Reign of the Nightmare Prince

by Mike Phillips

  His words were met by silence. All the warriors within hearing distance stopped what they were doing and listened.

  Feeling their eyes upon him, Rakam let the statement sink in, saying, “If you serve me well, if you honor yourselves against the MaShaitani, then I may intercede on your behalf and beg the King for your pardon. Otherwise, if any man of honor survives these evil times, you will be punished for what you have done. What then, is your decision?”

  Chapter 27

  The twin moons were bright in a cloudless sky, giving enough light for it to seem almost day. Making good use of the light, Crenshaw and his people traveled from the Village of the Well down the river road toward the Capital. They went swiftly despite the large amounts of gear they carried, aided by nearly a score of light carts that had been found since their troubles began.

  The journey along the river road was uneventful if not pleasant. The rains had come and gone in such durations to make them miserable. The night animals were a noisy bunch, screaming like mad as they marched along the trail, relentless in announcing their presence and keeping the men from sleep.

  A few of the scouts had come upon a great hairy monster in the deeper jungle, elusive and cunning, always seeming to be just at the edge of perception. None of them had gotten a good look at the thing, though one or two shots had been fired in haste, or what was more aptly named fear.

  Those who had not seen the mysterious beast taunted them, saying the monster existed only in their minds. But there were piles of scat that left no doubt some large predator followed. It remained a daunting specter in the night, a sign they were not the only creatures of violence in the wilderness.

  Enjoying the walk, Crenshaw gathered his officers around him, discussing their options as the distance passed under their feet. The plan was beginning to solidify, to seem as good as any he had ever devised. Though the numbers of their enemy were far greater than their own, their weapons were in good order, their ammunition well-supplied, and each of his men was a highly trained, professional soldier. He would have preferred taking each village in turn, but the fact that all the lands had cleared before them might even prove to be a blessing in disguise, saving time and effort.

  Taking Crenshaw from his thoughts, a native appeared. The figure was dressed in clothes that hung with bells. Long, white hair flowed softly to his shoulders. The man looked airy and thin, hardly real at all. Crenshaw glanced to each side, trying to see if Smith or Jones had seen the figure. Neither took any notice. Now within a step of the small man, Crenshaw came to a stop.

  The native reached out his hand and touched the Colonel on the chest, just above his heart. The hand stole his breath, electric and sensual, intimate as Crenshaw had never felt before. It was like the native man was an old friend, someone who understood the hardship and pain he had suffered, someone who cared for him.

  Crenshaw’s mind began to fill with visions of Earth, the great cities and highways, the people and places of his youth. He remembered a picnic on the rooftop of the building he had grown up in, watching a rocket being launched into the sky, people returning to the endless void beyond for work or pleasure, perhaps never to return to the shining blue globe that had spawned their race.

  He saw the face of his high school girlfriend, a lovely girl with brown eyes and hair as short as his own. He saw her take the ring that held a promise he was never to fulfill, the day he had started the dark journey that would become his life.

  His mind clouded with the horrors he had witnessed, those things he had only at first watched in absent fascination, then found he had a taste for. He saw the villages in central Africa, the jungle burning all around him, the countless bodies of the dead, the faces of the women and children he had slaughtered in the name of peace or profit.

  Next he saw the other worlds, places with natural wonders beyond imagining, places his people wanted to take for themselves, the alien races that were wiped out because of human need. The nightmares became real, like he was again living it, all the awful events of his life at once.

  “Leave this place,” said the native. “You do not belong here.”

  Head feeling like it were about to split wide, Crenshaw found himself on the ground. Someone was shaking him and calling his name. It took a moment before he recognized Captain Smith’s voice. He tried to talk, but his mouth was full of blood and the words would not come out right. Someone wiped his eyes, and the darkness cleared to a red blur of moonlit sky. Quickly turning over, he wretched until his stomach ached and came up gasping for air.

  “Colonel, are you all right?” Smitty said, though it sounded as if he were speaking from far away. “Say something.”

  Pushing Smith back, Crenshaw came to his feet. “I’m fine,” he said, taking a few troubled steps. He fell to the ground, unable to get his hands in front of him before he hit the dirt. Many hands lifted him by the arm.

  “Leave me alone, I’m fine,” he repeated, but then the pain stabbed sharply and his head swam, and he fell unconscious.

  * * *

  “How you feelin’, boss?” Captain Smith said worriedly. Since Colonel Crenshaw’s sickness had turned, manifesting in horrible spasms and bleeding from every orifice, Smith had been on his guard, playing doctor while he waited for Jones and his cronies to take advantage of the situation.

  “You get the license of that truck?” the Colonel replied in a whisper, forcing a laugh. He shut his eyes tight and tried not to vomit, feeling as if another attack was upon him. But his gorge settled, and he soon realized part of his feeling of disorientation was due to the fact he was being hauled in a cart, the rolling motion of the wheel ruts like waves on the sea. “Call my lawyer, heads will roll, I tell you. Heads will roll.”

  Anxiously meeting the Colonel’s laughter, Smitty said, “We thought you were gone for good this time. Once we got the bleeding stopped your breath was so shallow I had to keep checking to make sure you were still with us.”

  “That would explain why my head feels like it does.”

  “The med-saline drip is the best we could do,” Smitty said guiltily. “When we stop we’ll see if we can get a transfusion going. That’ll put you back in fighting form.”

  “No,” Crenshaw said, slowly shaking his head, “not before battle. I couldn’t ask anyone to do that, not now, and we don’t even know for sure if that would help. Let’s wait. The worst is over. Give me a chance to recover on my own.”

  “But we need you,” Smith insisted.

  Responding to the new activity, Jones said a few words to the men he was walking with and came over to the cart. Smiling at the Colonel, he said, “Good to see you well again, sir.”

  “Not so well as I would like to be,” Crenshaw admitted. “Just when you think you’re ready to join the band, you find a string has snapped, eh?”

  “What happened?”

  The Colonel was careful in his response, knowing how it would sound if he said anything about the native man he had seen, what had gone through his mind when the witchdoctor had touched him. He was being tested, he knew, and his command was at stake. “Beats me. It was there and gone.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Shitty. Better, but shitty.”

  “What kind of shape are you in?” Jones said. The challenge had been made.

  “No shape,” Crenshaw admitted openly, surprising both his Captains, but each for different reasons. He looked into the gently swaying trees above, the shining moons and the night sky, remembering what the native had shown him, thinking about all that happened since he set foot on this loathsome planet. “Where are we?”

  “Nearly to the river.”

  “Then we have a decision to make, don’t we, gentlemen?”

  Smith was indignant, “Hey now, boss. He don’t mean that.”

  “Sure he does, as he should, and you should, too. It’s your duty. I’m in no shape to lead the attack. Look at me, Smitty.”

  “I’ve seen you in worse shape. Sure, you’ve had a bad spell, but you
know how to take your knocks better than any man I’ve ever met. By the time we cross the river and get ready to go, you’ll be hotter than an old tom cat in the full moon.”

  “And, if I’m not, then at least you two will be prepared.”

  Jones was expectant, hands twitching on the stock of his rifle as he waited to hear what Crenshaw had to say. “So, what’s it to be then?”

  Crenshaw gave Smith a hard look. The big man glanced purposefully downward, toward Crenshaw’s midsection. Sliding his hand down the small of his back, Crenshaw found a handgun, the safety catch released. He took comfort having the pistol nearby, but didn’t grasp the weapon, deciding he didn’t need it.

  “The plan doesn’t change. Smitty, you’re the sneakiest bastard I’ve ever known. I need you to lead the team over the wall on the backside.”

  Crenshaw said to Jones, “That means you’re in charge. Run the main assault right up the middle. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jones said enthusiastically.

  “Good, I’m counting on you. Give ‘em hell.”

  * * *

  Crenshaw lay in one of the carts at the riverbank, waiting for Captain Smith and Captain Jones to return. They had all expected the ford to be defended with strength, but the scouting parties had searched up and down the far side of the river and hadn’t found so much as an errant footprint or broken twig to mark the passing of a single guard.

  His head pounding, Crenshaw watched as the final reports were made, but he could tell by the bearing of his men there was no news of any consequence. The forest was empty, and the rest would soon be returning to help with the supplies. He would have to decide what he was going to say before then. Jones, he knew for all the outward show, had not reformed.

  The new authority he had given the Captain flattered his pride, but in the end it was he who had given the authority and could just as easily take it away. Jones would not let that happen. Jones would act, likely during the battle, taking advantage of the blood and death to send two or three of his most trusted men to murder him.

  “You’re gonna get a little wet,” Captain Smith said sympathetically when he and Jones made the river crossing. Something in the wry grin he couldn’t hide spoke of a certain amount of amusement in the situation. “Sorry, river’s too deep for the cart. If we try to make the crossing full of gear, we’ll lose the lot of it, I’m sure.”

  His hand on the pistol at the small of his back, Crenshaw said, “No, I’m staying here, in that hut back there.”

  Smith was shocked. “What? You can’t stay here, that big, well, whatever it is that’s out there. If you stay behind, that thing will get you for sure.”

  “No,” Crenshaw said mildly, “It checks out. I’ll be fine. The savages up this way build ‘em just like home. I’ll be safe enough with a rifle and an extra clip.” He added hastily, “And I’ll be out of the way. I don’t need you two old women worrying about me when the fun starts.”

  “But, sir.”

  “No, that’s enough, Captain. You take what you need and get some sleep. Travel light. You know what we’re up against. You’ve got two days, hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 28

  “What’s this?” said Rakam, taking the Shaitani weapon from Bantu in surprise. Though he had held such a weapon a few times, he still marveled at its fine make, the utterly smooth surfaces that always seemed cool to the touch. Even as he took it into his hands, the Shaitani firespear felt like an extension of his own body, a weapon of perfect form and balance, a machine of a single, deadly purpose.

  Timbo’s Warrior Chieftain made an uncharacteristic reply, one that took Rakam off guard and made him feel foolish for being so antagonistic. Bantu said, “It’s just what it looks like, one of the firespears.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” said Rakam testily, not yet ready to give up his hostility, “but the question is what are you giving it to me for? I have no use for your trophies, and I have more effective weapons at my disposal.”

  Bantu would not be provoked into an argument. He said, “Yes, you are a Kasisi of great ability. Timbo told me my own Chief, Torbu of the Gray Rock, offered a high sum to one of his men so that you might study this weapon and find a way to thwart its magic. You, Rakam, are the only one amongst us who can do such a thing. Please, take it, and accept my humble apologies for the insults I made against you. There are no excuses for my actions. I was wrong.”

  Stunned, finding Bantu’s words so utterly absent of guile, Rakam could no longer hold on to his anger and jealousy. He knew Bantu was right, that he must do his best to act like a Kasisi if they were to have any hope of defeating their common enemy.

  “Well said, and I, too, must apologize. But let us, you and me and the others, work together. If we are to be any help to our people, then we must discover the secret of this weapon before we come to Pakali’s City.”

  “Let me show you what I know, then,” Bantu said, taking the firespear. He worked through the different operations, at first dislodging one of the bottles from the interior of the weapon, then showing how the bottle slid in and out of what was a smaller compartment within. All the while Rakam watched, fascinated, thinking he was, perhaps, coming to understand something about how the Shaitani weapon worked.

  As he made his demonstration, Bantu said, “Since our battle with the Mulak and her brood of the damned, the men and I have many questions to ask you about the MaShaitani and their other magiks.”

  “Yes,” said Rakam knowingly, “and you are right to be afraid. Of the two, however, I think you have already fought your most dire battle, Bantu. The Mulak is by far the more dangerous.”

  “Truly, then?” said Bantu with astonishment.

  In a voice loud enough to be heard by all, Rakam said, “Yes, these MaShaitani, are not the enemy our ancestors defeated so long ago. They are a powerful enemy, and they have a certain amount of magic about them, do not be mistaken about that, but fight them as you would any man. They cannot, by all that I have seen in this world and the next, take possession of your immortal soul. Have courage, all of you, for if you die in battle; you will take your rightful place with the Almighty.”

  “Wait, you are saying they are like men?”

  “Yes, Timbo is correct. They have weapons and armor of a fine make; but like the beetles of the plain out of which women make such pretty combs for their hair, the MaShaitani have weaknesses. Do not waste your time trying to wound them where they are protected. Our weapons can only scratch at the surface of their armor, so we must defeat them with cunning. Trip them up or disarm them, then drive in the killing blow.”

  Pointing to the curved lever on the outside of the firespear that was the means by which the spirit was released from its bottle, Rakam said, “Show me that part again. Is that the only way to make it work?”

  “As far as we know, yes,” Bantu replied, demonstrating the action, but he was eager to continue the conversation about the Shaitani enemy, both for himself and for his men. “Is that how you killed the one you did?”

  Watching as Bantu made the weapon ready, then released it time and again, Rakam noted subtle changes with the tiny structures within. The internal workings of the firespear were delicate in their complexity; the cylinder, the rods and linkages moving together, the almost imperceptible darting of a needle at the back as it struck the bottle, releasing the imp within. These were things he would have to think about, to remember when the time came.

  Answering Bantu’s question, Rakam said, “Yes, it is, and so will you all when the battle is joined. I have told your King Pakali what I have told you. His people will be ready. He is a shrewd warrior, but we must help him if we may.”

  “Then we must find a way to break these weapons. Have I been a help to you?”

  “More so than I expected, thank you. I only wish I could take the firespear out of the hands of every Shaitani I see and throw it into the wind.”

  “And why can you not? I heard the story of the Guest House and
saw with my own eyes the result. Please take no insult from my question, but why could you not do the same to the MaShaitani and their weapons?”

  “Well, I have not been able to do that since, not so great a feat at least. How I managed it at the time I cannot guess, though perhaps anger was in part the reason.”

  “Can you not summon such anger again?”

  “I am not certain, but I do not think that is the path I should follow. I can use my power against no living thing. To do so is beyond my ability, and thanks to the Almighty for it,” began Rakam, uncomfortable in speaking over much of his limitations, even to those who were now supposed to be his friends. “But I must concentrate on the task and am not able to focus properly with speed. Think of my ability like an invisible hand, slow and only able to build in strength over time. I can do nothing at all against an arrow or spear in flight, and have not yet been able to wrest so much as a stone from the hand of a child if he wishes to hold onto it.”

  “Ah, I see now, that makes it clear to me. Forgive me, but by tales it sounded like you were holding back for reasons of your own.”

  Secretly, guiltily, Rakam thought of his lost gift, the True Sight. Since leaving the Haunted Forest, he could feel the power growing within him, and he wondered if what the old woman of the Gray Rock Village had said was true--that his mind was trying to find a way to heal on its own.

  Sometimes while he slept, it was like it was before he had felt the serpent’s sting. He soared among the clouds, the whole world open to him. But, then, he would awake and try to see round the next bend and find he could do nothing to keep himself from tripping over an odd rock or exposed root.

  Rakam blushed. “No, though some MaKasisi may have done such things in the past. I use all the gifts of the Almighty to the best of my ability, for the good of our people.”