Imaro: Book I

by Charles R. Saunders

  “No!” came the reply from scores of throats.

  “When the enemy comes, we will be ready.”

  Imaro believed his own words. But there were some among the haramia who did not. They did not give voice to their misgivings. Nor did they deny them. Now that they had come so far, however, they would stand or fall with N’tu-nje. And he would stand or fall with them.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Mist shrouded Angulu so thickly that it obscured even the midnight-black cloak that covered him. He could see nothing other than the swirling white clouds that shifted and coalesced around him. That did not matter to him, though, for his vision extended far beyond the vapor, as well as beyond all the limits that had confined him before he made common cause with the High Sorcerers of Naama.

  Once before, during the time when he was still welcome in his native Azania, Angulu had come close to stepping on to the forbidden path of mchawi. At the last moment, panic had overcome him, and he pulled back from that pathway. Even though he did not carry out the final ritual that would have bound him to the Mashataan, other sorcerers had discovered what he was doing, and he had barely escaped Azania with his life.

  Among the outlaws of the borderlands, Angulu’s sorcerous skills were coveted, and he had joined the strongest of the haramia leaders: Rumanzila. And as he cast simple spells for the benefit of the bandits, the wa-nyanume tried to forget the promise of power he had allowed to slip out of his grasp.

  Then came the mission to steal the Afua … and the capture of Imaro … and the disaster that occurred when Rumanzila had rashly plucked one of the Afua’s golden spikes… and the subsequent death of Rumanzila… and Imaro’s ascension to the leadership of the haramia.

  When Imaro replaced the spike in the Afua after the idol had come to life, he stemmed the flow of mchawi from the opening that had unleashed it. Some of the sorcerous energy, however, found a host that was not unwilling to accept it – Angulu. His exposure to the concentrated mchawi swept aside the trepidations that had inhibited him before. This time, he opened himself to the High Sorcerers – and they plucked him like a fruit from a tree.

  He was under their influence when he departed from the haramia. In the deep wilderness, far from even the outlaws, Angulu absorbed the knowledge that had frightened him before. The High Sorcerers revealed their intentions to him, and the part he would play in their plans. They showed him the rewards that would be his if he succeeded in the tasks they set for him, and the punishments that were the consequence of failure.

  And they showed him the price he would have to pay if he became one of them. This time, he was willing to pay it.

  Finally, the Naamans showed Angulu the main obstacle that could prevent the achievement of their goals: Imaro. The destruction of the Ilyassai would be Angulu’s responsibility.

  Angulu had disliked the outlander from the beginning. He had always wished the haramia had left the warrior in the Mtumwe village after the bandits had stolen the Afua. And when he saw how Imaro had prevailed against the Afua after the idol had been animated by mchawi, Angulu realized that the Ilyassai was an uncommonly dangerous man. Now, he would be the instrument of Imaro’s downfall.

  He had easily insinuated himself into Chimba’s dreams – but not Imaro’s. The High Sorcerers themselves were the ones who afflicted the warrior’s sleep. It had been easy, also, to intimidate the likes of Bomunu, and even the mwenyes, Mkojo and Chuwumba. Mkojo had known of Angulu’s past in Azania, but he was willing to overlook the wa-nyanume’s previous misdeeds in exchange for his help in defeating the bandit army.

  Summoning and controlling the tuyabene was more difficult, but he had managed to do it, and their attack had weakened the haramia, though the river-demons had failed to slay Imaro.

  Now, as he gathered his mchawi in the thickening mist, Angulu experienced a moment of doubt akin to the uncertainty that had thwarted his first attempt to wield mchawi. For Imaro was, in his own way, as formidable as the High Sorcerers.

  Still, Imaro was only a man. The High Sorcerers were more – much more. And so, now, was Angulu.

  The sorcerer’s hands wove intricate patterns in the air. He spoke words of power that resonated deep within him. The mist moved in cadence with his speech. The mchawi flowed through him.

  The time had come…

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Like a vast, moving wall of white, the mist approached the waiting haramia. The bandit army had moved inland, away from the river and the tuyabene, for there was no longer any reason to follow the trail of the false haramia. Now the enemy was coming to them.

  The mist was as white as a cloud, as Chimba had said. But it had no whorls or ridges, nor even a shape. As it drew nearer, the mist appeared to consume all that stood before it – even the sky. The wildlife in the area had long since fled its approach, and the bandits who had horses were experiencing difficulty keeping their mounts under control.

  In the background the haramia could hear the muted roar of the Kakassa, into which this nameless but deadly stream flowed.

  Imaro had deployed his forces in concentric circles. Spearmen and mounted bandits formed the outer circle; sword-wielders stood a few paces behind. The two surviving Umtala stood in the inner circle: bows raised, arrows nocked. Tanisha and the other women among the haramia were also in the second circle. The weapons in their hands did not waver as the mist came closer.

  In his customary place at the front of the haramia ranks, Imaro was already under attack. The taint of mchawi assailed his senses relentlessly. Yet he showed no sign of discomfort as the vapor crept forward.

  When the featureless haze came to within a few paces of the haramia, it halted. Its substance was so opaque that it was impossible to see what it hid – or shielded. The only sound other than the Kakassa’s rumble was the horses’ nervous snorting and pawing of hoofs.

  Then, as though it were a curtain pulled aside by the hands of a giant, the mist parted, and quickly disappeared. And the sight of what the haze had concealed raised cries of consternation in the haramias’ ranks.

  This was not the ragged group of false haramia Imaro’s army thought it was chasing along the river. Instead, the haramia were facing the full, combined host of Zanjian and Azanian soldiers who had been, in turn, pursuing them. As if the overwhelming number of troops was not demoralizing enough for the haramia, the soldiers were accompanied by a teeming horde of tuyabene. Like the water from which they had emerged, the river-demons flowed in front of the soldiers, standing between them and the haramia.

  But it was not the tuyabene that claimed Imaro’s attention. Instead, his eyes focused on four figures at the head of the soldier’s ranks. Two of them were the force’s commanders, Mkojo of Azania and Chuwumba of Zanj. Imaro had seen them from a distance in previous battles, and even if he hadn’t, the deference with which they were treated by the other soldiers would have marked their rank.

  With the commanders were two others whom Imaro knew well, though he had not seen either of them for a long time, and he had doubted that he would ever encounter them again.

  One was Bomunu – a grinning, confident Bomunu, not the chastened wretch whose humiliation had forced him to slink surreptitiously away from the haramia he had once aspired to lead. Imaro noticed that Bomunu was standing at the side of the Azanian mwenye rather than that of his countryman, Chuwumba. Bomunu raised his hand to Imaro in a mocking salute.

  As for the other… at first, Imaro almost didn’t recognize Angulu, for the wa-nyanume had never swathed himself in black during his time among the haramia. And never before had Angulu reeked of mchawi – the sorcery Imaro’s Naaman enemies employed.

  Like Bomunu, Angulu lifted his hand. But the motion was not an ironic gesture. The sorcerer’s lips moved as well. Imaro could not hear the words Angulu was speaking. But the tuyabene could.

  The river-demons surged forward; behind them, the troops advanced at a slower pace, content to allow their non-human allies to begin the battle. As the tuyabene appro
ached, the haramia could see the damage that the long period the creatures had spent outside the water had inflicted. Their eyes were dull and glazed, and scaly flakes of skin fell to the ground with each step the tuyabene took. But the tuyabenes’ claws were still lethal, and the creatures’ ferocity remained undiminished as they tore into the bandits.

  As the fighting commenced, Imaro shouted a single command:

  “Don’t let them break the circle!”

  The haramia obeyed, even as the tuyabenes’ claws again ripped into them as lethally as any weapon made from steel. Following Imaro’s example, the haramia used their shields to attack as well as defend, and tuyabene corpses collected at the bandits’ feet. But the claws of the tuyabene exacted a toll as well, and more than a few haramia went down, blood pouring from jagged wounds.

  Yet the bandits held their formation in the face of the tuyabenes’ savage onslaught. They were familiar with these foes now; the shock and horror that accompanied their first attack was gone. While the haramia were occupied with the tuyabene, however, the two armies moved into position, surrounding the haramia. For a time, they watched as the tuyabene, urged forward by the sorcery of Angulu, wreaked havoc in the bandits’ ranks. Then Chuwumba and Mkojo issued simultaneous commands, and the soldiers joined the attack.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Two sword blades slashed toward Imaro: one aimed at his face, the other at his abdomen. With a flexibility that seemed impossible in a person of his size, he twisted out of the path of the point that was about to impale his stomach, and brought his own blade up to parry the slash aimed at his head. Then the warrior swung his sword twice, and both his assailants went down, one of them dead before he hit the ground, the other groaning from a wound that cut halfway through his body.

  Taking advantage of the brief respite, Imaro scanned the battlefield. Not all of his fellow haramia were faring as well as he, but the outer circle held firm, even as both the soldiers and tuyabene attacked. Although the haramia were vastly outnumbered, their ferocity offset that disadvantage. They knew their only chance to survive would be to stand firm and break the will of their enemies.

  Imaro looked for Tanisha, and he saw that she was still safe, in the midst of a group of men and women who were fighting in the second line. Kongolo and Ngodire were rallying the haramia in other parts of the circle. Busa remained close to Imaro. He wielded his panga crudely but effectively, chopping at his foes as though they were trees in the Kajua.

  Then Imaro turned his attention to the enemy. He saw Angulu standing apart from the others, his cloak swirling around him like the wings of a gigantic bird. If the sorcerer could control the movements of the tuyabene and conjure the concealing mist, what other damage was he capable of inflicting on the haramia with the power of his mchawi?

  Imaro made an instant decision. After dispatching yet another soldier, he bent down and shouted into Busa’s ear, cutting through the clash of weapons and the cries of the wounded and dying.

  “Cover my back!” he said.

  Busa nodded, and his panga slashed in a whirlwind of steel, momentarily keeping soldiers and tuyabene alike at bay. Sheathing his sword, Imaro bent down and snatched a spear from the hand of a dead foe. He hefted the weapon, assessing its balance. The arem of the Ilyassai was designed for stabbing, not throwing. But the Ilyassai used throwing spears as well, and Imaro’s motion was fluid and flawless as he hurled the weapon high over the heads of the combatants.

  Angulu was so intent on monitoring the movements of the tuyabene that he did not heed the sudden, frantic warnings the soldiers closest to him shouted. He only became aware of danger when the point of the spear Imaro had thrown tore into his throat. For a moment, the wa-nyanume stood transfixed, as though the spear had pinned him to an unseen wall. The shaft of the spear bobbed, and gore spurted from Angulu’s mouth as he tried to cry out. But he couldn’t make a sound.

  Then the sorcerer fell backward, and the spear-shaft pointed upward like the stem of a plant rooted in blood-stained soil.

  A great cry rose among the haramia when they saw Angulu fall. They redoubled their efforts against the soldiers and the tuyabene, and for the first time since the battle had begun, the haramia forced their foes to give ground. Another factor, however, was threatening to turn the battle into complete chaos.

  Freed from the sorcerous compulsion Angulu had forced upon them through his sacrifice of the Umtala youths, the tuyabenes’ sole desire now was to return to the water before further exposure to the alien element of air finally killed them. To that end, they attacked all who stood in their path, soldiers and haramia alike. The clear divisions among the antagonists suddenly disappeared, and an inchoate melee deadly to all involved began.

  Now Imaro saw a chance to achieve victory. If he could rally the haramia to use the amok tuyabene to their advantage, they could rout their foes, despite the soldiers’ advantage in numbers.

  Imaro opened his mouth to shout new commands – then something crashed against his legs, nearly knocking him off-balance. He looked down and saw Busa lying on the ground, clutching his stomach, blood seeping between his fingers. Standing behind Busa, sword-blade dripping blood, was not a Zanjian or Azanian soldier, but Chimba. The haramia’s face was twisted into a mask of frustration, and Imaro immediately understood the reason.

  The blow Chimba had struck was intended not for Busa, but for Imaro. Busa had jumped in front of Imaro, and repaid the Ilyassai for saving him and Msuli from the crocodile in the Damba Bolong what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Enraged by Chimba’s treachery, Imaro swung his sword. But Chimba was too quick. He leaped backward, and the blade barely missed him. With a wordless curse, Chimba spat on the ground at Imaro’s feet. Then he turned and fled.

  Imaro looked down again at Busa. He never had a chance to thank Busa for saving his life, for the Mtumwe was already dead. And he owed both his life, and his death, to Imaro.

  Then, looking across the swirling mass of confusion the battlefield had become, Imaro saw something that caused him to forget Busa, and to cry out in anguish and disbelief.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Tanisha’s faith in Imaro’s prowess as a warrior had never wavered. However, her own confidence in her ability to survive the battle that raged around her was an entirely different matter.

  Imaro had taught her well; when her blade cut into flesh, the wound it left was as lethal as any a man could inflict. But she could not match a man’s strength. Speed and guile were the other weapons that complemented her blade. Now that both the haramias’ circles were breaking, the soldiers were pressing closer, and she was losing the few advantages she had.

  Grimly, she fought on, along with the others who were with her. Some of them were women bandits; others were captives who had become camp-followers. Haramia men were battling on the women’s behalf as well, and she was grateful for their presence. Imaro, however, was worth more than all of them combined on a battlefield, and she would have felt safer if he alone were at her side.

  She understood why he could not be with her. His responsibilities included all the haramia, not just her. Yet she could not bear the thought of dying without him, or of him dying without her.

  And, she thought when she had a moment’s respite from concentrating on survival, she was certain she would be the first Shikaza woman to die on a battlefield, rather than the palace of an East Coast noble or king to whom she had been sold.

  Perhaps if more Shikaza had died this way, none of us would have to die the other way, she thought.

  A soldier’s blade came perilously close to cutting off her hand as well as her thoughts. Tanisha barely managed to parry the slash. Then she laid open a wound on the soldier’s arm that caused him to cry out and drop his sword. One of the women at her side brought him down with a cut that severed his hamstrings.

  Momentarily, the attackers fell back. Tanisha looked for Imaro. She saw him just as he hurled the spear that brought Angulu down. A cry of triumph rose in her throat
– then it died when she saw Chimba’s treacherous attempt to kill Imaro, and Busa’s act of self-sacrifice.

  Then the soldiers closed in again, and she was forced to take her eyes off Imaro and fight for her life. She lost sight of Chimba as well. Even as she slashed, parried and dodged, Tanisha was determined now to go to Imaro. But before she could tell the others her intention, she was suddenly struck on the head. Pain overwhelmed her consciousness as rough hands seized her from behind. As her sword dropped from her hand and she was pulled backward, a familiar face swam into her blurred field of vision.

  Then she knew no more.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Imaro saw Chimba strike Tanisha down. The haramia’s action stunned the others around her long enough to allow him to sling her unconscious body over one shoulder. Chimba’s slight frame contained deceptive strength. In a moment, he was gone, carrying Tanisha as though she were weightless.

  Before the other haramia could pursue the treacherous Chimba, they again had to battle the soldiers, who had renewed their attack, even as they were trying to fend off the tuyabene at the same time. A mass of struggling combatants separated Imaro from Tanisha and her abductor. Yet even as he defended himself against his foes, he could see where Chimba was going. He was headed toward the perimeter of the fighting. There, one man and two horses waited. Even from the distance across the battlefield, Imaro recognized the man. It was Bomunu.

  Chimba wove through the fighting like a serpent through blades of grass. When he reached Bomunu, he handed Tanisha to him. The Zanjian slung her inert form over the front of his saddle, and he mounted the horse. Chimba mounted the other steed.

  Across the horde of struggling combatants, Bomunu locked eyes with Imaro. With a smile on his face, and another salute, the Zanjian rode away, bearing Tanisha with him. Chimba rode at his side.