They engaged in combat of a different sort.
* * *
“I must leave,” Dinga said, Ifriquia still coiled in his embrace. She rolled over to face him.
“Where do your travels take you now?”
“North.”
The Soninke had entrusted themselves to his care. Dinga could not simply abandon them.
He couldn’t betray their trust.
* * *
Dinga found the raiders quickly enough. He knew of the traders’ caravan, trafficking in salt, daggers, silk, jewelry, fine cloth. The traders’ route from Maghreb to Wagadugu followed a simple path starting in Tahert, near the north. Coming down through Sjilmasa, the trail went south and inland—parallel to the coast—then round the south east, through Audaghust to Jenne-jeno. The raiders weren’t attempting to hide their trail much. Either they didn’t think much of the Soninke people or they trusted too much in the protection of their master.
Sweat dripped from Dinga's body, but he remained motionless, save repositioning his grip on his spear. He ignored both the stifling heat and the cloying dampness, waiting with the patience of a poised spider. The raiders—small fumbling creatures—turned upwind, then vanished into the bushes. Still he waited. Then an uneasy thing stirred in his stomach triggered by the sudden oppressive silence. He held his breath, not sure if he actually heard anything. Again, he scanned the stillness of the forest trail. He moved through the dense underbrush with the practiced ease of a hunter. His heart shot to his throat.
A wild scream cut through the jungle.
Puffing a curse under his breath, Dinga raced toward the source in an instant. Instinct drew his hand toward his sword’s hilt; he reveled in the opportunity to fight with both weapons. He brushed back branches with his spear, then withdrew along the dense foliage. He paused, meeting with a slight shaking of leaves. The bushes parted as the raiders came into view. They carried a woman between them.
Light dappled through the leaves. Large globules of sweat beaded along his brow. With no wind against his face, he took a more comfortable grip on his spear. A few heartbeats later, he bounded from the bushes. The first raider dropped his end of his prize, quickly bringing a shard of sharpened bone to bear. Dinga disarmed him with a casual flick of his spear. The scrape of metal on bone tore through the air. Enjoying the heft of his sword, Dinga flailed down. The blow was swift, brutal, and strong, crunching through flesh and bone. He split the raider's skull, releasing a mass of blood and brains. He waited for the other raider to reveal himself.
Suddenly, he cursed himself for a fool. He felt lured deep into the jungle, where even during the day, huge shadows loomed. Something shifted along the corners of his vision. A blur of motion. The woman had vanished. The shadows congealed, cutting him from the most direct way back whence he came. A low wail erupted along the forest floor. A wisp of spirits, engulfed in darkness, coalesced into the form of a fat beast, bulbous, like a tree frog. The shadow creature spoke in a language older than men; a spirit thing in thrall to an unseen master.
Its claws struck through the shadows. A hot wet gush of blood fled Dinga’s side. Its touch defiled him, mocked him. Its slow, lumbering movements parried his. Dinga ran, pushing his way through the underbrush, each movement sending a hot spike of pain through his side. However, he wasn't going to face this shadow beast on these terms. He entered a glade where the forests merged into the grasslands, his trail cut short by the sheer drop off that emptied into a ravine. The creature staggered wildly, weakened by the seething sunlight. Dinga stopped at the cliff's edge, waiting on the creature's slow approach. When he sensed that it was within range, he turned with an impetuous ferocity, shoving his upthrust spear into the beast's belly, sending it tumbling down the ravine. It may not be dead, Dinga thought to himself. Though there was one way to make sure: cut the head from its master.
Clutching the wound in his side, he plunged on. Running proved to be torturous. He soon spied the movements of the surviving raider. The raider pursued its own course oblivious to it being followed. He ran with ape-like lopes to the rear wall of Jenne-jeno, scaling it with ease. By the time Dinga had reached a good vantage point, he neared delirium. That was the only explanation for what he saw. Discerning the shadows, the raider he trailed halted at the grove. His skin hardened, took on a waxy complexion. Cracks formed along his face, smooth features giving way to flattened crags. Its flesh molded and hardened until it completed its transformation, assuming the form of another totem.
“Onyame take their hearts,” Dinga swore.
With that, he passed out.
* * *
When he awoke, Dinga’s keen eyes studied the shadows. He planned his entry through the thinned grove of totems etched against the night sky. Ten horses, bedecked with gold embroidered fabrics, surrounded Bida’s pavilion. Though silent as a cat, Dinga felt the sting of his lacerations as he moved; however, neither weakness nor mercy dimmed his eyes. His blood was up, his muscles twitched beneath his skin. He snuck into Bida’s quarters. Sons of a vassal ghana stood to his right, resplendent in their splendid garments and hair plaited with gold. At the door, dogs of excellent pedigree, strutted with collars of gold and silver, each collar studded with matching balls of each metal.
Coming into full view, Dinga grinned with painful effort. He helped himself to Bida’s wine. Bida glared at him with baleful eyes, then dismissed his court with a wave of his hand. The men scattered, leaving the plates of their interrupted meal. Dinga approached the lapis lazuli steps that led to the massive chair with jewel-bedecked arms and high back.
“You’ve returned, wayward son of the Soninke.”
“I have unfinished business, pretender chieftain.”
“I am no pretender,” the high priest smiled, “I am Bida the Eternal.”
“Ghana for now.”
“Once I secured the uncle-nephew relationship. After that, Ermene had but one further use to me.”
“What was that?”
“Dinner.” Bida picked clean another bone from his plate, sucking loudly for emphasis.
Dinga quaffed the remainder of the wine. “I dispatched your raiders.”
“They, too, served their purpose; stirring up fear in the people. And collecting my ... sacrifices. The villagers prove more tractable, increasing their dependence on whoever can guarantee protection. Look out that window. What do you see?”
“A farmer foraging for scraps.”
“Some Berber. If I wanted, I could lend him my aid in turn for sacrifice and make him into the ruler of a mighty nation.”
“I have no use for magic. What problems I have can be solved with my sword arm.”
Bida rose, growing in stature even as the shadows deepened. Dinga choked back the cry that sprang to his lips, in a mix or horror and near-panic. Surely this had to be a trick of the mind. He met Bida’s contemptuous stare. The red rage welled up in him. He ground his teeth until his gums bled. His head swam, the roar of war-chariots echoing in his ears. Shadow talons raked across his chest, sending him tumbling backwards. He withdrew his sword. In his travels, too many myths had shown themselves to be realities. Thus, the old, often conflicting legends about the age before man, the rise of the Nephilim and the power of the dark lords of Kawkaw. Surely, his magicks were no match for Dinga’s iron. His quick eyes and sure feet allowed him to scramble out of Bida’s grasp. Dinga possessed an unusual wiry strength and agility, leaping to the back of the high chair to face his foe.
Dinga cleaved the robed figure at the neck.
Bida erupted into a ball of flames. His essence, what remained of it, took to the sky. Dinga followed the display to the front of the pavilion, staring transfixed. Among the gathered on-lookers, he eyed Ifriquia. A brief smile passed between them, then he turned away as if called. He locked his gaze to the horizon. Without straying, he clutched his spear, leaning on it, then marched through the parted crowd.
And thus, he departed. His eyes forever fixed on the horizon.
* * *
The old griot spoke for almost two hours. The ghana’s court dispersed slowly at the close of his tale as if their blood had congealed. The ghana left, his thoughts all his own. Only two figures remained. Okomfo approached Djobo.
“You risked great offense,” Okomfo said.
“What do you mean?”
“Ghana Menin is a Berber.”
“I know. I am both fool and truth-teller,” Djobo said. “People listen, or not, as they will.”
“Dinga Cisse truly was a man who walked a lonely path and carried a heavy burden,” Okomfo said.
“That is the way of leaders. And heroes.”
“There are others who walk such roads, but cling to the shadows.”
“I pray that I didn’t offend you,” Djobo said, hoping to spare himself any harsh words.
“Not at all, story-teller.” Okomfo adjusted his gold serpentine bracelets. “I merely wanted to congratulate you on a tale well told.”
In the Wake of Mist
By
Kirk A. Johnson
Vapor and smoke covered his eyes, hiding the sky and earth, and all in between. The thick odorless mist chilled him with an eerie silence. Its foreboding stillness crawled over his flesh with icy intent, feeding his fear. His clammy fingers gripped the fanged charm dangling from around his neck, hoping that it would protect him within the bleached prison. But the surging smoke steadily robbed his confidence in talismans with each hesitant step.
Sangara inched steadily through the dry grass, recalling the steel-helmed Manden astride their scarlet-tasseled steeds ride from the grim gates of Da Boura to Kindou’s aid. He remembered how they rode west and then north along the majestic range of the ancient Fouta Juma Mountains, its primordial peaks watching the mailed convoy ride in fervent pursuit of Kindou’s ravagers. And the Ramaasou, having little time to drop their plunder, met their pursuers with mad-howls and wolfish war cries.
The earth moaned with the thunder of iron-shod hooves and sandaled feet stirring the blood of every man within the stern-eyed cavalcade, with chariot and horse falling upon them in savage vengeance. And Sangara, seeking the taste of glory and honor, spurred his mount ahead of the unholy chaos of flesh and steel; only to feel the cruel blow of a hard-flung war-club cover his eyes.
But when he awakened the echoes of crashing shields and whispering spears were replaced by the eerie silence of an empty world. Blood stained his face. His skull throbbed and he cursed the gods for it with a nagging thought filling his mind, “Where are my kinsmen?”
Sangara’s heart drummed in rhythm with his mounting pace. The primordial fog propelled his flying feet, causing his black hauberk to rustle under his quilted battle-dress. The ground became hard and gritty underfoot. His sword cleaved in desperation and despair through the thick and steamy air, feeding his fear and goading him into a frenzied panic which threatened to swallow his soul. But a loose stone ended his mad dash and with his armor lending weight to his falling frame, his sword escaped its grasp; and echoed throughout the blank emptiness.
* * *
Moments later Sangara’s eyes blinked in bewilderment as he stirred within a gloomy cavern instead of the enshrouding smoke. Quickly he grabbed his sword, sprang to his feet, and braced for battle. A sickly phosphorous glow illuminated the unearthly surroundings revealing a high ceiling covered with teeth-like rock dripping with melting ice with faint echoes booming in the darkness.
He judged himself deep within the forbidden depths of the Fouta Juma Mountains and tales of the Bafour giants laying their kings into great tombs filled his thoughts. He imagined secrets being whispered into the ears of sorcerers and witches by eldritch abominations. And curses laid upon unwanted guests by long dead tongues who were known to feast on the men of the world. Evils driven into the earth by the Hunter-Lords and who now call these places—home.
Then a howl shattered the dead silence, challenging him as it echoed throughout the cavern. And from out of the surrounding rock hurtling towards him seven ragged and rough rogues brandishing cruel blades and savage eyes. The godless Ramaasou, which he had so ardently pursued, were now thrown at him by the mysteries of fate.
Sangara charged the wild men with eyes ablaze and dark abandon pumping through his veins. His hungry blade swung left and right, severing matted heads and shoulder joints; mallet-hard fist dislodged decaying teeth from ruined lips. He battered his way through the blood-keen mob, creating a wedge in their ranks toward the cave wall. There he braced himself. His swarthy visage hid behind grisly streaks of gore and sweat; his sleeveless jack dripped black-red with scars and cuts, as he realized his long-awaited dream of battle and blood.
“Come dogs, and test skills with the Daan Toura’s son!” he roared.
A full-on charge answered him and he replied with heavy blows, gashed skulls, and severed muscles. He had become a giant-king of old, towering over the desecraters of his tomb; arching his coated blade back and forth, summoning death cries and crimson screams, which painted his ebon arms and quilted chest. No more a lost child in the dark, but a wraith of war feasting on the brutal thirst of battle-madness.
The marauders neither wavered nor faltered from their labor, scarring Sangara’s flesh with long damp slits. But he felt none of their stings. And as the last foe fell; a great call rang throughout the cavern walls warning the ancestors —- a Da Bouran is born.
Exhausted, his powerful chest heaved in tempo to the beating of his heart as the battle-rage slowly flowed out of him. Heavy erratic breathing resounded within the lifeless space surrounding him. He sat against the cave wall staring at the carnage left in his wake. The reek of death choking the damp air.
This was not his first kill. Twelve cycles ago, he alone hunted and slew the kura of the west, and whose massive fang now adorned his corded throat as a charm. That was the greatest triumph of a youth . . . until now. He had prevailed against a greater number of armed men and trophies were necessary for ceremony and honor-bound gifts.
Wearily, he rose from against the wall, brandishing his arm dagger and set forth to work with his trophy-hunt when a chilling laugh echoed through the blackness. A maniacally ancient tone that traveled in and about the depths, chilling his heart. It seemed to come from every crack and cavity of the ancient den.
“Welcome slayer” crooned the voice. “Rejoice! You have survived your first ordeal and so are marked!”
The strange accent was of neither Xaftaan nor Zarman in fashion. His acute ears also caught the mark of scholarship and madness, the brand of cursed men.
“Look yonder man-boy and accept refreshment from my spring,” invited the voice.
With sword and dagger still drawn, Sangara quickly turned. He saw a crowned eagle-head carved out of the raw stone, bowing over a basin jutting out underneath. Its skillfully carved beak spouted a stream of crystalline water, the clearest he had ever seen. The glittering splashes moistened his dry mouth. And as if in a dream, he found himself gliding over towards this most inviting of apparitions, forgetting well-fought trophies and the curse of giants. He stared long into the water as it flowed out of the walls.
“Go on! Drink!” the voice commanded. “You have earned it.”
Sangara sheathed his dagger and gingerly stretched out his dirtied palm into the spouting liquid. The taste sprinkled his palate with a peppery, honey-sweet taste and as cool as the western breeze. A delicious mixture that excited his mouth and beckoned him to take more. He braced himself on the edge of the basin and submerged his crested pate deep into the pool. The ever-flowing water washed away the sweat, blood, and uncertainty. A strange surge coursed throughout his soul. He felt the ease of control and his body straightened itself, like a great baobab tree in defiance of hard winds. There was neither exhaustion nor fear. He felt the power of his entire bloodline boom within him and felt the rule of gods bend to his will.
Laughter from the gloom echoed once more with mocking delight. “Ha. you have been poisoned!”
Bewilderment shot throu
gh Sangara’s face, but instead of grief or sadness, he felt fury and determination.
“Then if I am to die! Show yourself! ‘Toad of the dark’! ‘Knave in rock’! Come and allow my passing to be painted with your blood!” he defiantly cried.
“Stout words for one so young. I do believe the effects have taken hold,” answered the voice.
Sangara’s eyes narrowed as he realized that the voice was right. He was bolstering with the voice of his father, granting him the timbre of a warrior in full prime.
“To arms gallant!” called the voice. “The mist beckons you!”
Quickly, Sangara turned and spied an eerie glow illuminating from a tunnel he had not noticed before. Across the chamber, the pale, glowing mist that greeted him earlier had returned carpeting the cave floor. Fallen weapons and butchered bodies vanished into the undulating phantasm as it crept toward him.
“What? Does the slayer fear lighted corridors?” Sinisterly mocked the accent. “Go! Hurry before the light fades and I leave you in black bewilderment!”
Sangara warily approached the tunnel mouth with sword gripped and jaw clenched, stalking cautiously into the glowing maw of rock and stone.
* * *
The ashen mist trapped within the wide corridor pulsed with a disturbing aura. The stench of foul, butchered flesh alerted his battle-honed sinews to the black doom that awaited him. The tunnel meandered on for endless paces. The floor felt marred with grooves and furrows beneath his sandaled feet, and adding to his ever-growing unease crept the eerie fluorescence. Eventually the tunnel opened up into an expansive sub-terra identical to the chamber he had previously exited. He started to question whether he had gone around in a circle or perhaps left his sanity behind on the sub-terrain battlefield. He noticed, on further inspection, the far walls cavitied with slime-covered burrows and crimson scars.
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