Imaro: Book I

by Charles R. Saunders

  One by one, the isolated units of soldiers broke and fled, dragging their wounded with them and leaving their dead behind. The bandits followed, cutting down stragglers and taking no prisoners. They knew that in comparison to what had happened to those from their own ranks who had fallen into enemy hands, the swift death the haramia provided was merciful.

  Jua the sun was sinking when the battle ended. Scores of corpses – mostly soldiers, but some haramia as well – lay on the forest floor. Blood soaked into soil that would not otherwise have received moisture until the beginning of the wet season.

  Birds, monkeys and other animals that had fled the incomprehensible fighting among the two-legs slowly returned to their territory. Scavengers that flew, walked and crawled soon began to feast on the dead. The setting sun painted the scene of the battle in a deep, crimson hue.

  And the haramia savored another hard-won victory.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Two armies trudged away from a battlefield not of their own choosing, united in defeat. Clad in the colors and accouterments of Zanj and Azania, the kingdoms’ soldiers marched in separate ranks. The leather or their armor was slashed and torn; the metal of their shields dented; the blades of their swords nicked, and in some cases broken. Blood seeped through the scraps of cloth that bound their wounds. Those whose wounds were more severe hobbled, or were carried on improvised litters.

  Bitterness burned in the eyes of the battle’s survivors, even as they mourned the fallen comrades they had left behind, buried in shallow woodland graves topped with mounds of stones they hoped would be too heavy for the hyenas to push aside before the spirits of the dead could join their ancestors.

  Once again, the combined forces of the two most powerful kingdoms on the East Coast of Nyumbani had been defeated by a rabble of outcasts from both kingdoms, and beyond. Once again, the haramias’ enigmatic leader, N’tu-nje, had triumphed over the finest troops the gold of two monarchs could buy.

  Only the iron-handed discipline imposed by their commanders prevented the two armies from turning on each other in frustration and refighting ancient wars. And only the threat the haramia posed to Zanj, Azania and their lesser neighbors could have compelled them to continue marching under the same banner despite the string of defeats they had suffered.

  The haramias’ ranks had swollen since the days when they were led by Rumanzila the Ravager. With N’tu-nje fighting at their forefront, the bandits believed they were invincible, and they were making ever-deeper inroads into the kingdoms’ territories, pillaging towns and even small cities. And they always returned to the hinterland, where they held sway as effectively as the Sha’a and the Mwamu ruled their kingdoms.

  As the defeated armies made their way back into the their huge kambi, or encampment, in the borderland between Zanj and Azania, the only sound that could be heard was the weary tramp of feet and hooves, and the low, muttered curses of the soldiers who had yet again failed to gain victory.

  And in the largest of the multitude of tents that dotted the flat wilderness land like a crop sown by some capricious god, the commanders of the two forces exchanged blame.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Why did you want to chase them into that cursed forest in the first place?” demanded Mkojo, the mwenye, or commander, of the Azanian forces.

  “It is their element, as water is to the fish,” Mkojo continued. “Why fight them on their own ground?”

  “Would you prefer that they come to us, and cut us down where we stand?” countered Chuwumba, mwenye of the Zanjians.

  “You probably wouldn’t have minded that at all,” Chuwumba added. “Not as long as it was my men who were dying, and not yours.”

  The two men glared at each other across a dark space lit only by low-burning candles. They were the only ones in the huge command tent, for they preferred that others did not hear their strategy sessions, which had of late consisted of little more than mutual recrimination.

  “We would not have been forced to fight the haramia in the woods if your troops had cut them off before they got there,” said Mkojo.

  “We couldn’t cut them off,” Chuwumba retorted. “Your troops were too damned slow to get into position. And it shouldn’t have mattered anyway, once we had them surrounded.”

  Mkojo’s only reply was a curse. He was a large man, and only his activities as a soldier prevented him from becoming obese. A broad-featured, bearded face the color of umber scowled from beneath the elaborate plumes atop his helmet – his only concession to his rank. His armor was as worn and battle-stained as that of the lowest troops under his command.

  In contrast, Chuwumba was, as always, accoutered as though he were leading his soldiers in a parade before his monarch, the Mwamu. Gold ornaments glittered in the muted light of the candles, and Chuwumba’s lean, narrow-featured face maintained an expression of studied neutrality. His eyes provided the only hint of his true character. They glinted as pitilessly as those of a serpent.

  In any other circumstance, these men would be leading their armies against each other, fighting on a battlefield or besieging a city. For all their similarities in language and ancestry, Zanj and Azania had been foes for rains beyond counting – the consequence of a feud between two clans of a tribe that had wandered the East Coast lands in the time before the great trading kingdoms were founded. From time to time, one kingdom would gain an advantage over the other, but those periods of ascendance tended to be temporary. The smaller kingdoms and city-states that dotted the East Coast maintained their independence by manipulating the antagonism between their powerful neighbors.

  Now, the smaller kingdoms viewed the current alliance between Zanj and Azania with apprehension. If it continued after the bandit army was defeated, then their own independence would be threatened.

  However, if their kings could have observed the thinly veiled animosity between the two commanders, their concerns would have abated. The coalition was on the verge of failure. One more setback at the hands of N’tu-nje would cause it to collapse, and the consequences of that outcome would be immense.

  Chuwumba was the one who pulled back from the brink of speaking words that might have begun a battle that would have engulfed the sprawling kambi in fire and blood. It had been his idea that the mwenyes hold their latest strategy discussion alone, without the presence of underlings who would have bared their blades at the slightest hint of an insult. The decision had been a wise one. But now, the tensions caused by repeated losses on the battlefield were undermining the forced courtesy that had marked the commanders’ relationship.

  “We have both made mistakes, Mkojo,” Chuwumba said.

  The Azanian mwenye said nothing. He was not inclined to acknowledge shortcomings, especially not to a Zanjian.

  “But we are not the problem,” Chuwumba said. “He is.”

  The scowl on Mkojo’s face deepened. But his ire was no longer directed toward his counterpart – just as Chuwumba had intended.

  “You are right,” Mkojo said, his voice like a leopard’s growl as he thought of N’tu-nje. “On that, at least, you are right.”

  Chuwumba chose to ignore that slight, with was subtle by the Azanian’s standards.

  “We would have left the bandit rabble for the scavengers long ago if N’tu-nje were not leading them,” Mkojo continued.

  “It is because of him that they’re not a rabble,” Chuwumba said.

  “Is he a man?” Mkojo wondered. “Or is he a djinn?”

  At the sound of the name of the demons of East Coast legend, Chuwumba’s hands rose in a warding gesture.

  “A djinn does not need a sword,” he said.

  “No,” Mkojo agreed. “But this one, be he man or djinn, has turned the haramia into something very much like a sword. And he wields it well.”

  Both commanders fell silent then. The defeats the bandit chieftain had inflicted caused wounds that were hard to heal. Never before had either commander encountered tactics like those N’tu-nje employed. Large group
s of haramia would emerge from the back country in lightning raids, striking swiftly, then retreating before the soldiers could mount an effective counterattack. And in the lone direct engagement between the troops and the haramia, which had just concluded, the bandits had more than proven their mettle, fighting with a single-minded discipline that the Zanjians and Azanians, who were as much at odds with each other as they were against the common foe, were hard-pressed to match.

  Yet the soldiers might still have prevailed, had it not been for the presence of N’tu-nje himself. The bandit chieftain did not direct his forces from afar, like the mwenyes. Instead, he fought at the forefront of the fray. Well did Chuwumba understand why Mkojo had likened the man to a djinn. N’tu-nje was a huge man, of a race unknown in the East Coast kingdoms or their hinterlands. In combat, he fought with the strength and ferocity of a lion; none could stand before him. And he was a shrewd strategist as well.

  During the last battle, Chuwumba had seen N’tu-nje redirect his forces in response to the soldiers’ shifts in tactics. Even if he was not a djinn, the Outsider was a man of uncommon courage and cunning.

  If I had him in my army, I could conquer Azania, Chuwumba mused.

  But he did not say that aloud.

  “What does he want?” the Zanjian wondered, speaking as much to himself as to Mkojo.

  “What do you mean?” Mkojo demanded.

  “What does N’tu-nje really want? Is he content merely to loot and kill? Or does he want to carve out his own kingdom, like the one before him, Rumanzila?”

  “Rumanzila,” Mkojo said, stifling an urge to spit on the ground. “That one had ambition, for certain. But he was only a half-caste from Mugishu. Most of the other bandit leaders opposed him because of who he was. This N’tu-nje … he is far more of a threat than Rumanzila could ever have been. The haramia follow him because of what he does, not who he is.”

  Chuwumba blinked in surprise. For the normally taciturn Azanian, those words were a long speech – and an astute one.

  “As for what he wants – who knows? And how can we find out?” Mkojo continued. “The spies we send to infiltrate the haramia have an unfortunate habit of failing to return.”

  “Well, we cannot continue to chase after N’tu-nje like blind men,” said Chuwumba. “We must find a way to make him come to us.”

  Mkojo snorted.

  “Great thinking, Chuwumba,” he said derisively. “What’s your plan?”

  Chuwumba laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, and opened his mouth to utter a sharp retort. The words remained unspoken, for a voice that belonged to neither of the mwenyes interjected.

  “I believe I can help you.”

  Both commanders swore in surprise. They rose to their feet, swords rasping free from their sheaths. And they both stood in wide-eyed, open-mouthed astonishment at the sight that greeted them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The celebration at the latest kambi of the haramia had long since ended, and in the light of Mwesu the moon, the unruly sprawl of tents and shelters resembled a city of the dead. Drunken bandits sprawled where they had fallen in the spaces between the shelters. Only those who remained sufficiently sober to manage sentry duty showed signs of life. And even some of the sentries leaned sleepily against their spears.

  If the armies of Azania and Zanj could have fallen upon the kambi at that moment, they would have wreaked an unimaginable slaughter upon the haramia. But the defeated soldiers were far away, licking their wounds and dreaming of vengeance.

  The usual piles of loot were absent, for the latest haramia triumph had not been the result of a raid on a caravan or borderland town. It was a defeat of those who had come to destroy them, and the spoils consisted only of weapons and armor taken from dead soldiers – and the lives of the surviving bandits.

  A long time had passed since the haramia had last plucked the prizes of their calling: gold, silver, jewels, ivory, cloth and captives, who were held for ransom, but never sold into slavery. Now, their primary occupation was avoiding death at the hands of the soldiers who continued to pursue them despite being continually defeated. Of necessity, the ranks of Imaro’s horde had swollen. Any small, independent band of outlaws that ran afoul of the soldiers was massacred mercilessly, for in the minds of the Zanjians and Azanians, all haramia were legitimate prey, regardless of who led them. Necessity was thus the reason they joined N’tu-nje. When lions were at war, it was best to belong to the strongest pride. And no lion was more fierce than the Outsider.

  Yet even as the warrior-from-afar continued to lead them to triumph over the armies of two monarchs, some of the haramia were becoming restive. They had no desire to be soldiers; indeed, more than a few of them had begun the bandit life as deserters from the very forces they were now fighting. Circumstances had forced them to accept the discipline that allowed them to inflict deep wounds on the soldiers, and to become a power in their own right in the borderlands. But it seemed that the demands of those circumstances would never come to an end. A life of fighting, retreating, then fighting and retreating again held scant appeal to men – and women – who were, essentially, lawless.

  Ngodire, the tall Ndashikuya who was the most trusted of Imaro’s lieutenants, captured the dilemma of the haramia in a conversation with the warrior that was heard only by a few others.

  “We are like a python that attempts to swallow a buffalo,” he said. “If the python succeeds in that endeavor, he soon wishes he hadn’t.”

  Imaro had not disputed Ngodire’s counsel. But he had not given any indication of what he intended to do next.

  As the night deepened and the aches of the day’s battle eased, the haramia who remained awake cast an occasional glance toward the largest tent in the kambi, where Imaro and Tanisha slumbered. They thought about how their chieftain had changed since the slaying of the demon Isikukumadevu; how distant and implacable he was becoming.

  Where are you taking us, N’tu-nje, the more thoughtful among them wondered. And will we survive the journey?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Inside the tent, Tanisha awakened suddenly from a deep sleep. Immediately, she knew why she woke. As her eyes adjusted to the dim firelight that filtered through the cloth walls of the tent, she saw Imaro lying beside her, a massive silhouette in the semi-darkness. She was facing his back. One of her arms encircled his waist. Her hand rested on the hard muscles of his abdomen. The sweat from their previous lovemaking had long since dried, but his skin remained hot against hers.

  Imaro’s breathing had become ragged, his body rigid. It was the change in his breathing that had awakened her. Tanisha had become attuned to Imaro’s nightmares. She knew what was coming now. Quickly, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, and placed a hand over his mouth.

  A moment later, Imaro erupted into motion. His arms lashed out; his legs churned; he mouth opened; an outcry beat against the palm of Tanisha’s hand. She stifled most of the sound. Only someone whose ear was pressed directly against the cloth of the tent could have heard it. Tanisha knew no one would dare to come that close.

  Tanisha was well aware that she could not hold Imaro for long. Yet she also knew that if she did not restrain him until he came fully awake, he might charge out of the tent and wreak havoc in the kambi. It was the touch of Tanisha’s skin, the scent of her body, and the soft murmur of her voice that released the warrior from the grip of his nightmare.

  Abruptly, his movements stopped, and his mouth closed under her hand. She removed her hand then, and she rolled on top of his and covered his mouth with hers. When their tongues touched, Tanisha knew that the demons that had haunted Imaro’s sleep were gone.

  “It is getting worse,” she said in a low whisper after their lips parted.

  Imaro was silent for so long that Tanisha thought he was not going to respond.

  “Yes,” he finally said.

  “Were you in the Place of Stones?”

  “Yes.”

  Tanisha tightened her arms around him. He ha
d told her before about his encounter with the sorcerer Chitendu in the crumbling ruin at the edge of Ilyassai territory. Chitendu had slain Keteke, the woman who had been with Imaro at the time. And the sorcerer had come close to killing Imaro as well.

  The warrior had learned much during his confrontation with Chitendu. He knew the names of his enemies: the High Sorcerers of Naama, and their demon gods, the Mashataan. But he did not know where, or when, they would strike at him again. And he did not know how he would fight them.

  Chitendu was dead. But he continued to live in Imaro’s dreams, which were becoming more frequent, and would have been terrifying for anyone other than him. And even for him, they were causing concern.

  “There were more of the High Sorcerers with him this time,” he said. “I could not see their faces – I never can.”

  Imaro spoke in a low, calm voice, but his muscles were like stone beneath Tanisha’s hands.

  He keeps so much inside, she thought. And it is probably best that he does …

  “They said they will find me, and kill me … and everyone around me,” Imaro continued. “They… showed me what they would do to you.”

  Tanisha tried, and failed, to suppress a shudder. Imaro’s arms tightened protectively around her.

  “I will not let that happen,” he said.

  “Do you think they can reach us?”

  Imaro let out a snort that might have been laughter. Tanisha knew it wasn’t.

  “If they could, they would have done it long before now,” he said. “They seek to weaken me with fear. But I do not fear – for myself.”

  Tanisha raised herself on one elbow and looked down at him. In the darkness, she could not see his eyes. Still, she knew he was looking at her. She wished she could look into his eyes then, to see what lay behind his words.