I will not shame you, he thought. I may die, but our name will live, with pride.
Led by Shaka's chief ghazi N'tomi, for the last two hours Aidan and hundreds of other mamluks had crawled through grass and brush until they were almost within rock-throwing distance of the main gates. Aidan peered through the bushes bordering the Aztec camp, mindful of thorns.
The rude wooden wall surrounding the camp was less sturdy than that surrounding his own Ghost Town. Five guards walked the periphery, bearing feathered shields. He guessed that there were platforms on the other side of the wall, from which archers could fire arrows and rifles.
When they were within eighty cubits of the gates, the guards suddenly become hyperalert, staring out into the grass.
As if that was their cue, N'tomi rose and screamed: "At them!" And he charged.
There was a moment's pause, and then a wail from behind Aidan as a ghazi sword pierced the side of a hesitant mamluk. Aidan's companions, as a single man, rose and charged.
The first guards were overwhelmed, faced by a charging wave of half-crazed slaves. Aidan struggled to run fast enough for exertion to drown his fear.
He carried a spear with a short shaft and a long metal head, sharp along both edges, a weapon good for stabbing or throwing. He was just behind N'tomi who had sprinted forward at one warrior, dodging a thin stream of arrows from the top of the stockade. N'tomi jagged left and attacked a group of warriors who seemed momentarily transfixed by the apparition of a skeletally thin black man in black leather armor, feathered and buckled, wielding his sword with no apparent regard for his own life.
Their paralysis served him well, and the first Aztec attempts at defense were simply crushed beneath his onslaught. More brown warriors poured out of the open gate.
That was all Aidan had time to see. His own pounding legs had brought him within spear stroke of an Aztec warrior. The man was half a head shorter than Aidan, but wider. The Aztec crouched, thrust upward with his spear, and would have disemboweled Aidan if he hadn't been able to twist out of the way and counterjab in return. The roar in his ears grew deafening. Thrust and counterthrust, frantic clashing of metal against metal. Then he saw an opening, and clubbed the warrior with the butt of his spear. Without thinking Aidan reversed the spear and drove it into the man's stomach. There was a moment of resistance, and then a sliding sensation as it penetrated. The Aztec's brown eyes went wide. He screamed like a child, and Aidan wrenched the spear free, too busy fighting to feel anything. No regret, no joy, no horror—just the need to move and move and move, and kill, or die.
Warriors streamed out through the main gate, storming their ragtag band like an avalanche. Aidan couldn't breathe, could barely think, completely surrounded by an orgy of unrelenting violence as the whites, driven forward by the blows and oaths of the ghazis, met the Aztecs stroke for stroke.
All around him, men were cursing and struggling, gasping with effort, hewing and being hewn.
But there were too many of them, too many, and as they were surrounded, he began to think: They're sacrificing us. They're going to let us die. Oh, dear Mary, my life is ended. Sophia, forgive me, I tried . . .
Atop the hill, Shaka surveyed the action. Kai waited anxiously, his gut boiling. He wanted to flee, wanted to freeze, wanted to join the fray and finally discover who and what he was.
Shaka watched impassively, perhaps waiting for the enemy to commit itself. Finally he signaled to his bugler. "Sound the call," he said. "It is time."
Kai's spine straightened as Wuha pursed his lips to the horn, and it emitted an earsplitting series of bleats. Shaka's mounted cavalry swept in from the sides.
The slaves, hearing the horn, responded as they had been ordered and turned to run, apparently breaking before the Aztecs. Arrows rained down from the parapets, and mamluks fell like teff in harvest season.
The Aztecs had sent a considerable force after the slaves, apparently convinced of the attack's seriousness by the loss of life. Now they were overextended, too intent on chopping down the fleeing whites. By the time they saw the mounted cavalry swooping down from the sides, it was too late for most of them to make it back to the fortified position.
Kai saw this in flashes as Djinna galloped down the hill and into the fight. There was no more thought, no more fear, just a fierce and exultant hunger, so bright that it carried him before it.
His sword arm was raised high, and he leaned forward in the saddle, spurring Djinna to greater and greater effort as he finally reached the battle.
An Aztec looked up. Kai's sword arm swung. A dark-haired head flew.
And in that fashion, Kai of Dar Kush killed his first man. He felt only a fierce, hungry joy, and wheeled Djinna, searching for his next target.
This, then, was war. Aztec, Irish and Frank, black Muslim and Zulu collided on the battlefield, strokes ringing true, man locked with man in single and multiple combat.
He glimpsed Ali to his right, face contorted so that he barely recognized his brother, sword arm deflecting an Aztec battle-ax and replying with a stroke that spattered brains. Only a glimpse: Kai was in a private hell, populated not by demons but by a seemingly endless swarm of brown men seeking to pull him from his horse, or strike at Djinna herself. Djinna seemed to have contracted a battle madness all her own. She bucked and kicked, and Kai watched two Aztecs reel back with shattered ribs. He fought to stay focused, knowing that a moment's loss of attention would mean death. And Kai also knew that if he surrendered to madness there was a place within him—within the fatigue, the horror and the fear—that loved this, that found the sheer brutality an affirmation.
Some void within him embraced it all, and found it good.
And if there had been any reluctance within him, it would have died in the light of Shaka's terrible flame. The Zulu general might have been born on a battlefield. A Bilalian commander would have remained behind to direct the troops, but Shaka had descended with them and was leading from the front. Kai could only glimpse him, but heard his screams and taunts and curses, his hissed exhalations, the sounds of his spear strokes as he rained death on the Aztecs.
Shaka wheeled his Kenyan toward Kai for a moment, and Kai had a brief look at the man’s face. It was terribly distorted, as if possessed by some demonic force.
The men around Shaka, black and white, seemed infected by his fever, to vibrate sympathetically to whatever deadly tune played behind those black eyes, so that their entire force was like one giant raging machine, before which the hapless Aztecs had no chance.
A black-haired slave was unlucky enough to stumble into Shaka's path. "Out of my way!" he screamed, and cleft the man to the spine. The white toppled, blood gushing from wounds and mouth.
Kai took a gash on the leg, and answered with a stroke that hacked halfway through the attacker's collarbone. The Aztecs were falling back through the open gate, struggling to close it, even if that meant cutting off some of their own men.
He saw Aidan (alive!) and a clutch of other slaves force open the door, using shoulders and spears to leverage it back, screaming and stabbing through the slats.
Then they were through the gates, and into the camp. Kai had only a moment to glance at a cluster of small huts before the fighting boiled over to ensnare him, and he was lost in the killing again.
An Aztec thrust his spear at Djinna. Struggling to evade disembowelment, the mare rose up and twisted away, throwing Kai. Kai hit the ground with an expert but jarring breakfall. The world wheeled, and it took him a moment to collect his senses, a moment in which an Aztec attempted to spear him. One of the slaves blocked that downward thrust, winning Kai the chance to stand up, take in his surroundings, and begin the battle anew.
Surprised and outnumbered, the Aztecs were being driven into corners and butchered. The entire world was a wheeling, chopping, dizzying nightmare clotted with screams and the smells of blood and fire and spilled bowels.
Kai turned and faced—Aidan. The Irishman was red-smeared and panting, his eyes burnin
g like those of an animal. Kai ripped his jambaya from his belt and threw it underhanded. Shocked, Aidan hurled himself to the side, whipping his head around in time to see the Aztec Kai had stricken through the heart. A brief nod of thanks, and then Aidan disappeared back into the melee.
He came to a strangeness, a place within himself that he had never known, where the clash of steel and screams of the dying could not reach. Rage and fear mingled in his veins, powered him although all physical strength seemed to have fled. Technique, intention, strategy: all forgotten. He watched himself strike blows, deflect blows, heard the steam-whistle sob of his own breathing, from a place where life or death seemed merely two sides of the same coin. And in that still and silent place, two voices whispered.
First, his own:
"We are exquisite coral reefs,
Dying when exposed to strange
Elements.
Allah is the wine ocean we crave—we miss
Flowing in and out of our pores."
And then an answering voice.
"Find that flame, that existence
That wonderful man
Who can hum beneath the water.
No other kind of light
Will cook the food you need."
Now, here, in what might be the final moments of his life, he heard the voice of Lamiya. Not Nandi. Not Sophia. Not his own father, or even Babatunde. A sweet-sour ache swelled within him.
Lamiya, he thought, barely able to raise his sword to deflect a stroke. I love—
It was at that moment, at the very end of his endurance, that the Aztecs broke and tried to run.
Kai reeled back against the brush wall of one of the huts, gasping for air, watching the whooping mamluks pursuing the defeated soldiers, hauling many down by hand, spearing others. Those who made it through the gates were felled by Shaka's reserve archers.
Not a single soul escaped to carry the tale.
Drunk and fearsome, Shaka strode the captured enemy camp. The Zulus quaffed beer and reeled as they roared. Despite their intoxicated state, Kai was not fooled: in the morning, they would be ready to run fifty miles and fight to the death, if so ordered by their terrible commander.
Whatever dark tide of madness had carried Kai through the day seemed to have receded, leaving him weak and nauseated, desperately in need of a quiet place to pray, and sleep. Not yet, though. First he found and comforted Djinna, and ensured that she had hay and water. Only then did he find a surgeon to see to his roughly bound leg wound, a gash that smarted but would not hinder.
This was victory, and all of the men were drinking and shouting and congratulating one another on their luck and courage.
Few of them looked at the dead Aztecs, arrayed in feathered heaps around the compound.
Allah preserve me, Kai thought, struggling to keep his innermost thoughts from showing in his face or gait. From the outside, he was just another cocky, grinning black officer. Inside, he was fighting not to recoil from himself and what he had done that day. What all of them had done.
The Muslims were not drinking, but all cheered their commander. "Hail Shaka!"
Ali inquired of Wuha, Shaka's assistant and bugler, a gray-haired veteran campaigner: "What were our casualties?"
"Fifty horsemen," the old man said. "And two hundred of the foot soldiers."
"Does that include the mamluk?"
"Who cares?" shrugged the gray-hair. "Always more where those came from."
Shaka strode up to a great chair that had been erected for him in a central, cleared area of the fortress. The camp was torchlit, the living casting demon shadows across the bloody dead. In the midst of it all sat Shaka, master of all he surveyed, quaffing deeply. He belched and screamed to N'tomi, "Bring them!"
Three bound and battered Aztecs were brought before him. "Beg," he said.
The tallest of them, a scar-face with shoulder-length black hair, spat on the ground. Shaka grunted approval. "Kill them," he said.
One of his men swung his sword. The black-haired head thumped wetly to the ground. Kai flinched. To kill a man in battle was one thing. This was mere butchery, in which no sane man could take pride or pleasure.
Ali stood near at hand, his own sword notched, his shoulder bandaged, his tunic gashed and stained with Aztec blood. He noted Kai's discomfort and shook his head in warning. Say nothing, Brother. By some miracle Kebwe, Makur, and Fodjour had all survived, and from their expressions Kai had the sense that their thoughts mirrored his own, although none would speak out.
"Bring them," Shaka said. Several of the slaves who had broken and run too early were brought before him. Kai recognized one of them: Olaf the rebel. To Kai's surprise, two of Shaka's men grabbed Fodjour and led him to the space of judgment as well.
"Fodjour Berhar," Shaka said. "Two of my men saw you retreat from the field without permission. What have you to say?"
Kai's old rival stared at the ground. To his amazement, the young man rasped: "It is as they say. It was my first battle. It will not happen again."
"Indeed," Shaka said coldly. "You are all charged with cowardice." "Mighty Shaka—" began a slave.
Shaka leapt forward, drew his umkhonto, and slashed. Blood spurted, and the body slumped, the head held to the stump of the neck by a frayed thread.
"No slave speaks to Shaka!"
Fodjour blanched. "Allah, be merciful," he whispered.
"Yes!" cried the Zulu. "And I, too, am merciful. I will not kill you for your sin. But my arm is tired: there has been much slaying today. Today your cowardice ends! This night, I make you a man!"
Shaka approached the trembling young noble closely and dropped his voice, but Kai was close enough to hear. "Do you wish to live?"
"Yes."
"Then take my spear, and do exactly what I say."
Fodjour took Shaka's weapon. "What—?"
Shaka pointed, and two guards rushed in, taking the other slave by the arms. He struggled helplessly. . "Thrust it into his belly. Slowly."
Fodjour gaped at Shaka, who drew close. "The thing is simplicity itself. He dies, or you die."
Kai's boyhood friend nodded numbly. He faced the slave, who stared with eyes so wide they fairly bulged from their sockets. "What is your name?" Fodjour whispered.
"Devlin." The man sounded as if his throat were half closed. He stared at Fodjour's spear, trembling.
"Forgive me," Fodjour said, and pressed the spear beneath the notch where his ribs joined his breastplate. Devlin twisted in his captor's arms, strove to pull his flesh away, then screamed piteously as the spear pierced him. Devlin's eyes rolled up, and he went limp. Fodjour turned away and wet yellow curds spilled from his lips. Shaka smeared his fingers in Devlin's blood, then wiped it on Fodjour's cheeks in two parallel rows.
"Thus are men made among the Zulu!"
"What of the other slaves, Colonel?" Kai said. "Surely we have had enough of spears and swords this day."
A great pale wind seemed to pass out of Shaka. Suddenly, he seemed almost peaceful. "So very true," he said.
He paused, and then said: "Impale them."
The slaves were dragged away, shrieking. Olaf wrested his way free and ran to Shaka, prostrating himself. "Please! No more!"
Shaka took a mighty quaff of beer and grinned. "You are quite right." Shaka turned to his lieutenant. "Your whip."
Olaf was bound hand and foot, face pale as whey as Shaka was handed a rhinoceros-hide whip, used for the driving of elephants and the execution of slaves.
Kai looked at Ali, whose jaw was clamped tight. "Brother?" Kai said. Ali glanced at him, and then back to Shaka, still silent.
Shaka's arm flicked up and then out, and the whip uncoiled in the air, blurred and struck Olaf's leg, cutting it to the bone. The hapless slave screeched in agony, tried to pull away, babbled for mercy, but in Shaka's eyes and in the thin cruel line of his mouth there was nothing but unholy wrath.
As the whip came down again, ripping the flesh from Olaf's back, Ali grasped his arm.
"Shaka! Enough!"
Shaka wheeled on him, face twisted in a frenzy of rage. For a moment he seemed not to recognize the man standing before him.
"This man was born on my land," Ali said. "He serves my house. If anyone has the right to kill him, it is I."
Shaka's face twisted in a grim smile, and he handed Ali the whip. "Then do it," he said.
Kai watched his brother weigh the length of braided rhino hide, then, holding Shaka's eyes, he coiled it. "I did not bring our men here to throw them away. There has been enough death today. Olaf has learned his lesson."
Shaka looked from Ali to the slave and back again. For a moment, Kai was absolutely certain that the Zulu was going to strike Ali. All of the Muslim officers were standing now, outnumbered three to one by the Zulus. It was not murder Kai saw in Shaka's face. It was something else, something even uglier.
"If you were not your uncle’s nephew," Shaka said, "I would have you flogged." Those were his words, but his voice said I would kill you. It was battle madness Kai saw in his face, a thing that was closer to death than life, an abyss that certain warriors found within themselves, leaving them standing forever on its uncertain edge.
Men like Shaka. Like Malik.
Like Kai?
Shaka shook with barely repressed rage, the whites of his eyes wide and gleaming against his black skin. Then he spit on the ground. "Sleep with them, if you wish. Wakil," he said mockingly.
The warrior took two steps away, then stopped dead. Without turning, he said: "Do not question me again. Do not touch me. Ever." And then stalked to his tent.
Kai helped a shuddering Olaf to his feet. The wound on his leg gleamed like a pair of wet red lips. "Your fight is over," he said. "We'll send you back to Dar Kush with the wounded."
Olaf nodded gratefully. "I'm sorry, master," he said. "I'm just not the man for this."
Kai nodded, and two of the other whites carried Olaf away. Ali stared off into the darkness surrounding Shaka's tent. Kai rested his hand on his brother's shoulder. "What now?" he said.
Lion's Blood Page 46
