

  “No. This whole,” Crenshaw waved his hands vaguely, “thing that we’re doing. It’s not the right job for everyone. I brought you and some others because I was certain of your loya
lties and how you would behave given certain situations. But, I had to accept a number of, shall we say, less than desirable candidates, to have sufficient numbers to accomplish our goals.” He added coldly, “This business we’re in takes a ruthless man.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Due to the present ‘situation’ as you put it, some among us may soon lose discipline. If that should happen we will have to take action. If anyone is going to survive this, we must maintain discipline, at all cost.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “Finish the job as best we can, but set ourselves up in style. We’re stuck here, and we have to make a life for ourselves. I don’t think rescue will ever come, so we best not look for it. I’d say these women savages would make serviceable enough wives with the right education. Who knows, we plant fields, raise some stock, build a town, after a few years we might even learn to enjoy it here.”

  “I guess it still hasn’t sunk in yet.”

  “It’s not easy for any of us. That’s why we have to stick together.” Crenshaw gave Hayes a friendly punch on the shoulder. “So, any luck with those weapons? Figure it out yet?”

  “No, I’m really out of my depth. It might have something to do with the aurora borealis. I’ve never seen that happen in the daylight before.”

  Crenshaw agreed, “I’ve noticed that, too, a lot of solar activity. The question is can you fix it?”

  “I don’t know what you guys think,” Hayes said hopelessly, “but I’m no engineer.”

  “No one expects you to be. Maybe it’s just fate, caught up to us at last.”

  * * *

  “Let’s get started,” Colonel Crenshaw said when they had met the others.

  The salvage they had been able to procure from the ship had been a burden that prevented speed, and they were late. A lot had happened during the separation, and the scouts between the two parties had never ceased coming and going for all the messages relayed.