“Yes, sir,” Captain Smith said, watching Jones sidelong, absently touching the grip of his pistol, the hammer, the smooth, polished ivory of the grip. “They shouldn’t give us any more trouble than this lot here.”
“That’s my thinking exactly. We’ll be back, soon enough, and hopefully have some answers.”
“But all of the equipment,” Jones protested, in a tone sudden and loud. “It’s junk. You can’t really expect us to go on like this?”
Crenshaw said to Jones, “Our guns are all fine, and that’s to the good. There was once a time when that’s all you said you ever needed. Now, I know things haven’t gone as planned, but we’re doing well. We’re so near done now we can’t let anything stop us.”
Eager to judge Crenshaw’s response, Jones made a gambit, saying, “Still, what with things going on as they have, some of the men now, not just me, but I heard a lot of ‘em talking. Well, some of them are worried maybe the partners don’t want us coming back at all. You have to admit the world’s changing. Secrets don’t stay secrets long, public opinion, and the politics turn when the wind blows.”
“Do your job, and everything will be fine,” Crenshaw assured him. “You have nothing to worry about. The partners won’t pull a double cross. We’re providing a valuable service, nothing more and nothing less. They’re not going to do anything stupid, so long as none of us do.”
* * *
“So what’s going on, boss?” Roberts asked as Jones stormed across the campsite.
“Two hours, everybody pack your gear. We’re moving out.”
“Moving out?” several of the men said in disbelieving tones, gathering around Jones as he came to a stop at his tent.
“Yes, two hours,” he said as he opened his footlocker and began putting his things in order. “The big shot thinks all you guys need to lose a few pounds, says you’re getting too fat on all this good food and fun times. So we’re moving on. We wouldn’t want to jeopardize the Colonel’s bonus, now would we, gentlemen?”
“But what happened?” Roberts asked in hushed tones, the question repeated nearly as many times as there were men to ask it.
Jones came away from his footlocker, stood, and looked each of them in the eye. They were all his men. He made a cursory look at the assembly to see if any undesirables were turned his way. Deciding something, he said, “I think they mean to kill us.”
“What?” came several surprised replies.
“No,” said Roberts, “why would they kill us? We’ve done a good job, kept our end of the bargain. What reason would they have to kill us?”
Jones gave Roberts a serious stare. “Why do you think?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Yeah, that’s right. So we do their dirty work, and then they make sure we don’t come back. Think about it, boys. Trip’s almost over. They can have our shares and make sure we keep our mouths shut, too. Nice and neat, don’t you think?”
“The money grubbing bastards,” the big man Collins said in his rough voice, pounding a massive fist in his palm as if he thought it was someone’s head.
Jones said, “Yeah, we should have seen it coming. We’re a liability to them. We get back, and someone decides to let their dirty little secret leak out. Then, their party goes right down the tubes.”
“Yeah, bet none of them big shots ever spent time in the goal before,” Harper said bitterly.
“You bet,” Jones agreed. “They probably worked it out all in advance. They can do that, you know. It just went down a little sooner than they thought it would.”
Roberts broke in, “So, they gonna just leave us out here to die?”
“That’s what it looks like to me,” Jones replied.
“So what do we do now, boss?”
“We wait, we listen, and most of all we watch each other’s backsides. I want every man to be ready. Don’t let your guard down for a minute. If we have the chance to get them before they get us, then I say we take it. You with me?”
They all agreed. “Good, get your stuff. We’ll talk about it when we make camp.”
The men broke from their leader, each one of them more eager than the next to get to the safety of his weapons. Jones checked his things, too, calling Roberts and Collins to give him a hand with the heavy lifting. From the shadows, the man in tiger stripe armor was watching.
Chapter 7
Following the signs provided by the Chief of the Purple Fern Village, Rakam found the mouth of the river that would eventually take him home. Better still, he thought he recognized the area, having been there to seek some rare herb amongst the rocks along the shore with his great-grandfather long ago.
As he moved inland, Rakam came upon the sheltered lake that passed through a channel before its waters moved on to the sea. Here his spirits were lifted, he knew for certain that a village lay at the far side of the lake and that these people would remember him and the revered Mabetu. They would provide the necessities for the rest of his journey. But all was strangely quiet.
There were no signs of habitation, and the land had taken on the same, unnatural quality of the area surrounding the Losli villages. It was a land without people, a land haunted. The paths were unused, if not overgrown as the other places he had traveled. There were no nets or fish traps in the water. The fields were overgrown with weeds.
A bright red blob was in the path in an area where the ground had been crushed, an unusual depression on the surface. Rakam looked upon the thing with joy, for it was the first sign of another living person he had seen since leaving Sachem so long ago.
“Look, Betu,” he said, drawing nearer, “a hunter has set out bait for a snare. He thinks to catch the hunger of some beast with this heart.”
Rakam searched the area, hoping to find the means of the trap, a snare or catch or pit, but could find none. There was an odd smell, however, a smell he could not explain. It wasn’t the stink of death or rot. The smell was certainly unusual, but in a way that was sweet. Despite the not unpleasant odor, no insects were upon the heart, and even the freshest meat drew all manner of unwanted creatures.
Unable to find the mechanism, giving up, Rakam said to his river friend, “Such a choice bit certainly wouldn’t be left out in the wilderness to go to waste, but I can find no device. So I must conclude that someone dropped it. I suppose it is our happy chance to have an unexpected treat.”
Rakam carefully bent to pick up the heart, thinking there may yet be some trap he failed to discover, but under his grasp the thing turned to jelly. It felt like animal fat; but it was very smooth, and it was the same bright red color all the way through. It did not look like a heart on the inside. The stuff stuck worse than lard, and he had to wipe his fingers in the grass to get it off.
“This is a very strange thing, and I don’t think it is a good sign. Come, Betu, let us find the village.”
As he came to the site of the village, Rakam became concerned for his safety. One badly made spear and a river dog was no protection. He strung his bow and made ready with an arrow, but the place was empty. Like that of the dog-stone Losli in the now distant mountains, this village had been wiped clean from the world. All that remained was ash and scorched earth.
“This did not happen long ago, my friend, only since the Long Night began. We must be careful.”
Rakam let the otter to the ground as they explored what remained of the tree at the village circle, the broken stones that perhaps the women had once used to pound grain. Nothing was left. Even the piles of ash revealed nothing.
“There is a place the people went in times of danger, if there were a bad storm from over the sea or a dangerous beast loose in the wild. It is a sacred place. My great-grandfather Mabetu blessed it once at the Day Festival. We should go there.”
The journey was a short one. The villagers took a winding path to the cave, lest an enemy find their most secret and sacred place of hiding. Rakam knew the direct route, remembered it as he did the other great secrets he had learned in his travels. But what h
e found there was not at all what he expected.
“It has been completely filled with stone,” he said, disbelieving. “All the symbols, all the generations of Lake People that put their hands upon the wall, all that history is gone. They are a people that have been taken from the world. This is an evil beyond my reckoning, to defile a place like this in such a way, then so, too, the dog-stone and so many others suffered a similar fate.”
Looking the site over, trying to find some missing clue to what had happened, Rakam wondered aloud, “But how did the MaShaitani find it? How could they come to know this secret place was here? Did they have a spy that lived in the village helping them? Or do they have a power to cloud the minds of men and pass invisible amongst them, learning their secrets? If this last refuge of a strong people has been violated can anywhere in the world be safe?”
Rakam absently dug at the pile of stone at the cave’s opening with his foot, but suddenly stopped as he came to an urgent realization. “The MaShaitani have come. We must warn our people. They have come to take our lands and destroy us all.”
He bent to touch the once sacred stones that filled the cave, hoping to call forth a vision, to find the course of action that would save his people. Taking one stone in each hand, focusing on the story they had to tell, he let the stone become a part of his mind, let it work upon him the magic of its knowledge.
Nothing happened. His mind was blank. His gift did not profit him. Rakam let the stones fall back amongst the others in the pile, disappointed.
“We must go. The MaShaitani may still be about. There are paths that follow the river and upon these paths we must travel as they must travel; but we are all too few, and they must be many. A single man may prove swifter than an army, and so we must overtake them on the road and warn our people of the coming danger. We must go to my great-grandfather. He will know what to do, and I know just where to find him.”
* * *
Smoke rose in the distance. The thin line of gray was the first real sign of habitation Rakam had seen, and he wondered now as he approached it whether he might find glad people ready to make him welcome or if his feelings of portent were correct and the tall, pale skinned MaShaitani of old tales would be found there.
Rakam had traveled far inland from the lake village, finding more and more that had made him wary. The smoke was coming from where there had once been a small fishing village. In his heart, he expected to meet his enemy at last. He knew he needed to learn as much about them as he could without jeopardizing his own safety and the message he carried to his people, but his insides turned with fear.
Scooping the otter into his arms, Rakam left the river road and slipped noiselessly through the underbrush, ever wary of danger, coming closer and closer to the village and its doom. Something crashed along the path up ahead by the river. Rakam squatted low, keeping a thick bush between himself and the noise. He began to put a hand over the otter’s mouth, but whether it was well trained or had good instincts, the river dog made no noise and drew close for protection.
A giant of a creature came by, heedless of the thunderous noise it made along the way. It was a giant, head and shoulders taller than Rakam was, and it was very broad. The thing did not wear clothing as men and women did. It had a hard skin, insect like, even about the head.
The smooth carapace gave off a dull gleam in the sunlight. Of all things in the greatness of Creation, it looked to be metal. Such a creature had never been spoken of in any tales that Rakam had ever heard.
The MaShaitani were said to have pale skin, flesh that was soft to the touch and very like that of people. This new creature was terrible, without eyes or ears or mouth, no discernable facial features of any kind. Failing to sense its enemy, the Shaitani disappeared down the path in the direction of the river.
Approaching the village, Rakam began to hear the sounds of habitation. There was the busy work of crashing and breaking, but there too was the sound of people, men speaking a language he understood.
A deep voice using a rough, guttural speech shouted something. Rakam hid, ready to run if the Shaintani-thing’s shouts were aimed toward him. After a few breathless moments, however, he felt safe and continued his approach.
The village was on fire. The few huts had been torn down and pitched into a great bonfire that burned in the village center. Even the sacred tree was cut down, already gone to feed the wicked flames. Many of this new kind of Shaitani tended the fire, the same insect look to them all. Others labored around piles of food and weapons, sorting the bounty in some inexplicable way. Much of the good wooden tools and reed baskets were tossed into the fires while much fuss was made of colored stones.
Then he saw them, the bodies. They were piled next to the spoil of the huts, ready to be burned. A closer look at the corpses told Rakam that the women and small children had all been killed. This puzzled Rakam. He didn’t know why the MaShaitani would choose to keep warriors and not women, but so much more was his grief.
Beyond the fire were a few men and older boys of the village. The Chief was known to Rakam and was missing, as were his closest relatives. The remaining men were bound together with cords about the arms and legs that shined in the sunlight.
Over these men stood Shaitani guards. They held odd-shaped sticks in their hands. Rakam had never seen such weapons, but the MaShaitani held them as men held spears. He knew the sticks to be weapons of some kind, some terrible, twisted things, no doubt.
A man of the village about Rakam’s age complained loudly in delirium and began to speak. The man seemed far away, totally unaware of his surroundings. A guard held up his stick menacingly, and the man cowered. With the laughter and jeers of his comrades for encouragement, the Shaitani struck the man with the stick.
There was a terrible, skull-splitting crack, and the man fell limp, his head gushing blood. All the villagers moved to help the stricken man; but the Shaitani pointed at them with his stick, and they backed away. The stricken man lolled onto the ground, unconscious. Rakam knew such a blow would kill many men. He didn’t know whether he should hope and pray for as much for this one.
A new Shaitani arrived. His insect shell was not colored as the others. He was red, bright red, and he had no covering shell upon his head. Looking closely, Rakam saw pale skin and lightly colored hair and piercing blue eyes. It was as the stories told. These MaShaitani were not spirits after all. They just wore a kind of armor over their entire bodies and could probably be killed like any other living thing.
As Rakam watched, the red Shaitani sat on a log and pulled a section off his leg. It too was soft underneath. The red Shaitani continued his work, removing a close-fitting garment and stroking a pale, bare foot.
Striped like a jungle cat, another Shaitani arrived. He also had no covering on his head. His hair was dark and was cut short and bristly. The lesser MaShaitani shied away from this one in fear. He addressed the red Shaitani angrily. Acting quickly, the red Shaitani put his foot coverings back on and stood, raising a stick.
Rakam knew it was time to go. He wanted to attack, to lead these villagers in revolt, but he knew there was no power he possessed that would help them now. His best course of action was to go with all the speed he could manage to his people, to carry a warning to them about what he had seen and heard.
* * *
Carefully and quietly, Rakam made his way from the village, seeking the deep forest and the protection of the trees. He went far before taking rest, sitting himself and the otter down under the cover of a little cleft between two large boulders.
What food Rakam had he ate, sharing with the river dog enough for several meals in reward and gratitude for how well she had behaved at the village. When he was sufficiently rested, Rakam began walking. He didn’t go far before hearing a loud crashing in the woods, much in the same fearless, imprudent way the Shaitani at the village had.
A loud resonating explosion, like thunder, rang out so loud and terrible that Rakam fell to his knees and covered his ears. A shout aro
se in the harsh Shaitani language. They were much closer than Rakam thought at first, and they were coming fast upon him. Fearing he had lingered too long in this place and would soon fall under the power of the MaShaitani, Rakam made a quick search for a place to hide.
Spying a likely spot, he scooped the otter into his arms and dashed into the cover of a thicket. There he placed himself behind the trunk of a tree and waited, but the MaShaitani didn’t come. Rakam heard more shouting in their foul language, it sounded celebratory, triumphant.
Growing bold, Rakam decided to press his luck. He knew he must find the source of the terrible sound if he could. He feared it was a weapon, some devilry of Shaitani magic. And, if it were a weapon, he must learn as much about it as he could. Facing his fear, his utter horror, Rakam pushed himself to do what he knew he must.
With practiced movements made second nature through years of hunting in the wild, Rakam began stalking his prey. The river dog seemed to sense his intent, to understand what this behavior signified. In an utter change from its usual, playful manner, the otter slipped from Rakam’s arms to the forest floor. Together they became one, working the terrain and vegetation to their advantage, making their way closer and closer to the place where the MaShaitani were.
As they came within sight of the MaShaitani, Rakam’s fear grew to its zenith, threatening to conquer him. The MaShaitani, their head armor removed and placed casually by their packs, their pale skin an insult to the friendly sun, were butchering an animal.
When their work at the kill was finished, one of the MaShaitani sat back with his stick as the other started a fire. Rakam continued watching as the sitting Shaitani examined one of the long and oddly shaped sticks, separating a small, boxlike piece from the underside. The Shaitani looked the box over carefully and, retrieving something from a pocket at its belt, pushed the oddity into the box with a soft clicking sound.
Reign of the Nightmare Prince Page 6
