Holding onto the branch, he kicked with what strength he had. At that place in the river, the current had quickened in its pace, but he soon had the branch to the shore. There he found a bush and concealed himself under it for some much-needed sleep.
* * *
Turning away and putting up his hands in defense as he woke, Rakam felt kisses all over his face. He could tell they were not the kisses of a woman, though he had limited experience in that respect, recognizing the affections of some animal as he arose from his stupor. Gently rubbing the slobber from his face and opening his eyes, he saw his savior had returned. This time the otter brought two fish of good size.
With a smile, Rakam accepted the fish, scrubbing the river dog affectionately on the head. The fish were too large to eat whole, so he found a few suitable stones at the riverbank and quickly chipped them into knives.
In no time, he had removed the guts and shared them with his new friend. The river dog ate greedily, and Rakam suddenly wondered if it were trained only to eat from its master’s hand and had hungered for a meal while he slept.
“Well, I hope to find your master soon,” Rakam said aloud. “I could use a bit of company, not to say some good food and medicine. I promise I’ll have your master treat you to a bit of choice flesh for the good you have done me. Better yet, I’ll buy you if I have anything of value to offer.”
The river dog looked up while Rakam spoke, attentive, and it almost seemed to the young man that it was listening to what he said. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought the otter was sad, was grieving for the loss of its master. Again the notion struck him as a bad sign, that his mind was not as keen as he would have it be. Madness did not suit for survival in the wilderness.
“Well, I’ll have to give you a name. I can’t go around calling you river dog all the time.” He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “How would you like Betu? That’s my great-grandfather’s name. He taught me all about your kind. Well, what do you think?” The otter didn’t commit lest it be by taking a bit of liver hungrily into its mouth.
“Well, last chance, if you don’t like it, speak up.” After a brief pause without objection, Rakam pronounced the name a proper one and set about finishing his labors.
The going was slow because he was still weak and had to rest often, but a good quantity of dry sticks was to be found nearby. These Rakam collected into a pile with dry grass and leaves. Then, he found a pair of green branches, stripped off the leaves and spitted the fish as the saliva practically dripped from his mouth in anticipation.
All that was left was to light the fire. He had no tools proper for the undertaking, and though he wasn’t as talented in the art as his cousin Kolojo, he thought he might have enough strength in him to get some sort of blaze alight.
With his new friend Betu watching, Rakam sat on his knees in front of the pile of dry sticks. He let the fire guide him, touch him, and become a part of his mind. He whispered the words of power he had learned from his great-grandfather to summon the fire and to put it to his will. And, with the fire, he reached out to the pile of sticks before him, willing the fire to travel there. He smelled smoke and, then, he saw the first flame. The flames grew, and Rakam broke away. The fire died within him, but it was alive in the world.
“Well, that wasn’t too difficult,” he said to Betu with pleasure.
The aroma of cooking fish grew steadily in the air, pure and good, making Rakam’s stomach roar with hunger. Soon the fish were cooked, and he took the first spit from the ground and ate greedily. When all was consumed he felt much stronger, better than he could remember feeling in a long time. At last he thought himself able to make a little serious magic, use his gift of True Sight.
Before the fire, Rakam returned to a meditative posture once again, feeling the good soil beneath him, seeing in his mind how solid the ground was, how the light sand turned to hard rock deeper down, how he had come from the ground and would someday return to it. He let his mind drift upon the river, following the course of the water as it made its way through the land.
From the river he leaped into the sky, feeling the air pulse and blow in strange rhythms, bringing storms, carrying news of all that happened in the world. But the wind did not speak to him. There was no voice or vision that put itself into his mind. He was alone with his thoughts, empty.
His eyes flashed open. Rakam said, “The gift has left me.”
* * *
As he slept and ate fish from the river and felt the heat of the fire, Rakam’s health gradually returned. Then, at last he decided he was strong enough to venture out. The stones of the riverbank were poor for tool work, but he had busied himself in making a serviceable knife and several points for spears and arrows. The wood of the trees that grew near the river was as poor as the stones for making weapons, but he didn’t feel safe traveling until he had at least a passable spear for protection.
Breaking the first of the young trees off at the base to begin the work was a trial in patience. He was not yet as strong as he thought, and he tired quickly, finding the tree springy and full of life and not easily broken. Giving the tree a last, desperate push with the entire weight of his body, he bent his anger and frustration upon it, and the tree suddenly snapped off at the base, just as if it had been cut with an axe.
Wondering what he had just done, Rakam went to the next small tree that was of a good size and shape for his purposes. Focusing his mind as he had before, he felt a rush not unlike he felt while making fire and the tree broke off just at the place he intended.
Smiling at this newly discovered talent, he said to little Betu, “Well, would you look at that? Things aren’t so bad after all.”
Later Rakam made a bow and a clutch of decent arrows. He had no luck with his snares, so it was good to have the weapon. Rakam had tired of fish, and he knew that meat was the best way for him to grow strong once again. He shot a small deer on his first attempt with the bow. He and Betu shared the meat, and there was some left over to keep him in his travels.
In this way the pair began their voyage downstream. All the while Rakam found no sign of habitation, no villages, no sign that people were about the place. It was a great, empty land that needed folk to make it productive. He found several good spots for villages, where villages might once have been, and Rakam wondered in his darkest thoughts if the Demons had come there, too.
“See how the sun lives in the House of the Father?” Rakam said to the otter, noting the sun at the zenith of its path across the sky. By then he was feeling good, if not fully recovered from his ordeal. “We are at the halfway point to the Long Night, and the greatest part of our journey is behind us. At last we have made it through this swampland and have come to the sea. Here we will travel up the seashore until we find the river my people call home. It is yet a long journey, but not so long as it was before. At home, they will be setting out for the Sacred Grove, to celebrate the day star in the House of the Beetle and the portents of the Grove for the Long Night ahead.
“I hope you will choose to live with me. I’m not as poor and friendless a man as I appear. I have been on a Jaribu. As a young Kasisi leaves his master, he must go out into the world and do great works. Sometimes the Almighty requires very little of him. Other times the new Kasisi has important tasks set before him. I have traveled very far, following my heart and the Almighty as best it seemed for me to do; and though I return home now that I have seen many things, I am not yet sure what my purpose is.”
The otter seemed to nod in understanding. It gave Rakam pause to think it had happened so. It was a sign his delusions were not yet gone, that he was not in his right mind. There were other things about his mind that troubled him, as well -- the loss of True Sight not the least. He wondered if it was because he had dared speak with the Jinn.
“Let me ask you a question friend,” he said conspiratorially. “Do I seem evil to you? Do I seem to suffer from some malady of the brain? Yes, I am troubled. I was once accounted a great prophet. I wa
s given a very special gift. My great-grandfather said such gifts are never given lightly, that they come from the Almighty only in times of great need. Do you think the Jinn of the desert cursed me? Do you think by surviving the serpent’s sting and accepting the rescue of the Losli that I have sinned?”
The otter had nothing to say. Rakam smiled and started walking again, scooping the river dog into his arms and holding it affectionately. He had discovered the otter was a female, and it made him smile to think some time Betu might have little ones of her own.
“Anyway, I have a hut and some wealth in iron and gold. I have a plot of land that is my own. I gave a young girl cousin two goats to manage while I was away. You will like all my relatives, and I have many. Some are very important people. I have told you much of my great-grandfather and cousins, but you should know also that my uncle is King. He is my aunt’s husband, and they were both very close to my mother before she died. Pakali will welcome us heartily upon our return. Would you like that? A celebration in our honor?”
The otter seemed to nod, as inexplicable as that was. “I will treat you with great honor all the days of your life for the help you have given me and the friendship you have trusted in me.”
Chapter 6
Into the sky reached tendril fingers of smoke, searching, grasping, a beast that would smother the sun and pull down the very roof of the heavens. From a nightmare the smoke had come, born of murder and destruction. Tortured in wickedness, it curled and writhed, whipping in chorus with the wind, a silent witness and unfortunate conspirator in what had come to pass.
In the unhappy world below, a fire burned. The flame churned as it fed upon a feast of bodies, the dead, the conquered. Still another village was ablaze, the latest village, dry wood and lifeless remains feeding the ravenous flames. The place was now given over to its grief, its people and purpose, death.
As he breathed, the Colonel smelled and tasted what was at once pungent and fragrant, the burning hair and the roasting meat. The fire was yet new; and the smell had not gone entirely bad, not as it would when the fat and the muscle began to burn. He watched the flames, like a living thing, a chemical reaction consuming what had once been living but was living no more.
Fire had been thought to be a living thing once, long ago when men were first learning about the world, separating what was real from superstition. Those men had called themselves natural philosophers or alchemists or other things Crenshaw no longer remembered. Those ancient men knew little about what they did, the outcomes of their actions having reached so far. He wondered how far his actions of that day would carry--what would happen in a day, a week, a month, a hundred years.
“Never again,” he said to himself quietly, staring at the dancing flame. “I should not have come. No matter how you thought it would be, like war or dressing cattle. It is not. They are more than animals.” Regret ate at his stomach. He could feel it tearing him up inside, making a mockery of what he once was.
“The money, think about the money. A nice house on the coast. A pretty young wife and kids, too, maybe. Put all of this behind you and then it’s over; it’s done. You’ll never have to think about it again.” That was what he said, standing there, looking at the fire. That was the promise he made himself, but he knew it was not the truth.
Crenshaw was not satisfied. The day had gone badly. Things had happened that should not have happened. He began pacing the village, watching his people go about their business, making sure no detail was overlooked.
When he returned to the pyre at the village center, he saw three of his men at ease on the far side. They were examining something with great interest on the ground, and they were paying no mind to anyone else. Through the thick smoke he watched them, trying to decide what they were doing.
“What’s that?” he said, finally deciding something and coming round the circle at great speed. “What do you men have there?”
The men scrambled to collect their things. One of them even seemed ready to flee across the fire, but Crenshaw kicked him in the back of the knee and sent him sprawling to the ground.
“What is this?” he shouted in disgust, having had a glimpse, guessing what it was they held in their possession.
“Just a little trinket, sir,” the first man, Roberts, explained. He had removed his helmet for the work. His face was filthy, his long hair coated with sweat and ash. He gave off a smell even worse than the now- stinking smoke of the fire.
“You know the rules,” Crenshaw said. Roberts extended his hand shakily. In it was an amulet of carved gold, a peculiar rendering Crenshaw had never before seen. It was beautiful in its own way, probably an article of worship, he thought. Grumpily, he added, “Do I have to ask you for the rest?”
Roberts reluctantly opened his pack and began to empty its contents. His friends, the big man Collins, and the sometimes cook Harper did the same without comment. They had jewelry of various sorts, amulets and brooches, earrings, and necklaces. They had a few weapons, finely carved bone points for spears and arrows.
Lastly, there were hands, dried, black-skinned hands, the hands of their victims. Crenshaw looked at these with disgust and swept them into what remained of the fire with his boot.
“Smitty!” Crenshaw called out when the job was done.
“Sir,” came the quick reply from the man in tiger stripe armor.
“Twenty lashes.”
“Sir.”
“As if these bastards weren’t being paid enough. Fucking bonus and they can’t wait to throw it away.”
“General inspection, sir?”
“Yes, give Jones something to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when you’re done, come to my tent. I think it’s time for a staff meeting, don’t you?”
“Past time, sir, all gone to hell as it has.”
“You have a way with words, Smitty.”
* * *
“So it’s twenty lashes, is it? I’ll give the bastards twice that,” Jones said as he entered what he thought of as his commanding officer’s tent, though neither of them was strictly military now.
Crenshaw was polishing the breastplate of his armor, buffing the dull black finish clean from the day’s labors. Something in Jones’s tone didn’t strike him as true. Secretly Crenshaw didn’t care much for his second officer. He thought the man meant to subvert him. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t do much about it. He was stuck with Jones until their business was ended. He said cryptically, “Yes.”
Jones said, “I’ll get straight on from here, sir, and have it done by supper.”
Without looking up, Crenshaw replied, “Let Smitty take care of that, will you?”
“But, sir, they’re my men,” Jones protested.
Taking one of Crenshaw’s polishing rags and making himself more presentable, revealing the bands of color from under a layer of ash. Smitty said, “Don’t you worry; I’ll be as gentle as a lamb.”
“But, sir, it’s my duty.”
“I want those men punished, not injured,” Crenshaw replied. “You ever whip a man, Jones? It’s not what you think.”
“Aye, you can kill a man with twenty lashes whether you mean to or not,” said Captain Smith. “You’d hurt ‘em worse if you try to take it easy on ‘em, if you don’t know what you’re about, not that such a thing would be likely.”
“Of course not,” Jones replied indignantly.
Crenshaw asked, “And you don’t have anyone else trying to skirt policy, make a little extra coin on the side? Those hands would prove a sticky business to us, profitable as something like that might be with the right buyer.”
“Is it, sir? I don’t know much about that sort of thing.”
“Really?” Crenshaw said, noting his question hadn’t been answered.
“No, sir, the rules of the charter say all metal is to be melted down and split equally by share. Precious stones and the like are to be distributed by you. Everything else is to be destroyed.”
“And, do you
think that’s fair?”
“Yes, sir, hard rules, but right enough. We all know what’s at stake here.”
“No, I mean do you think I’ve been fair?”
Jones said, “Oh, yes, sir, absolutely, sir.”
“Good.”
Crenshaw finished polishing his breastplate, allowing the mood to stew. From time to time he looked up and put a sour look on his face. Finally he said, “Your men fell apart today. You were lucky Smitty was there to back you up, or they would have made mincemeat out of all of us.”
“It’s not my fault, the crap they gave us,” Jones said angrily.
“That’s not the point. Your men broke discipline. They ran scared.”
“Come on, what do you expect? You know how things went down. Everything goes to hell, and what are they supposed to do? You want to blame someone; you blame those pedigree friends of yours. No surprise the equipment is bad, as shitty as the rations they give us.”
Crenshaw said sharply, “Don’t forget who pays the bills around here. You need to show a little more respect. You’re being paid well enough. You should be able to deal with a few setbacks.”
“A few setbacks, is that what you call it? Do you know what happened?”
“Not yet, no. Maybe it’s this place. Maybe something in the air is to blame. But you tell your men that next time we’re out there, they’d better stick together. It’s going to get worse before it gets better. For now, we’re going back to the ship. We’ll see what we can find out.”
“That’s good news,” said Jones, much relieved. “This whole job has been one bad turn after another. I’d be happy to be headed home, full bonus or not.”
“No, you misunderstand me. My plan is to take Hayes and fifty men and check things out, make sure we’re not stranded or discovered. Meanwhile, I want Smitty to take the rest of you and secure the next village.”
Reign of the Nightmare Prince Page 5
