Imaro: Book I

by Charles R. Saunders

  “We cannot bring back your people,” he said. “But we will find the ones who gave them to the tuyabene. And we will kill them.”

  Seeing the fury that had gathered like storm clouds in Imaro’s dark eyes, Kulutu knew the warrior would fulfill that vow.

  “We, too, will kill them,” the Umtala said.

  Tanisha looked at Imaro with approval – and admiration – as he called the haramia to him. After the bandit army assembled, he spoke to them in tones that carried above the rush of the river.

  “We have another enemy,” he said. “It is neither the Zanjians nor the Azanians, and it is an enemy that uses our name against us. We must destroy this enemy.”

  “What about the Zanjians and Azanians?” asked Chimba. “Do you think they will just sit back and watch us chase after these false haramia?”

  “Where are the Zanjians and Azanians?” Ngodire asked Chimba. “Have you seen them?”

  Chimba did not reply.

  “We will send scouts to keep watch on the soldiers,” Imaro said, paying no heed to the bickering. No one else asked questions or raised objections.

  “We go now,” said Imaro.

  “Wait,” said Kulutu.

  Imaro turned to him.

  “We must bury what is left of our youths, and sing their spirits to the ancestors,” Kulutu said.

  Imaro nodded.

  Later, as the voices of the Umtala provided the pathway along which the spirits of the tuyabenes’ victims would travel, one of the haramia muttered: “Another fight, and nothing to show for it but our lives – if we are lucky.”

  He was not the only one to harbor that thought.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  “Imaro. We must talk,” said Ngodire.

  The Ndashikuya was the only person, other than Tanisha, who could address the haramia chieftain in such an insistent tone. Imaro looked up at Ngodire’s troubled face. Then he nodded.

  The two men stepped away from the night-fires at the haramias’ latest kambi, which sprawled across a rare open area of country that was mostly woodland. They had been following the trail of the false haramia for days, which paralleled the river. So far, they had not come close to catching them.

  Ngodire and Imaro had established a bond of trust and respect during the time before Imaro became leader of the haramia, and the Ndashikuya’s loyalty to the Ilyassai was unquestioned. Ngodire had no intention to become leader himself, for he knew he was even more of an outsider than Imaro, or even Busa. Few would be willing to follow him.

  And now, some were not willing to follow Imaro, either.

  Imaro looked toward the shelter he shared with Tanisha. The bandits no longer had the time to pitch semi-permanent encampments, with tents and other amenities. They were spending all the time and energy they could muster in pursuit of the false haramia, who were proving to be maddeningly elusive prey.

  The warrior preferred to be with Tanisha now. He could guess the reason Ngodire wanted to talk, and it was the last thing he wanted to discuss. But he knew it was necessary for him to do so.

  Beyond the perimeter of the firelight, the two men presented contrasting silhouettes: Imaro’s tall and broad; Ngodire’s taller and reed-like. Some of the haramia who had not yet gone to their shelters for the night cast glances toward the two men, and whispered to each other as they watched, although Ngodire had told no one what he intended to say to Imaro.

  “Some of the men – and women – are wondering if you know what you’re doing,” Ngodire said.

  Imaro took no offense to Ngodire’s bluntness. Better bluntness and truth than flattery and lies: that was a lesson he had learned well during his life among the Ilyassai.

  “I am not Rumanzila,” he said after a short silence. “I do not force anyone to follow my lead.”

  “That’s why most of the haramia do follow you … because you don’t force them to,” said Ngodire. “But that isn’t – or wasn’t – the only reason. These rogues and renegades have followed you because you are the strongest and fiercest warrior anyone has ever seen, and they could fill their sacks with more loot under your banner than that of anyone else.”

  He paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully.

  “Until now.”

  Imaro remained silent, waiting for Ngodire to continue.

  “You have made us into warriors, Imaro,” the Ndashikuya said. “And we are warriors beyond compare, more than a match for the mightiest armies of the East Coast kingdoms.”

  Imaro still said nothing.

  “A bandit wants to loot and live, not fight and die,” Ngodire said.

  “A warrior wants to kill, and not to die,” said Imaro. “But a warrior is not afraid to die, if he has to.”

  “That’s the problem,” said Ngodire. “There are many among us who don’t understand why we have to risk death for the sake of the Umtala.”

  “I gave them my word that we would bring back their people,” Imaro said. “Failing that, we must help them to get their vengeance.”

  Now, it was Ngodire’s turn to fall silent.

  “What about Chimba’s plan to cross the Kakassa?” he finally asked.

  “We can still do that.”

  Ngodire was quiet again. The two men gazed at the firelight, and did not look at each other. Ngodire was the first to speak.

  “There is something you are not telling me – or the rest of us,” he said. “If we are going to cross the Kakassa, then what does it matter that the false haramia did harm to the Umtala? They are nothing to us. Why take the chance of being caught by the soldiers on the Umtalas’ account, even if you did give your word?”

  He looked closely at Imaro. Even in the dim firelight, he could see the conflict that raged like a battle behind his eyes. Ngodire could not know how close Imaro came then to telling him about the High Sorcerers, the Mashataan, Chitendu, and the dreams that had recently returned to plague his sleep. In the end, though, he could not. He could not …

  “There is something else,” he finally said. “But it must wait until another time.”

  Then Imaro turned and walked away. Ngodire’s gaze followed him as he headed toward his shelter.

  “Another time may be too late,” the Ndashikuya murmured.

  He was right.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Imaro had still not broken his silence when the tuyabene attacked.

  The haramia had remained closer to the river than they would have liked. But that was where the tracks of their quarry led them. Outwardly, the river was like any other. The haramia could see the shadows of large fish beneath the surface, and crocodiles and water antelope fled the approach of the bandit army. They saw no sign, however, of the river-demons as sunlight glinted from the slow-moving water.

  Imaro’s kufahuma provided the only warning for the haramia. He stopped short, then stared closely at the river. The others who were with him at the head of the column also stopped, for they had learned to recognize that the cock of the warrior’s head and the intent look in his eyes signalled an awareness of impending danger that their own senses could not match.

  Imaro pulled his sword from its sheath.

  “Beware!” he shouted, loudly enough to be heard throughout the ranks.

  A moment later, the river’s surface erupted, and the tuyabene leaped out of the water and swarmed toward the haramia. The river-demons were man-shaped, but their resemblance to humankind was only superficial, for the knees of their long legs bent backward. Yet they moved with lethal speed and grace. Their slippery, naked skin was the color of the soil at the river’s bottom. Elongated jaws gaped wide, exposing rows of needle-sharp teeth. The only sound they uttered was a low, gurgling growl.

  The tuyabene did not carry weapons; they needed none. From the first fingers of their hands and the first toes of their feet grew long, hook-like claws that ended in joints that were as sharp as the tip of a dagger.

  Those claws quickly ripped into the first ranks of the haramia, who were too stunned at the su
dden appearance of the tuyabene to react in time to save their lives. The tuyabenes’ numbers seemed endless; it was as though the river itself were spawning them.

  Only Imaro’s swift actions prevented a slaughter from occurring – but not before a tuyabene’s claw tore through the throat of Kulutu. The Umtala’s eyes never lost their expression of horrified astonishment, not even as he sank to the ground in a welter of his own blood.

  With one hand, Imaro thrust Tanisha behind him. With his sword, he cut off the hand of the tuyabene that had slain Kulutu. Although her eyes were wide with terror, Tanisha had already drawn her own weapon. Busa was at her side, clutching the hilt of his panga with both hands. But neither of them had any foes to engage, for the tuyabene in their immediate area had been driven back by the fury of Imaro’s counterattack, which left a crop of fresh corpses in its wake.

  The warrior’s rage was nearly matched by that of the surviving Umtala. Their grief over the slaying of Kulutu overcame their dread of the tuyabene, and when they saw that the river-demons could be slain, they rushed headlong at their foes, slashing at them with a ferocity their people had never before exhibited in their long seclusion from conflict.

  When the haramia recovered from the initial shock of the tuyabenes’ attack, they retaliated mercilessly. Unlike their strategic battles against the soldiers, however, this was a melee of humans and tuyabene, sliding in the mud of the riverbank as they tore at each other with steel and claws. The tuyabene were not capable of formulating tactics, and the bandits’ only strategy was to survive.

  For a short time, the momentum of the struggle shifted from one side to the other, then back again. The gurgling death cries of the tuyabene vied in volume with the shrieks and groans of the haramia. Then another cry rose above the din of combat: the war cry of the Ilyassai. When the haramia heard that call, they redoubled their efforts, and the tuyabene fell back, though they continued to fight tenaciously and exact their toll of dead.

  Finally, their survival instinct superseded the compulsion that had brought the tuyabene out of the river. Hopping like gigantic amphibians, they returned to their subsurface lairs, their wounds staining the water crimson as the ripples marked their passage. Now it was this nameless stream, not the Kakassa, that was truly the River of Blood.

  Some of the haramia splashed into the river in pursuit of the tuyabene before Ngodire’s voice stopped them.

  “Are you fools, to think you can breathe underwater like those demons?” he shouted.

  Stung by the Ndashikuya’s tone but aware of the truth of his words, the bandits ceased their pursuit and returned to the riverbank. Before long, the current carried away the blood of the tuyabene.

  The corpses of the river-demons were interspersed with those of the haramia. Even as the weary survivors of the battle tended their wounds, a crocodile emerged and carried a tuyabene carcass back into the river.

  Imaro lowered his sword-blade. The tuyabenes’ claws had gashed the leather of his armor, along with his arms. Tanisha was unmarked. The blade of her sword dripped tuyabene blood. So did Busa’s panga.

  The tuyabene dead far outnumbered the fallen and wounded haramia. Even so, the haramia had suffered far too many losses – more than they had in their last battle against the forces of the Sha’a and the Mwamu. Now, the survivors looked at Imaro, who had saved most of their lives this day. But he had also led many of them to their deaths.

  Before anyone could speak, more crocodiles came from the river to claim corpses. When one of the reptiles clamped its jaws on the leg of a dead haramia, Imaro shouted: “That is not for you!”

  Charging forward, he slashed at the crocodile until it released its grip on the corpse and returned to the river.

  “Give the demons to the crocodiles,” Imaro commanded. “Don’t let them take our dead!”

  The haramia heeded the warrior’s words. Some of them kicked and shoved the corpses of the tuyabene into the mouths of the crocodiles; others dragged the haramia dead away from the riverbank. Between the efforts of the crocodiles and the bandits, the riverbank was soon cleared of all corpses, and the crocodiles slipped beneath the water’s surface.

  By the time the bandits buried their dead, and performed their various rituals to send their spirits to their ancestors, the sun was about to set. Again, the haramia focused their attention on Imaro. In his eyes, they saw a weariness that had never been present before. His broad shoulders sagged, as though they bore a burden that had become too heavy even for him. The thought of becoming the ruler of an infant kingdom was far from his mind now.

  Only two of the Umtala had survived the battle against the river-demons. But they, as well as the ones who had died, had slain many tuyabene, and they had gained a measure of vengeance for those who had been stolen and sacrificed. Even so, they wondered if they would ever see their village again, and tell the people who remained there a tale they wouldn’t believe.

  Ngodire and Kongolo stood at Imaro’s side. Tanisha was there, too. Her arm circled the warrior’s waist, as though she was all that was keeping him on his feet. The rest of the haramia leaned heavily on their weapons. Other than their breathing, which was ragged with exhaustion, the haramia remained silent, waiting for their chieftain to speak.

  Imaro gestured toward the row of earthen mounds piled with large stones, beneath which the haramia dead had been buried.

  “The ones who brought these deaths to us owe us a debt,” he said. “We will make them pay it.”

  He raised his sword skyward. Blood fell from its blade to the ground. The others, including the surviving Umtala, lifted their weapons as well, and they echoed the war cry Imaro uttered.

  Even as he held his long, slender sword high above his head, Ngodire wondered: What debt do you owe, Imaro? And how will you pay it?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The haramia heard the Kakassa River long before they could see it – a rumbling reminiscent of the sound of distant thunder during the wet season. But the wet season had not yet come. The sky was free of clouds. The hearts of the haramia were not.

  Even though no more attacks came from the tuyabene, Imaro had ordered his scouts to keep a constant watch on the river. The tuyabene would not take them by surprise again. Onward the haramia marched, following the tantalizing spoor of their quarry.

  Like bait leading to a trap, more than a few of the bandits thought as they saw the marks of hurried footsteps. But Imaro would not relent.

  The Ilyassai was well aware that the false haramia could be deceitful in more than one way. He took all the precautions he could. Scouts ranged far ahead of the main body of the bandit army; the haramia marched in a formation that was flexible enough to be effective in either attack or retreat; and he concentrated his own senses of danger, both natural and supernatural, to their utmost.

  From a distance, Imaro saw riders approaching – three of them, their horses’ hooves spattering mud. Scouts – or foes? Like the others at the front of the outlaws’ column, Imaro kept his hand close to his swordhilt as the riders came closer.

  When they arrived, the haramia relaxed, for they recognized the face of Chimba, and those of the other two who had volunteered to join his scouting party. Because he was more familiar with this country than any of the others, including the Umtala, Chimba did most of the haramias’ reconnaissance. Imaro trusted him only as far as was necessary.

  Chimba and the other scouts swung down from their saddles. All three wore glum expressions, a signal that their news would not be what their fellow bandits wanted to hear.

  “The ones we seek are near the Kakassa,” Chimba said to Imaro and his lieutenants.

  “Did you see them?” Imaro asked.

  “No,” Chimba replied. “We could not even see the river. Mist covers everything. It’s like a cloud that has fallen to the ground.”

  The other two scouts nodded in corroboration of Chimba’s words. Imaro was not the only one who frowned in response to the report.

  “Was it like that when you
were here before?” Ngodire asked Chimba. “When you found the ‘passage’ across the river?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t like this,” said Kongolo. “It smells of sorcery. Why else would there be a mist like that in the middle of the dry season?”

  “Sorcery can be defeated,” Imaro said.

  Kongolo nodded slowly. He knew Imaro was right. He had seen the warrior prevail over the mchawi that animated the Afua, and he had seen him carry the severed head of the demon Isikukumadevu into the haramia encampment in the Black Hills. Yet he could not suppress his feelings of apprehension.

  “Do we turn back, or do we go on?” Ngodire asked.

  “What do you think?” Imaro asked Chimba.

  “I say we should go on.”

  Before Imaro could go on, Busa spoke.

  “Imaro,” he said. “Do not follow the advice of a snake.”

  Rage twisting his features, Chimba took a step forward.

  “Shut your mouth, you scar-faced son of a – ”

  “Enough,” said Imaro.

  Chimba did not take another step. He continued to glare at Busa, whose own eyes were brimming with hatred. Chimba’s anger, however, did not prevent him from completing his report to Imaro.

  “We have no other choice but to go on,” he said.

  “Why?” Imaro demanded.

  “Because the mist is not just sitting at the Kakassa,” Chimba said. “It is moving … moving in this direction.”

  “It is so thick, it blots out the sun,” said another of the scouts. “And it just keeps coming, like it’s swallowing the ground in front of it.”

  Now, all eyes were on Imaro. But he directed his own gaze to the one who stood beside him: Tanisha. As she gazed up at him, he could see a glimmer of fear in her eyes. But he also saw trust: trust, and confidence that he could overcome whatever it was that was hidden in the mist the scouts had seen. That trust almost overcame him.

  Then Imaro turned back to the haramia.

  “Our enemy comes to us, hiding behind the mist,” he said. “I do not fear a foe that cannot show its face. Do you?”