The jhumbi swung its sword at Muldure, who easily evaded the slow arc of the blade. He struck again, chopping a chunk from the jhumbi’s mask-like face. The jhumbi did not react. Drawing its sword back for another swing, the walking corpse moved forward. Muldure took another step backward.
He stole a glance at Lyann who was, as always, fighting at his side. She moved more than quickly enough to avoid the jhumbis’ weapons and strike counter-blows of her own. But Muldure could see she was growing weary. They all were – the crew of the White Gull as well as the Matile soldiers who had fought alongside them since the beginning of the Uloans’ invasion.
Step-by-step, the defenders had been driven from the docks, leaving their dead sprawled in pools of blood. The retreat was grudging ... but unavoidable.
Yet the jhumbis were not invincible. Soon enough, the defenders had discovered that the creatures could be brought down by hewing through their knee joints and severing their legs. Even then, the jhumbis used their arms to continue to crawl forward and strike and clutch at their foes’ legs.
Still, a legless jhumbi was much less dangerous than an ambulatory one, and that result was the best the defenders could hope for. However, it took many blows to cut through a jhumbi’s gray covering, and during the time involved in striking those blows the defenders were vulnerable to retaliation from other jhumbis and the scarred, painted Uloans who shrieked and capered among them, darting in and out to inflict further carnage. Their blades were treated with a poison that delivered agony with the merest prick of the skin.
Already, some of the Uloans had skirted the Matile flanks and infiltrated the streets of Khambawe, killing anyone in their path and setting buildings ablaze. Smoke was beginning to blot the rapidly darkening sky. And even more Uloan ships were landing and disgorging more invaders to add to the horde.
Rage and frustration offset the fatigue that was creeping into Muldure’s muscles. When the Uloans sank the nearly repaired White Gull, the captain had gone berserk. It took the combined efforts of Lyann and two other sailors to prevent him from charging single-handed into the enemy. When he became calmer, he led the defense of his crew and the Matile soldiers as effectively as a military commander could have done. But his thoughts were decidedly unmilitary.
So this is how Kyroun’s great quest ends, Muldure thought bitterly as he swung his sword yet again. In death for us all ....
Then he stumbled over the body of a fallen Matile. The jhumbi’s sword came down. Off-balance, Muldure raised his own weapon in time to deflect the blow. But the force of it drove him to the ground.
The jhumbi lifted its sword again. Lyann pulled Muldure to his feet before it could come down again. Together, they retreated yet further, as did the other defenders.
Suddenly, a chill breeze, colder than anything they had ever felt in the hot climate of Abengoni, brushed against the defenders. And the jhumbis staggered to a halt, as though they had collided with an adamantine barrier. Then an unseen force hurled them backward. Many jhumbis crashed to the ground; others spun in erratic circles. The Uloan warriors among them fell to the ground as if stunned by blows to the head.
Muldure exchanged a glance with Lyann.
“Kyroun,” he said.
Lyann nodded in agreement.
“What the hell took him so long?” she wondered.
Only a moment later, Lyann and Muldure realized their assumption was erroneous.
With a booming war-cry, a combined force of Tokoloshe and dwarves charged from the mouth of a street leading to the docks. Muldure recognized his friend Hulm Stonehand in the forefront of the squat warriors.
Like a self-propelled battering ram, the Dwarven fighters crashed into the ranks of the disoriented jhumbis. The warriors’ diminutive stature proved an advantage: the jhumbis’ knees were in a direct line with the arc of the dwarves’ and Tokoloshes’ swords and axes.
Several jhumbis fell as the Tokoloshe and dwarves hacked away at them. But the animate dead quickly recovered from the sorcerous ambush that preceded the charge, and they rained down blows that stunned even the most powerful of their new foes. Some of the dwarves and Tokoloshe began to fall, but they continued to stand their ground while the Matile and the Fidi regrouped behind them.
The invaders’ momentum stalled. And the Matile commanders took full advantage of the change in circumstances. From his vantage point, Jass Eshana saw what had happened. And he knew what the city’s defenders had to do next if they were to have a chance to win this battle.
“Attack!” Eshana shouted, eyes blazing beneath the lion’s-mane crest on his helmet.
Forgetting their fatigue, the newly heartened defenders rushed toward their foes, living and dead alike. For the first time since the Uloan ships arrived, the Matile had hope of winning their battle for survival.
But that prospect proved short-lived ...
5
Dardar Alemeyu stood on the highest balcony of the Gebbi Senafa. From that point, he could gaze out over much of the panorama of Khambawe. During the daytime, the Jewel City stretched below him like a colorful carpet laid out for a deity. At night, the torches that lit Khambawe’s streets and homes glittered like stars shining in a sky fallen to earth.
But this night, torches were not all that was aflame in Khambawe. On street after street, burning buildings blazed like sunbursts. Slowly, inexorably, those fires were creeping closer to the palace.
Alemeyu was clad in garments of war. Armor of leather and steel decorated with silver and gold sat loosely on his lean frame. Atop his head was a helmet covered almost completely with hair taken from the manes of lions. It was said to have been handed down from the great Dardar Issuri himself, as was the sword that hung in a gold-chased sheath at his side.
Many years had passed since an Emperor personally had led Matile troops into battle, however. On this night, the Sword of Issuri would remain in its sheath.
Tradition required Alemeyu, as Emperor, to don the martial raiment of an imperial commander. Reality dictated that he remain far from the scene of combat. For good or ill, the Dejezmek, Jass Eshana, would lead the remnants of an army that had once held sway over a continent in what Alemeyu sensed was the final battle against an ancient foe.
Alemeyu looked at Issa. The Empress was dressed for travel rather than war: loose cotton tunic and senafil; no chamma or jewelry, save for the inevitable hair ornaments that glistened in the light of the torches on the balcony.
Issa gazed at the fires, which still burned at a long distance from the palace. Faint sounds of fighting drifted to her ears, and Alemeyu’s. Moment by moment, those sounds intensified.
“They are getting closer,” Issa murmured.
“I know,” said Alemeyu.
He said nothing about the even worse news Eshana’s messengers had been delivering: the full-scale invasion of Uloans; the walking dead fighting at the islanders’ side; the steady advance of enemy forces. The intervention of the Tokoloshe and the dwarves had slowed that progress only temporarily; the Uloans were swarming through the city like an invasion of vermin at a garbage heap.
“Mesfin.”
The voice came from behind the royal pair. It was Bekele, the officer Eshana had assigned to see to their safety. Bekele was a strong-limbed young man who reminded Alemeyu of himself at a younger age, when he was still a prince and not yet obliged to sit on the Lion Throne.
Alemeyu and Issa turned to face the soldier.
“What is it?” the Emperor demanded.
“Jass Eshana has sent another message,” Bekele said. “He thinks it best that you leave the Senafa now, and go to the Gebbi Zimballa – the Old Palace.”
A sharp hiss marked the sudden intake of Issa’s breath. Alemeyu said nothing.
“Soon you will not be safe here, Mesfin,” Bekele continued. He said nothing more. The final decision belonged to the Emperor.
“We will go,” Alemeyu said.
They followed Bekele from the balcony. Later, surrounded by the Emperor’s Guard,
and accompanied by Makah, the Emperor’s cheetah, they departed from the Gebbi Senafa. Behind them, a long line of servants carried items that were the last legacy of a long dynasty. Now, they were going to the place where that dynasty had begun.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Street Chaos
1
Athir Rin was well-acquainted with fear. Indeed, dread was his best, and perhaps only, friend. Without its constant companionship, he would have been dead many times over. Fear kept him alert. And as long as the Ship’s Rat stayed alert, he stayed alive.
Never before, however, had Athir’s companion been as persistent as it was now, as he ran in the midst of the Ashaki set of tsotsis through the dark streets leading out of the Maim and into a city under siege.
Fear had first spoken to him earlier in the day. He had been giving Jass Mofo yet another lesson in the exacting art of throwing weighted dice.
Mofo had already made excellent progress in a short time. Athir himself had not mastered so much of the art so quickly, and he had been considered a fast learner by a mentor whose compliments were given only grudgingly. Unlike his own teacher, Athir always made certain the tsotsi chief knew how well he was doing at acquiring this new skill. And he suspected his teacher would not have been so quick to criticize a pupil like Mofo.
But patience was not a primary characteristic of the tsotsis. Life in the Maim was intense, frantic and deadly. Tsotsis lived for the moment, not the future. Athir had always considered himself an impulsive person. Compared to the tsotsis, though, he felt like a priest trapped amid infidels.
Jass Mofo had thrown the bone cubes against the wall of his “throne room” for what seemed the hundredth time that morning. He was attempting to throw a four. But when the dice stopped rolling, the dots showing on their upturned faces added up to five.
Jass Mofo made a sound that was halfway between a snarl and a curse. Athir’s command of the Matile language wasn’t sufficient to allow him to make out all the words that followed. He felt it was just as well that he didn’t understand everything the tsotsi was saying. He was simply glad it wasn’t directed toward him
This was the first time Mofo had missed after six scoring consecutive successful tosses. In eight throws out of ten, he could make the bones fall as he intended. But eight out of ten was not good enough, nor was nine out of ten. Mofo didn’t need Athir to tell him that a crooked dice-roller’s tosses had to be perfect every time. And getting to ten-for-ten from eight-for-ten was not a rapid process, not even for someone with Mofo’s obvious natural talent.
That wasn’t what Athir chose to tell him.
“You’re really doing well, Jass Mofo,” he reassured. “It’ll be just a matter of time before you’re better than I am at this.”
Mofo stared at Athir. And that’s when Athir’s colleague, fear, settled into its home in the pit of his stomach. The climate in Khambawe was hot, but when Mofo gave him his bleak-eyed glare, Athir felt a chill stir inside like a stiff wind from the Northlands.
“Time be short in the Maim,” Mofo said.
He kept his eyes fixed on Athir’s. The Ship’s Rat didn’t dare to look away.
“Could be, time short for you too, Fidi-tsotsi,” he added.
Athir remained calm on the surface. Inside, his companion was becoming clamorous. He knew the novelty of his presence among the Ashaki was wearing off, and it was unlikely Mofo would fully master the bones before becoming weary of the Ship’s Rat. His mind raced in search of something to say that would divert Mofo from the anger that was becoming visible, building by the moment as he glared at the dice. Before Athir could say anything, though, an excited tsotsi burst into the room.
“Jass Mofo! Jass Mofo!” the tsotsi cried. “The Uloans come! They be killin’, burnin’ everywhere! Whole city be crazy!”
Mofo’s mood changed immediately. He forgot about his frustration with the dice, and his growing impatience with the newest recruit to his set. He smiled, and to Athir that simple movement of Mofo’s lips looked like the baring of a carnivore’s teeth.
Other tsotsis who had overheard the news now gathered around Jass Mofo and Athir. They anticipated what their leader would say next, and they were eager to hear it.
“This be our time now,” Mofo said, the feral grin still on his face. “This city – everything in it belong to us. And we gon’ take it all! Heard?”
“Heard!” the Ashaki set shouted in a single voice.
Then they whooped and waved their spiked weapons. One tsotsi snatched up a nearby drum and began to pound out a battle-rhythm. The others, still shouting, broke into a spontaneous dance.
Jass Mofo glanced at Athir.
“You gon’ do more than throw bones now, Fidi-tsotsi,” Mofo said menacingly. “Heard?”
“Heard,” Athir acknowledged.
His expression was as wan as the tone of his voice. And his internal companion was becoming relentless, its message impossible to ignore as he joined the tsotsis in their preparations for the looting spree of a lifetime.
Now, he was ranging with the tsotsis as they moved beyond the confines of the Maim. Never before had so many members of this set, or any other, ventured out of its territory at the same time. They preferred to do their work in the city by themselves, or with, at most, one or two companions, so they could blend more easily with the surroundings of their victims.
Now, however, the streets were either deserted or filled with fleeing, panic-stricken people to whom the sight of a full set of tsotsis on the prowl was as nothing compared to what they had already experienced from the Uloan invaders and their jhumbis.
Navigating the night shadows, the tsotsis were headed toward the wealthier part of Khambawe, where the Jasses and wealthy merchants kept their aderashes. Flames illuminated the night sky, and the tsotsis could hear outcries drifting up along with acrid smoke.
Athir had only a vague notion of who or what the “Uloans” might be. However, he sensed he was in great danger a he struggled to keep up with the fleet-footed tsotsis. The tsotsis were a gang, not an army. His inner companion was warning him that disaster loomed, despite their supreme confidence that they could do whatever they wanted now that the city was in upheaval. For emphasis, his companion clutched at his stomach with an icy hand.
Jass Mofo urged the set onward. hey needed to reach the loot-laden dwellings of the Jasses before the other tsotsi sets – or the Uloans – did. The Ashakis rounded a corner – and nearly collided with the vanguard of another gang of tsotsis. The hands of the newcomers bristled with weapons, and fire-filled light glittered madly in their narrowed eyes. Those eyes suddenly widened in recognition when they saw Jass Mofo and the others.
“Ashaki,” one of the others cried, spitting out the name of Mofo’s set as if it were a deadly curse.
“Hafar,” Jass Mofo said, naming the set that was the Ashakis’ most dangerous rivals in the Maim.
The Ashakis didn’t fail to notice the bulging sacks that several of the Hafars were carrying. The rival set had obviously learned of the Uloans’ invasion well before the Ashaki, and had managed to beat their enemies to the prize. The triumphant expressions on their faces conveyed their scorn for the Ashakis’ tardiness. But that didn’t disturb Jass Mofo.
“You done our work for us, Hafars,” he said. “Now, we gon’ take what’s ours.”
A moment later, Athir found himself in the midst of a screaming, blood-spilling melee as the tsotsi sets tore into each other.
2
Bujiji lifted his face and screamed into the night sky. So did the rest of his band of marauders. Theirs was a cry of madness and ecstasy, and it was answered by shrieks of terror from the beleaguered inhabitants of Khambawe.
The Uloan warrior carried a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. Firelight emphasized the scars the covered his scalp, and in the wavering illumination, the interplay of light and shadow lent an illusion of life to the image of Legaba carved on his chest. To the Matile who fled before him, he looked like the incarn
ation of a demon from the time when the serpent Adwe circled the world.
He lowered his face. And he spotted new prey: a Matile family, all terrified, no one armed. Like a pack of the wild dogs that roamed the plains of the Mainland, Bujiji and the others swept down on the Matile before they could flee. With shouts of “Retribution Time” roaring from their throats, the Uloans butchered all the members of the family, from the doddering patriarch to a girl-child ripped from her mother’s arms and skewered on a sword.
Then Bujiji tossed his torch into the house from which the family had attempted to escape. Flames caught on a tapestry that hung from a wall. The fire spread quickly, as had all the others the Uloans had set throughout Khambawe.
At the beginning of the invasion Bujiji’s band, numbering only about three dozen, had split from the main force while the battle at the docks was still raging. Doing so had been part of the battle plan Jass Imbiah had received from Legaba. While the main part of the Matile army was locked in struggle against the jhumbis, small groups of marauders would fan out to wreak havoc on the rest of Khambawe.
Bujiji glanced down at the corpses of the family he and the others had slain. Blood seeped from the tangled braids on their heads, and spattered their unscarred skin. Never before had he seen his people’s hereditary foes at such close range.
As his eyes lingered on the infant, Bujiji was reminded of Awiwi and the yet-to-be-born child she carried. But that thought quickly vanished. Burning and killing dominated his mind. It was Retribution Time, and as much as he and others had done so far, there remained more to do. Much more, even though the poison the huangi had infused on their sword-blades was losing its potency, diluted by the blood that coated the weapons from point to hilt.
Now, Bujiji looked behind him. Bodies littered the street. Houses were ablaze, their brightly painted walls turning black. Even the trees burned like giant torches. He turned to look ahead. The street was deserted. He and the other marauders had slain the last of those who had been slow to flee, and he saw no one else to kill.
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