Imaro: Book I

by Charles R. Saunders

  The warrior remained awake for a long time after Tanisha departed. But she remained in his thoughts. So did Rumanzila. And so, as always, did the Naamans and the Mashataan. Much of the night passed before Imaro fell into a fitful slumber filled with dire dreams.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Imaro awakened suddenly. If his kufahuma had possessed a voice, it would have shouted a warning. But it was a different voice he heard.

  His eyes snapped open, and his hand reached for the closest weapon – his sword. He looked toward the entrance through which Tanisha had gone the night before. Now, that opening was filled with daylight – and spear-points.

  “Come out,” the voice said. It was the voice of Rumanzila.

  Imaro moved his arm across the ground, making a noise loud enough for those outside to hear. The spear-points immediately moved away from the opening, making a way for him.

  “Come out, Imaro,” Rumanzila said again. “Now.”

  The warrior considered his chances for survival if he took his sword and tried to cut his way through the haramia who were gathered at the entrance of his shelter. It did not take him long to realize that the chances were nonexistent. Thus, he reached for his suruali rather than his sword, and pulled the garment over his legs.

  The scent of Tanisha lingered as Imaro as he pushed his way past the spear-points and crawled out of the shelter. Was it the smell of betrayal?

  Outside the shelter, he saw what he expected: Rumanzila. Strangely, however, the hulking Mbuto was not at his usual place at the bandit chieftain’s side. Other haramia were there, though, weapons in hand. Even Imaro’s friends, Ngodire and Kongolo, had the points of their swords and spears aimed at him. The expressions on their faces were neutral.

  Silently, Rumanzila raised one hand, which was clenched into a fist. Then he opened it, palm-upward, in front of Imaro. Resting in the center of Rumanzila’s hand was a hoop of gold. The last time Imaro had seen it, it was hanging from the ear of Tanisha.

  “We found this outside your shelter,” Rumanzila said.

  Imaro said nothing.

  “There are laws among the lawless, Imaro,” Rumanzila continued. “The Shikaza woman is for the Azanian, not you. We haramia steal from all – but not from each other.”

  “And what now?” Imaro asked.

  “Punishment. For you and her.”

  Rumanzila gestured with his other hand. The gathered haramia moved aside to give Imaro a clear view of Tanisha. The Shikaza woman was chained to the large rock that served as the whipping-post of this encampment. Manacles secured her arms to the sides of the rock in a position that was a cruel parody of an embrace. Her body was naked; the haramia had stripped away her kuva and other garments, leaving only the golden ornaments that circled her neck and arms – as well as a hoop in one ear. Blood trickled from her other ear, from which the hoop was missing, onto her bare shoulder.

  Imaro knew then how the hoop had come into Rumanzila’s hands. And even from a distance, Imaro could see that Tanisha was trembling…

  Mbuto stood near Tanisha, whip in hand. He gazed impassively at the woman in front of him. The end of his whip moved back and forth incessantly, like the flick of a lion’s tail.

  “Here is your choice, Imaro,” Rumanzila said. “Ten lashes from Mbuto for the Shikaza woman – or ten times ten for you. Which will it be?”

  Rumanzila and Imaro both knew what the answer would be. Ten lashes from Mbuto would kill Tanisha. And one hundred could kill Imaro. But well did Imaro know that even if he chose not to accept the lashes, Mbuto’s whip would never touch Tanisha’s skin. Her value was too great; Rumanzila would not allow her to be damaged before the sale to the Azanian was complete.

  Regardless of Imaro’s answer, Rumanzila would benefit. If the warrior accepted the punishment and died, the bandit leader would be rid of a potential rival. If he lived, he would not be the same man he was before. And if he chose to allow Tanisha to take the punishment in his place, the other haramias’ contempt for his cowardice would force him out of the bandits’ ranks.

  Like a wily and patient hunter, Rumanzila had ensnared Imaro – thoroughly and easily. And Imaro knew it.

  “Let the punishment be mine,” he said.

  Triumph kindled in Rumanzila’s eyes.

  “Unchain her,” he said to the haramia. “And chain this one in her place.”

  The bandits quickly carried out Rumanzila’s command. The tips of their weapons touched Imaro’s skin as they prodded him to the rock to which Tanisha was chained. Then two of the haramia led her away. Tanisha kept her head down, avoiding Imaro’s eyes. Other haramia chained Imaro to the rock, manacling his arms in the same position in which the Shikaza woman had been confined – his bare back an offering to Mbuto.

  The encampment was quiet, save for Mbuto as he flicked his whip near Imaro, waiting for Rumanzila to give the order to begin; waiting to savor his vengeance against the man who had humiliated him.

  But before Rumanzila could issue the command, a sudden disturbance diverted the attention of everyone in the encampment – everyone except Imaro and Mbuto. The bandits reached for their weapons … then they relaxed and called out greetings. For the cause of the disturbance was Bomunu, who had finally returned from his negotiations with the rogue sorcerer over the Afua.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Two haramia sentries accompanied Bomunu on horseback into the hideout. As all three dismounted, Bomunu’s dusty, disheveled state was in striking contrast to his usual fastidiousness. And as Bomunu approached Rumanzila, no one failed to notice the absence of the smile that usually curved the Zanjian’s lips, even though it seldom reached his eyes.

  With the arrival of Bomunu, the haramias’ attention shifted away from Imaro. The warrior could not see Bomunu, but he had heard the hoof-beats that marked his coming, and he heard the haramia greet the Zanjian by name. Although he wanted to see what was happening, Imaro did not move or struggle against the chains. Positioned as he was, he knew there was no chance he could break free. He could only await the first stroke of the whip.

  Suddenly, Imaro felt a light touch against his back. It was the end of Mbuto’s whip. Then he heard a low, rasping laugh. It was the most articulate sound he had ever heard the punisher make. And Imaro realized then that Mbuto was not as simple-minded as he appeared to be…

  In the meantime, Bomunu stood in front of Rumanzila. His smile flickered in a brief crescent of white teeth before he spoke.

  “I’m back,” he said.

  “That’s obvious,” Rumanzila said impatiently. “What about the sorcerer? Will he meet our price?”

  “He will… and he won’t.”

  Rumanzila clamped his hand onto Bomunu’s vest and twisted the embroidered cloth so hard it almost ripped.

  “I’m not in the mood for games, Bomunu,” he said. “What happened?”

  If Bomunu was intimidated by Rumanzila’s wrath, he showed no sign.

  “The sorcerer still wants the statue,” the Zanjian said. “And he will pay what we ask. But he doesn’t want the whole statue. He only wants its spikes. He says the spikes are the true source of the statue’s magical power.”

  Rumanzila released his grip on Bomunu’s vest. Then he laughed cynically.

  “I’m beginning to think this man isn’t a wa-nyanume at all,” he said. “I’ll bet he’s just another bandit, like us. I can even see what he has in mind. He’ll sell the spikes one by one, claiming that each of them holds great magical power. For he will end up making back far more than what he paid for them.”

  The bandit leader laughed mirthlessly.

  “If he can play that game, so can I,” he said. “I could sell the spikes myself. But I’m no sorcerer. Who would believe me if I tried to sell these spikes as objects of power?”

  He turned his attention to Angulu.

  “People would believe you, though,” he said.

  “They would,” Angulu agreed. “But I think it would be better for us if we find another buyer. This
statue needs to be away from us… far away.”

  Rumanzila stared hard at the wa-nyanume.

  “What are you afraid of, Angulu?” he asked. “Is there something about the statue you’ve been keeping from me?”

  “No,” the wa-nyanume replied after a short pause. “Do what you will.”

  “As always, Angulu,” Rumanzila said. “As always.”

  He kept his eyes fixed on Angulu, and the sorcerer still could not meet his gaze.

  “And you will convince all your fellow sorcerers that these spikes are objects of such great power that they will pay any price to own them.”

  “Yes.”

  Rumanzila did not take his eyes off the wa-nyanume.

  “If it makes you feel better, Angulu, I’ll pull the spikes out of the statue now, and we can use the rest of it for firewood,” he said.

  Angulu’s only reaction to that statement was a slight, almost imperceptible, flicker in his eyes. He did not speak further. For all his skill in sorcery, Angulu feared Rumanzila, for the bandit leader was as dangerous as any of the demons that dwelled in the netherworld.

  Rumanzila strode toward the Afua, along with Angulu and Mbuto, who had returned to his place at the leader’s side. When he reached the statue, Rumanzila contemplated it for a moment. Then the bandit leader reached out and grasped one of the golden spikes.

  “This shouldn’t be too difficult,” he said. “The wood looks soft.”

  Then Rumanzila pulled the spike out of the Afua. As he did so, Angulu’s body stiffened, then shook, as though he had been struck by one of his own poison-tipped darts.

  “Put it back!” he cried, his voice shrill with terror. “Put it back!”

  But it was too late.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The moment Rumanzila removed the spike from the Afua, Imaro’s kufahuma flared, and he strained instinctively against the manacles that bound him to the rock. Although he could not see what was happening behind him, he had heard what Bomunu said to Rumanzila, and what Rumanzila had, in turn, said to Angulu. Now, he heard loud outcries and running footsteps … and, overwhelming all other noises, a creaking groan, like the sound of a large tree bent by the strong winds of the rainy season.

  Then Imaro heard a series of reverberating thumps, like the footfalls of a giant. He struggled harder against the chains, but his arms had been spread too wide to allow him any leverage. Behind him, some of the shouts turned into cries of agony, accompanied by crunching sounds.

  Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, Imaro caught a glimpse of blackness. Then he heard a click, and felt a slight tug on one of his manacles. Skin brushed briefly against his back, and the click and tugging motion were repeated on the other manacle.

  A familiar scent filled his nostrils – Tanisha. And her voice whispered urgently in his ear:

  “Imaro! Put the spike back into the statue. It’s the only chance we have! Rumanzila has it…”

  Then she was gone.

  Imaro pulled his arms away from the rock, and the chains and manacles clattered to the ground. He turned and looked for Tanisha. He caught only a fleeting glimpse of her golden ornaments flashing against her bare skin before the fleeing, fear-crazed mob of haramia blocked his vision.

  The encampment resembled an overturned anthill. Haramia were running in all directions, some chasing panicked horses that were fleeing as well. But it was not the terrorized bandits that caused Imaro to suddenly stand immobile, mouth falling open, eyes wide, muscles as stiff as those of a beast at bay, staring at a sight nearly as grotesque as what lay beneath the robes of Chitendu...

  It was the Afua. The statue had… grown. It had become as tall as a tree, and its golden spikes were now as lengthy as spears. Blood dripped from some of the spike-points – the ones closest to the ground. A hole the size of a man’s fist marked the place from which Rumanzila had pulled one of the spikes.

  Haramia corpses lay strewn on the ground, crushed horribly. For the Afua was not immobile. The effigy’s steps were lurching and ungainly, like those of a child just learning to walk. With each movement, the wood from which the Afua was made groaned, as though the motion caused it great pain. Its head turned slowly, and its hollowed-out eyes appeared to be searching, even though the statue had to be sightless. The Afua’s footsteps shook the ground, and anyone luckless enough to fall before it was crushed beneath the stumps of its feet.

  With Tanisha’s words echoing in his ears, Imaro’s moment of inaction ended. His eyes scanned the crowd of fleeing haramia, none of whom paid him any heed even though he was free from his chains. He was looking for Rumanzila – and finally, he spotted the bandit leader.

  Rumanzila was moving toward, rather than away from, the Afua. Imaro could see the gleam of the golden spike in Rumanzila’s hand. The bandit leader was attempting to find a way to put the spike back into its proper place. But each time he came close to the Afua, the sight of the effigy’s legs, which had grown to the size of tree trunks, moving his way unnerved him, and caused him to retreat.

  Imaro saw no sign of Mbuto, Angulu or Bomunu. He did see Ngodire, towering over everyone else, and Kongolo. Both men were attempting, with limited success, to quell the panic.

  Although he was still unarmed, Imaro had no time to find a weapon now. He pushed his way through the fleeing haramia, heading in the direction of the Afua and Rumanzila. He had almost reached Rumanzila’s side when the bandit chieftain turned and saw him.

  The fear that etched Rumanzila’s features turned into rage the moment he recognized Imaro.

  “You!” he shouted, his voice rising above the din of the haramia and the slow thump of the Afua’s footsteps.

  Even though the Afua was coming closer, Rumanzila reached for his sword and pulled it from its sheath.

  “Don’t be a fool!” Imaro shouted. “Give me the spike. I’ll put it back if you can’t!”

  Rumanzila opened his mouth to utter a curse… then his eyes suddenly widened, giving Imaro a warning that came a fraction of a second too late.

  Before he could turn to see what was behind him, Imaro suddenly found himself enfolded in a grasp of steel, with flesh that was both soft and hard pressing against his back. Mbuto, Imaro realized even as the hulking punisher began to lift him off his feet. And he saw Rumanzila rushing toward him, his sword pulled back to deliver a killing thrust.

  Imaro knew he would be dead if Mbuto succeeded in lifting him all the way off the ground, for the warrior would then have no way to defend himself. He had only one chance to survive. With all his strength, he pulled himself forward. Then, with his feet planted firmly, Imaro bent at the waist, forcing Mbuto’s feet, rather than his own, to leave the ground.

  Briefly, Imaro tottered beneath the punisher’s enormous bulk. Then he turned, so that his back, and Mbuto’s, faced Rumanzila. Even as he heard Rumanzila shout in anger and consternation, a jolt from behind nearly sent him tumbling. A loud cry of agony from Mbuto preceded a light touch against Imaro’s back.

  Then Imaro straightened his body. The motion forced Mbuto’s bulk, which had suddenly gone slack, to fall away from him. He heard a shrill curse from Rumanzila, which was abruptly cut off by a crashing thud and the crackle of breaking bones, then silence.

  Struggling to maintain his balance, Imaro turned and saw Rumanzila’s body, almost completely hidden by that of Mbuto. Mbuto was dead; his eyes stared sightlessly, and the point of Rumanzila’s sword protruded from his huge abdomen – the same point that had barely touched the skin of Imaro’s back.

  Rumanzila was not yet dead. But his life rapidly ebbing; Mbuto’s mountainous bulk had crushed him so thoroughly that he could neither move nor speak. He could only glare in hatred of Imaro during his final moments alive.

  Imaro paid Rumanzila no further heed once he realized the spike from the Afua was trapped beneath Mbuto. Mindful that the effigy was nearly upon him, Imaro seized the corpse of the punisher, and with a single heave, he rolled it away from Rumanzila. He saw that the bandit chieftain�
�s hand still clutched the spike. Imaro pried Rumanzila’s hand open and took the spike from his fingers.

  Then the shadow of the Afua blanketed him. He whirled away from the bodies of Rumanzila and Mbuto… but not before the edge of the Afua’s foot caught him with a blow to the side of his skull – a glancing blow that still had enough force to send him senseless to the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When Tanisha saw Imaro fall, she cried out in fear – for him, rather than for herself. The crowd of fleeing haramia had pushed her far from where Imaro and the Afua were, but she had made her way closer again. Now, as she was about to rush toward the fallen warrior, a thin, spidery hand reached and seized her by the arm.

  With a wordless exclamation, Tanisha turned, her other hand raised to lash out – but her intended blow stopped in mid-motion as she looked far up at the face of Ngodire, the Ndashikuya.

  “You can’t help Imaro now… even though you helped him before,” Ngodire said.

  “How do you know what I did?” she demanded.

  “I saw you unchain him,” said Ngodire. “It was clever of you to steal the key to the manacles from the one who unchained you. But there’s nothing you can do for Imaro now.”

  “I have to try!” Tanisha said fiercely, struggling against the Ndashikuya’s surprisingly strong grasp.

  Her lips were drawn back from her teeth in a primal snarl, and if she had been carrying a weapon, Ngodire would have been a dead man. Seeing the look on her face, Ngodire released his grip on her arm.

  “I agree,” another voice said.

  “As do I,” said yet another.

  Turning in the direction from which the voices had come, Tanisha and Ngodire saw Angulu and Kongolo. The wa-nyanume’s eyes held a haunted look. Kongolo appeared to be fighting fear, but he had remained behind when almost all the other haramia had fled in panic, much as the Mtumwe had bolted when the bandits raided the kijiji and stole the Afua.