Reign of the Nightmare Prince

by Mike Phillips

  Fiddling with the rope closure for moments, much longer than it had taken to break the rope that had bound his wrists, Rakam at last pulled his head free from the sack. The night air was sweet, tasting like freedom in his lungs. He could see the night moons above the swaying limbs of the trees, marking the dark time as halfway to its end. He was alone in the faint light, the distant sounds of fighting filling him with dread.

  “Rakam,” Mabetu’s voice called out.

  Turning to look in the direction of the voice, Rakam was shocked by what he saw. It was Mabetu, but the shape was translucent, ghostlike. Rakam could not believe his eyes, was starting to think this was not his great-grandfather but some evil thing that had taken Mabetu’s shape to trick him. “Be off, imposter, and trouble me no more.”

  “No, Rakam, it’s me,” Mabetu answered with a kindly smile, his steps marked by the gentle tinkling of bells. “Search your heart, and you will know the truth.”

  Rakam studied the apparition for a moment, saying, “Yes, it is you. Mabetu, tell me, what is this wonder before my eyes? Are you dead?”

  Laughing, Mabetu said, “Me? Dead? Now, you should know better than that. I’m too busy to be dead just yet. I have to straighten out this mess before I move on to the next life. All you young people seem to care about is getting married and dancing and gathering armies so you can give yourselves honors.”

  “But how then?”

  “That story must wait. Untie your legs. We must hurry.”

  “Yes, the Mulak. It has gone, but its voice was so tempting.” Shamefully, Rakam added, “I felt myself wanting to join it.”

  Lifting the bar that secured the door of Rakam’s cage, Mabetu said, “As did I, but it may not have gone for good. Guard yourself.”

  “I will.” Scrambling to remove the ropes at his ankles, Rakam pulled the knots and found them too tight for his fingers to pry loose.

  “Let me get that,” said Mabetu, producing a knife from a pocket of the strange garments he wore. Pale, like a faint ray of moonlight, the blade was nonetheless sharp, slicing through the ropes with ease. With a word of thanks, Rakam scrambled out of the cage. “Do you see any food or weapons nearby? You will need provisions, but do not waste time finding them. We are still in danger. The fight goes badly for our friends.”

  The baggage carts had been left nearby. Finding a sack of food and skin of water, Rakam took them and said, “Must we go? Can we not help them?”

  “No, sadly we do not have the luxury to die in this place. You must return with me to the Marsh City. I have seen into the mind of these MaShaitani. They are not what we thought them to be.”

  A quick search by Rakam had produced a few weapons. They were of poor quality, but one of the spears was serviceable. “What about Timbo and his people?”

  “There is nothing we can do. We must leave them, though it breaks our hearts to do so. Perhaps someday we will return and give them rest.”

  “Yes, I promised the Choklatan that I would return.”

  “Oh?” said Mabetu, interested despite the troubles that pursued them.

  “Yes, they spoke to me before you came.”

  “How sad for the little people that such a nightmare should befall them. The Mulak makes use of body and spirit, a sacrilege to what we hold dear.”

  The old Kasisi thought about it for a moment, then said, “Return only in strength. There may be someone I know who can help. You must be prepared or not come at all, even if that means your promise is never fulfilled. The little people will understand. For now we have our own battles to fight. I only hope we can arrive in time.”

  Chapter 26

  With hazards gathering like clouds before a rain, Rakam and Mabetu fled into the depths of the forest. They had traveled for some time when they happened upon another of the countless mountain streams, spilling over its banks with the ferocity of a recent storm. Hoping the stream would lead them back to the great river, they followed its course, trusting to the desire of all running waters to return to its mother sea.

  They had followed the stream for but a hundred paces when they heard something coming toward them. Before they could take cover, a group of about sixty warriors with their arms at the ready, their faces etched with the furtive excitement of a cornered animal, crashed through the undergrowth. They were Timbo’s people, Bantu amongst them.

  Taking up his spear, Rakam stepped to join them, but Mabetu put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Looking down at his feet, slowly shaking his head, Mabetu guided Rakam to a place of safety behind a few large stones, telling him to wait.

  When the warriors came to the middle of the stream, Bantu gave a shout. The men formed a defensive circle bristling with spears, those in the center drawing their bows taut. The warriors went quiet, and the whole forest seemed to grow expectant.

  Something was moving in the darkness. A din of noise began collecting all around. The snapping of dry branches and rustling of leaves made it seem like a swarm of giant insects was heading toward them.

  The next moment arrows flew into the night, raucous taunts calling out from the gloom in reply. It was the echoes of the dead, their voices ringing in the forest, a sound that was horrible like nothing Rakam had ever heard. It stole his courage, making him cower in the darkness.

  Some nightmare thing of the Mulak’s creation appeared from the trees. It stood twice as tall as a man and was thickly muscled, its flesh grotesque in the way of the dead. In many places there were rents in the skin, the white bones of its arms and legs gleaming in the moonlight. From its head a single horn protruded, studded with bright jewels and nuggets of gold. Upon its chest was a shirt of silver rings that seemed to glow with strange and unknown power.

  The skeletal-thing swung the thighbone of a monstrous beast as it came. Spying Bantu, it gave a shrill cry and went for him at a run. The Warrior Chieftain of Timbo’s Army showed no fear. He flung his spear, a mighty thrust that pierced the linked rings and cut savagely into the creature’s chest.

  Stunned but for a moment, the horned beast plucked the spear from its body as if a trifle, the rings sticking deeply in the bloodless wound, casting the spear away with disdain. With a cry of defiance, Bantu took up a long handled axe and flew forward.

  The skeletal-thing swung its gruesome club, but Bantu stooped beneath the blow, using his axe to cut the legs from under his opponent. The flesh tore away in ragged chunks, bones splintered, and the beast fell. With the upward swing on the axe, Bantu sent the wide blade into the monster’s head. The skull burst open, showering the ground with a multitude of carrion worms. Covering his mouth in disgust as if being overcome by some horrible smell, Bantu fell back, scrambling to the safety of his warriors.

  From the forest emerged more of the Mulak’s creatures, of many sorts and sizes. Rakam had never seen or heard tales of so many different peoples. There were tall creatures like to the first, with ornately decorated horns rising from their heads. Others were shorter and not as broad, wearing ragged cloaks that fluttered in the wind. They might have been river people once, like Rakam and his kin. And then there were the little ones. These must have been the Choklatan, swinging like animals through the trees.

  All the creatures were mostly bone and rot with hardly enough flesh to hold them together. Leather cords stitched up where muscle and sinew had torn. Crudely shaped pegs or wires pieced together blackened bones at broken joints.

  The Mulak’s brood of skeletal-beasts carried long knives or pointed sticks or clubs with spikes sticking out of a rounded end. The clubs were of a sort that Rakam had never seen before, and they looked fearsome in the hands of these nightmare things, deep in the Haunted Forest while the black of night was deepening.

  The first few monsters were felled with arrows before they reached the riverbank. Bantu’s warriors had aimed for the head, as if they had already discovered some weakness there. A closer look revealed a luminous sigil on their foreheads.

  Rakam could tell this was the sorcery of the Mulak that gave the cre
atures life. When the symbol was struck or if the creature’s head left its shoulders, the witchcraft was broken and the monsters fell lifeless to the ground.

  More and more of the Mulak’s atrocities rushed into the fray. There seemed no limit to their number. The archers could at last do nothing to keep the enemy from gaining the river. There were too many. As brave and fierce a warrior as Rakam had ever known, Bantu ran to meet them, his spearmen following with their weapons raised.

  The battle was desperate, to every man there seemed to be three aggressors. But for all that, the warriors seemed blessed, ever dodging the enemy’s weapons or making some spectacular killing blow. Not a single one had taken flight or had fallen to serious injury. It was almost as if the warriors were playing some child’s game rather than defending their lives.

  At last no more enemies came. It was over. The forest was silent, but for the soft gurgling of the stream. Waiting in fearful apprehension, catching their breath, the warriors reformed the circle and watched the forest for more of the enemy to appear. Someone gave a snort of laughter, then others joined in. Though many had been injured, not one had been killed.

  Picking up their weapons or attending to the wounded, they remained cautious as they prepared to leave. Many of them scattered the remains of their enemies with scornful kicks and oaths, while others gave prayers of thanks. When all had been readied and still no sign of the enemy appeared, Rakam called out to them.

  “Bantu, here! It’s me, Rakam.”

  “For all the coins in Pakali’s treasury I thought you dead,” said Bantu in wonder. Motioning for two of his men to follow, he picked up his long-handled axe as he stepped nearer. “Is it really you?”

  Standing, Rakam said bitterly, “Yes, Bantu, I’m safe, no thanks to you.”

  “I suppose you have a right to be mad about that. How did you get away?”

  “Mabetu helped me.”

  “What?” said Bantu, incredulously.

  “He remains with me still,” Rakam said, turning his hand in the direction of his great-grandfather. “Can you not see him?”

  Bantu looked unsure. Smiling, he searched the area Rakam indicated, but could see nothing. He said, “Is this a joke of some kind?”

  “You can’t see him? I suppose that’s not much of a surprise. He walks in the next world, in spirit form, come to save me from the Mulak.”

  At the mention of the name of the Mulak, many of Bantu’s warriors gasped and fell to their knees in prayer. The Warrior Chieftain turned pale. The hand that held the axe began to shake.

  “That’s right. That’s what you’ve been fighting. What you see there, those bone-beasts, might have been your fate if you had lost. Well done, I might say, if I weren’t so exceedingly angry with you.”

  Pausing for a moment as if listening, Rakam added, “Oh, yes, and Mabetu says he’s going to make all of you incontinent until the sun rises, that’s if he doesn’t decide taking away certain other bodily functions would be more appropriate.”

  Bantu showed more fear than he had against the great horned beast. “But how did you fight the evil one? Tell us, did you banish it to some dark realm or did you kill it?”

  “I did neither. Timbo robbed me of my powers with some potion. Mabetu freed me, and I made my escape as quickly as I could, as we all should be doing now. The Mulak isn’t done with us, not until we have left its dominion.”

  “You were lucky to come upon us then. You had nearly found your way into a troop of those cursed monsters.”

  “I suppose I should thank you, but you do recall the cage and the sack over my head?” Temper rising at the memory, Rakam said, “And someone hit me with a rock.”

  Bantu blushed.

  “You almost killed me, you big dope.”

  “For that you have my deepest apologies,” Bantu said with a sweeping bow that nearly skimmed the surface of the water. “I owe you a great debt. Timbo feared you were possessed by some devil, and he wanted to save you from everlasting torment.”

  “We need to talk about that possession thing,” Rakam said, “but for now, tell me what happened to that cousin of mine. The poor fool, he didn’t know what he was getting himself into.”

  “Timbo and the others took what they could carry and went back the way we came. It was the bulk of our forces. That’s the last I’ve seen of them. I hope they didn’t run into trouble. My best men and I stayed here to cover their withdrawal. The fighting was terrible. I must have lost fifty men before we discovered their weakness.”

  “The sigil on their heads.”

  “Yes. Those things move like drunken men; but if it hadn’t been for that, we would have all been killed. Even so, there were too many of them, and we kept getting separated in the trees. I called to me as many as I could and fled here to give our bowmen clear space for shooting. The rest you have witnessed?”

  “Yes, and I say again we had better be going ourselves. The Mulak may have other wickedness ready for us. We must search for your wounded and be quick. Tell your men to say a prayer to ward against evil as they go. There is protection in that. Be ready if anyone begins acting strangely.”

  At the words, Bantu had turned pale. “I will.”

  Together, Rakam and Bantu returned to the riverbank where the fighting had been fiercest. The men were waiting in silence, glancing into the forest from where the undead monsters had appeared. It was the worst horror Rakam had ever witnessed, filled with the sights and smells of rotting corpses. A few of the creatures had fallen into the river, fouling it with some black liquid.

  “Remove them from the river,” Rakam said, “Mabetu says the waters should not be despoiled in such a way.”

  The warriors were quick to begin the work, using the activity to keep them from thinking about what they had seen. As his people went about the repulsive toil, Bantu had another look at the first bone-beast, his eyes glinting with avarice for the bejeweled horn. Taking up his axe, he cut the pretty thing from the beast’s head.

  “That’s a trophy as none have seen the like,” said one of the warriors admiringly.

  Bantu held it aloft. It truly was a prize like no other. The horn was almost as long as his forearm. The gold and jewels sparkled in the moonlight. The bone was so white it might have been crafted of ice.

  “You can take their weapons if you’d like,” Bantu said, “but I’d leave the rest, a nasty business. You’ll have stories to tell your grandchildren that will have them crying in their beds the Long Night through.”

  “No,” said Rakam, “such things are cursed, Bantu. None may know what evil they bring. Best to leave it, and everything else, and be thankful for your own skins.”

  Bantu grudgingly agreed, pitching the horn deep into the forest lest he change his mind. Rakam had watched anxiously as he did so, feeling dread in his heart, thinking some corruption had already begun its work.

  * * *

  Wary of the Mulak’s evils, they returned to the forest. They soon wished they hadn’t. What bodies they found had been grossly mutilated. Only a single man escaped, hidden in the trees and possessed by what his friends called “the favor of the Almighty.”

  “We can’t bury them,” said Rakam when the search was done and all the bodies had been recovered. “It will take too much time.”

  “I can feel death coming in from all around us,” one of the men said.

  “Keep your prayers in mind,” Rakam said scathingly. “I wasn’t joking.”

  “But we can’t just leave them,” Bantu protested.

  “No, we certainly can’t. Hurry now, some of you get them into a pile and the others gather wood and grass. I won’t have their bodies perverted, used to make more of those grotesque mutants. Mabetu says a fire may bring the attention of the Mulak, but I think we have to risk it.”

  “Yes,” agreed Bantu with a shudder, “have done and be away from this place. Will you say a few words?”

  “Yes, I will put their souls to rest. The Mulak will not have them.”

  The
bodies of the fallen warriors were assembled with reverence in a small clearing near to the place where the battle had occurred. Dry grass and branches were hastily collected and piled over the bodies like a burial shroud. Rakam said the rights of the dead, with the spirit form of Mabetu an echo in his mind. Though it had taken much longer than Rakam would have liked, the task was at last complete.

  “There are casks of oil at the wagons,” Rakam said. “Use half of what there is to douse your brethren, and the remaining for those aberrations of the evil one.”

  Handing Rakam a bow of good make and a clutch of arrows, Bantu said, “Yes, and take food and water, as well. It may be a long path to catch Timbo and the others.”

  “We’re not going after Timbo,” Rakam said, nodding in gratitude to Bantu for his gift and slinging the weapons over his shoulder.

  “What?” said Bantu, not believing what he had heard.

  “You and your people are coming with me to Pakali’s City. Mabetu says the MaShaitani have come, and we are we needed for the battle there.”

  “But that is why we must find Timbo,” insisted Bantu. “We have an entire army.”

  “We have no time for Timbo or his people. If they are to find their way out of this nightmare, then it must be on their own. Speed is what is needed now. We have no time to waste searching these lands or in fighting more of the Mulak’s brood. You forget we are still in peril. Not by these dead warriors, but by will alone does the Mulak have dominion over our souls.”

  “These men will not follow you,” said Bantu. “You do not command here.”

  “Really?” said Rakam dryly. “Do you forget the King’s decree? Do you forget I am Kasisi and son to Pakali your King? You are all coming with me.”

  “This is how you repay us for saving your life?” Bantu spat, his handsome face marred by rage.

  In a loud voice, Rakam said, “You are each responsible for bringing me here in the first place. Your actions in disobeying the King and in assaulting me have made you outlaws. You are all guilty of treason. Your lives are forfeit.”