Griots

by Charles R. Saunders

  * * *

  Sumunguru wiped his sword’s blade on the bodies then lanced his eyes at the frightened innkeeper peeping from the kitchen.

  “I want a clean cloth, you hear me, to wipe the spew from my blade. Then a plate of that roast goat you are said to be noted for. And a flagon of the wine of this country, too.”

  He caught sight of several females in back of the proprietor, two of them painted of features. He smiled at them most reassuringly reaching out an elegantly raised hand towards them.

  “Heap my plate, man, I’ve worked up quite a hunger.”

  * * *

  As one incident played out down in the city and one messenger hurried off to deliver news he hoped would earn him reward, in an ancient walled manor not far from the scenes of celebration and blood, two figures sat across from one another over a low ivory tiled table. One was garbed in a swirl of colorful silks belted with a gold wire inlaid in semiprecious stones. Bald he was with a smooth triangular face. Under his heavy white brows two humor filled red eyes gazed out over a poniard sharp nose. It shadowed thin lips currently exposing teeth a fox would envy.

  Darker complexioned was the second, a streak of gray racing through her thick mane of black oiled hair. Her smooth tan skin adorned a lithe frame wearing a most becoming yellow and red gown. Her face was not veiled, nor was there humor in her bright green eyes. Her full lips were trembling with anger she was trying to contain.

  “I see no reason why we should be quarrelling, my sister,” the male said, especially sibilant on their implied relationship. “It is but a happenstance I have come to this place . . .”

  “Goxjivme, spill that milk for one of your acolytes to lap up!”, the woman said through clenched teeth. “Your hatred for the warrior is well known and is most evident,” she said, now smiling mountain winter cold at Goxjivme’s empty left sleeve.

  It was his turn to feel enraged. “Be careful, who you mock, witch! I’m not some imp to jump at the clapping of your hands!”

  “No? So how did Lord Sumunguru send you into the bush, howling like a kicked jackal pup?”

  “Here is where your beloved champion dies wench! Dethroned, alone and thousands of miles from his home.”

  “Why Gox! The poets hereabouts surely must inspire you! A new safer career beckons ahead. You’d be wise to take it.”

  The room was soon empty except for the purposely acrid wisp of dissipating vapor.

  “What have I got you into now my true one?” she asked the room. Of course it did not answer.

  * * *

  Later that night after the main celebrations had left the squares and all but the most profane of taverns, the starlit sky shone on a paved road ascending the ancient slopes of the bygone Celtic fort, itself transformed into, first, a Roman temple, than a church of the semi civilized Goth inheritors/invaders, was the Alhambra of the Malik Battur. Like a lion at rest, its moon white washed stones emanated an air of coolness and power, its famed seven fountains sang a sound of solace in the more private of areas. But all that was a false note. For Malik Battur’s usually calm features were knitted in a mask of rage.

  The eunuch who he had assigned to his daughter’s wedding escort, had been returned with a message. He couldn’t deliver it verbally, for his head had been delivered packed in a jar of ice. Formerly known for his skill as an informer on the doings in the harem, his sightless eyes said this was to be his last report. The six of the Silver Panther’s men who had escorted the messenger waited outside the audience room, detained and visibly nervous. They had said it was delicacies their master was sure the caid would most surely enjoy. Whether true and they were blameless expendables, or bold sardonic wolves in on the joke of their master, he had ground his teeth to decide what to do them if anything.

  His advisor Umr Kaftawbr, and the captain of his guard the Christian mercenary, Sebastiano of Juerano, were with him in attendance in the brightly lit room in the north section of the palace.

  “The dog is up to his usual games, my said, howling at his own wit,” Umr said in his cold atonal voice.

  The sight of the unfortunate’s head had caused him to refuse the wine proffered to him. Sebastiano was not bothered in the least but he was keeping a wary eye on his client lest he find himself placed in another unenviable position, such as led him here across the frontier. A slave scooped the remains up in the meanwhile. Then from a side door, four guardsmen escorted Hassan and Daud into the company’s presence. After they had shown the proper respects to the caid, Hassan was bade to rise and speak.

  “My lord most blessed of Allah’s children,” Sebastiano coughed into his fist. “Today I have witnessed a display of swordsmanship that only have lived in the tales of the poets. A Kaffir, his blade a part of him like talons are to a leopard, sent four down to death’s halls, among them Shirkuh Hammerhand, without a bead of sweat dotting his brow. He gives off the aura of a champion totally fearless, he challenged the whole inn to battle.”

  “And,”growled, Battur. “After seeing the four dead, two of them formidable bandits of the ill named Panther, lives ripped from them so easily, there was none there to take up the dare.”

  “Including you,” Umr said looking directly at the guardsman.

  Hassan stiffened. This puffed up tailor’s insult was bad enough but to have it spoken in front of this Christian swine was unpardonable.

  “He had an assignment that precluded such bravado, good Umr. Where is he now?” asked the now interested caid.

  “He took a room, there at his triumph, my lord.”

  “Good! Good! Sebastiano; bring this living legend here early tomorrow morning. We’ll pit cat against cat directly.”

  * * *

  Sumunguru noted that none of the riders he was accompanying wore anything that could tie them to the city of the caid. They had pushed their first mounts hard, then switched to their spare horses to gain ground on the wedding party, who they had over taken just before they had gotten deeper into the groom’s rocky hills home country.

  Forty horsemen escorted a large train of carts and pack donkeys up a road long used. As it had been explained to the So warrior by the ruler of the now hills hidden city, the ruler wished to strike a heavy blow against his longtime foe, the Silver Panther.

  “For too long he has mocked the laws of our taifa, but he has escaped retribution due to the mind of the prince must stay on the armies of the Christians, pushing ever southward. And this renegade and I are of equal power. If one was to whelm the other in a true clash of strength an opening would be made for the dogs of the north to sink their ever slavering teeth into the lands of all, may Allah forbid such an event, in his inestimable wisdom.”

  “Yes, may he in all his wisdom,” Sumunguru hid his sneer behind his silver jeweled inlaid goblet of wine. To avoid constant conflict Sumunguru acted when necessary the role of a proper Moslem, but he was an adherent of the gods and spirits of his ancestors, and looked on the belief in the one lonely deity as sand blinded foolishness.

  There in the garden with Sumunguru was one he recognized from the inn who had sat with the hill bandits, named Hassan. A mamba must have crawled across his mother’s belly when she was stuffed with him, he thought staring directly at the man, who jutted his jaw upward in a show of boldness. Sumunguru smiled sinisterly at the man reading in his posture a hollowness he could tip over with the clipping of a fingernail. There was also the tall, paler skinned, sharper featured, thin straw-colored mustache and hairy arms man, Cebashinno, who was to be in charge. A different type altogether, more steel in his soul. One who’d bear watching and listening to the tenor of his voice. Sumunguru had a specific task: He was to slay the groom, Abu Shama, a reputed eagle with a sword.

  “Take this one down and I’ll give you twice his head’s weight in gold, plus I’ll give fifty more gold coins.”

  “That is all you want, my lord? For this one’s head delivered to you?” asked Sumunguru, trying to be appropriately blank faced in his response.

  “M
y captain here shall see to the safety of my daughter, swordsman. I want you to see to the death of the Panther’s whelp. I shall make it three times its weight in gold, plus

  another hundred.”

  Now that moment was near. They were above the main road in a smaller boulder hidden pathway. There was a widening of the trail below them as it came to a large clearing between the hills. A crossroad, their road tied into it before ascending back into the hills to the west.

  “We’ll start and end it here,” said the mercenary leader. With him were twelve men of similar origin and harness of war hid by the clothing of the Moslems. The remainder, fifty-eight were Arabs or Berbers, wearing light or no mail at all. Sumunguru had been allowed to enter the armory and had chosen for himself a suit of mesh mail of such workmanship it could be rolled into a ball in his hand.

  “Our goals are there Negro, in the midst of the train. See; the fellow on the grey conversing with the covered cart? That is Abu Shama. Don’t underestimate him.”

  “Save our paymaster’s girl. I don’t want anything to jeopardize me collecting my fee. I might hold it against you, even if you’re dead. Let’s GO!”

  He put spur to his horse and tore off ahead of the others. Sebastiano cursed at the sound of command in the Black’s voice but followed with rest of his men. He watched as Sumunguru tore two flank riders from their saddles and rip into the main escort. Then he and his men crashed into them. He battered one escort down with a series of hard blows of his broadsword, then clove through the buckler of another, before sending him backwards over his horse with an up-streaking strike that tore through his leather armor splitting his chest open.

  But then a flight of arrows fell amongst the attackers from their right, then the shouts of over a hundred horsemen charging upon them. The reeling escorts stiffened as their companions tore into the attackers, some of the newcomers now throwing javelins as they came within range.

  Sumunguru had drove his sword into the belly of one escort, spilling he and his entrails into the churned-up soil. A rescuer rode up, screaming a battle cry. It soon turned into a brief screech of pain, with Sumunguru parrying his blow before delivering his own to his assailant’s ribs. He ducked in time a lance thrust, shearing the haft of it, before slamming home his blade like a fang into the throat of its unlucky wielder.

  “Die Dog!” cried out a red bearded horseman, bloody scimitar aloft.

  “Not today! And not by such as you, carrion bound bastard!”

  Like two predators in their prime and fighting for dominance of all around, the two champions dazzled the spectators with the display of their lethal skills. Abu Shama was a keen blade master, one of the finest in the region. Was. Sumunguru rained down blows that would have gave pause to a charging rhino. His arm numb, sweat blinding him, Abu Shama saw his end approaching as an unavoidable retribution of heaven, then the cold bite, and the blank of oblivion, as Sumunguru drove his blade into Abu Shama’s chest, its force snapping links of mail front and back. Before the dead man could topple from his ornate saddle, a swift reacting Sumunguru grasped him by his beard and beheaded him with a side slice up of his sword, leaving a lateral stump gushing blood.

  Stunned witnesses looked on in disbelief, then terror as Sumunguru placed the back of the severed head’s neck in his mouth sinking his teeth into the flesh. Hands thus free, he soon cut down another of the surviving escort, whose shock at the ghastly sight coming towards him chilled his soon to be spilt blood, still. Leaping over the fallen guard and reaching the silk and leather covered cart Sumunguru leaped from his saddle into the cart, to a chorus of screams Removing the trophy, he spoke matter of factly, as if at a far more peaceful endeavor.

  “I’ve no time to be gentle, darling, come along.”

  Thrown out bodily was a screaming slave girl then the daughter of Malik Battur was seen hanging limp over his shoulders, as Sumunguru jumped down from the cart to take swift strides to mount the relatively fresh mount of the late Abu Shama, who had stood loyally by its master’s crumpled corpse. Throwing the woman across the saddle Sumunguru sprung into the saddle and tore off westward up into the hills, the grisly bounty gripped firm in his teeth. Any interference was shown to be fatal as he cut down an overeager light horseman in his path, keen to attempt to avenge his leader’s son’s fate and mortally wounded another too slow to make a clear path to the djinn thundering his way.

  The handful of Battur’s men left were fleeing, closely pursued by the riders of the Silver Panther. But their leader Kalawun now felt they were pawns meant to cloak the demon in their midst.

  “Our lord is not going to like this one bit, friend Kalawun,” said the ex- Mameluke, the Turk Ilghazi, as they both sat their steeds in the midst of the stricken crossroad. Kalawun shrugged his broad shoulders, then sent a stream of phlegm from his broken nose onto the torn ground.

  “All things considered, Muamir didn’t like this boy all that much, just the mother. As for that “peace offering”, that djinn or whatever, is headed in the right direction.”

  He looked off at the small speck fast fading from view as it got amongst the rock-strewn west hills.

  “Take twenty who still have Allah’s gift of balls and keep him headed in that direction. The rest of you’–raising his voice so those still on the field and unhurt heard– ‘get ours out from among these gifts to the buzzards. Qutub, get your ass back to the hold and tell our lord all that has happened here! There is a chance that the ceremony might still be able to go on tonight.”

  He shivered, hopefully not too visibly. Though long gone from the strict path of his youth, even he knew what Ashad had been doing for the last decade or so was ever so . . . soul cringingly . . . a wounded man of Battur’s, Hassan, cried out when death finally, violently, sank upon him.

  Having found a stream Sumunguru rested and watered his horse as well as himself. He threw off his shredded khalat, to expose his mail clad body. Then the prize of Abu Shama’s head was wrapped in a good piece of it, another long thin strip was used to bind the woman known to him now by the name of Dihya. The young woman was cursed by having the facial features of her father the caid. A too broad forehead went down to a small chin, topped by a very small mouth. A moustache and beard did not mask that feature. Large brown eyes stared at him as he went through the saddlebags of his new horse.

  “Here, eat some of this bread and cheese. We’ll more and likely be hunted through these hills so I won’t have time to forage for us, so eat up. Go on, or are you worried about me, your highness?”

  “Who-who- who are you? What do you call yourself amongst we mortals, devil?” she said gaining control somewhat of the tremor in her voice. She made as if to hold her head higher on her long pale neck.

  Sumunguru smiled, acknowledging the young woman’s courage despite all she had been through.

  “I am Sumunguru Kante of the So peoples. From the lands far south of here, below the sand and rock sea, in another world altogether. But the emotions and deeds of men are the same there as here.”

  “Such as,” she said, her curiosity rising, despite her fear.

  The few of his color she had seen in the world of the seraglio, had been portly females, musicians and singers. He gave off and had demonstrated an assured power and skill. Confidence ran through him like the blood of her late husband and his men ran to pool on the earth.

  “So, my father’s hatred of Muamir Ashad could be masked until, Allah receive his spirit, Abu was within range and caught unawares. By one such as you.”

  Sumunguru nodded in agreement, biting his half of the flat loaf of seed covered bread. He rose up to his full height and looked around the darkening countryside. These hills were used as the grazing ground of goats and their fleecier cousins, so were bare of tall grass and thick brush. Here and there the stone foundations of the earth would show, like the uncovered bones of some shallow grave’s occupant uprooted by dogs and pigs.

  Through his reading of the guide stars of heaven that were starting to appear,
the way to the city lay in the southeast of where they now were.

  “You have to –flush out, mistress?”

  “What!”

  “So much for being a courtier. Do you have to piss?”

  “How vulgar!”

  “Yes it’s humbling or was meant to be, lest we think too highly of ourselves and measure ourselves against those far, bright stars above us, not much good that did. Well, do you?”

  “NO!”

  “Then let’s mount up.”

  He placed her upon the horse, taking the reins he started off at a ground eating lope, despite his armor. Not cresting hills but around their slopes, running through narrow gorges they went onward in the direction of Dihya’s home. Later they splashed across a small stream. It was nearly nighthunter’s dark when Sumunguru saw it. The Dogon of Home would have called it a sacred house. A tall tower like monument or shrine, it stabbed upwards into the evening sky.

  “You know of this, maybe?”

  “I would know little of such places swordsman, except something’s . . .”

  “Not right about it, eh? I’ve been to places almost like it in the lands of Home but the energy they gave off were inviting rather than this here one. It’s like an alert crocodile waiting for the first of the herd to enter the water. We’ll pass it . . . Come here!”

  He pulled Dihya down from the saddle just as a red ball came spinning from the hillock behind them. It zoomed by splashing against the entrance of the shrine, which appeared in the light. The horse galloped off in fear.

  “Son of the Kante! You have walked too long among the Living!”

  Another scarlet ball cannoned from the night, illuminating a figure with an upthrust right arm.

  “Damnit! A bow and some war arrows would be great to have around here now! Keep low and run towards that brush there. Then crawl, crawl, over to those boulders.”

  “Wh- wh- what of you?”

  “It’s somebody from my past. Move it now!”