The Phantom Read online

  “MY SONS AND THEIR SONS

  SHALL FOLLOW ME.”

  Legend tells of a young boy who watched his father die at the hands of the Sengh Brotherhood, a bloodthirsty gang of pirates. Later, on the skull of his father’s killer, the boy swore vengeance—dedicating his life and the lives of his descendants to fighting piracy, greed, injustice, and cruelty in all its forms.

  He was the first.

  Four centuries have passed. And Kit Walker is the twentieth to don the costume of his fabled ancestor and take charge of his mysterious jungle home, the Skull Cave. For as long as the evil taint of the powerful Sengh Brotherhood poisons the earth, one champion will stand against them: the one who is called The Ghost Who Walks . . . The Phantom.

  DRUMS THUNDERED

  IN MY EARS.

  Buli’s body swayed in rhythm to their beats, as though he and the drums were one and the same. When the drums reached a crescendo, he turned in my direction and thrust a ring at me. It bore the symbol of a skull.

  I raised my hand, and he slipped the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly. As I stared at the ring, it began to glow. Rays of light shot out of it. I knew—without knowing why—that I was no longer Kit Walker, that I was now someone much different and more powerful. I squeezed my eyes shut and saw, in the shadows and tendrils of light, the new name I would take.

  From this time on, I would be known as the Phantom.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  THE PHANTOM is an original publication of Avon Books. This work has never before appeared in book form. This work is a novel by Rob MacGregor based on a screenplay by Jeffrey Boam, based on the characters created by Lee Falk. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  AVON BOOKS

  A division of

  The Hearst Corporation

  1350 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, New York 10019

  Copyright © 1996 by King Features Syndicate, Inc./Paramount Pictures Corporation

  Published by arrangement with King Features Syndicate, Inc./Paramount Pictures Corporation

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-96130

  ISBN: 0-380-78887-X

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Avon Books.

  First Avon Books Printing: June 1996

  AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  RA 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  CONTENTS

  THE PHANTOM

  FROM THE CHRONICLES:

  HOW IT ALL BEGAN

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR HUNDRED

  YEARS LATER

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  FROM THE CHRONICLES:

  HOW IT ALL BEGAN

  ONE

  June 1533

  The Sea of Bangalla

  For the past two days, I had felt as if we were being watched. It was a ridiculous feeling—that was what I kept telling myself. After all, we were on the open ocean and there had been no land sighted since we’d left an isolated tropical island five days ago. There had been only the sea—an endless blue as vast as the sky itself.

  Nevertheless, the feeling had intensified, and now one of my father’s crew had spotted a ship on the horizon that was growing quickly in size. I tried not to show any fear. The son of the captain was expected to be as brave as the captain himself. I was one of the measurements the crew used to gauge my father’s moods. If I showed fear, they would assume my father was also afraid. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t an accurate reflection; that was simply how it was.

  I knew we were no match for the fierce bands of pirates who roamed these seas off the coast of Bangalla. They were among the most dreaded pirates on all the seas. Usually they killed the crew, ransacked the ship, and then sank it.

  Our ship wasn’t outfitted with even a single cannon. Instead of weapons, the cargo hold was packed with hammers, saws, knives, and other steel tools and utensils, which were destined for a settlement near the Cape of Good Hope. We also carried bales of raw wool and bundles of woolen goods, including winter undergarments and heavy coats.

  I hoped that if the pirates caught us, they wouldn’t be interested in our cargo and would let us go. But I had the feeling it wouldn’t work out that way.

  We weren’t even supposed to be anywhere near the Bangalla coast, but we’d been blown far off course by a tremendous storm. Several of the crew had been washed overboard, we had sustained damage to the ship, and were indeed fortunate that our merchant vessel was still afloat.

  After the storm, we’d come upon the island and spent two weeks there resting and making repairs to the ship. The natives on the island were friendly, and we traded fresh food and water for some of our merchandise. They liked the tools, but didn’t have much use for the clothing. Still, some of the more adventurous natives were soon parading around in their loin cloths with wool scarfs around their necks or heads and long underwear wrapped around their shoulders.

  Truly, the island was a pleasant enough place and the people were handsome and, like I said, friendly, so friendly, in fact, some of the crew members were courting the attractive young women and perhaps hoping that we would stay there. We wouldn’t be the first.

  From a shipwrecked sailor named Sam, we’d found out that we had been blown right through the dangerous seas controlled by the notorious Bangalla pirates, and that to return to our course, we would need to sail through those waters again. The sailor, who had three native wives and a dozen children, had no interest in joining us and suggested that we join him. Challenging the fierce Bangalla pirates was a lost cause, he’d said.

  But my father, who was truly a fearless man, wasn’t going to be stopped by a few pirates. At my age, he had been a cabin boy on Columbus’s third journey to the New World. Nothing, he claimed, could equal that trip in danger. Besides, as he told the crew, he felt sure we would never encounter the pirates.

  I was the eldest of five children, and at age ten, this was my first voyage. I trusted my father’s judgment, of course. I would do whatever he wanted. At the same time, I was curious about the Bangalla pirates and wanted to know more about them.

  I’d become acquainted with one of the shipwrecked sailor’s sons, who was a year or two younger than I was. He told me the strangest story I’d ever heard—that the Bangallans had navigators who could actually leave their bodies and fly like frigate birds over the seas in search of ships to pillage. When they returned to their bodies, they knew exactly where to find their floating prey. I had never heard of such magic and asked my father if he thought it was true.

  He just laughed, naturally, and said it was a native superstition; nothing for us to worry about. He assured me we would sail soon and pass quickly through the pirate waters and
continue our journey. We would make our delivery, and before I knew it, I would be home telling exotic tales to my envious brothers, my admiring sisters, and my horrified mother. But I was still worried and couldn’t rid myself of the terrible sense of being watched. Perhaps the Bangallans were, at that very second, floating somewhere above the ship, as invisible as the air we breathed. There were other things that worried me, too. Several of the crew members had decided to remain on the island, and my father’s attempts to change their minds, or to enlist natives to replace them, had failed. The natives were convinced that our journey was doomed, that we would not survive the passage. And so we sailed shorthanded.

  As the strange ship closed in on us, it grew in both size and menace. I gazed through a spyglass my father had given me before leaving home. I found the mast and followed it upward to the top, where a flag rippled and shimmered like a mirage. I steadied my hand, squinted, then saw what looked like the shape of a spider web on the flag. My young friend had told me that the spider web was flown on the ships of the meanest and deadliest of the pirates, the ones who never spared the crew.

  “Quick, Kit, get below deck!” my father shouted. “Into the cargo hold. Hide yourself among the woolens.”

  “I want to be up here. Please.”

  But such fury seized my father’s face that I scampered below like a terrified rat. I opened a hole in one of the bundles where I could hide. But before crawling inside, I had to find out what was happening on deck.

  I crept slowly up the ladder, then nudged the hatch upward a couple of inches. I heard pounding feet trampling the deck, the firing of muskets, shouts, and horrid cries. I smelled gunpowder and saw one of the crew collapse to the deck, blood pouring from his chest.

  My heart pounded as I lowered the hatch again. The Bangallan pirates had easily caught the ship. Our meager supply of firearms and skeleton crew were no match for the seasoned pirates. It seemed there was nothing I could do. But I didn’t want to be a kid anymore. I wanted to help. I desperately needed to help.

  I pushed against the hatch, but suddenly it was flung open. A scar-faced pirate stood above me, swinging a notched saber. Just as he slashed downward, a musket fired and the pirate toppled over. His sword fell harmlessly into the hold.

  “I told you to hide!” my father shouted.

  I wanted to weep in shame, to curl up into a small, tight ball and roll away. But just then, another pirate rushed forward, his face and clothing splattered with blood.

  “Look out!” I screamed.

  My father spun, but it was too late. A glint of sunlight from the pirate’s bloodied saber flashed in my eyes, and then my father, the captain, fell to the deck, cut down by the blade.

  “No! No!” I yelled, and started to scramble through the hatch. But it slammed down on my head and I tumbled into the hold and landed on a bundle of woolen goods. I started to climb the ladder again to avenge my father’s death, but halfway up, I heard his voice so clearly it was as if he were standing next to me.

  “Kit, follow my orders. Do it now!”

  I froze, one foot halfway between two rungs, and looked around the dark cargo hold, but could see no one. Was it my imagination?

  “Hurry, Kit!” the voice said.

  I scrambled down the ladder and crawled into my hiding place. And there I waited, terrified, trembling. The wet smell of the wool seeped into my nostrils; the darkness crowded around me like a gang of thieves.

  For the longest time, I heard screams, shouts, boots pounding the deck of the ship. Then, for an even longer time, there was a thick, horrifying stillness—the silence of the grave. I didn’t move, barely breathed. The stink of the damp wool nearly choked me. My arms itched, my throat closed up, every muscle in my body shrieked for movement, flight, freedom, fresh air. I blacked out—seconds, minutes, it was impossible to tell—and when I came to, I was no longer alone in the hold.

  TWO

  The pirates pawed through the bales of woolen goods in the hold, their angry voices muted by the wool packed tightly around me. Even if I could have heard their words, I wouldn’t have understood them. But I knew they were arguing, and it was probably about what they should do with the bales.

  I considered crawling out, showing myself, surrendering. It probably meant certain death, but what difference did it make? I’d failed my father; he had died because of me, because I had failed to obey him. I deserved to die, too. The only thing I hoped was that my death would be quick and painless.

  But something kept me from giving up. It was like a silent command from an invisible presence. Dad? Are you here? I mouthed the words silently. I wanted some sort of confirmation of what had happened earlier.

  No answer.

  Dad, please say something, talk to me like before, please, please . . .

  Silence.

  What was the use? A wave of utter desolation crashed over me. If I stayed where I was, I would die of hunger or thirst. I started to crawl out, but as soon as I pushed my head to the edge of the bale, I saw a clear image of my father standing in front of me and his voice flowed through me, as clear and warm as liquid. “Wait, Kit! Get back inside.”

  I did as the voice instructed, pushing myself down deeper into the bale. But through a narrow opening, I could see three pirates, their backs to me. One of them was still talking, but now in a calmer tone of voice. I sensed that a decision had been made. After that, everything grew quiet. Relief flooded through me. I could swallow again, breathe again.

  Maybe they’d decided to just forget about the bales of wool. That was fine with me. I tried to imagine what might happen next. Would they sink the ship? I doubted it. The vessel was less than a year old; it made sense that they would take it as part of their booty. Hopefully they’d sail it away to sell or trade in a foreign market.

  Somehow I would survive, I knew I would. I had to. Instantly I began plotting my escape. I would sneak out of the bale during the night, find food and water, then sneak back in here. That was about the best I could expect. What I dreaded was the thought that the ship might be taken to the pirates’ hideout. If that was the case, my chances of escape were not very good. Even if I got away, I probably wouldn’t survive. I’d heard that Bangalla was filled with wild beasts and that if the natives didn’t kill you, then the animals would. What chance did a young boy have?

  As I pondered these alternatives, several men entered the cargo hold. From the grunts and groans, it sounded as if they were lifting the bales and carrying them up to the deck. I had no idea whether that was good news or bad.

  Finally the bale where I was hiding rocked back and forth, then was turned on its side. Muttering and an angry flurry of words followed. I didn’t have to understand their language to recognize the words as curses.

  Suddenly the bale was lifted and carried slowly out of the cargo hold and up to the deck. Despite the stink of the wool, I could smell the sea air, the dizzying sweetness of it, the promise of all it held. I nearly wept with relief.

  The bale was dropped and struck the deck with a hard thud that jarred me to the bone. I waited to see what would happen next, but after a few minutes curiosity overcame caution. I worked my way toward the outside of the bale until I saw light. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, then saw a crooked line of bales. Two men were moving down the line tossing one bale after another from the merchant ship onto the pirates’ vessel. It looked like I was going to be taking another voyage.

  The men were getting closer, so I ducked back inside the bale. I curled up in a ball and waited. Moments later, the bale was rocked from side to side and I heard the same curses again. Then I was swinging in the air, back and forth, like a corpse hanging from a gallows. The bale was tossed; I was airborne.

  I tensed, expecting to feel the impact against the deck at any moment. But I kept dropping, tumbling, rolling through the air. The bale missed the deck and splashed into the sea.

  I bobbed on the ocean inside my cocoon, drifting with the waves. I waited for the pirate
s to retrieve the bale, but the minutes collapsed into each other, flattening into a thin line that seemed to go on forever. My awareness shrank until there was only the bobbing of the bale, the smell of the sea, and the waiting.

  I realized then that they weren’t coming after it. Maybe I was free of the pirates, but I was still lost at sea, and in serious trouble.

  Most of the bale was wrapped with heavy cloth coated with a waterproof lacquer, but water was still seeping into the wool, and slowly, a bit at a time, the bale was sinking.

  I worked my way toward the opening. The constant rocking and the thickness of the damp wool made it difficult to move. I was having a hard time breathing, too, as the air pockets closed around me and strands of the wool were sucked into my mouth and nose with every breath.

  I started to panic and clawed madly at the wool, twisting and turning my body until I gulped at fresh air. A salty wave splashed in my face. I coughed, rubbed my hands over my face, and dropped my head back, scanning the vast, empty sky.

  It was late afternoon, the wind had picked up and white caps topped the swells. I worked my way out of the bale and climbed onto it. There was no sign of the Miranda, my father’s ship, or the pirate vessel. The day washed into evening, then night. My throat was parched, stars pulsed in the heavens, I became delirious, and I drifted. At some point, I raised my head and saw a fire burning in the distance between the star-speckled sky and the black waters. For a moment, I didn’t understand how a fire could be burning on the water. Then I remembered what the boy on the island had said. The spider-web pirates always killed the crew and destroyed the ships, and I knew it was the Miranda burning.

  My heart seized up on me then, and I began to cry, to shout, to pray. Then exhaustion swallowed me.

  When I opened my eyes again, the sun had risen and my thirst was so great I began to see streams and rivers and lakes, fresh water molded and shaped by unseen hands into towns and cities that shimmered and danced in the light like living things.