Kalisha almost ran away then. However, she could hear a murmur of voices coming from the mansion. Whose voices were they, though?
She quivered like an antelope caught between a leopard and a lion. But she didn’t bolt. She felt a compulsion to know who was inside – Ashaki or foe. Was Jass Mofo still alive? Or was he as dead as the sentries whose blood thickened on the stones? It would only take one quick look to find out....
Kalisha edged her way to the entrance. She avoided the blood pools. Trusting the daylight shadows to hide her, she crept into the entrance. And her breath caught in a rasping wheeze in her throat at what her eyes showed her.
There were no enemies, tsotsi or otherwise, in the mansion – only Ashakis. But the numbers of the set were direly depleted. A row of mutilated bodies of Ashaki women and children lay in a row along one wall. Their wounds were horrendous; even the youngest children had not been spared.
Kalisha recognized Jass Mofo’s woman, Kimbi, among the dead. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear, and her eyes stared sightlessly at the destruction that surrounded her. Her dazzling jewelry and elaborate clothing had been taken from her – along with her life.
Mofo, along with the other survivors, was in the great chamber, which was now nearly empty. The pile of plunder that was the Jass’s throne was gone; only bits of worthless metal and scraps of shredded cloth remained. Kalisha knew then that Mofo had made one of the few miscalculations in his life.
For not all of the tsotsis had joined the massive looting spree in the city. Some of the sets had decided that pickings in the Maim would be easier, with so many fighters gone. And Mofo had not left enough defenders to guard his people and goods. And so, while the main body of the Ashaki had fought to the death against the Hafars and the Uloans, someone else had overwhelmed the sentries and looted the Ashakis’ aderash.
To make matters worse, no new booty was in sight. Mofo and the others had returned empty-handed from their foray. Dried gore encrusted the spikes of their weapons, and blood from their own wounds stained their clothing red. Despite their youth, the tsotsis’ faces bore marks of weariness that belonged on the faces of people who were much older than they.
The low murmur of conversation ceased when Kalisha entered the chamber. No one bothered to challenge her with the Ashaki signal as she made her way through the sad remnant of the set.
She approached Jass Mofo. Bleakness stared at her from the Ashaki leader’s eyes. It was as though a fire had gone out inside him, leaving only cold ashes behind.
“What you got for me, Amiya-girl?” Mofo asked in a flat, perfunctory tone.
Kalisha unwrapped herself from her stolen chamma and let it fall to the floor. Then she reached into the pouch and pulled out the silver Mask of Nama-kwah. She held it out to Mofo as if it were an offering to a king.
“I take it right from the Goddess,” she said. “No one see me; no one try to stop me.”
Mofo’s eyes remained lifeless as he gazed at the Mask. Without changing expression, he abruptly snatched it out of Kalisha’s hands and hurled it away. The Mask sailed through the air and clanged against the far wall of the chamber. Then it fell, dented, to the floor.
Kalisha could not believe what Mofo had done. The Mask of Nama-kwah had more value than all the loot the Ashakis had previously accumulated that year, and would easily make up for what had been stolen by the tsotsis who had looted the mansion. It did not matter to her that other tsotsis had stolen the other Jagastis’ Masks and most likely taken them back to their sets. To her mind, the Mask of Nama-kwah was the most beautiful – and valuable – of them all.
And Mofo had simply thrown it away, as if it didn’t matter in the slightest.
She stared at him as though he had suddenly gone mad, as if she did not know him anymore.
“You go, Amiya-girl,” Mofo said to her. “We all dead here. Everythin’ be gone. Nothin’ here for you now. Nothin’ here for none of us. Heard?”
Kalisha did not reply. Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall. She gathered up her stolen chamma. And she went to the Mask, picked it up and enfolded it in the garment. Then she ran out of the mansion without looking back.
The blighted streets of the Maim beckoned her. She answered their call, for she had nowhere else to go.
5
Gebrem and Kyroun strode swiftly through the streets of the well-to-do section of Khambawe. Although the area had not suffered as much damage as those closer to the docks, the Uloans and the tsotsis had still exacted a toll of destruction. Soot smeared the painted walls of estates and pools of gore congealed in the gutters.
Despite their advanced years, the two holy men were practically running to their destination – the Gebbi Zimballa, the place of refuge to which the Emperor and Empress had been taken. When they had awakened from their weariness-induced torpor, Almovaar had issued a warning that was heard by both the Seer and the Leba: Alemeyu and Issa were in danger. But the deity had told them nothing more than that.
The Amiyas and Initiates followed. Survivors in the street gaped at the grim-faced procession of magic-users who had saved Khambawe. Some followed out of curiosity, then others, then more. Soldiers and civilians alike streamed behind the clerics as they made their way to the haven, which was located beyond the city.
Despite the fatigue from which they were just beginning to recover, Kyroun and Gebrem did not falter when they passed the last of the estates on Khambawe’s perimeter. Silently, they proceeded through a swath of clipped grass, artfully arranged flowerbeds and groves of fruit trees. In the distance, they could see the Gebbi Zimballa. They noticed that the flowers were trampled, as though many feet had trod them into the ground.
And they saw something else coming rapidly toward them.
A yellow, black-spotted shape streaked past the crowd so swiftly that only a few realized that it was the Emperor’s cheetah, Makah. The beast was running as though it were pursued by demons, and it paid no attention to the people in its path. And everyone saw the red trail the great cat’s bloody paw-prints left on the grass. The spoor came from the Emperor’s refuge.
Kyroun and Gebrem hesitated only a moment before breaking into a run. Uneasy murmurs rose from the throng that followed them.
Soon they reached the royal refuge. Its broken doors hung askew from their hinges. No guards came out to greet them. The only sound to be heard was the ominous buzzing of hordes of flies.
Inside, the Leba and the Seer and the others saw what they had steeled themselves to find. Mangled corpses lay in heaps throughout the courtyard of the refuge. Others hung from windows and sprawled on stairways. Among them were the noisome remains of many of the Uloans’ jhumbis, as well as the spider-scarred bodies of the islanders themselves.
Gasps and choking sobs escaped the throats of some in the crowd. Those who could no longer weep simply stood and stared in disbelief. The Gebbi Zimballa was supposedly the safest spot in Khambawe; even during the worst days of the Storm Wars, it had never fallen. How could so many Uloans have breached it, many Matile asked themselves. It was a question none of them could answer.
Shaking his head in sadness, Gebrem moved forward, leading the others through the palace, searching through the jumbled corpses for familiar attire, a familiar face, dreading what he knew he would find. Then, in the ancient throne room, he saw a glimmer of the blood-spattered, ceremonial armor of the Emperor.
Dardar Alemeyu’s face was a crimson mask that was almost unrecognizable. Behind him lay the hacked body of the Empress Issa. Alemeyu clutched the Sword of Issuri in his stiffened hands. The blade was crimson to the hilt. Many Uloan bodies were scattered around him, along with those of the Matile soldiers who had guarded him to the death. The Emperor had died defending his wife and his people – a death that would raise him to heroic proportions in the future annals of the Matile.
So there was something beyond vainglorious arrogance in you after all, Cousin, Gebrem mused as he gazed down at his boyhood rival and adult nemesi
s. There was courage ...
He allowed himself a moment to mourn what might have been, had he and his relative begun their lives as friends rather than enemies.
“So ... Eshana will be Emperor,” he murmured aloud.
Although Gebrem’s tone was low, a soldier overheard him.
“No, Jass Gebrem,” he said. “The Dejezmek is dead. I saw him go down during the charge in the Market Square.”
All eyes then turned to Gebrem. For he was the one who stood next in line to Jass Eshana in succession to the throne. Now, Gebrem was the new Emperor of Matile Mara.
6
Great throngs crowded the beaches of all the Uloan Islands. The sea-breeze stirred the garments of the women, the children, the aged, and the infirm who had not been able to participate in the glory of Retribution Time.
They were awaiting the triumphant return of the Uloan armada. The huangis had promised them that once Retribution Time was done, the ships would take the islanders to the mainland, where they would rule over their ancient enemies, who would be their slaves forever.
Every day, the people of the Islands came to the beaches and waited. They waited silently. But the moment the first sails were spotted, they would sing songs of triumph.
And every day, the horizon remained empty.
All the huangi had gone away with the armada. Jass Imbiah had needed them to help her focus the ashuma of Legaba. So the Uloans had no way of knowing the outcome of the invasion. Yet their faith in Imbiah and Legaba sustained their hopes as they waited, and day after day, the ships failed to return.
If doubt crept into the minds of the Uloans, none dared to give it voice. It was true that the end of Retribution Time was taking longer than any of them had anticipated. But it would soon come. Soon come ....
In the meantime, the ubia-vines grew bolder, slithering onto the beaches and wrapping themselves around the ankles of the unwary. The other mwiti-plants in the forests appeared to be gathering their forces, as if for battle. The safeguards the huangi had left behind were slowly losing their potency. If that protection finally disappeared ... the Islanders blocked that possibility from their minds. The ships would soon come. They had to. The final victory would be theirs. After all, Retribution Time had come.
In the meantime, the Uloans stood on their beaches like living sacrifices to the sea ... waiting ... waiting ... waiting ....
CHAPTER TWENTY
Among The Jagasti
1
Nama-kwah floated in the borderspace between Khambawe’s harbor and the Ocean-beyond-the-ocean, the boundary between the world of Abengoni and the Realms of the Jagasti. Behind her, the Children of Nama-kwah swam in endless swirls that stretched far beyond any horizon that could ever have existed in the demesne of men and women. The luminous, multicolored fish and other sea creatures appeared to be performing a ritualized dance. They swam close to the unseen, yet clearly demarcated, barrier between the Realms of the Goddess and the world of humanity. Then they recoiled, as though in horror, and quickly swam away. And then, as if part of a performance, the Children of Nama-kwah repeated their sequence. It continued over and over, as though the Children had fallen under some spell of compulsion that could never end.
Light from a source that was not the sun glinted subtly from the jewel-like scales that descended from Nana-kwah’s head and covered most of her sinuous body. Her elongated arms and legs moved gently in the water. The goddess did not need such movement to keep her afloat, but she enjoyed the sensation of the water that flowed smoothly over her scaled skin.
Considering what was happening on the other side of the divide, it would have been understandable if even a goddess like Nama-kwah followed her first impulse and swam far away, never to return. Like her Children, however, Nama-kwah could not stay away for very long. Like them, she kept returning, motivated by a morbid fascination with what she saw.
Corpses drifted through the murky water of Khambawe’s harbor like leaves in a windstorm. Many had fallen to the ocean floor, where they lay in scatters and clumps – maimed, wide-eyed witnesses to the appalling carnage that had accompanied the defeat of the Uloans’ invasion. The water was still tinged crimson with the blood that had been spilled copiously in the final slaughter. And the wreckage of dozens of sunken, shattered ships also littered the bottom of the harbor, turning it into a carpet of broken boards and masts.
Matile, Uloan ... the identity of the wrecks and the corpses did not matter to the ocean currents that rocked them, lending a macabre semblance of life to the cadavers and animation to the smashed hulks of the ships. And it also didn’t matter to the sharks and the lesser scavengers that were devouring the dead.
Deep indentations on the sea-bottom delineated the path the Ishimbi statues had taken during their destruction of the Uloan fleet. Even though she was a goddess, Nama-kwah had still been impressed by the sheer scope of the sorcery that had been summoned to cause the gigantic statues to walk into the harbor. She remembered a time when she herself would have helped to provide such power to the Amiyas. But that time was no more, and long gone.
On the other hand, the massive killing had impressed her much less. It had sickened her, but she had remained to witness it just the same, even though she was under no obligation to do so.
She could have stopped it. She and all the other deities the Matile had worshipped and served for so long, and for so little in return – together, they could have stopped the horror. But they had chosen not to do so. And now, as she watched the sea claim the spoils the humans’ slaughter had given it, and her Children swam back and forth in a mindless dance of attraction and repulsion, Nama-kwah reflected on why the Matile had finally been abandoned in their time of need.
Abandoned by all – including herself.
But she had tried not to desert them completely. Yes, she had tried to forestall the tragedy that was to come. And her thoughts returned to the repeated attempts she had made to change the minds of her fellow Jagasti, even as she observed the result of her failure ...
2
Nama-kwah had prepared carefully for her journey to the Realm of Ufashwe, the God of the Wind, who was Nama-kwah’s closest friend among the Jagasti. Although the elements the two deities controlled were complementary in nature, the air in Ufashwe’s Realm could prove dangerous to her if she entered it without taking the proper precautions.
Complementary ...
Nama-kwah’s smooth brow had creased in a frown as she remembered how hollow a conception that had been during the time of the Storm Wars, when the ashuma that had been granted to the humans had escaped the control of even the Jagasti, and continued to rage unchecked to this day in the ocean off the coast of the Abengoni continent and the beaches of the Uloan Islands. In that part of the Beyond World, the Jagasti no longer held even a semblance of sway. The Beyond World’s own elementals of sea and sky were at war, a war that could not come to an end because of the mindless nature of its protagonists.
And the rest of the Beyond World had, for the most part, been abandoned by the Jagasti – all except Legaba, the seeker of power, who had striven to ensnare the Realms of Jagasti and humans alike in his far-reaching webs, only to bring himself, the Realms, and the world of humanity close to ruin.
Like Legaba, Nama-kwah also paid more attention to the Beyond World than did most of the other Jagasti. But her reasons involved sentiment rather than a hunger for adulation. Her latest – and now last – Vessel, Tiyana, had intrigued her. The young woman reminded her of other Amiyas who had served her in times long past – Amiyas whose deeds had become legendary among the mortals. She had touched Tiyana more than she should have. And Tiyana had, in turn, touched Nama-kwah, for even among the short-lived people of the Beyond World, there were those whose qualities had earned the admiration of the Jagasti.
Nama-kwah remembered Etiya and her songs. And the shaman, Jaussa, and his curiosity. And Jass Issuri, the first Emperor, and his courage.
During the Dance on the Waves that had accompanied t
he First Calling ritual, Nama-kwah had attempted to warn Tiyana of the chain of events that was about to occur ... events the goddess was capable of foreseeing, but not forestalling. Giving that warning was all she could do.
Even so, Nama-kwah could not ignore the entreaties Tiyana had sent to her in the House of Amiyas at the time when all the Vessels had vainly beseeched Jagasti to save them from the Uloans ... from Legaba. Alone, Nama-kwah could do little. But with even some of the others at her side – together, this time – catastrophic destruction might not prove to be the inevitable result of their intervention.
And so she would go to Ufashwe.
At the margin between her Realm and the Wind God’s, there was a blue space that was neither sea nor sky ... more than either, but less than both. There, Nama-kwah had metamorphosed. The scales on her skin merged into a single, smooth, opalescent covering that contained a second skin of water that would keep her body moist in Ufashwe’s sky-beyond-the-sky.
Then she raised her arms, and gossamer growths like the specialized fins of a flying fish formed between her arms and her sides. She stretched experimentally, and was satisfied that her makeshift wings would endure the buffeting of the winds in Ufashwe’s Realm.
Turning, she looked back at the multi-hued swarms of fish that thronged behind her. Where she would now go, none of them could follow and survive. With a gesture of farewell to her Children, Nama-kwah launched herself forward, out of her Realm and into Ufashwe’s.
As she propelled herself through the blue border, Nama-kwah could feel the resistance of the water diminishing; at first gradually, then more and more rapidly until, finally, it was gone. The blue lightened, until it became not the color of a calm sea, but the shade of a sunny, dry-season sky. But there was no sun in this sky, even though it was bright rather than dark, and the air was warm, and white wisps of cloud dotted the blue like flowers in a field. Ufashwe’s Realm was like a daytime that had neither sunrise nor sunset.
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