The Scorpion Prince

A foulness slowly crept into the room, as the incense failed to mask the stench of corruption. In the bed a man lay dying; he was a king and a father, Hakura’s father. Hakura stood by the bed and to him it seemed as if the only sound in the room was the king’s slow shallow breaths, he counted each one as it came. Though he had not been standing for very long, Hakura had already begun to tire, he leaned a bit more heavily on his walking stick. For a moment, the king’s eyes flickered towards him and he wondered if that was disappointment he saw in them, even now. 

The king was not a young man, the wooly hair on his head had already gone gray, yet when he had left the city seven days before, to deal with some minor raids to the north, he was as strong as any man half his age. A veteran of well over a dozen battlefields, King Tsofo Kankisa was a warrior without equal, like all of his bloodline, save for Hakura himself. In his youth, men had called him Tsofo the mountain, in part for his size, he was a man near seven feet tall, and in part because despite all his warring, he had never taken injury.

Gently, Hakura lifted one corner of the sheet and peered beneath. There was a stain where the king’s right breast met the linen, like a small crimson flower. The sheet caught on some dried blood and the king groaned softly as it was peeled back. The wound had been bound tight, yet it seemed to make little difference. The lance had bitten deep, puncturing through leather and mail to glut itself on king’s flesh. If the blow had fallen on his left side instead of the right, then a corpse would be laying on the bed. Perhaps one does. For a moment Hakura considered using his gift to slip inside the king's dreams and speak with him one last time. Instead he let the sheet fall.

A door opened on the other side of the room and a dark skinned old man in blood splattered on his white robes entered, he stood quietly to one side hesitant to approach. When their eyes met the old man bowed his head. Frowning Hakura crossed the room. The king's apartments were large and richly decorated, the tables and chairs were all polished ebony etched with symbols in gold and silver. The walls held shelves that displayed many fine wooden carvings as well as being painted intricate sigils and symbols, some decorative and some for protection. When he came to a stop in front of the old man. “Yes?” were Hakura’s only words.

The old man looked up at him, as most men had to, he may not have inherited the king’s strength, but he certainly had his height. Beads of sweat gathered on the old man’s, and his mouth opened and closed, searching for the right words. After a time the old man seemed to find his courage. “Prince Hakura,” he began. “My assistant and I have… done all we can for the king. Truly not even the physicians of great Igazi could do better.”

“Are you saying he will die?” 

The old man made a small choking noise. “Good prince! I…I would never. Truly such words would be treason…”

Hakura raised a hand, cutting him off. “Master Mamud, I would never punish a man for loyal counsel.” he favored him with a small smile. “I am not my brother and truth is not treason.”  

The old man breathed a deep breath and calmed somewhat, then continued. “I would be surprised if he lasted another three nights.”

For a time Hakura said nothing. “Good prince?” Master Mamud prodded. 

“I would ask that you remain by his side and ease his journey to the ancestors. The servants will bring you and your apprentices all you need.”

Mamud was taken aback by this. “But surely we would be able to return to our own rooms?” 

Hakura let his frown deepen. “Most men would consider it a great honor to be in the presence of their king on his last journey.”

Mamud shrank back as if he were about to be struck. “Of…of course, there…I could think of no greater honor.” 

“Good then you shall remain here by his side.” Hakura turned and left the room.

As he left the king’s chambers and entered the hall, he almost walked into Sambali, King Tsofo’s chief advisor, a broad shouldered man with skin dark as polished ebony and an elephant's round belly. Upon recognizing him the seneschal's face hardened just for a moment, before letting a mask fall back in place. He then tried to look around him, but Hakura blocked the doorway. Hakura was not a very large man, he was tall, yes, nearly as tall as his sire, but he lacked the powerful build of a warrior. He was like the camel thorn tree, tall and lanky and not as strong as ebony, but firm and enduring.   

“How is our lord?” Sambali asked, with a smile.

Hakura returned the smile, on his face it must have seemed a ghastly thing. Though no one would likely consider him a ugly man, his face was long and gaunt, his cheeks hollows and the sunken skeletal set of his eyes were the most normal thing about them. It was his left eye that unsettled people the most. The right right eye was a deep brown, like most men, but the left had never decided which color it wanted to be. 

“The wound is grievous, but master Mamud says that he will recover eventually.”   

Like everyone else Sambali glanced up at him then quickly looked away. There was doubt in his voice when he answered.  “The men who were with him all say the wound looked fatal.”

Hakura swatted down the comment as one would a fly, “the battlefield is, chaotic, and stories told in haste are not to be trusted.” 

“I agree,” Sambali said. “So I had best see for myself.” 

Sambali made a step forward, but when Hakura didn’t move he stepped back. Hakura peered down at the senechal, his full lips in a hard line that bordered on a frown. 

“He will need his rest if he is to recover in full, it’s best not to visit him.”

“Very well,” Hakura said and shrugged his shoulders as if he couldn’t care less. Sambali’s face took on a quizzical look as the prince walked past him. Hakura had not gone two paces down the hall when he stopped and turned back, “Oh! but you know, one would think you would be more concerned about your own family.”

Sambali was weary now, his words slow and deliberate. “What do you mean?”

Again Hakura shrugged, “I am told your daughter has given birth again, but, why, I wonder did she have to go all the way to Jaku to give birth. Does she not trust our midwives?” 

The seneschal’s eyes went wide, “lies.” he hissed. If she had given birth I would have been the first to know.” 

“Perhaps,” Hakura said. “As I mentioned, stories told in haste can not be trusted, but worry not. I have men in Jaku who can see to their safety.” his smile then was genuine. 

Sambali’s mouth fell agape, then closed as he balled his hands into fist. “Vile witch, grasp as hard as you want, with your devil blighted hands. You shall never seize the kingdom of djata.”

Whatever joy Hakura had felt, fell to pieces at that moment. He stalked forward, his left eye a burning maelstrom of color, now gold, then emerald, then indigo. Though the senchal was half again his size, he retreated as Hakura advanced, only stopping when his back touched the door. 

The prince loomed over him and when he spoke his voice was sharp and silent as a knife in the heart. “You curse me for a witch and yet it is you and all the fools like you who would blindly hand the kingdom over to witches and those who serve them. But hear this.'' Hakura jabbed a finger into the man's chest. “I am the only son of Tsofo the mountain, blood of Gagare giant slayer and Hada town seizer, lordship of djata is my birthright and I will not have it and the house of Kankisa stolen from me by the son of a general whose name will be forgotten before he next generation reaches manhood.”

Nostrils flaring he spun away from the man, in fear of what his anger might lead him to do. He left Sambali there, sputtering to himself. That old viper was no real trouble to Hakura, he might hiss from time to time, but he long since lost his venom.

 After making through the hall, he entered the palace's central courtyard where the ancestor tree stood. A great camel thorn tree that rose high, its leaves giving shade to nearly all of the yard. It was still early morning and the palace was only just beginning to come awake, servants were busy with their many duties and a few courtiers were strewn about the place. He held his walking stick in his hand as he made his way to his apartments, trying to appear strong, just as they all tried not to stare at him. Not using his cane was an effort for him, despite all he had done his muscles were weak and refused to become stronger. Hakura ignored them as he went, the gods may have cursed him with a frail body, but they had given him other gifts. 

When he finally entered his room he found Zaria waiting for him, she was already dressed and lounging on their bed, her takoba laying next to her like a lover. Her face was freshly painted, her hair plaited and adored with gold rings. She wore robes of deep green woven from the finest fabric, but beneath all was the hard well toned body of a warrior. The sight of her alone made him smile, she was his shield, his spear  and his beloved. 

“Your food is growing cold,” she said, pointing to a small table at the center of the room. 

Hakura made his way to the table, set down his cane and seated himself on a cushion. Before him was a meal of rice with red kidney beans, boiled eggs and fried plantains all smothered in a thick pepper sauce. It was served in a banana leaf with fried fish on the side. He ate in silence for a time while his wife watched him. After a long while Zaria finally spoke. 

“How is he?” she asked.

“Dying,” Hakura replied. “The physicians say he has three days at the most.”

She made a pained face, “I am sorry my love.” 

“I had hoped to have a few more years, things would have gone smoother that way,” he sighed. “All of that planning is now gone to waste.” 

“And what will you do now?”

“I will make my move. What else can I do?”

“What of Magaji? Do you think your brother will just stand aside and let you take his throne?”

There was a loud crack, as Hakura slammed a fist down onto the table. “He has no claim to the throne, he is only a son through adoption.”

“You know as well as I do. That means very little to the great lords, out of all of them my father is the only one who supports you and as much as it pains me to say our clan is the weakest in the kingdom.”

Hakura rose from where he sat and walked over to the wall and threw open the curtain. The glass set into the window was in the shape of a flower and tinged green. He watched the play of the light on the glass as he stood before the window in parade rest. 

“They do not love me, I know,” Hakura began. “But they will all obey if properly motivated.” 

Scooping up her sword, Zaria rose and went to stand beside him. “And how will you do that?”

Still staring out the window “My men in Jaku found Sambali’s daughter, she is being taken to my estates in the region. Other hostages have been taken as well.”

Zaria raised an eyebrow. “His pregnant daughter?” 

Hakura did not answer.

“They will not love you for this.” she said.

“They will never love me.” 

Wrapping her arms around his chest she pulled him closer to her. “Hakura, forgive me for asking, but, would it be so bad to let Magaji take the throne? I am my fathers heir, you would inherit his lands. The Kankisa line need not die out, it would still live on through our children, throne or no.”  

He put his hand over her’s and carested it. 

“You are a wonderful man and I will stand by whatever you decide. But you are only ten and seven, must you take up the burden of a throne?” 

For a moment he wanted nothing more than to turn and kiss her. He shagged into her, trusting her strength to hold him steady. Zaria was too beautiful and too wise for one such as him. Those thoughts were soon replaced by ones of his brother on the throne. In their youth Hakura had idolized his older brother, but then certain truths were made clear to him. No, he was certain that he could not allow that man on the throne. 

“What I want does not matter, I do what must be done.”

“Even if that means making good on your threat and killing a mother and her child,”

For what seemed like too long a time, a deafening silence grew between them. 

“I…”

“Master!” the voice came unannounced, booming in his like a shout from the ancestors. His head snapped up sharply, and Hakura began to look around the room. 

        Zaria stepped away from him. “What, what is it?”

“He has returned.” 

“Who…oh your pet.”

Hakura smiled, “he hates it when you call him that.”

In the corner of the room a ball of smokeless flame began to bloom, sapphire slashed with scarlet. The flames coalesced into a creature that was something between a scorpion and a wasp. “Master,” the voice came again in his head. Then began to float towards them as if it were submerged in water. The thing’s crystalline carapace twinkled as it passed Zaria’s head and into the sunlight.

“Where is he?” Zaria asked. 

“Just past your head on to your left,” 

She flinched away. “Well it’s rude of him not to show him.” 

“You heard her Idris, reveal yourself,” the thing gave a mental groan it disliked being seen by any aside from Hakura.

Zaria made a little grunt in surprise and took a pace back as Idris came into her view. Idris had been Hakura’s companion and greatest secret for as long as he could remember. At first he had thought the creature to be a devil that had latched on to him. Yet, over the years he had spent long hours in research and eventually discovered that his dear Idris was no devil, but in fact, a Jinn.    

“Did you do as I asked? And speak out loud so Zaria could hear you.”

Another mental groan. “Farbas Madaki is incapacitated, he shouldn’t rise from his stupor for another week.” 

“What did you do to him?” Zaria asked.

Idris turned to her, his mandibles twitching and pincers clicking. He fixed his many obsidian eyes on her and she shuttered visibly. He didn’t smile, he hadn’t the mouth for it, but Hakura could feel Idris’s pleasure. “Nightmare’s mistress! He will spend the next few days in perpetual dreams.” 

“He was Magaji’s best ally, removing him from the game is a great boon to us.” Hakura said. 

“That will only slow him, in time he will become a problem again.” Zaria said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. 

“Time is precisely what we need,” He said, as he made his way over to the bed and sat down. “I have kept all news of the king's health from leaving the palace. The gates are closed and his surgeons are all confined to his room. With my older brother busy putting down a rebellion in the south, even word of the king's injury should take some time to reach him. By the time he returns, I mean to already sit on the throne.” 

“That,” his wife said. “Is only true if the King dies.”

Hakura looked at her, his left eye a soft sullen blue. She stared back into his, unflinching. “He will.” he said, certain as sunrise. 

King Tsofo Kankisa, did die, however he lingered long past the predicted three days, living another ten.  The funeral was arranged rapidly, it began with the preparation of the body. The king’s organs were removed and burned in the courtyard, the ashes from which were stored away, to later be used in the coronation. Next a large bull was slaughtered and the king was wrapped in its hide. Traditionally a feast would have followed, but Hakura dispensed with that. 

When the body was fully prepped and placed on the royal palanquin, the procession began.  The royal Palanquin led the march through a city dressed all in white, to show that they were in mourning. Hakura followed closely behind. Though he could not ride a horse, his body lacked the strength for such a journey, instead he was borne upon a chariot, driven by Zaria, that was a gift by merchants from above the great sea of sands. The fact that he could not ride was another great shame, the men of djata were horse lords famed for their cavalry, yet Hakura could not sit a horse for very long. 

Still, as the procession went on he cut a striking figure. A tall man with a hard face and oil black skin smooth and unmarred. While all others wore white, Hakura displayed the colors of a crowned prince. He wore robes black as night and accented with rich slashes of indigo. His turban and veil were black as well and from it his left eye shone. After a few hours they made their way through the city to docks. The city was built on the shores of the Great Lake Olosa, which they shared with the neighboring kingdom of kugajiya. Their ultimate destination was a small island out on the lake that held the final resting place for the Kankisa kings, the city of tombs.

The group that departed the docks was much smaller than the earlier procession. They had taken a half dozen canoes and begun their voyage. It dusk by the time they reach the shore. The city of tombs was the only structure on the island. From the outside it looked like another walled settlement, in fact it was more a town than a city. Its earthen walls were around ten feet high and beyond it Hakura could see great mud-brick minarets and mausoleums all studded with wooden planks. Zaria remained on the shore by the boats, as only the crowned prince and his bearers were permitted to enter the city. 

Hakura felt a shudder run through him as he crossed the threshold to the city gates. For a moment he paused leaning on his walking stick, his bearers took no notice as they carried the royal palanquin. 

“Do you feel that?” Idris asked.

“Yes, it is as you’ve described.” Hakura thought in reply. 

He began walking again, moving swiftly to catch up with the bearers. They found Tsofo’s tomb in the eastern section of the city, it was by tradition that upon coronation a Kankisa king would begin construction on his tomb. Tsofo had long been inspired by stories about the kings in the land above the sea of sands and thus instructed his architects to build his tomb in a pyramid fashion. Inside a stone sarcophagus waited, the king was placed inside and it was sealed. Hakura then commanded the bearers to leave and told them that he would remain to say his final farewell in private.

When they were gone, Idris manifested next to him. “He is on his way,” the jinn said. 

“How long?”

The answer came in his head. “An hour.” 

“Then I have some time,” Hakura said and felt the jinn’s confusion. “This place is all you promised and more. Here I feel as though all things are possible and there is something I would like to try.”

Hakura kneeled before the sarcophagus and closed his eyes. He had never attempted anything quite like this, yet it was somehow easy. When he next opened his eyes he found himself kneeling in tall yellow grass, he stood. The sky above was a turrent of multi-colored stars and all around him was wild savanna lands, bright despite there being no sun. nearby a hill rose from the ground, its rocky surface dotted with what seemed like fallen stars. As he approached the hill he saw that there were stars on the ground around the hill as well, but when he got closer still, he realized that they were only cookfires. 

Men gathered around the fires, though Hakura could not see their faces. All except one. A man rose from one of the fires, a young man who some say was tall as a mountain. 

“Why are you in this place?” king Tsofo said. 

“Is this not a place for Kankisa kings?” Hakura answered.

“Dead kings, two things of which you are neither.”

“Oh, but I will be. King that is and dead too…eventually. Hopefully not for long years yet.”

Tsofo chest arms the size of tree branches over a small boulder of a chest. “Did you come all this way just to make sport?”

“Truth? I don’t know why I came.” Hakura took a step forward, for the first time realizing how strong he felt here. “I suppose I am here for your blessing. To hear you acknowledge me as your son and heir.”

Tsofo’s only response was a slight frown. Hakura chuckled.

“Still nothing even after you’ve had ten and seven years to decide,”

“Hakura, put aside this ambition. You and your brother must…”

“I have no brother! And you have only one son.” Hakura stabbed a finger at him. “All my life you scorned me for my weakness, yet you lacked even the strength to choose an heir. But watch me now, remember a tree only grows sickly when the seed itself is weak.”

Tsofo looked stricken, Hakura could see in his eyes that he searched for words but could not grasp any. Finally Tsofo sighed. “I do not think you are fit to be king, I never did and for that I am sorry.”

He had prepared himself for those words for years, yet still they shook him and for one mad moment Hakura considered abandoning all of his plans. 

“But that does not mean I didn’t love you with all my heart, king or no.” Tsofo said. 

“Keep your love, I will have your throne.” was all Hakura said.

He was again kneeling in his father’s tomb when the voice boomed in his mind. “He is here.”

Hakura rose, dusted off his knees and went outside. 

“Little brother.” Magaji said.

They had arrived as he exited the tomb seven in all with Magaji at their head. They were dressed for war, these sons of the great lords, with leather cuirass and chainmail and takobas cradle under their arm. Hakura was armed only with his walking stick.

“I have sent men to capture your wife, so don’t try to run. Not that you would get far.” Magaji said. 

“The men you sent were they your friends?”

A confused look passed Magaji’s face and when he answered he did so slowly. “Yes.” 

“Then you have my condolences.” 

Magaji’s confusion quickly turned to anger. “I did not come here to have words with you vile creature. You made me miss our father’s funeral.”

“I would say you are early, considering your father still lives.”

“Enough!” Magaji roared. “Take him!”  

“I agree it time for this to end,”

Then all drew their swords and pointed them at Magaji.

“Treachery.” He screamed as live steel surrounded him. “I would have shown you  mercy Hakura.”

“I know,” Hakura said. “You have always been that kind of fool, but I am not. And I have no patience for rebellion.” 

Hakura gave a curt nod of the head and his brother drew his one last sharp breath. When it was over, they buried the body next to Tsofo tomb. Hakura thought his brother deserved that small kindness at least.