* * *
Night had long since fallen, and the woman who had gazed at Imaro was in his arms. Earlier, he had learned her name: Miryat. And Tiba had explained the woman’s role in the rituals that preceded the Shinda.
Miryat had been chosen by lot to be the bearer of the Champion’s seed. Regardless of whether a Nubala Champion won or lost a Shinda – or whether he lived or perished – part of him would continue to exist among the people, if that were the will of the ancestors and Besu Jusa. Miryat had not yet received Guguk’s seed. Now that the stricken Guguk was no longer Champion, Imaro would be the provider of the seed.
Imaro’s hands caressed Miryat’s mbama-marked skin. It was as though his palms were gliding across tiny pebbles of flesh. If Imaro’s smooth skin disconcerted Miryat, she gave no outward indication as she lay beneath him.
Few words passed between them. Imaro strove to maintain a mental barrier between the present and the past. He struggled to banish his memories of other women who had lain beneath him; of the child he had not seen in more rains than he dared to count; of the salvation and suffering his choices had wrought ...
His decision to aid the Nubala was yet another fateful choice. What would it bring to the cattle-herders? What would it bring to him? He did not attempt to anticipate the answers to those questions. But he did believe there was scant difference between Itu-Nusani Mujo and his long-vanquished enemies, the Erriten of Naama.
He harbored no fear of the Three-faced One. He did not fear death, for he was Death’s Friend. And, was he not now giving life to the Nubala, as well as hope for freedom?
In the gloom of the dwelling that had been set aside for them, Miryat could see little of Imaro’s face as she clung to him. She sensed restraint, but not reluctance, as he thrust inside her. She did not know whether the outlander’s seed would result in a child. She only hoped that the warrior would defeat the Three-Faced One, and end her people’s nightmarish ordeal.
Miryat’s mbama-marks slid across Imaro’s skin as, spent at last, he removed his weight from her body.
“Do you want me to go?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “Stay.”
She remained with him until dawn.
* * *
The sun shone bright, hot, and fierce on the day of the Shinda. At the same spot where the Gifting had occurred, the Nubala and Jijiwi gathered, each tribe on its own side of the unseen demarcation between grass and sand. The Nubala made their presence known with repeated blares from the hollowed horns of cattle; the Jijiwi responded with rhythms beaten from small, hide-covered drums.
A final cacophonous crescendo, accompanied by the braying of the Jijiwis’ camels, announced the coming of the Champions. As was the right of the previous Shinda’s victor, Itu-Nusani Mujo appeared first. The white-robed Jijiwi made way hastily as Itu-Nusani Mujo strode to the open ground – half-grass, half sand – that served as the arena for the contest.
As the Jijiwi Champion drew nearer, the people at the forefront of the Nubala spectators involuntarily stepped backward, jostling against those who were behind them. Even though they had seen the Three-Faced One on more than one occasion, his presence still unnerved the Nubala.
The man like being stood nearly seven feet in height, and the length of its arms and the breadth of its body were reminiscent of the great apes that dwelled in the southern forests. Its legs, however, were not ape-like, but fully human in length and proportion, and sheathed in lithe muscle.
The skin of Itu-Nusani Mujo was the color of ash. Because vision seemed to bend when looking directly at the entity, it was impossible to determine whether that pigment was real or decorative. Save for a white cloth loin-pouch, the Three-Faced One was naked.
And the faces ...
One of them was positioned forward on the Champion’s thick neck. The other two jutted from the left and right sides of a huge, bulbous, hairless head. The three faces were identical – each one a gruesome mélange of human and demonic features. The eyes of Itu-Nusani Mujo were crimson slits. Feline fangs hung from its lipless mouths. Short horns protruded from its broad foreheads. The tips of those horns resembled sharpened stakes.
Now the Three-Faced One stood silently in the vacant space, awaiting its latest challenger.
The lines of the Nubala parted. And Imaro stepped forward.
Like the Three-Faced One, the warrior was clad only in a loin-pouch. Imaro’s garment was made from cowhide rather than cloth. Some of the Nubala began to murmur misgivings as their Champion approached Itu-Nusani Mujo.
Hope had risen in the Nubalas’ when they saw Imaro lift the huge rock higher than Guguk and Yahyi had done. Now, seeing the way Itu-Nusani Mujo towered over the outlander, those hopes began to wither.
As the Champions faced each other, a loud voice from the Jijiwi side broke the silence.
“What is going on here? This man is no Nubala!”
The speaker stalked forward and stood at the side of the Three-Faced One. He was Zuburi, the umad, or headman, of the Jijiwi. His white garments clung closely to his long, lean frame. Though his skin was as dark as that of any Nubala, his features were somewhat narrower. Beneath his turban, his eyes pierced like those of a hawk as he glared at Imaro.
“Who are you, outlander?” Zuburi demanded.
“Imaro,” the warrior replied.
As with the Nubala, the Jijiwi showed no indication that they recognized a name know throughout the rest of Nyumbani. Then Tuatat stepped from the crowd and faced the umad. The wachik gestured toward the Three-Faced One, while looking steadfastly into Zuburi’s eyes.
“And this one is no Jijiwi,” Tuatat said quietly.
Zuburi opened his mouth to retort. But Tuatat was quicker to speak.
“When the Three-Faced One first became your Champion, we objected because he was not one of you. You said we were afraid to pit our Champion against yours, and it did not matter that your Champion was an outlander. Now, we have an outlander of our own to stand against yours. Are you afraid, Zuburi?”
“No, you naked eater of cattle-dung!” Zuburi growled. “But where does this man come from? Why is –”
“Silence!”
All the mouths of the Three-Faced One spoke simultaneously in a deafening roar. Tuatat stepped backward; Zuburi flinched. Only Imaro remained steadfast.
“This one will be of no more consequence than the others,” Itu-Nusani Mujo declared. “Begone – both of you.”
With as much dignity as they could muster, Zuburi and Tuatat made their way back to the lines of their tribes.
Then the Shinda began.
* * *
Imaro closed quickly with his foe. Earlier, he had listened to Yahyi’s account of previous contests, as Guguk remained unconscious in the grip of the illness Tiba’s magic had inflicted. Imaro had listened respectfully ... but he would battle Itu-Nusani Mujo in his own way, not that of the Nubala.
The combatants grappled, hand seeking purchase on bare skin. Itu-Nusani Mujo underestimated the strength of its smaller opponent, and Imaro was able to force the Jijiwi Champion to take a step backward ... then two ... then three.
Gasps rode from both the Jijiwi and the Nubala, for no other Nubala champion had been able to make Itu-Nusani Mujo retreat more than a single step. Now, the man-like entity was actually giving ground.
Then Itu-Nusani Mujo stopped moving backward. Planting its feet firmly, it lifted Imaro from the ground, and tossed the warrior as though he were a child. With jarring impact, Imaro landed several feet away. The Nubala groaned as their Champion lay inert.
Immediately, Imaro sprang to his feet. He showed no sign of any injury from the force of his fall. The Naglopa ceased their expressions of dismay. But their confidence in Imaro’s ability to defeat Itu-Nusani Mujo was beginning to fray.
Again, the Champions closed on each other. Imaro exhibited none of the caution that might have been expected after his first exposure to the Three-Faced One’s might. Instead, the warrior bent at the waist, wrapped bo
th arms around one of Itu-Nusani Mujo’s thighs, and jammed his shoulder into the abdomen of his foe.
Unexpectedly thrown off-balance, Itu-Nusani Mujo tottered a moment, then fell to the ground with a thunderous crash. Imaro released his grip, sprang backward, and moved beyond the reach of the Three-Faced One’s flailing limbs.
Both the Jijiwi and the Nubala stared in stunned silence as Itu-Nusani Mujo clambered awkwardly to its feet. Both sides were well aware that Itu-Nusani Mujo had never before been thrown. Renewed hope kindled among the Nubala, while the Jijiwi experienced their first gnawing of doubt.
The central face of the entity glared at Imaro, who calmly awaited his adversary’s next move. The other two faces turned, to the greatest extent possible, to scowl at him as well.
“Am I still of ‘no consequence,’ Three-Faced One?” the warrior asked.
The eyes of all three of the entity’s faces blazed in a brilliant shade of scarlet as Itu-Nusani Mujo’s muscles suddenly swelled to twice their already-impressive size. All three mouths opened wide and issued a collective roar louder than that of any lion. Nubala and Jijiwi alike clapped their hands to their ears to lessen that awful sound. Imaro’s hands remained at his sides.
Still bellowing in wordless rage, Itu-Nusani Mujo charged toward Imaro. The entity spread its arms wide to forestall any avenue of escape. But Imaro made no attempt to evade his attacker.
At the moment a collision appeared inevitable, Imaro ducked beneath the right arm of Itu-Nusani Mujo, then stepped nimbly to the side of the onrushing entity. When Itu-Nusani Mujo passed him, Imaro leaped onto his foe’s broad back. He locked his legs around Itu-Nusani Mujo’s waist. Then Imaro’s fingers reached for the neck of the Three-Faced One.
In the meantime, pandemonium erupted among the spectators on both sides.
“What is he doing?” was the most common outcry.
“This is wrong!” more than a few Jijiwi shouted.
“How can the outlander throw Jijiwi by climbing onto his back?” Yahyi demanded of no one in particular.
But Imaro had no intention of attempting to throw Itu-Nusani Mujo a second time. The grip of his legs held his body firmly in place as Itu-Nusani Mujo twisted and spun in ferocious attempts to dislodge him. The teeth on the faces at the sides of the entity’s head gnashed perilously close to the warrior’s forearms as his fingers probed for what he had seen during his first grapple with his foe.
It was what he had hoped to see ... something that would make the battle less difficult, even though it was already one of the deadliest he had fought since the time of the Naama War.
There ... he found it! A crack between the neck and jaw-line of the Three-Faced One ... the opening Imaro needed.
He wormed his fingers into the gap, pushing it further open. Then he hooked them into an iron grasp, and the muscles in his arms coiled as he pulled upward with all his preternatural strength.
Itu-Nusani Mujo stood stock-still for a moment, before all three mouths opened like caverns, with a single word erupting from three throats:
“Noooooo!”
As the outcry echoed, Itu-Nusani Mujo hurled itself backward, hoping to crush Imaro beneath the entity’s greater bulk. Breath whooshed from Imaro’s lungs and his head cracked painfully against the ground. But he did not lose his grip, and the gap between Itu-Nusani Mujo’s jaw and neck continued to grow.
Now Itu-Nusani Mujo rolled in one direction, then another, scattering Nubala and Jijiwi as it strove desperately to dislodge its tormenter. But the Three-Faced One’s efforts were to no avail, as Imaro clung resolutely. And the gap widened with a cracking sound, accompanied by a keening wail from Itu-Nusani Mujo. No longer did the entity’s voices cry out in chorus; they bellowed separately in distress and desperation.
Slowly, Itu-Nusani Mujo’s struggles waned. Its outcries dwindled to whispers. Imaro, in contrast, redoubled his effort. It was as though he were attempting to rip Itu-Nusani Mujo’s head from his shoulders. But instead of coming loose, the three faces and the integument that connected them were peeling from the head underneath.
With a final pull, Imaro tore the three faces from their mooring. The body beneath Itu-Nusani Mujo’s head shuddered spasmodically, then lay still. Gasping from his exertions, the warrior rolled away from his foe and allowed the object he had torn away to settle like a limp rag on his heaving chest.
His assumption had proven to be correct. The thing that covered Itu-Nusani Mujo’s head had to be a mask, though one unlike any he had seen during his wide wanderings. And he had guessed that the mask would be his true adversary in the Shinda, not its wearer ...
As both the Nubala and Jijiwi spectators gathered around the two combatants, Imaro began to sit up. It was then that the substance of the Three-Faced One’s mask flowed upward and adhered to the warrior’s head.
* * *
Viscous, translucent fluid enveloped Imaro’s face. Beyond the foul substance, he could see only dim light and vague shapes. Directly in front of him, he stared into the central face of the living mask – from the inside. The face was expanding like a drinking-skin filling with water.
Looking to both sides of the mask, Imaro saw that the other faces were also expanding. And he saw the fingers of both his hands, locked around the edges of the mask as he struggled to tear the loathsome thing away from his head. But the mask clung to him like a burr to cloth; and to his consternation, he found that his resistance was weakening.
Still, Imaro strove. He did not know whether he was sitting or lying on the ground. He knew only that the mask of Itu-Nusani Mujo was attempting to usurp his will, and drive his spirit from his body. The living mask was part-demon, part-parasite ... a creature that had existed long before the advent of the Erriten.
The faces spoke to Imaro even as he fought to dislodge them. Insidious thoughts crept into his mind like tendrils of pure malevolence.
Why do you not yield, warrior?
You are strong; we can make you stronger.
Yield ...
Yield, and you will live like a god, and all others will bow to you in terror.
Yield not, and we will make you unseeing, unhearing, helpless.
Yield ...
Imaro’s only response was to amplify his efforts to remove the mask. The mask’s triune consciousness probed deeper into the warrior’s mind and spirit, seeking the source of a resistance stronger than any it had encountered during it countless rains of usurping the bodies of mortals.
The mask found what it sought – and recoiled in alarm. The mask had not heard Imaro’s name before this day, for the entity had always remained aloof from the undertakings of deities and sorcerers. Now ... it knew who Imaro was, and what he had done during his long lifetime. It sensed the stirring of the Cloud Strider within the warrior. It understood how hollow its promises were to one such as Imaro. And it recoiled as though seared by sudden flame.
In that moment, Imaro ripped the living mask partway from his head. But he could not pull it all the way free. Pain worse than nearly any he had previously experienced tore into the skin of his face as the mask continued to cling. Imaro’s throat closed on an outcry. And he continued to tug at the moist, leathery substance of the mask.
Then Imaro saw the shadowy shapes of hands on the mask ... hands that clutched and tore at its substance even as the agony of its continued adherence caused Imaro to rend harder at the mask’s rim.
And the mask’s consciousness spoke again:
This cannot be!
This cannot be!
This cannot be!
This cannot –
Then Imaro knew no more.
* * *
When his eyes opened, the first thing Imaro saw was a ring of faces above him – not the faces of the mask, but those of the Nubala and Jijiwi. He felt the hardness of the ground beneath his back. His face throbbed with pain, as though the skin there had been torn away.
He rubbed a hand across his face, then held it in front of his eyes. It was not blood that co
ated his fingers, but instead a noxious-looking fluid that resembled silty water and smelled like carrion. As Imaro looked at the hands of the people surrounding him, he saw the same type of fluid dripping from their fingers.
Imaro began to rise. His movements had little of his usual pantherish grace as the others helped him to his feet. When he looked down, he spotted scattered fragments of a leathery-looking substance. Some of the pieces were recognizable as parts of the faces of Itu-Nusani Mujo. Splotches of the same foul-smelling liquid that dripped from the fingers of Imaro and the others covered the pieces of the mask.
Then an inert form lying nearby caught Imaro’s attention. Disengaging from the hands that held him upright, he tottered toward it on legs that were still regaining their strength.
The warrior looked down at a desiccated husk only barely recognizable as the corpse of Itu-Nusani Mujo. Its skin hung loosely on its large bones, as though the thews beneath had wasted away. Its face bore only suggestions of features: a cavernous opening that was once a mouth; a nub of a nose; eye-sockets that were little more than slight indentations beneath protruding brow-ridges.
“We could not allow the mask to take you,” said Tuatat.
“Nor could we,” added Zuburi.
Imaro turned to face the headmen of the Nubala and Jijiwi. The umad and the wachik stood somewhat apart from each other, as did the people of their tribes. All were blinking in bewilderment, as though they had difficulty believing what they had just seen – and done.
“When it looked as though you might not be able to pull the mask from your head, we had to do it ourselves,” said Zuburi. “The cattle-herders did not know it, but Itu-Nusani Mujo was as much an evil to us as it was to them.”
“When we saw the mask crawl onto your face, we knew it could not be allowed to remain there,” said Tuatat. “It had to come off. And, thanks to you, we knew it could be done.”
“The Three-Faced One made us many promises when it first came among us,” said Zuburi. “He told us that with him at our side, we could take anything we wanted from the cattle-herders.”
Griots Page 31
