Reign of the Nightmare Prince

by Mike Phillips

  One of the men, more of a boy even by Rakam’s youthful standards, became paralyzed by fear at the second staircase. Yet safe for a single man to cross, there was a wide breech in the stonework. Through the hole one might be lost, only to come crashing down to the floor below. No matter how much the warriors encouraged or threatened the young man, he could bring himself to go no further, clinging to the rock and whimpering like a river dog’s lost pup.

  “We need someone to guard us from behind,” said Rakam at last, “and this is as good a place as any. For courage, a single man should not guard alone. Is there another?” One of the men volunteered and the matter was settled.

  The treacherous climb began again. By the time Rakam and his three remaining companions took position in the observation tower, the first of Bantu’s ambushes was beginning. On the adjoining street was a small square in which a public well was located. As Rakam watched, a pair of well-armed warriors was fast approaching a group of MaShaitani from behind.

  The pair landed a few good arrow shots in their attempts to harangue the MaShaitani into chasing them. Though the arrows did not penetrate the Shaintani’s armor, the plan was a success. Angered and annoyed by the show of courage, the MaShaitani pursued their tormentors. Off the warriors ran, disappearing into the wild streets of the city with two MaShaitani chasing after them. Rakam had not forgotten to do his part. When the warriors finally decided it was time for their hunters to become the hunted, the MaShaitani would be in for a surprise.

  From then on, Rakam sought to disable as many of the firespears as he could. Seeing the MaShaitani, he found one then another of the firespears and crushed them into useless scrap. Most of his efforts had gone unnoticed even though he had managed to affect a half dozen in the few moments since the first ambush, and he looked forward to the time when the enemy would learn to fear as they had taught his people to do so well.

  * * *

  It wasn’t long before Bantu’s second trap was about to spring. A house on the far end of the courtyard was full of city warriors, defending themselves as best they could from behind windows and protected places on the roof. MaShaitani converged upon the house like hunting packs, not realizing they too were being pursued.

  Three small groups of Bantu’s warriors were approaching from opposite directions, staying far enough back not to be noticed. Moving with stealth, using the wreckage of the city as they would trees in the forest, the warriors advanced, searching for some weakness, the right time to attack.

  With a brilliant flash of fire that only could have been made by a Kasisi of some power, the city warriors came rushing from the shelter of the house. The attack was so savage that the MaShaitani hardly had time to raise their weapons in defense. Even so, Rakam had done his work. The firespears were useless.

  Everywhere in the courtyard men and MaShaitani began fighting, grappling hand to hand in a desperate struggle. Bantu’s warriors ran to their assistance, forgetting about the ambush, fighting side by side with their city brothers.

  It seemed at first that the city warriors might even be victorious. They were skilled in taking advantage of the Shaintani’s weaknesses, using their speed and agility against the brute strength and ponderous movements of an enemy clad in heavy armor.

  Half a dozen MaShaitani had been put to the spear when a counter attack erupted from nearby. The MaShaitani remaining in the courtyard were quick to disengage. They put their backs to the house upon which Rakam had taken refuge, throwing down their useless weapons and drawing long bladed, cruel-looking knives.

  “Get them,” Rakam shouted to his guards as he tried to focus on the MaShaitani making the new offensive. “Throw rocks, anything. We must help those warriors as much we can!”

  Knowing their arrows would do little from this vantage, the guards collected what rocks they could from the surrounding debris, dropping it on the MaShaitani below. Their efforts did not go unnoticed.

  A blinding light filled the courtyard. The MaShaitani had loosed some terrible spirit-magic upon them. The spirit-magic shrieked through the air, its tail of burning white fire.

  The spirit-magic struck the house, and there was a terrible sound like they had heard when the battle of the city began. The wall below shattered in a blast of rock and dust, and Rakam could feel the floor shake beneath him. At last the wall began to topple, and Rakam could only pray as his stomach sank and the building started crashing down.

  The observation tower fell. Too surprised and frightened to do anything else, Rakam clung to a large stone. Though it must have lasted only a moment, it seemed an eternity while the stones tumbled to the ground.

  When the falling stopped at last, Rakam found himself alive, but he was crushed under heavy timbers and debris. He couldn’t feel his legs and there was a great weight on his chest, making it hard to breathe. Even as his pain settled like a cloak around him, so much more so was his disappointment.

  He had failed his people. Rakam shut his eyes, knowing everyone he loved would soon be dead. Pakali, his Great-Grandfather, and most importantly his beloved wife with whom he had spent far too little time, had little hope of escaping death.

  Bitter tears started in his eyes as he thought of the daughters and sons he and Negara would have had, all as beautiful and spirited as their mother. Remembering the lovely face of his wife, Rakam wondered where she was, if Torbu of the Gray Rock would be coming with his people to the Marsh City as Pakali had ordered. If so, then they too would soon be dead. There was no hope.

  The night sky was brilliant with stars. Seeing their celestial light, eternal as the mountains or the sea, a strange calm settled upon Rakam. As he bathed in the light of the heavens, he forgot about the atrocities of war that were going on around him. The stars were the home of the Almighty, and soon he would be going there himself, making a new home in His glorious kingdom.

  Unexpectedly, Rakam heard Mabetu speaking to him. It was not the old man in spirit form, but a memory of a conversation held long ago. Mabetu said, “Tell me, do you remember the boats the people of the lake used to make?”

  “Yes, they bundled reeds together.”

  “Those boats are strong, stronger than the boats the people of our village make from a single, great tree. Like a group of men working together, the bundle of reeds can accomplish more than any single man can alone. That is what Timbo’s father was able to learn about his gift. He could break all the sticks of the bundle at once, though it was not as difficult for him to break a single branch of equal size.”

  “And that will be important to me in using this new gift?”

  “Yes, I think so. When the rockslide fell, your uncle did not break one stone at a time, and neither did he break the large stones. He broke all the small ones, at once, in a way that was outward from the cave in which the children had found shelter.”

  “I’m not sure that I understand.”

  “Neither do I, but it is a place to start. Know that if an arrow pierces the heart of a bull, for all the strength that remains within him, the bull still dies. If a man fails to chew his food, he may get it caught in his throat and die though he has no wounds.”

  “But what good is that now?” Rakam said in desperation, returned from the memory to his death under the fallen house. Weeping bitter tears, he said, “How will any of that help Negara?”

  Thinking about his love for Negara, Rakam could almost hear the beat of drums as the warriors raced into battle, fast to meet their own demise. She would be at their head, a true Champion, for all the good that would do. Champions would be the first to die against these ruthless monsters. Those with the greatest courage were the easiest to have their lives stolen away.

  But then Rakam thought he really could hear the drums and see the rush into the city, like it had been when he used the True Sight. Starlight filled his heart, traveling down his arms and legs, out to his fingers and toes. Rakam could feel his mind opening, making him a part of the sky, the water, and all the things that lived and breathed. The vagrant wind
was again his friend, whispering the secrets of the universe into his ears.

  “This is my purpose,” he said in prayer. “Your will be done.”

  Finding all the weapons of the MaShaitani one by one, Rakam settled his mind upon them. In each he saw the sliding linkages, the needle that released the spirits from their bottles to make such misery upon the world. And in seeing these things all at one time, he remembered what his Great-Grandfather had said to him about a bundle of sticks and its strength beyond a branch of even greater size.

  Hearing himself scream the words in defiance of all the evils that had befallen the world since he had left his home, knowing that his Jaribu had at last come to an end, that he had fulfilled his destiny and saved his people, Rakam said, “Bundle of sticks.”

  Chapter 32

  The savages were getting brave. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the ranks of warriors inched their way toward the building. Finding no resistance, they approached cautiously, expecting their luck would soon run out. Captain Smith knew better.

  Every rifle he had was scrap. He couldn’t guess what had happened, but he and his crew were little more than defenseless.

  “Wait now, let them get close enough,” Smith said watching an armored group of warriors approach.

  Running low on supplies, he had been able to scrounge a dozen or so grenades. It was better than nothing, but not much to work with. If Jones didn’t show up soon, they were sunk.

  Captain Smith checked the improvised bomb they had made of bullets strung together with copper wire. It was shaped in a crude ring, the grenade to be set in the middle, using the bullets for added punch.

  “Don’t worry boss, I’ll put it right in the middle of them.” Private Lehto was a heck of a ball player, and he had an arm on him like a pro; but it was a heavy weight, and they had to do as much damage with it as possible.

  The crown of death gently in his hands, holding it out for the private, Smith said, “Any time you’re ready.”

  The ball player pulled the pin from the grenade, fitting it neatly into the ring of bullets. Quick and confident, he plucked the bomb out of Smith’s hands and gave it a hard toss. The bomb sailed through the air, high above the collected warriors, then dropped into their midst. The grenade exploded, setting off the ring of bullets. Twenty natives fell to the ground, clutching bloody wounds.

  A cry of alarm was raised. The ranks of warriors fell back, pulling their wounded friends with them.

  “That’ll give them something to think about,” Smith said. He turned to his men. “Now, I want options. Speak up.”

  “Send up a flare. Let Jones know where we are,” the sergeant said. “Hate to be rescued; but we’re in a pinch, and it’s better than being dead.”

  “What if they did it to us?” Lehto, the ball player, said. “Kind of funny timing, don’t you think?”

  “You think Jones did this?” said the sergeant, incredulous.

  “Open your eyes, man.” He turned to Smith. “I say we bug out, boss, but I’m with you no matter what.”

  Stone faced, Smitty said, “I agree, but there’s too many of them on the street. We’re going to have to find another way.”

  “These buildings are pretty close together. Once we’re away from here, we should have easy going from roof to roof.”

  “That first jump will be a killer,” one of the men said.

  “We’re pretty high up,” another agreed.

  “That’s the plan, then,” Smith said. He looked to the sergeant. “Take a few guys and open a hole in the roof. Don’t let them see you.”

  “How are things outside?” he asked no one in particular.

  “Still shaking in their boots,” said a guard at the window. “But there’s a group of them talking, and I don’t like the look of it.”

  To the ball player, Captain Smith said, “Can you make it?”

  Peering out the window, Lehto said, “Yeah, I think so. If not, I’ll get a good hop from the street.”

  “We got to push them back and give them something to think about. If we let off on the pressure, they’ll figure out something’s wrong and, then, we’ve got problems. Take all the grenades and keep them off our backsides.”

  “Everyone else, secure our position. Bar the doors and windows. Collect whatever flammables you can and spread them against the walls. There was some straw for beds and a few casks. I bet there’s oil in there. We’re going to light this candle before we go. What are you standing around for? Get to work.”

  * * *

  “We’re in luck, no one’s watching the store,” the sergeant said. “Got a hole in the back, and no one saw us doing it.”

  “Good, let’s go.”

  “Light her up!” the sergeant shouted. “Let’s go; let’s go!”

  Soon the building was ablaze. There was so much smoke and fire on the first floor, not even the most daring of warriors would come after them. Captain Smith and his team were already upstairs, pushing through the hole in the roof as fast as possible.

  Smith was the last to go. Smoke choking him so violently he thought he might pass out, he finally climbed through the hole and was outside, the many hands of his men helping him through the impenetrable swirling darkness.

  “Knock it off,” he protested. “What are you waiting for? Get the hell out of here. Move it; move it!”

  Half of them had already jumped, but the other half had foolishly waited for him. Even out on the roof, the air stung the eyes and scorched the lungs. The fire was rapidly climbing the dry timber frame of the building. The crackle and spark was like the angry voices of a mob.

  One by one, the men took a running start, leaping from the roof toward the next building with all their strength. For Smith, it almost proved too far. His foot touched the roof edge as he willed himself forward, crashing down on the shingles in a heap. The ball player helped him to his feet.

  “Everyone make it?”

  Lehto nodded toward one of the men. He was sitting on the roof, groaning as someone stuck a needle in his arm, clutching a bloody wound below the knee. A white bone was poking outward like a tombstone out of the ground.

  Smith walked toward the man, so intent upon what he had to do that he slipped on the slick wood. He almost fell but righted himself, stumbling toward the wounded man. As he approached, his hand went to a knife, the cruel blade vaporous in the night, a thing of no substance but great consequence.

  Pushing the medic away, Smith stripped the helmet from the wounded man. In one fluid motion, he wrenched the man’s head back and slit him open. The man looked up in shock and betrayal, his life’s blood pumping in a thick spray.

  “You’re welcome,” Smith said when the man moved no more. “Rest in peace.”

  In a soft voice Smith said, “Mark my words if they catch you, they will torture you. And we have no hope to rescue you. Look after yourselves and your squad.”

  “This way,” the sergeant said, careful not to draw attention from the natives.

  Smith followed his voice. The next roof wasn't nearly as far as the first had been. They all made the distance without difficulty. It looked to Smith as if two or three might have injured themselves in some way, twisted an ankle or suffered a minor fracture, but none of them were complaining and none of them were holding back. They had gone a few blocks with no sign of pursuit when Private Lehto stopped him and spoke up.

  “Wait,” he said, “hear that?”

  Captain Smith didn’t say a word to the others. Still hindmost, he thought the private might have sensed an enemy. He heard and saw nothing. Behind them, the building was high in flames, the light dancing as smoke poured into the heavens.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing, there’s not a gunshot or explosion. Maybe the same thing happened to them, the guns I mean.”

  “Or they’re all dead. Doesn’t matter, we’re getting out of here.”

  * * *

  They traveled a good distance before the pursuit began. The wailing of a horn and the b
eating of a drum nearby giving some signal, and they knew their deception had been discovered. Quickly and quietly, they sped along the roofs of the city, making a crooked path toward the wall.

  The savages were after them, a few giving chase on the rooftops, their silhouettes weaving in the night. Others ran along the ground. These were much faster. By using the trickery of the buildings, Smith and the remainder of his team were able to stay out of harm’s way.

  Right before his eyes, a man burst into flame. Screaming, the victim tumbled off the building. A shout from the savages let them know what had happened.

  Spread out on several rooftops, the soldiers were racing now. It was every man for himself in a mad dash for freedom. Even with a better knowledge of the city, the savages were unable to keep up with their winding course. But they were getting separated.

  The sergeant and a few of the men looked to be headed back into the city. A streak of light like a white hot arrow tore through the sky after them.

  Captain Smith looked away, focused on escape. Soon he saw the wall. The gatehouse they had taken when they first made their assault was only a few houses away.

  Following Captain Smith onto a final building before coming to the wall, Lehto was struck with a spear just as he jumped. It was a solid hit in the back. The armor held and the spear point broke, but Lehto was surprised and lost his footing as he landed.

  Down the rooftop he slid. He clawed at the wood shingles, his hands finding nothing to grab onto. Just as his feet left the roof, about to send him on a downward spiral to his death, Smith grabbed his arm, using his weight to pull him back over the edge.