Reign of the Nightmare Prince

by Mike Phillips

“What’s happening?” one of the men said, giving voice to the concerns of all.

  “Quiet,” Smith hushed, listening, his eyes flitting nervously over the street, watching for the enemy to appear. “Here they come!”

  He lifted his rifle, sighting in the nearest of the warriors. The man was tall for his kind, wearing a cloak of reptile leather, his shirt studded with bits of shiny metal that gleamed in the pale light. When the shot was good, Smith pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. The rifle was jammed. He tried to free the mechanism, but it wouldn’t move. Frustrated, Smith knocked the weapon against the stone ledge of the window, but still he was unable to free the slide.

  “Carson, hand me your weapon.” But that rifle, too, was inoperable.

  Seeing what was happening, two other men came to the window, taking aim at what was becoming a crowd of natives in the street. Their weapons also would not fire.

  “Well, ain’t that nice,” Smith said. Drums rumbled in the distance, far off in the mountains. Answering, drums were beat with pitched ferocity within the city. The natives in the street made their war cries, rushing toward the building where Smith and his men took refuge. “Uh, guys, we’ve got problems.”

  Chapter 30

  Confident Rakam and the others could make their way to the Marsh City now they had reached the river, Mabetu decided it was time he returned to his physical form, fearing he might find his body had died in his absence. He was careful to shield himself, chanting the prayers Ummi Astoloah had taught to ward against the arts of the Mulak as he went, though of the Mulak he was not now overly concerned. For Mabetu felt the witch had suffered greatly from the loss of her enchanted army, and he was gaining confidence that what he could do in one world, he could do in the next.

  Open to all living things as he was in his current form, Mabetu sensed a familiar presence as he began to approach the last village before the river crossing. No tragedy had befallen this place. It had been deserted long before the MaShaitani came. But it was not one of the river people that he came upon, huddled like a child in the corner of an abandoned storage house. It was the leader of the MaShaitani, their Chief, the one Mabetu had connected with on his way to rescue Rakam.

  “We have had a joining of minds,” Mabetu said to the Shaintani. “Forever now are we linked. Speak, I command you. I know you understand.”

  Cowering in the darkness, trying not to accept the apparition before him, Colonel Crenshaw began to whimper with fear. “No, you’re not real; you’re not real,” he said aloud.

  “Oh, yes, I’m real, and I can see all you say and do. I can read your thoughts as the ancient markings on a cave wall. Look at me and listen to what I have to say.”

  “Just go away; just go away. You’re not real. If I let myself believe you are there, I’ll lose my mind.”

  “Stop!” Mabetu roared, placing his hand on the Colonel’s shoulder.

  The force of the touch was cataclysmic, like a thousand volts of electricity. The intensity of the contact sent Crenshaw to the floor in spasms, flopping helplessly like a fish out of water. Mabetu had no fear for his own safety. He could feel his will going into this Shaitani man, turning every drop of the cursed blood to his will.

  Releasing his power over the Shaitani, he said, “Listen to me, you wicked thing. Your tribe has left you, but I fear you may still wish to make trouble for us if you can. A war party comes from the outer valley, nearly five hundred fighting men.” The last was a lie, the largest number Mabetu could think of to instill fear and yet be believable. “These warriors know your secrets, and they know how to defeat you. If you leave this place and make for the distant mountains, I will grant your freedom.”

  “Anything, anything, just please leave me alone!”

  “Will you do as I say? Will you leave this place and pledge to trouble my people no longer?”

  “Yes, yes, I promise.”

  “Good, then, I release you on your pledge. Now collect your things and be on your way, but know I am with you and will make sure you have no second thoughts about breaking your word.”

  Chapter 31

  The sounds of battle were fierce in the distance. It started with a rumble as loud as thunder and a swirling ball of flame that reached high into the heavens. Firespears cracked like dry sticks on a campfire, every report marking the death of a friend or relative. And then a second, greater display of fire and might tore open the night sky.

  Rakam and his escort moved like slaves before a taskmaster’s whip, anxiously silent as they rushed toward the city. The warriors had little faith that against such might their people could survive for long. Their only hope, a desperate thought to cling to, was the young Kasisi would find some way to thwart the weapons of the enemy.

  Even so, if this frail thread faltered, they would throw themselves into the battle. It was better to die in defense of those they loved than to live as outcasts in some remote part of the forest, ever on the run, remembering those they had failed.

  As the towers of the city wall were coming into view, Rakam was struck by a sense of danger. Though he could find no explanation for the feeling, he stopped in his place. Cautious, his fingers traced the broad fletching of the arrows at his side. Bantu and the others waited, puzzled and wary, but Rakam offered no explanation.

  The wind blew through the tips of the trees and the air rose in violence, becoming angry with news. A single star shined above. Rakam felt the radiance of it enter his mind, lighting his fingers and hands, his toes and feet. The feeling ran through his body and to his heart, electric in the night. He saw a flash, just a moment in time. There were demons, three of them, walking stealthily through the forest. As they worked their way down a slope, one of them tripped over a stone, knocking into the others, all three tumbling down the hill. Rakam tried to focus the image, to understand better what he was seeing; but before he could take hold of the True Sight and focus on the events, the vision was gone.

  From the forest nearby, a harsh voice arose, cursing in a way none could comprehend. Before the warriors could puzzle out what was happening, there came a great tumult through the foliage. A Shaitani rolled down the wooded hillside and onto the road in front of them. The warriors looked on in stunned surprise as the Shaitani came to his feet. His companions crashed into him from behind in the same, uncontrolled manner, knocking him back to the ground.

  “Stop!” Bantu shouted, first to regain his senses, spear ready for the kill. “Stand where you are.”

  The MaShaitani did not heed the command. The first came to his knees and leveled his weapon, shouting harshly in some cursed language as he pointed his firespear at Rakam, the man nearest him. For a long moment no one moved or spoke. The other MaShaitani had their weapons ready, as did the startled warriors.

  One of the MaShaitani said something to the first in a whining, nervous tone, showing his fear. The first Shaitani replied harshly, jerking his weapon in Rakam’s direction and pointing it into the Kasisi’s face. Coming slowly to his feet, the Shaitani took two small steps toward Rakam, making a play of strength. The warriors were nervous, unsure what to do, but Bantu was steadfast amidst their grumbling, his soothing words calling for them to remain calm and wait for his order.

  Time seemed to stretch for Rakam as he watched the Shaitani step near him. He knew the Shaitani was intent upon making him prisoner, but he could not let that happen. He must think of a way to stop them, a way to save those that were dying within the city even as he stood powerless outside its walls. He began thinking about the Shaitani firespear, how the weapon worked, the many small parts inside, how such a small thing could do such great harm.

  Then suddenly one of the warriors behind him made a move. The Shaitani reacted in kind, his finger jerking the small lever on the underside of the weapon that would release the needle, corrupting the bottle and freeing the terrible spirit within. But in that moment Rakam understood that if the needle did not release and if the bottle could be held in its place, the weapon would no longe
r be of any use. Focusing upon the argument, remembering what Mabetu had told him about small matters having a big influence upon the world, Rakam crushed the internal workings of the Shaintani’s firespear, locking the action forever in place.

  The trigger clicked. Nothing happened.

  Desperate to free the bottle from the inside of the weapon, the Shaitani jammed it against his leg. The mechanism was frozen in place.

  Bantu groaned thickly, releasing his spear. The taut muscles of his shoulder and arm were like ripples upon the river as its course turned over rock. The spear cut through the air as if thrown by some hero out of legend. The heavy flint point found the place in the Shaintani’s armor between the breastplate and helmet, slicing deeply into the flesh. Blood spurted as the Shaintani’s head lolled back with the force, toppling him over dead upon the hard packed dirt of the road.

  The warriors shouted in surprised triumph, but the other MaShaitani were quick to react. They pulled at their triggers, but once again, nothing happened. Rakam had learned what his part in the battle would be. The firespears were useless. The MaShaitani turned to run, but were overcome in moments.

  * * *

  Filled with confidence in Rakam’s abilities and their eminent victory, the warrior band made their way to Pakali’s City. When the zeal turned to song, Bantu scolded them, saying, “The victory has yet to be won. The man who speaks next will feel my foot on his backside.” From then on they were silent, but the near mania of battle lust could not be wholly restrained.

  As the broken gates came into view, the scouts returned, saying the entire enemy force had entered. The warriors said a quick prayer and renewed their oaths to each other, if not out of duty then out of friendship. With Bantu in the lead, the men acting as an honor guard for Rakam, they went forward, thinking themselves ready for any challenge they would meet.

  The first obstacle came sooner than any of them expected. In their eagerness, the scouts had missed the rear guard of MaShaitani hidden within the crumbled remains of a minor guardhouse. Collecting in the narrow space beyond the fallen gates, the warriors had their backs turned when the MaShaitani opened fire. Several were struck dead while the remaining scattered like eel spawn in the river.

  Taking shelter behind a pile of rubble, Rakam sought the Shaitani hiding place, waiting for any sign of a weapon or its master. He did not have to wait long.

  The MaShaitani slowly appeared at the arrow slits. They were protected, obscured from sight as any defender would be inside the guardhouse, hardly a shade darker than the surrounding black, but it was enough.

  Focusing on the portion of the weapon he could see, Rakam reached out and crushed the machine parts, rendering it useless. Amidst curses, the Shaitani backed away from the arrow slit. The other Shaitani appeared so quickly Rakam was not able to find his weapon fast enough. Flashes lit the courtyard as thunder cracked.

  Some warriors were hiding behind an upturned cart, hardly any protection as the spirits were released from their bottles, striking the ground in small bursts as they sought their target. Bantu was among them, protecting the others, making himself the most vulnerable. Desperate to save the Warrior Chieftain, Rakam flung the big man with all his might. Bantu flew through the air, tossed like a child’s plaything, landing hard on his shoulder with a cry of pain, but he was safe. Rakam was ready to fight now. In his rage he took hold of the firespear, wrenching it from the Shaintani’s hands, bending the weapon in half and casting it to the darkness of the night.

  Defenseless, the MaShaitani shouted boldly for a time, no doubt making threats in their incomprehensible language, but they stayed where they were. Taking a party of warriors, Bantu and Rakam rushed the little guardhouse, breaking open the door and quickly subduing the MaShaitani within.

  “Let that be a lesson to us,” Bantu said when the small victory had been won. “This will be no easy battle. Though we have Rakam, he is only one man. We must protect him and each other as we fight on. Come now, let us fight, forward to our victory. Forward to destiny!” Taking up the war cry, into the city they went.

  * * *

  The sounds of the firespears called the warrior band like sirens to the shore; but as they went, the destruction around them grew more and more terrible. Doors and shutters were torn from their hinges. Stone walls were thrown down. Wooden buildings burned or smoldered in ruin.

  The number of the dead was terrible. Women and children and, of course, so many men lay stricken. The air was thick with blood and gore to turn the stomach of even the hardiest of men. But MaShaitani lay dead, too. Not many, but it was some sign that Pakali used what Rakam had told him to order a defense for his people.

  “Stay by me when the battle comes,” whispered Bantu to Rakam, his words in some way easing the young Kasisi’s rising apprehension as the horrors collected around them. Bantu put a hand to Rakam’s shoulder and continued, “I’m not certain your rescue earned the price of my gratitude, but I suppose you think I owe you some sort of debt for the service.”

  Rakam looked to Bantu in bewilderment, thinking he couldn’t have heard what he did. The Warrior Chieftain gave him a wry smile, the joy of battle lighting his eyes. Despite himself and the circumstances, Rakam laughed, thinking he did not dislike this man so much after all.

  * * *

  The Shaitani army had cut through the city like an arrow through flesh, into the heart of the resistance against them, to the fortress-like houses in the district where the affluent lived. After them came the warrior band, following the sounds of battle, taking note of each atrocity suffered by their kin, swearing to pay the misery back upon the MaShaitani twofold.

  Mindful as they were of the dangers they faced, the warrior band was as yet unprepared for the true nature of their enemy. Coming upon pitched battle, they slowed their progress, not so eager now to enter the fray as they had been when charging blindly through the front gate. Leaving the others, Bantu took Rakam and a few choice warriors to get a better sense of how the confrontation would be fought. As they peered around the corner of an abandoned building, what they saw was astonishing.

  The MaShaitani moved as if with one mind, five men acting as a fighting team, each action deliberate and calculated. The MaShaitani moved from one protected area to the next, always shielding each other, like the red beetles of the forest advancing upon the carcass of some unfortunate animal not yet dead from age or injury. Circling, swarming, the insect-like MaShaitani attacked the nearest house, exploiting any gap in the wall or crack in the door to their full advantage.

  When the attack finally came, it was utterly irresistible. The screams from those within were terrible to witness. Bantu had to physically hold his Champions back to keep them from speeding to their own deaths. Finally, the Warrior Chieftain had seen enough, silently pulling a stunned Rakam back with him toward the place where the band of warriors was hidden.

  Sending his men ahead, Bantu said to Rakam in hushed, anxious tones, “I do not know how to fight them. They are like no enemy I have ever faced.”

  “With courage, as you have always done,” Rakam replied mildly.

  “We have little hope with courage alone.”

  “We are not alone, for the Almighty is with us, guiding our actions. You told me once to act like a Kasisi. So now I tell you, Bantu, act like the warrior I know you to be.”

  Bantu thought for a long moment, the anxious look on his face softening as he came to some conclusion. “Thank you, Rakam. I needed to hear those words. You are right. We are all under the Will of the Almighty, so to the Almighty I will send you.”

  “Excuse me?” said Rakam, for the second time not believing he had heard Bantu aright.

  “Go inside this next building here, up to the roof. It is tall and you will be able to see all around. Do what you can for us. The more firespears you can destroy the better.”

  “But Bantu,” Rakam began.

  “No arguing. That is our best hope. You know it to be so. I can spare you five of my best guards to match
the MaShaitani.”

  “What is the rest of your plan, then? You’re not just going to charge in headlong, are you?”

  “Yeah, well, that was my first thought.” Bantu’s smile was beguiling.

  Rakam let out a choked breath, “And people complain about my grandfather and me. Your tongue is as quick as your spear, and at first I thought you a simple-minded fool. No wonder Torbu handed you over to Timbo without complaint. The next time my family meets, I will propose we adopt you as a cousin.”

  “If they can cook, it’s a deal.”

  “So what is your plan?”

  “Ambush, that’s what it looks like King Pakali has done, to good effect. I have my Champions Kimbas and Matali. They are both fine leaders. We’ll separate into three groups and do our best to kill as many MaShaitani as we may. These streets will give us more than enough area to work without tripping all over each other. But we must hurry. Each moment we delay in speech means more of our people dead.”

  “Yes, we must hurry, and good luck to you my friend.”

  * * *

  In this part of the city where the elite made their abode, most of the houses were two levels high. Pillars rose like trees in the forest. Carved vines twisted as if in life around every door and window. The thoroughfares were broad and well laid. Gardens were tended with artfulness and care.

  The building Rakam sought was even more magnificent than the others, being the property of one of the Elders, a rich man from a family of high lineage, perhaps as well favored as the King himself. The house was three levels high with bay windows at the top to take advantage of the view. There was also a sort of raised turret on the roof, a fashionable addition since charting the course of the stars in the Long Night had become so respected an occupation of the wealthy.

  But for all the grand appointments and garish decorations, the building was in ruin. Rakam and his few men entered through a servant’s door only to find the far side of the house, hidden from earlier observation, had collapsed. Despite the dangers, the view from the roof remained a commanding one. It was the perfect place to watch the enemy regardless of its faults. So they made their way to the top, trying to ignore the crumbling floors that seemed ready to give way under their feet.