Kingdom of Bones (Sigma Force #16)

“Something’s definitely here,” the big man grumbled.

They continued with their hands from there, with all of them helping. A familiar steel chest emerged from the dark soil. It looked identical to the one fished out of the lake. They worked it free, revealing stout boards hidden underneath it. Benjie cringed, knowing it must be the top of Peter Umeme’s coffin.

Faraji must’ve suspected the same. As Gray and Kowalski hauled the chest to the side, Faraji placed a palm atop the boards. The boy whispered quietly in his native tongue, perhaps thanking the man for guarding this treasure or apologizing for disturbing his rest.

Maybe both.

Benjie turned his attention to the two men as Gray pulled out a locking pin and opened the chest. He stepped closer.

“What is it?” Kowalski asked.

“Looks like another example of Kuba craftsmanship.” Gray reached in and lifted free a tall hat adorned in feathers and beads, and hung with ivory charms and fetishes. “I think it’s a crown of some sort.”

Faraji had finished his benediction and joined them. “Yes. King’s crown. Sana takatifu. Very sacred.”

Benjie frowned. “But why bury it here? What does it mean?”

Gray stared over at the boy for help, but Faraji only shrugged. With no better guidance, Gray turned the crown around and around in his hands. He inspected its top and fingered its insides, searching for any other clue.

He finally gave a shake of his head and lowered the sacred object back into the chest. “I . . . I don’t get it,” he admitted.

Still, he rubbed his chin as he sat on his heels, plainly refusing to give up. He glanced from the chest to the hole they had dug. He finally shifted and pulled out the sheaf of photos. He flipped through and removed the third one in the time line, the next bread crumb on the path to Mfupa Ufalme, the Kingdom of Bones.

Gray waved everyone closer. The photo showed a picture of the Reverend Sheppard standing amidst the ruins of an old tribal village. “Faraji, you still don’t recognize this place?”

“No. Samahani. I’m sorry.”

Benjie couldn’t blame him. There was nothing distinguishing about the village. The picture showed just a few rotted posts and some collapsed thatched roofs. There must be hundreds, if not thousands, of such abandoned villages throughout the Congo.

Gray flipped the photo to reveal the sketch on its back.



It looked like a tribal pattern drawn in charcoal, a patchwork hatching of diamonds and arrows, all surrounding a convoluted knot in the center. The latter reminded Benjie of an infinity symbol, the way it wound back on itself in a continual loop.

Gray eyed Faraji for help, but the teenager shrugged—then froze with his shoulders by his ears. His eyes got huge.

“What is it?” Benjie asked.

“Samahani,” he apologized again, lowering his shoulders. He looked from the open grave to the crown, then back to the drawing. “I should know before.”

“Know what?” Gray pressed.

Faraji pointed to the fringe of diamonds enclosed by arrows in the sketch. “This is mbul bwiin. Pattern only for mrabaha.” He winced, clearly struggling to translate, then nodded. “Royalty, yes? Royalty.”

Gray glanced to the crown.

Faraji then tapped the self-contained knot at the center of the drawing. “This imbol. Only for kings, yes. Each king different imbol.”

Benjie leaned closer, beginning to understand. “So, it’s like a name. Each king has his own unique pattern.” He turned to Faraji. “Is that what you mean?”

He nodded his head.

Gray stared hard at Faraji. “Do you recognize this pattern? Do you know the king it represents?”

Faraji smiled with clear pride. “We learn names of all our kings. To honor them. This famous Kuba king. Big hero. Nyim Chui. The Leopard King.”

Kowalski looked little impressed. “Great. But how does that help us?”

Gray remained silent, staring toward the open grave, then spoke. “Sheppard buried a crown in this grave for a reason, then hinted at the name of a king. Maybe he’s trying to point us to the tomb of that same king.”

“Wouldn’t his grave be back at the tribe’s village?” Benjie asked. “Way behind us?”

Faraji shook his head. “Kuba. We move when new king gets crown. Move to that king’s village. Leave old place behind.”

Benjie tried to picture this.

With each new king, the nomadic tribe shifted its main capital.

Gray turned the photo in his hand, showing the ruins of the village again. “Could this be the home of the Leopard King? Where your people left his tomb before moving on?”

They all looked to Faraji.

“Like said before, we taught all the names of our king,” he said. “Much pride in them. We sing songs with their telling, what they do, where they come from.”

“Does that mean you know where the Leopard King’s village is?”

Faraji frowned and rocked his head back and forth in uncertainty. “I never go. But I know mostly where it was.” He pointed farther east. He then cupped his hand in a scooping motion. “In a deep bonde. Deep valley.”

Gray stood up. “We’ll have to go look for it and hope we can find it.”

Kowalski scowled at the cemetery. “So, we’re going from a graveyard to a tomb. I guess it makes sense if we’re heading toward a place called the Kingdom of Bones.”

“Everyone back to the ATV,” Gray ordered.

They all hurried through the cemetery. Benjie was happy to leave the last of the gravestones behind them. As they continued, the black silhouette of the old missionary church coalesced out of the darkness ahead of them. In front, the ATV sat atop its giant wheels, a smaller shadow before the larger one.

Benjie rushed toward it, anxious to get moving again.

Then a solitary howl broke the persistent silence of the jungle. The ululating call sounded both close and far at the same time. It carried a note of sadness and desolation, but the beast was not alone.

A chorus of howls answered the first, echoing all around.

The small hairs on Benjie’s neck shivered with a caveman’s terror.

Faraji slowed in front of him. “Mbweha,” he warned.

As a biologist, Benjie had learned many of the Bantu words for the local animals before coming to Africa. He froze, recognizing the native name for the region’s savage pack hunters.

Jackals.


9:33 P.M.

Gray swept up his KelTec handgun and gripped it with both fists. He pivoted on his back heel, searching the dark forest in all directions. Kowalski had his Shuriken raised with its stock at his cheek.

“Get to the vehicle,” he warned the others.

They forged ahead in a tight group, narrowing the distance. Then movement drew his eye to the church’s dark threshold. A shadow melted out from inside. Followed by another. The beasts were pitch-black, their fur bristling around their necks. Tall ears pointed high. Yellow eyes glared back at them. As the pair crept farther into view, they kept their pointed muzzles low to the ground, snarling with menace, baring upper and lower fangs.

Faraji stopped.

Benjie did, too. “Don’t shoot,” he warned breathlessly.

Gray and Kowalski guarded the flanks, training their weapons forward.

“What’re they?” Kowalski whispered.

“Jackals,” Benjie warned. “But huge ones, twice the normal size.”

Gray believed him. These looked like full-grown wolves, but sleeker and built for speed. Gray wagered the jackals could be upon them in a breath. From the corners of his eyes, he saw more shadows shifting through the trees to either side.

They’re likely behind us, too.

He estimated a dozen or more in the pack.

“Don’t shoot,” Benjie warned again.

Kowalski firmed his grip on his weapon. “Like hell I won’t.”

“Don’t,” Benjie urged. “Don’t even move.”

Gray noted that Faraji had been the first to freeze in place. The kid likely knew the denizens of these jungles far better than any of them.

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