Nosferatu

by Carl Sargent

  After piling into two of the jeeps and roaring off northward into the heart of the reserve, the group had to hang on for dear life. The seatbelts in the jeeps certainly weren’t there to provide safety in the event of a crash; their main function was to stop passengers from being hurled out as the vehicle raced across the bumpy plains.

  “Shaman lions east,” Ruanmi yelled to the convoy. “Single male with two, three females. One of the females has young, a pair of cubs. Twins, I think.” He dumped himself back into his seat after delivering that announcement. Serrin, meanwhile, couldn’t figure out how the man succeeded in standing up in the wobbling jeep. The idiot attempting it with his fabulously over-priced camera in the vehicle directly behind them had been lucky to fall backward into the vehicle rather than onto the rock-hard surface they were traversing.

  “They create illusions?” Serrin asked anxiously to Ruanmi. He didn’t know what the Awakened lions were capable of, though he seemed to remember that detail. Ruanmi grinned and fingered the collar of teeth around his neck.

  “They will not harm us,” he said. Serrin had already sensed power in the man, and concentrating now, he could sense that the spell focus was powerful. Intuio, the other shaman, was always silent, and from his apparel Serrin guessed that his totem was Crocodile. He didn’t want to think about that too much. He was much more comfortable with Ruanmi, whose mane of hair proclaimed him as a Lion shaman as strongly as his proud walk and the freak golden speckling in his brown eyes. The shaman seemed not to dislike Serrin, which was a relief to the elf. Maybe he knows I love cats, Serrin thought with an inward chuckle.

  Despite suffering from the effects of the endless bumping, Serrin still had enough wits about him to be impressed once they reached the razorwire perimeter of their campsite. The elephants, wildebeest, and flocks of birds scattered across the plains and waterholes were a dramatic sight, not least for their sheer numbers. The blood kites had alarmed him, but, again, the shamans protected them from any harm posed by the dangerous creatures. He was irked, though, to find that he needed the help of the African man to get out of the jeep, his bad leg completely drained of any strength. Kristen had just leapt out behind him, and he feit like an elderly invalid as he struggled to get his boots down onto the dust-dry earth.

  Tents had already been pitched for them, the site men surrounding the camp with their LMGs glad to see the relief column. They shook hands with their replacements, speaking animatedly in the Zulu tongue. Though Kristen could not understand every word, she bristled with barely disguised anger at what they said about her.

  Ruanmi gathered them together in the center of the camp for a repeat of the standard warnings. The razorwire already spoke of the injunction not to leave the camp unaccompanied, but the guide was savoring the task of lovingly describing all the venomous insects and small reptiles of the area and which antidotes to use against the poison of each and every species.

  “We know there are two nagas in Unlanga River just east of here, maybe one-quarter hour away,” he said. “We make a blind nearby so we can take their pictures at dusk. Four of you only can make this trip; others interested can try again tomorrow. No guarantee nagas will be active, but we see adults more often now that young have left the territory to go out on own. And nagas not so fierce now there is no need to protect their young.”

  Serrin was only too happy to let the enthusiastic Americans and Japanese take Ruanmi up on the offer. It would have been a pity not to let such expensive cameras fulfill their function in life, after all. Michael sidled up to him, and to his astonishment he saw that the Englishman was carrying an HK227 submachinegun in his right hand like some veteran soldier of fortune.

  “Told you we’d be better off out here with something that can’t be taken for a hunting weapon,” Michael said, smiling. “And you don’t need a license for one of these things on an accredited safari trip. I thought Tom might feel more comfortable with it. He tells me he has an Uzi back home, but I’ve always thought the H&K a better weapon myself. Besides which, Ruanmi couldn’t get us an Uzi in the time we had.”

  By coincidence, a couple of sharp reports not far away made Serrin jerk his head away in surprise.

  “That’ll be dinner,” Michael said, picking at a fingernail. “They offered to take us along to go deer shooting, but I'm rather squeamish myself and you don’t look in any condition for hunting right now. Tom didn’t seem all that interested either.”

  He reached into one of the saddlebag-sized pockets in his long khaki jacket and pulled out a pistol, handing it to the elf.

  “Do you have an entire armory in there?” Serrin asked. “Not quite, old boy. But you should give that to Kristen. She’s probably never used a gun, so let’s hope she can at least point it in the right direction if necessary. Just tell her the most important thing might be to hold it and look like she’s done it before.”

  “Do you think we’re going to need them?” Serrin said anxiously. “I mean, this place looks pretty safe to me.”

  “I was rather thinking about when we leave it,” Michael said without even blinking.

  Serrin looked down at the pack that had replaced his habitual suitcase. Somewhere beneath the bottled water, which he carried in case the camp supply became contaminated, medicines and sprays to augment Michael’s cache, tinned food for emergencies, and the other clutter he’d been forced to bring along, lurked his clothing and clean-up kit. Then he looked longingly at the improvised shower rigged up near the trees. The shade cover looked as good as the prospect of washing up felt.

  “Which is my tent?” he asked, glancing around.

  “We’re sharing. I suppose I'd better go with Tom, even if he does snore. Crikey, what with roaring and growling animals all night it probably won’t make any difference,” Michael laughed.

  Serrin fought his way through the tent’s netting-covered flap and found Kristen inside, having already dismembered her pack over the groundsheet.

  “Do you mind sharing with me?” he asked. “I could sleep outside if you want privacy.”

  She laughed at him, “Sure, and get eaten by mosquitoes. Don’t be silly.” She scooped her things into one half of the tent, leaving the rest of the area clear for Serrin. He struggled to extract his towel from the bag, then made for the shower. He passed two Zulus lugging what he took to be a small antelope through the camp gates, and saw that a fire for the roasting had already been started inside old rusted steel drums. His stomach told him antelope charred on the outside and bloody in the middle wasn’t what he wanted right now or at any later time, and he turned away, grateful he could at least look forward to a shower.

  * * *

  Michael had to wriggle under the tent flap to wake them, since the cloth was fastened from the inside and he didn’t want to make any noise. In the low light of his torch, he saw them lying together, her arm around his chest. They looked extraordinarily peaceful. He felt almost guilty having to shake the elf’s shoulder.

  “Huh? What?” Serrin half-yelled. Michael motioned him to be quiet, then spoke urgently.

  “We’re going. Ruanmi has made a contact. Shakala will see us. Ruanmi says the word is he’s a very temperamental fellow. If he says yes now, you go now, because tomorrow he might feel different. Get your stuff together. As quietly as you can.”

  Serrin rubbed his face and was glad that he’d repacked most of his bag. “What time is it?”

  “Just after four. It won’t be light for a while, it’s apparently about eight miles from here. Just out of Babanango. Come on, let’s move it.”

  Kristen grumbled at being awakened and simply turned over to go back to sleep. Serrin had to shake her vigorously before she grudgingly opened her eyes. It was ten minutes before they were out into the surprising chill of the African winter’s night. Tom and Michael were already piling into the jeep.

  “I cannot go with you,” Ruanmi told Serrin. “I must stay in camp all the time. Nholo will take you to Shakala. He comes right back, though. You must find own w
ay back, except he go back for you same time tomorrow. If not we tell the others you got eaten by the king,” and he made an extremely realistic, throaty lion’s growl, then chuckled quietly to himself.

  “Thanks, chummer,” Serrin said drily and belted himself into the back seat. With Tom hogging the front seat, he had to squeeze into the back with Kristen and Michael. The jeep’s headlights lit up, revealing a miasma of hugewinged moths and buzzing insects. Serrin fumbled for the repellent spray in his bag, but he had no time to get it before the jeep started off on its bone-crunching journey. After that, getting anything out of anywhere was virtually impossible. The elf only hoped that they’d be moving too fast for anything to bite him.

  * * *

  Martin knew the signs of Luther’s growing fury all too well; the tension was palpable. The work was so exacting, so precise, so inevitably strewn with tiny mistakes ruining the perfection Luther craved. The molecular probes simply didn’t have the precision, not with the techniques available. A dogged scientist would simply have scatter-gunned every possibility and weeded out the failures, but then such a person would never have been able to make the discoveries Luther had. He knew exactly what he wanted, and Nature’s stubborn refusal to give it up enraged him far beyond the bounds of reason.

  Martin hadn't been at the monastery during the Rage of ’42, when Luther had slain every single living person in the place. Martin’s job had been to cover that up, fabricating the fire that had destroyed much of the old building. He didn’t think he could get away with such a trick again. Time was short now, Luther was very close, and he had to take the risk Luther himself had refused because of the proximity of the victim. Luther was oblivious now, not needing food, drink, or sleep, only dimly aware of anything happening outside his laboratories, Martin would not be missed. If Luther went berserk, one last crazed feeding might just return him to his senses.

  19

  Their driver was obviously nervous, afraid even, when the jeep jerked to a halt. He almost pushed them out. Promising to return the next night if they hadn’t arrived back at camp, he pointed out the way to them.

  “Half a mile, that way. If you hear the cheetahs cry, walk on. Don’t shoot.” Eyes wide with apprehension, he hastily turned the vehicle around and sped away.

  “Keep that H&K hefted, Tom,” Michael said, directing his flashlight ahead of them. In his other hand was a Predator.

  They didn’t see the cats, only heard them, but it wasn’t the growling they’d expected. Rather, the short, high call of the cats was more like a protesting meow. It certainly didn’t seem to compare with the roaring of the lions.

  Treading the savanna carefully, they almost didn’t realize that they’d found Shakala until they looked closer at the trees looming into view against the clear, starlit sky. The branches seemed oddly twisted, almost into a woven helter-skelter shape, a copse of them lined up like the arms of veldt soldiers. Glittering yellow eyes looked down at them from vantage points high overhead. Then, as much by instinct as anything else, given the silence of the footfalls, they realized they were encircled.

  One of the elves stepped forward from the advancing phalanx. Though he was obviously tall, lean, and strong, it was impossible to see his exact form. Only the lightness of the belted loincloth and the cape around his shoulders demarcated him from the night which otherwise blurred with his immaculate blackness.

  Michael let the gun fall slowly to his side and the others followed his cue. “Shakala said he would see us if we came,” he said quietly. There were too many spears not to be damned polite here, and those were just the obvious weapons.

  “We were not told there would be a kaffir,” the man said viciously. “There will be a price to pay for that.” The group with him advanced another step, only yards away now, perhaps forty or fifty strong. Kristen cowered beside Serrin and tried to look as small as possible. The elf was shaking, aware that there were shamans with this group, sensing their power. They would be far more dangerous than their spears if this came to violence.

  The Zulus stood silently around them, staring them down, deliberately letting the tension build. Then, from the trees before them, a figure sprang fully thirty feet to the ground, landing perfectly on all fours and then rising to his seven-foot height, folding his arms and surveying them with fierce intelligence. Power screamed from the Zulu elf; Serrin was confused, sensing the aura of a mage but seeing him dressed in the unmistakable trappings of a cat shaman.

  “Shakala, I presume,” Michael said with the hint of a nod. The elf ignored him at first, turning his eyes to Kristen.

  “Be glad this is no sacred place, kaffir, or I would rip your throat out,” he growled. Then he turned to Tom, at whom he gazed long and hard. Sensing that this was some kind of staring-down contest, the troll looked back into the Zulu’s eyes, refusing to yield. The elf’s face hardened for an instant, and then a playful smile spread over his angular face. The expression might have been that of a cat playing with its helpless prey.

  “We’ve come to ask for your help. We know that someone tried to kidnap you. It’s possible they may try again,” Serrin began. Since Shakala had ignored Michael, he thought it best to speak up.

  Shakala’s eyes turned to him as soft light spread around from objects some of the Zulus were carrying. They weren’t torches, or didn’t seem to be; Serrin thought he felt the aura of magic on them, but he was locked into the shaman’s gaze. Despite the situation, Serrin couldn’t help registering the beauty of the man. With that aquiline nose, the high bones of his face, the elegance and proportion of his hard body, he looked like a prince.

  Shakala laughed. It was an extraordinary sound, tinged with the high call of a cheetah at the beginning and with the growl of a lion as it faded away.

  “No one will try again,” he said derisively. “And why should I help you, little mage? What do I care about you?”

  “Nothing,” Serrin said quietly. “But the same people also tried to get me. And others have been taken, and killed. It’s possible they might come back for more of your people. We just don’t know.”

  He wasn’t lying. For all he knew, that might be true. Shakala stared as if trying to ferret the truth out of Serrin. Still not replying, he abruptly turned away and pointed at Tom.

  “I may speak with him,” he said. “Perhaps. If I do not just kill him first. He is either very brave or very stupid to come here with Mujaji’s mark on him. What I am inclined to think”—he flashed his brilliant, sadistic smile again—“is that he is probably very stupid. Either way, he will not leave with the mark upon him.”

  Tom stood his ground, unflinching. He didn’t know just what the shamans of Table Mountain had done to him. He had been shown the stone and the ocean, felt something of their immanence within him and marveled at it, but he hadn’t realized that it could be sensed by other shamans. Bear had not changed inside him; she had not shown any displeasure at what had happened. The elf was gesturing to him, leading him into the circle of trees. Half the surrounding elves formed a circle around them, the others ringing Serrin, Michael, and Kristen. Weapons other than spears were visible now as metal gleamed in the gentle light.

  “This is my place,” Shakala cried out. “I am prince here. Beware princes, troll, for they are less easy to placate than kings and they take their sport far more seriously.” It would have sounded pompous, even ridiculous, had the Zulu elf not looked so striking and beautiful in the barely illuminated darkness.

  Tom had met some Cat shamans in his time. They were unpredictable, capricious, and vain, often cruel but sometimes gentle and protective. Shakala didn't seem to be of the latter variety. The troll didn’t know anything about Cheetah, but Shakala’s words seemed to say that it was a more dangerous totem than Lion. Shakala was going to make sport with him. The troll knew that if he hosed it here, they were all dead. He begged Bear not to send him berserk if Shakala taunted him too long, too hard. When his weapons were taken by Shakala’s retinue, he had only himself to depend upon.
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  Before his eyes the elf’s form began to change. His hands became heavily clawed, furred paws. His head changed into that of a cheetah, its powerful canine teeth gleaming, yet the troll could still make out the elf’s own features against the animal’s face. This wasn’t an illusion. Tom was bewildered. Was Shakala a shapeshifter taking elven form and now changing it? No, he didn’t sense that. Was he perhaps masked? What was this creature?

  The Cat shaman padded around him, now and then stopping to crouch and let out a low growl. The troll also moved in a circle, walking backward, always keeping his face to Shakala. Then the Cat shaman broke into a sprint and raced around to the troll’s flank, clawing him hard enough to draw blood. It was only a scratch, but it stung Tom, who realized his adversary was far too swift for him.

  Shakala rolled over at the end of his sprint and lunge, then was back on his feet in a single movement.

  It’s like a homicidal ballet, Serrin thought, unable to tear his eyes away from Tom. Kristen had meanwhile buried her face in his shoulder.

  The Cat shaman circled and sprang once more; again the troll was too slow, taking a raking wound to the shoulder. A third attack, after another circling ritual and strike, left him with a flesh wound at the back of his left leg, the cheetah’s favored hamstringing. The wounds were still superficial, but Tom felt the anger rising inside him. Please, Bear, no, he begged. If I strike at him, he will kill me. He will have my friends killed.

  He had to exert every shred of his will into holding back the growing urge to pounce on the cheetah as it lay in the grass now, quiet and still. Tom knew the creature was inviting him to strike, and his desire to leap on to it, then squeeze the life out of it with his powerful arms, was growing by the second. The next instant the cat pounced straight at him and raked at his chest through the flimsy khaki, leaving a bloody arc of stripes across his flesh.