Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories

by Vox Day

  • • •

  The faces of the surviving jumbei were heavy, and as they gathered reluctantly before him under the cover of nightfall, Shabaka could see defeat in their eyes and in their listless, dragging tails. They fanned out on the other side of the fire in front of him, only half as many as there had been the day before. Simba, Duma, and Chiu, all had fought together, all had been defeated together. Most had bled; there was scarcely a jumbe there who was not bearing a wound of some kind. Two or three could barely stand without the support of the chieftain next to them.

  And yet, they were still here, waiting for his commands. They had not taken their clans and run. They would fight for him one more time. But the next time would be the last, he knew.

  He sighed. The battle had been horrible from the very start and yet the day could hardly have gone better as far as Tjel’s plan was concerned.

  Certainly, his fears about the inadequacy of their forces had not been misplaced. The Amorrans had not bothered with skirmishers, but sent their heavy infantry directly against the Khatuuli lines. Within moments, Shabaka’s best warriors had been reeling in confusion. Even the mighty Simbai had been close to helpless against the armored legionaries, and their powerful teeth had broken harmlessly on the metal helms of the enemy as the bronze blades of the Dumai and the Chii shattered against the Amorrans’ black sky metal shields.

  While the wild charge of Ikkur’s khifaru riders had managed to smash through the Amorran lines, the great beasts were maddened by the smell of blood and the confusion of battle, and so had run utterly amok after the initial charge. Many mwane were trampled and slain, but so was a contingency of Dumai on the Khatuuli left. Fewer than twenty of the two hundred riders made it back to the safety of their lines, as those not trampled by their own steeds were thrown in the midst of the Amorran soldiers and quickly dispatched.

  Young Ikkur, their commander, was struck down by an Amorran spear while bravely leading a second charge in a futile attempt to rescue his downed warriors trapped behind the enemy lines.

  Quban’s war machines had done a little better and had probably accounted for a third of the enemy’s casualties. But it did not take long for the skilled Amorran artillerists to find their range, and though Quban’s Chii stayed by their machines and steadfastly continued to hurl rocks as they were bombarded by the enemy’s rock throwers and giant spear launchers, their fortitude availed them little. The massive missiles were merciless, and the last of the twenty-five machines was smashed into pieces not long after noon. Quban and thirty-seven of his hurlers had survived, but without their machines, they were useless except for fighting with the infantry.

  Shabaka estimated that twenty-five hundred of the People had been slain or seriously wounded, and another five hundred were missing, presumably having run deeper into the desert amidst all the chaos and confusion. Three of his five thousand gone. A heavy price to pay for what, at most, had cost the enemy a twentieth of his ten thousand men.

  He smiled grimly. All they had really needed was thirty, perhaps forty, enemy dead. But the terrible sacrifice was not in vain, for after today’s debacle, the last thing the Amorrans would be expecting from the defeated Khatuuli was an attack. He raised a paw and snarled loudly.

  “Some moons ago, there were few who believed me when I spoke of a great danger to the People. Now, there are even fewer who will believe me when I say that this moment is the first in which I have dared to believe in the hope of our survival. Our victory is finally at hand!”

  His words were met by hisses and growls, but mostly by incredulous silence.

  “I do not lie. Baasia has placed the mwane in our claws, and it remains only for us to strike.” His eyes met Tjel’s, and he nodded. “Look and see what the lives of our clanmates have bought us today!”

  There were more hisses, but much louder this time, as ten priests in mwana form—each wearing scavenged Amorran armor—emerged from the shadows to stand on either side of him. They were all but indistinguishable from the enemy soldiers.

  “What is this?” growled one wounded Duma chieftain. “Have you betrayed us?”

  “It is your eyes that betray you.”

  As he spoke, one priest swelled suddenly inside his loose-fitting armor and transformed into his natural sehumu form. He was revealed as a Chiu, formerly of the Mahali.

  The surprised jumbei roared, first in alarm, then in enthusiastic approval. They were not slow to understand the significance, Shabaka was pleased to see.

  “Under the cover of the Neheb-kau’s spells and the enemy's armor, we shall slay the guards at each of the Amorran’s seven posts. Forty warriors in mwana form will cross the bridge and gain entry to the mwane camp under the pretense of having gotten lost in the pursuit of our retreat. They will bear with them the body of a great fallen Simba, whom they will claim was our commander.”

  “Taharqa of the Mfupa fell today,” called out a Simba jumbe. “I would claim that honor for him.”

  Shabaka nodded.

  “Let it be Taharqa, then, who shall serve as our key to unlock the fortress. Once inside, those in mwana form will fall upon the gatekeepers and keep the gate open until the rest of our army can cross the bridge and fall upon our sleeping foe.” Shabaka spread his paws. “I am Kubwa Jumbe, but I am no mchawe. Therefore, I cannot lead the forty.”

  Senwosret growled and shook his dark mane.

  “I would claim that honor, Kubwa Jumbe. In the name of the Ndevu.”

  Shabaka bared his teeth and bowed respectfully.

  “Truly, your claim is great, Ndevu Jumbe. But there is one who deserves the honor more, one who was willing to sacrifice not only his clan, but honor itself, that the People might live.”

  He extended a claw towards the scarred chieftain of the Asser-Chiu.

  “Khepren, my father, gave up everything, refusing to answer the ghafula so that I might gather the Usiku Kisu to me. Tonight, as Asser Jumbe, he shall again go into battle wearing the mwana, and there will be none to question his honor or his name!”

  The assembled jumbei roared their approval. Shabaka nodded, gratified by their respect for his father and relieved to see their fighting spirit had been restored. There was no certainty of success. Even with surprise on their side, they were outnumbered ten to one. But now there was hope.

  • • •

  Vopiscus's dreams were filled with light, the bright light of the sun as its rays were reflected off the blue waters of the Amorramare. So piercing and yet so pure, there was also the hot brutal light of the merciless Qalabi and the dancing red-gold flames of the Victory Fire that would soon be lit in his honor on top of the Sanctiff’s alabaster palace. A harbinger, perhaps, of the heavenly light to one day come, for surely Heaven’s gates would open wide for one who had served both the Church and the City so wisely and so well.

  He smiled in his sleep, hearing in the distant sound of men's voices the great cry of the Senate as it rose as one to salute him and acclaim before everyone his loyal service to Amorr. How sweet it was to think of how those who had once sneered at him as a mediocrity and scoffed openly at his appointment would sing a very different song upon his return.

  Then, without warning, his dreams seemed to grow darker. The brilliant white light of the sea turned scarlet, as red as the blood of the demon people that had spilled so freely over the desert sands the day before. There was a clashing and a clangor of arms, screams as men were cut down by the sword, and worst of all, vicious, bestial roars that sounded like demons come to claim his soul for its myriad of sins.

  He started upright. This was no dream! The screams were real, and the unmistakable sound of metal on metal was ringing just outside his tent!

  Vopiscus rolled off his cot and fumbled about the canvas floor for his sword, crawling on all fours and almost knocking over the brazier that warmed his tent against the cold Qalabi night. He was shouting for his officers just as Servilius burst into the tent, with his sword in hand, but wearing only a tunic.

  “S
ir, they’re inside the gates! They’re everywhere—”

  His eyes widened, and blood erupted like a fountain from his chest. Vopiscus screamed with horror as the young tribune was hurled right through the thick canvas of the tent by a massive, furry arm.

  In the entryway, the flames revealed a feline-headed demon, its beastly body covered with speckled fur, standing upright in a grotesque parody of a man. Amorran armor hung loosely from its muscular frame, but it was weaponless except for the six-inch claws that extended from its huge paws. As Vopiscus watched, frozen with terror, the demon extended a thick black tongue from its jaws and deliberately licked the young officer’s blood from its claws.

  Vopiscus closed his eyes and silently commended his soul to the Immaculate. He tried to keep the thought of Danielus in the lions’ den in the forefront of his mind as he grasped the hilt of his gladius, pointed the tip of his sword toward the demon, and cautiously pushed himself to his feet. His earlier victory suddenly seemed very long ago, if indeed it had ever taken place.

  How were the cat-demons inside the castra? How was it possible? He had been so careful at every step, what had he failed to foresee? He felt a brief pang of regret, not so much for the ending of what had been a mostly undistinguished life, but with the bitter awareness that, despite his best efforts, he had failed Amorr in the end. Still, for one great moment, he had known the victor’s glory, and not even death could take that away from him.

  “God and Amorr!” shouted Quintus Cassianus Vopiscus Felicus as he rushed at the dreadful foe.

  • • •

  The violated mwana camp was as silent as the noontime desert. It was nearly sunrise, and the last of the Amorran soldiers had finally been sniffed out and slain. They weren’t so hard to kill without their metal turtle shells and they were badly handicapped by their inability to see at night. Without their armor and caught outside their disciplined ranks, even the biggest mwana wasn’t capable of standing up to a single Chiu, much less a Duma or mighty Simba. The slaughter had taken the rest of the night, but the outcome had been sealed from the moment Shabaka and his two thousand stormed through the camp’s open gates.

  Shabaka was surprised to learn that he didn’t feel relieved, instead, it was as if the great burden that had weighed upon his mind for so many moons had somehow been transferred to his body. Nor was he hungry, despite his exertions of the past few days and the ample supply of fresh manflesh surrounding him in every direction. He felt heavy and almost wished he was mchawe, so he could change into mnyama form and use four legs to bear his weight instead of two.

  Tjel approached, his bright eyes uncharacteristically dark.

  “They have found him, Kubwa Jumbe.”

  “Take me there.”

  He followed his lieutenant, noting absently how the stump of Tjel’s self-amputated tail still glistened red and raw in the soft glow of the approaching day. But Tjel needed no tail to bear his honor, not anymore. With Shabaka's, his name would long be chanted beside fire circles of the People. Perhaps he too would one day come to be known as la-Mkia. There were worse fates.

  They walked down the broad way that cut through the heart of this vast city of tents. Many had fallen, their supports destroyed in the violence of the night assault. Tjel turned once and then again, and Shabaka found himself in front of a great tent that towered overhead, twice the height of a Simba. A scent assailed his nostrils, one warm and well-known to him from his earliest memories. It stood out clearly from the camp’s mwana stink and the sweet, mouthwatering stench of spilled blood.

  Tjel stood aside, allowing him to enter first.

  Shabaka stepped inside, and he growled approvingly as his eyes confirmed what his nose had already told him. Khepren, his father, lay dead on the crimson-stained tent floor, run through the heart by the short sword that still pierced his breast. But he was not alone. Joining him in death was his killer, the Amorran commander—naked, pink, and hairless but less helpless than he looked. It was a good death, a warrior’s death, for both. Shabaka looked at the furless face of the mwana. His small grass-eater’s teeth were still bared in a snarl.

  I thought you were a coward. I was wrong. You were only a fool.

  “What shall we do with him?” Tjel indicated the dead mwana. “He was their jumbe, was he not?”

  “He was no jumbe. The mwane have no chieftains. Not even proper clans.”

  “Then we need not send him back to them?”

  “No, they will not eat his flesh. They are as many as the desert sands, and they have no need of strength. But Tjel, find the ndege standards. They will be gold, with their wings spread and set upon long poles. There will be two. They must go back to the great mwana city.”

  Tjel’s ears pricked up with surprise.

  “You don’t want them? They are trophies and an honor to the People!”

  Shabaka laughed.

  “An honor? No, our doom.” He pointed to the sword. “These mwane have enemies on every side, and still they sent ten thousand against us. Even if every huntress and cub among the People took arms, we number less than that now. They could have sent ten times ten thousand, had they so wished. I fear them, Tjel, even in defeat. If we shame them, they will send as many as are needed to retrieve their standards. No, we keep no trophies.”

  “And the jumbe of the Assur-Chiu?”

  Shabaka looked down at the body of his father and bared his teeth. He had always been proud of Khepren, and he could not have imagined a more fitting end for the great-hearted jumbe.

  “We will gather the jumbei at nightfall. Only chieftains shall eat of him, for his strength was great, his spirit was noble, his will was strong, and the People shall forever honor his memory.”

  Tjel growled.

  “Great honor, Kubwa Jumbe.”

  “And great honor to you as well, Tjel la-Mkia. Without your craft and cunning, the People would have lost this war.”

  “It may be. But without your wisdom and leadership, Kubwa Jumbe, the People would not have known to fight it.”

  Together, the two tailless ones walked out of the Amorran tent. The mwana camp was now engulfed in the rose-gold light of the sun rising into the cloudless desert sky. The day’s heat would be merciless, as brutal as the slaughter of the night before. But with the birth of this new day, there was also new hope for the People.

  We are a young race, small in number. We are cursed, godless, the bastard children of a mad mwana and a she-devil. Yet we live! We are poor, ignorant, and we dwell in a harsh and barren land. Yet we live!

  One day, we shall learn from the mwane in their cities of stone. We shall learn the secret of their turtle-shells and their deadly sky metal swords. One day, with Baasia’s blessing, we shall be a great and mighty People, as countless as the sands of the Qalabi. It shall be so, I swear it, as surely I am Kubwa Jumbe and my name is Shabaka the Cruel!

  FINIS

  A MAGIC BROKEN

  THE SUN BROKE without warning over the mountaintops to the south, spilling much-needed warmth over the camp of the traveler. It had been a hard night, a cold and cheerless one in their rude, makeshift shelter, but he took solace in the knowledge that it would be his last night in the wilds for the foreseeable future.

  He shared a few meager strips of smoked beef with his guide, who, ten days into their journey, was every bit as grim and silent as he had been since his services were first engaged on the far side of the high mountain pass. The half-barbarian Tessini were a dark and stocky lot, as little inclined to give up their secrets as the dwarves who lived in massive underground cities somewhere beneath these very mountains. So short and broad-shouldered was the guide that he might easily have been mistaken for a dwarf were it not for the hawkish features on his clean-shaven face.

  The guide was very nearly as unfriendly as a dwarf too, the man who was presently calling himself Nicolas thought, vaguely annoyed at his inability to crack the man’s reserve. Even now, with their journey together nearly at an end, the Tessino still refused to meet N
icolas’s eyes and looked away when Nicolas was doing no more than passing him a hardened heel of week-old bread. Though it was irritating, Nicolas found he had to respect the other’s stubborn reticence. And, he reminded himself, that reticence served his purpose well.

  His hunger satisfied, if not his palate, Nicolas rose to his feet and stretched his arms and back. The sunlight was a godsend, for at the guide’s insistence they had gone without a fire the night before. The cold of the hard and stony ground had worked its way into his bones, leaving him feeling as if he were inflicted with a case of premature rigor mortis. More than once during the night he considered lighting a fire over the guide’s objections, but the thought of trying to find his way through the deadly heights without a guide chilled him even more than the freezing darkness did. Also, it was unlikely that the man’s fears, whatever they might be, were ill-founded, even if he would not do Nicolas the courtesy of articulating them.

  For if the Tessini were only half-civilized, that was more than one could say for the wild land in which they lived. The mountains that gave them their name, and from which they scratched out a precarious existence, also allowed them to remain free of any overlord. Were it not for the high, treacherous peaks, interspersed with thickly wooded valleys, one of the neighboring powers, either the Kingdom of Savondir to the north or the Holy Empire of Amorr to the south, would have long ago snapped up the diverse collection of little baronies, duchies, and other petty independences scattered throughout the vast mountain range.

  But the shining armor and heavy destriers of Savondir’s knights were useless in a place where even a mule might fear to tread, and all the fabled discipline of Amorran mighty legions counted for nothing in a place where two men could not walk abreast for more than a score of strides before one would find himself stepping off a cliff or walking into a tree.