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Shadow Of The Night
(© Biswapriya Purkayastha)

Page 2

I was then not long out of the Foreign Legion, and I was glad enough of the opportunity to do some soldiering on my own; enough, I’d hoped, to be able to save up to open my own business afterwards. The only war to hand at the time was the crisis in Krahania, where a lot of mercs were already fighting on the side of the government.

I didn’t actually know a thing about the political situation in Krahania, and I didn’t care; today, if I were told to fight for such a collection of appalling criminals as the government of the country at that time, I would have refused outright. But then all I was concerned about was money.

So I bought a ticket and flew there via Nigeria, arriving in the capital, Robertville, on the early morning flight. Two days later I’d already joined a commando and was being driven out of the city in a truck, past the sandbagged portals of the Presidential Palace, on the way to the front.

At that time, the war had largely reached a stalemate, the front stabilising about forty kilometres from the capital. The collapse of the government, the fighting in the streets of Robertville, and the withdrawal of those of us mercenaries who were left – all that came later. At that time, we were expecting more mercenary reinforcements – and then, we thought, we’d cut through the rebels like a white hot knife through butter, and go home afterwards with full bank accounts.

The first days at the front passed without incident. I got to know the other mercenaries in my commando; they were all sorts, some South Africans, a couple of Australians, several French and Canadians and a few Europeans of assorted nationalities. All of them, without exception, hated the Africans – the government troops, on whose side they were supposed to be fighting, as well as the rebels.

The rebels, at that time, were thought to be a joke. Most of them were illiterate peasants from the hinterland, upset at their lands being taken away to give to mining corporations. A lot of them were high on khat – a narcotic leaf they chewed. They had no uniforms, no organisation except at the local level, and almost no communications. It was amazing to me that they had even got as far as they had.

What I hadn’t reckoned with was the role played by the shamans.

In that part of the world, shamans aren’t the sort of caricature you’ll find in Hollywood and boys’ adventure tales. They’re very real, and the hold they have over the people is very genuine, and very frightening. I’ve seen people lie down and die because a shaman put a curse on them; not that anything happened to them, they just gave up and died. I’ve seen shamans advise generals on military strategy – and the generals accepted the advice meekly. And the shamans had told the rebels that not only would they certainly win, they would be rendered invincible by the charms that the magic men made for them. And not only did the rebels know this, the government soldiers knew it as well, and they hardly thought it worth fighting. That’s why the government had hired us mercenaries to do its killing for it.

During the night, we could see the shamans’ fires burning on the other side of the lines, and we could hear their chanting. Sometimes we would fire mortar bombs off in the direction of the fires, but whether we ever hit anything we’d never know, and we didn’t have enough bombs to waste anyway.

Among the shamans we often heard the name of one in particular, Ojogor. The government troops whispered of him with terror, and when they saw any of us coming they’d pointedly fall silent. When we asked questions, they’d answer evasively, and take the first opportunity to leave or change the subject.

This Ojogor was, apparently, a local man, from a village only just on the other side of the front line. He was a "wise man", the Krahanians whispered, who knew in advance when the rains would fail, and who would fall sick, and whose love affair would wither and die. And he was also a man who was renowned for the charms he could prepare, charms which could turn loss to success and defeat to victory.

Then one day I met a soldier. I’ll call him Jean Philippe; he might be still alive, and I don’t want to get him in any trouble by giving away his real name. Unlike the others, Jean Philippe was willing to talk, though reluctantly.

[ Continue to page 3 ]

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Genre:General Horror
Type:Medium length story
Rating:8.11 / 10
Rated By:12 users
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