Imaro: Book I

by Charles R. Saunders

  In a secluded area not far from the waterfall, Imaro conferred with several other haramia. Despite the victory the bandit army had achieved over its foes, the gathering was more somber than celebratory. The haramias’ triumphs were proving more costly to them than to the Zanjians and Azanians, a reality of which Imaro and the others who were gathered near the waterfall were fully aware.

  Tanisha was there. Imaro trusted no one more than her. The Shikaza woman had long ago eschewed the gold, jewels and other finery that usually bedecked her. She was clad like the other bandits: in suruali trousers and a leather breastplate that had been looted from a dead soldier and modified to accommodate her proportions. A short sword was sheathed at her side; Imaro had taught her how to use it, and its blade had already tasted blood.

  Ngodire was there. He was the first of Imaro’s lieutenants, and no one among the haramia could match the sagacity of the towering Ndashikuya. The counsel he offered Imaro reflected that wisdom, though the Ilyassai did not always heed Ngodire’s advice. The Ndashikuya posed no threat to Imaro’s leadership. His sharp tongue had wounded more than a few haramia, and some of them would prefer to kill him rather than follow him.

  Kongolo was there. The stolid, ebony boulder of a man stood second only to Ngodire among the haramia. Kongolo had transferred his loyalty from Rumanzila to Imaro without question and, outwardly at least, harbored no ambition to take Imaro’s place, even though Imaro had said Kongolo was to lead the bandits if Imaro fell.

  Chimba was there. The dour bandit was not one of Imaro’s lieutenants, and he was hardly a friend of the Ilyassai’s. However, his shrewdness came close to matching that of Ngodire, and on the battlefield, he was a deadly combatant. Despite the objections Kongolo had raised, Imaro had invited Chimba to the gathering. Chimba’s words were often worth heeding.

  Busa was there. The Mtumwe did not rank highly among the haramia, and he rarely had advice to offer. But he seldom strayed far from Imaro’s side. Behind his back, some of the other haramia called him “N’tu-nje’s dog.” With his intricately scarred skin and his aloofness from everyone except Imaro and Tanisha, Busa was the true outsider among the bandits. And in the endless battles against the soldiers of the Mwamu and the Sha’a, he fought as though he was daring death to claim him.

  Ngodire spoke words that encapsulated the plight of the haramia.

  “We are like a rope that is being pulled by elephants at each end,” he said. “We are a strong rope – we couldn’t be any stronger. But sooner or later, the elephants will pull the rope apart.”

  “What would you have us do, then?” Kongolo asked, a frown furrowing his dark face.

  “There are only two things we can do,” Ngodire replied. “Either we kill the elephants, or we find a way to make them drop the rope before it breaks.”

  Both lieutenants looked at Imaro then. The warrior appeared to be distracted. But when he spoke, it was clear that he had been listening to, and evaluating, Ngodire’s words.

  “We can kill one of the elephants,” he said. “But there are not enough of us to kill both of them.”

  “Then how can we make them drop this ‘rope’ Ngodire’s talking about?” Kongolo asked.

  “We could become an elephant, instead of a rope,” the Ndashikuya replied enigmatically.

  Kongolo laughed humorlessly.

  “By what sorcery do you expect to accomplish that?” he asked sardonically. “In case you haven’t noticed, Angulu is no longer with us.”

  “We are better off without that one,” said Tanisha.

  Imaro looked at her, but she did not say anything else. In the meantime, Ngodire answered Kongolo’s question.

  “Rumanzila always wanted to be more than just a bandit chieftain,” he said. “He wanted to build a kingdom of his own in the lands beyond the borders of Zanj, Azania and all the other East Coast countries. That is how we could become an elephant. And … Imaro would make a far better king than Rumanzila.”

  All the others looked at Imaro now. Only Tanisha could guess at what Imaro was thinking.

  Ngodire’s analogy of the elephants and the rope applied not only to the haramia, but to Imaro himself. In his case, the elephants were his desire to destroy the Naamans, and his obligation to the people he led. And… he had never as much as imagined himself to be a king. Not while he lived among the Ilyassai, who had never accepted him as one of their own until it was too late to matter. Not among the Mtumwe, whose ways he could not fathom. Not even among the haramia, who were a band of marauders rather than a tribe or clan.

  Yet even though they were outlaws and outcasts, the haramia were his people now. He was responsible for them. Their fate depended on his decisions. They were his people – and, if Ngodire was speaking for them all, they wanted him to be not just their chieftain, but their king.

  Him… the “son-of-no-father.”

  But the haramia knew nothing of the dreams that came to him each night. They did not know the danger that he brought to them. Had the time come to let them know? Imaro was not certain.

  Kongolo broke the silence.

  “Where would we go to begin our own kingdom?” he asked. “The lands beyond the borders are useless, worthless. That’s why no one lives there.”

  “We could make these lands useful and worthwhile to us,” said Ngodire. “Others have done more, with less.”

  “If we go far enough away, it would not be worthwhile for the Sha’a and the Mwamu to continue to pursue us,” said Tanisha.

  “If we’re that far away from everyone else, what would we do to live?” Kongolo asked. “Farm? Herd? We are not farmers or herders. We are thieves and robbers. If we settle down, we will no longer be haramia.”

  “I was once a herder,” Imaro said, looking directly at Kongolo, who quickly looked away.

  Ngodire spoke then, hoping to forestall the flicker of anger he saw in Imaro’s eyes.

  “Whatever we once were, we are not bandits anymore,” he said. “We are an army – an army without a home.”

  “I do not want to live behind walls of stone,” Imaro said then. “And I do not want to continue to fight against an enemy whose numbers are as endless as the ants in an overturned hill. We will go to another place.”

  “Where?” Kongolo asked.

  Imaro was about to reveal his secret then: the conflict between him and the High Sorcerers of Naama, and his determination to destroy his enemies, and his need for the haramias’ help to accomplish that aim. But Chimba spoke first.

  “I know of a place,” he said.

  “Do you, now?” Ngodire asked, his skepticism evident.

  “I know more than you think,” Chimba retorted.

  “Tell us,” said Imaro.

  “The other side of the Kakassa River,” said Chimba.

  The name meant nothing to Imaro or Busa, who were not natives of the East Coast. The others, however, reacted with varying degrees of disbelief when they heard it. Tanisha’s eyes widened. Kongolo let out a harsh bark of laughter. Ngodire’s long, ebony face showed a grimace of disgust, and he gave voice to what the others were thinking.

  “Are you mad, Chimba?” the Ndashikuya demanded. “Are you a fool? Or are you both?”

  “Have you ever been to the Kakassa?” Chimba retorted.

  “No! Who, in their right mind, would ever go there?”

  “I have gone there,” Chimba said in a deceptively soft tone. “And I was in my right mind at the time.”

  Although he was as a child next to Ngodire, who towered over even Imaro, Chimba’s eyes betrayed no hint of fear as he glared up at the Ndashikuya. He seemed to relish the other man’s enmity.

  “What is the Kakassa?” Imaro asked.

  “It is said to be a river like no other,” said Ngodire. “It moves as swiftly as this waterfall, and it is filled with sharp, jagged stones that would rip out the bottom of any boat that attempted to travel on it. That is why the Kakassa is called the ‘River of Blood.’”

  He turned back to Chimba.
<
br />   “Yet you found a way to cross it.”

  “It was before I joined Rumanzila,” Chimba said, ignoring Ngodire’s incredulity. “I was on my own then. A robbery in Zanj went wrong, and the city guard was chasing me as hard as these soldiers are chasing us. I finally gave them the slip near the Kakassa, or else they finally decided I wasn’t worth any more of their time. I was trying to find a way to double back when I saw it: a way across the river that was free of the rocks. It was luck more than anything else that led me to it.”

  “Did you go across?” Imaro asked, his curiosity aroused.

  “No. There was no reason to. All I wanted to do was get away from the city guard, and I’d already done that.”

  “Then you don’t know what’s on the other side,” said Ngodire.

  “Whatever’s over there, it can’t be any worse than the armies of two kingdoms seeking to wipe us off the face of Nyumbani.”

  “So, you would lead us from the leopard we know to the leopard we don’t know,” said Ngodire.

  Chimba did not respond. He was looking at Imaro, as were all the others at the gathering.

  Imaro’s thoughts raced along trails they had never travelled before. He did not trust Chimba – few of the haramia did. Even so, the dour bandit’s counsel had sometimes proved valuable as the haramia fought their running battle against the combined might of Azania and Zanj.

  The veracity of Chimba’s claims was at the forefront of Imaro’s considerations. If Chimba was telling the truth, then Imaro saw a way to continue his association with the haramia a while longer, and a way to postpone telling them about the Naamans. If he could lead them to this unknown land across an impassable river, then he would have a better chance of convincing the haramia to join him in the destruction of the shadowy High Sorcerers.

  And there was something else as well – something he had never before admitted to himself. For all his need to be apart from others, Imaro could not deny his desire to hold on to the tribe he had forged with his own hands – the only people he could call his own.

  I will not let you take that away from me, he vowed silently to the phantoms that haunted his dreams. I will not…

  Imaro stared hard at Chimba. He did not delude himself into thinking that Chimba harbored any greater liking for him than he had when Imaro had first arrived among the haramia as an unconscious, trussed prisoner. Yet Chimba would suffer the same fate as anyone else if the soldiers ever captured him.

  The warrior turned his gaze to Tanisha. Her expression was neither encouraging nor discouraging; this decision was to be Imaro’s alone. Without further delay, he chose.

  “You can find the way to this crossing again?” he asked Chimba.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we will go there.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The attack on the village of Umtala was totally unexpected. Located in the vicinity of the Kakassa River, Umtala had long remained apart from the sway of the coastal kingdoms, which did not consider the lands deep in the interior worthy of conquest or contention. The ancestors of the Umtala had fled such conflicts hundreds of rains ago, and when they reached the impassable river, they found a secluded area where they could plant their crops, graze their cattle, and live in tranquility. Subsequent events that reverberated throughout the eastern lands left the Umtala untouched, and there were some among them who believed the rest of Nyumbani would never breach the isolation they had chosen.

  Their sanctuary was near the Kakassa, but not close enough that they could see the great river. Its constant roar held a menacing note.

  Abruptly, their long seclusion came to an end. Marauders swept into the Umtala village like a swarm of locusts. The Umtala had no chance to defend themselves; the few who managed to pick up weapons were cut down before they ever had a chance to wield them.

  Yet only a few people died during the assault. The raiders were more concerned about capturing than killing the Umtala. Only those who resisted died. The Umtala who surrendered were bound and hurled to the ground. Some of the villagers managed to escape; the raiders did not pursue them.

  When the brief attack came to an end, the marauders forced the captives to their feet and lined them up in a clearing at the center of the village. Then they closely inspected the Umtala, as though they were appraising cattle. The attackers were of the East Coast race, as were the Umtala. But appearance was the only similarity between them, for the raiders were clad in the garments of several coastal kingdoms, none of which the Umtala recognized. Nor were they accustomed to the obvious contempt in which the invaders regarded them.

  The Umtala had been isolated for so long that they could comprehend only a few of the words their captors spoke. Their actions, however, were easily understood. One by one, the young women and men – those who were on the verge of undergoing the rites of passage to adulthood – were pulled aside. The invaders kicked all the others back to the ground, leaving their bonds intact.

  More than a score of the Umtala village’s youths stood in a trembling knot amid the hard-faced intruders. As some of the raiders surrounded the captives and forced them to leave the village, others used still-burning cooking-fires to light brands, which they then tossed into the Umtalas’ dwellings. The Umtala had long ago given up the practice of building in stone; their thatch-and-straw dwellings quickly turned into gigantic torches.

  Frantically, the remaining Umtala struggled to free themselves while the raiders departed with their captives. Some of them managed to wriggle loose from their bonds before their burning houses collapsed, sending flaming debris flying in all directions. Others were neither quick nor fortunate, and they died screaming in the roaring flames.

  The survivors could only watch helplessly as their village burned. And while they struggled to comprehend the calamity that had engulfed them, they remembered the one word they had heard more than any other from the intruders – a word they identified with those who had wronged them; a word they despised, but could not forget.

  The word was: haramia.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “Is it not like times of old?”

  The voice from the darkness startled Bomunu out of his reverie. He had been standing alone, beyond the night-fires, wishing he were somewhere – anywhere – else.

  Gone were the tatters that had clothed him when he first approached the kambi of the East Coast armies. The garments he now wore were not as elaborate as he would have liked, but at least they were clean and intact. Less intact were the ambition and bravado that had goaded him out of his comfortable life in Zanj, and into the precarious existence of the haramia.

  The voice belonged to Angulu. In his all-enveloping cloak, the wa-nyanume’s substance had become shadow, as though he were a part of the night that had somehow taken on human form. Fear was never far from Bomunu whenever he encountered Angulu now. In the time before Angulu had departed from the haramia, relations between him and Bomunu had been cordial, if not particularly close. Since then, however, the wa-nyanume had … changed.

  “You always wanted to be leader of the haramia,” Angulu continued. “Now, you are.”

  The mocking tone of the sorcerer’s voice stung Bomunu.

  “Not like this,” Bomunu said.

  Bitterness laced the Zanjian’s words. The men he had led on the raid against the Umtala village were not true haramia. They were soldiers, drawn from both the Zanjian and Azanian ranks, who wore the polyglot garb of the outlaws instead of their military accouterments. The disguised troops had followed Bomunu and Angulu into unknown territory, not far from a river that had previously been more legendary than real.

  This was not the first time Bomunu had been among bandits who raided a remote village for captives. Slave markets were no more scrupulous about dealing in stolen property than any other.

  But the purpose of this raid was different, in a way that sickened even the jaded, amoral Bomunu. Even though he had participated in the planning of this part of the strategy Angulu and the mwenyes had
devised to destroy the haramia, he could not think about what he was doing without feeling revulsion – for himself, and for Angulu, even though he owed his life to the wa-nyanume.

  When Chuwumba, commander of the Zanjian forces, learned of Bomunu’s presence on the Azanian side of the kambi, he had demanded that the outlaw be turned over to him without delay. Mwenye Mkojo’s refusal to do so had come close to causing an irreparable rift between the two armies. Angulu’s insistence that Bomunu had a vital part to play in the plan finally convinced Chuwumba to relent – but he did so only grudgingly.

  Now, as he looked toward the dark, barely discernable forms of the Umtala captives, Bomunu knew their fate would be far worse than being sold into slavery in one of the East Coast cities. His regret for that outcome lasted only for a moment, however.

  Better them than me, he thought.

  “Soon, we will both get what we want,” Angulu said.

  Bomunu looked at him. The mwenyes had promised both men amnesty from retribution for the misdeeds they had committed while they were with the haramia. Bomunu wanted more than that, though, and he was prepared to make full use of his opportunity to get it.

  He did not know what Angulu wanted. He had no desire to know.

  “Soon, indeed,” was all Bomunu would say as he watched the shadows the wavering firelight cast.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  In a long, ragged line, the true haramia marched warily through the unfamiliar country south of the Kakassa River. Some were mounted; most trudged on foot. The land here was incongruous; it was as though several types of terrain had been jumbled together by gods who were either mischievous or inebriated. Rocky, broken outcrops jutted from flat plains; ragged copses of forest stood adjacent to swamps; natural barricades of thornbush lay athwart the path the haramia followed. Wildlife was abundant, but herds and solitary beasts alike gave way to the two-legs. Even the mighty elephant shunned the smell of so much steel.