Copyright (c) 2001 Theodore Beale. All rights reserved.
Shabaka watched impassively as the carrion crows descended upon the scanty remains of the morning’s kill. The heavy fullness in his stomach made him yearn for the shade of a Kuruku tree, but he could not yet allow himself to stretch out for his daily afternoon nap. The kill had been a good one, but costly, and there were decisions to be made. The pitiless sun was nearing her apex, and before she disappeared into the purple darkness, his path must be determined.
Amar’nya was the tribe’s best huntress, but today the lithe Chiu had been careless, and her left foreleg was now shattered due to the panicked thrashings of her victim. It would not be long before the cursed priests would hear of her mishap and arrive, brandishing their long knives, eager to send the lovely huntress off into Baasia’s dark embrace. The ways of the Neheb-Kau were hard and hateful, but so was life in the Qalabi. He did not feel ready, not yet, but sooner or later, his destiny would be thrust upon him. Today was as good a day as any other, and Amar’nya was worth saving.
The desert is cruel, Shabaka thought, but we are crueler. Thus we survive. He fingered the stub of what had once been his tail, bitten off by a hyena when he had been only a cub. It was his curse, and the bane of his childhood, but he was grateful for it now. Without it, or with it, rather, he would not be who he was today. Shabaka La-Mkia. Shabaka No-Tail. And if he was not who he was, then the Khatuuli would be doomed. Not just the people of his tribe, but all the People, of all the tribes.
He turned to face the north, and despite himself, he felt a momentary spasm of fear. All too soon, the human legions would be marching. Their warring tribes had finally made a reconciliation, and soon the great chieftans of the Empire, bored with peace, would turn their attention to the southern borders. The legions would march, and the iron-shod feet of the Dead God’s soldiers would pollute the holy sands of the desert. Demonspawn, they call us. Shabaka had first tasted mwana blood some years ago, but he feared the Amorrans nevertheless and not without reason. They do not come to conquer or to pillage. They come only to kill.
Strength. His people must find strength, just as he had found it within himself so long ago. But was there truly strength to be found? Shabaka stared into the distance, towards the great river that brought life to his barren home, but his keen eyes saw only memories. He raised his hand to the four parallel scars hidden beneath the fur on his left cheek and remembered….
“Why do they hate me?” he asked Nana, as she stood beside him, watching Semna’s cubs at their rough play. His cheek still had not healed from the slash that Twusre, the eldest, had given him three days ago for simply daring to meet his eyes.
“They hate you because you are different.” His mother smiled consolingly, exposing her long, red tongue and a broken canine. “The priests wanted to send you to Baasia, after you lost your tail, but I did not let them. The cursed fisi had already taken your brothers and your sister from me; I was not going to lose you as well.”
“How did you stop them?”
Shabaka was only a yearling, but already he knew that the Neheb-Kau were to be obeyed. Even his great father, Khepren, the clan chief of the Usiku-Chiu, obeyed them without question. The shapechangers were merciless in any of their forms, and it amazed Shabaka to understand that Nana had dared to defy them.
Nana smiled mysteriously.
“You would not understand, my darling. But your father was very brave, and reminded them that being tailless did not prevent one from being a warrior. There was no violation of the Law. They argued with him, but after he killed two of them, they saw the merits of his argument and left you alone.”
She sighed and gently caressed his neck with her rough tongue.
“I am your father’s favorite, and so you were protected from the priests. But that which saved you also made you a target for all the other cubs. Their mothers have taught them to hate you, because they hate me, and your missing tail only gives them an excuse.”
“Will they always hate me?”
Nana bared her teeth thoughtfully. She was a fine huntress, with powerful shoulders and darkly spotted fur that was rich with an unusually golden hue. Shabaka thought she was the most beautiful of all the Chii and he was not the only one. It was said that his father had fought more than a dozen opponents in half as many years to keep her.
“Until your tail grows back,” she told him. “Or until they learn to respect you.”
“How can I make them respect me?”
“They are already teaching you how to do that, my poor little one. Their hatred will make you strong, and your loneliness will make you hard. As time passes and you survive, you will become ruthless.”
She growled, low in her throat, and her eyes grew hard.
“And then, my son, they will do more than respect you. They will learn to fear you.”
I have the strength. But do my people? There was only one way to find out. Failure meant death, but failure to act meant the destruction of the tribes. Shabaka nodded to the yearling who had woken him as he commanded and glanced up at the darkening sky. The sun was descending rapidly in the west, and the priests were already here. He reached out and gathered his dagger belt, then rose to his feet. Both blades were in their scabbards, he noted as he cinched the tanned ngamia hide around his waist, but he did not think he would be needing them tonight. This night would be one for tooth and claw.
Little attention was paid to him as he quietly joined the others who had gathered around Amar’nya to pay their last respects and to say their goodbyes. The huntress was more popular than he’d realized, Shabaka thought, seeing that moisture was glistening in more than a few eyes. Nor did he fail to note the three large figures standing off to the side of the gathering, waiting patiently for darkness to fall. Shabaka smiled coldly at them. The priests were Dumai, and they would be strong, but slow.
No one needs to die. But there was sorrow in his heart all the same. Death was inevitable, true, but it was often unnecessary. Shabaka took a deep breath, then strode quickly to Amar’nya’s side.
“Bind her leg,” he commanded loudly. Before anyone could react, he pointed to a young huntress. “Go, and find her food, that she will be well.”
There were several disapproving growls, and not all of them came from the priests. Mirgissa, one of the oldest huntresses, confronted him directly, before any of the priests could do so.
“Who are you to speak, La-Mkia? You have no voice here tonight.”
Shabaka eyed her grizzled muzzle and hid an amused smile. Mirgissa was clever, and he suspected that she knew perfectly well what he was up to. Judging by her quick reaction, his father had instructed her to play this part. Good, this makes the first step easier.
He bowed his dark-furred head respectfully.
“I have neither tail nor voice, but I would speak nevertheless.” He hesitated one last moment, knowing that from this moment, he could not retreat. But you must go forward. You have no choice! There is no other way! He steeled himself and roared out the ghafula, the ritual challenge.
It was less than a minute before Khepren roared back his answer, but to Shabaka it seemed like an eternity. A moment later, the clan chief was standing in front of him, and the shadow of his lean figure twisted and danced before the fire. He wore his mwana form. Like the priests, his father Khepren was mchawe, a shapechanger, and he was sending an open message by choosing to meet his son in the defenseless form of a human.
But what was his message? That he would not fight, that much was clear. But did he seek a clean death, in spite of Shabaka’s plan?
“What is this, father?” Shabaka growled under his breath.
Khepren smiled faintly. His eyes had a distant look to them, as if he was staring at something out beyond the light of the fire.
“I have been Jumbe of the Usiku-Chiu for sixteen years, my son. Would you have me roam the veldt as a tribeless one?”
“You know why it is necessary. This path is harder, but there is honor in it.”
“Honor?” Khepren laughed, a deep rumbling low in his throat. “There are few who would see it that way.”
“Honor is in the act and the knowledge. You know the truth. I know the truth. The others, those who know nothing, they do not matter.”
Khepren nodded.
“Well spoken, my son. Of all my cubs, I am the proudest of you.” He bared his teeth again. “Do what you must do, Shabaka.”
Shabaka felt the water fill his eyes as his father slowly turned around in front of him. Khepren’s naked manskin was bare and yellow in the firelight as Shabaka extended needle-like claws from his left forepaw.
I am sorry, father. I am truly sorry.
He struck quickly. His claws were only half-extended, so although blood flowed immediately from the three slashes on Khepren’s right shoulder, the wounds were not deep. A surprised jeer rose from the watching warriors who suddenly realized that they were going to be cheated of a deathfight. As they roared and hissed their contempt, Shabaka watched his father walk off, alone and humiliated, into the quiet darkness of the desert night.
The hardest part was over now, but there was still much to be settled. Shabaka’s anger grew as he listened to the warriors heaping scorn on one whose strength none of them had ever dared to challenge. He found himself almost hoping that one of them would try him. Then too, there were the priests.
A big Duma approached him. It was the one who had spoken out earlier. He was warier than he had been before, and perhaps he sensed that not everything was as it seemed. An intelligent priest, then.
“You are now Jumbe,” the priest told him. “Do you deny us the Mwisho?”
Shabaka glanced over at Amar’nya, who was coolly watching him, her great golden eyes seemingly unconcerned about her fate, which now rested in his paws.
“There will be no endings here tonight, unless you refuse to leave now. Go, before I lose my patience and send you to Baasia myself.”
Shabaka drew himself up to his full height, which still only came up to the big Duma’s chin. The powerful shapechanger stared down at him, although it was hard to tell if it was respect or simply irritation concealed behind his dark eyes.
“Baasia must have her blood,” the priest told him solemnly.
Shabaka repressed the urge to snort derisively. Their demon-goddess needed blood? All he dared permit himself was a short, dry laugh.
“Oh, she’ll get that, mchawe. She’ll get that. I promise you.”
The moon had died and risen again before Khepren returned. The fur on his left side was badly torn, and he walked with a limp, but he was accompanied by twelve young warriors, all marked with the sign of the Assur tribe. As they came closer to the Usiku camp, Shabaka could see a deep tear over his father’s left eye, which was bruised and swollen shut, but there was a proud fire of triumph in the one that remained open.
“Greetings, Jumbe,” his father told him. There was a faint air of irony in his voice, but Shabaka let it go.
“Greetings, father. It is good to see you. But your wounds are still fresh, what took you so long to cry the ghafula?”
Khepren coughed, and winced, placing a paw to his wounded side.
“I think he broke half my ribs,” he told Shabaka. “What do you think took me so long? Did you think I would run out and challenge the first chieftan I could find? Young fool! No, I took my time, and made sure to find a toothless old nyani I was sure to beat.”
He bared his teeth.
“Unfortunately, the former jumbe of the Assur-Chiu was a little tougher than he looked. Took him a long time to die. But die he did, and as soon as I recovered, I brought you these cubs. They’re young, but they’re strong and well-blooded.”
Shabaka nodded and examined the twelve warriors. They stared back at him without fear, a good sign, to his mind.
"Your new chieftan has brought you to me,” he told them. “He is my father, but he serves me now. Has he told you why this must be?”
One of the young warriors, whose great height made Shabaka suspect he was a shapechanger, stepped forward.
“Jumbe Khepren has spoken and we obey. We understand what he has taught us. It is necessary. You will be Kubwa Jumbe, and the People will be saved.”
Shabaka bared his teeth, pleased. Most of these young ones would not survive what was to come, but this one might. A strong body was good, but a quick mind was even better.
“Well said,” he growled. “What is your name?”
“Ikkur, Kubwa Jumbe.”
“Then you, Ikkur, shall be first of the Usiku Kisu, my desert knives. You shall be my claws, and my teeth, and together we shall make the People strong. We must be strong, so when the legions come, the People will resist them as one.”
Shabaka spoke with confidence, as was expected of one who intended to make himself Kubwa Jumbe of the People. But even as his words sparked a fire of fanaticism in the young warriors’ eyes, he could feel his own doubts dancing through his mind.
We will resist. But can we hope to win?
The summer passed, and events unfolded much as Shabaka had intended. Of the thirty young warriors he sent out among the tribes, twenty-one were slain in the ghafula. Nine survived the test, although three would never fight again, and only four were successful in their challenges for tribal chieftanships. But his greatest fear did not come to pass, as all four stayed loyal to him, and they brought him forty more warriors to replace the fallen in the ranks of the Usiku Kisu.
Six of the sixty-eight Chiu tribes was not much, but it was a start. As his power grew, so did the fame of the Usiku Kisu. One enterprising chieftan even began to imitate his methods, and managed to conquer two tribes this way, but by that time Shabaka had seventeen tribes loyal to him and it was a simple matter to surround the clever mimic’s camp with a hundred warriors and demand his surrender.
The chieftan, Tjel of the Mahali, was wise enough to have no trouble in understanding the realities of the situation, and readily submitted to Shabaka. By the time the moon had risen a fortnight later, Shabaka realized that he had not only gained three more tribes, but an exceptionally skilled lieutenant without a single drop of blood being shed. For the first time in many moons, he began to feel optimistic about the future.
The unusual sentiment didn’t last long. The Neheb-Kau were alarmed by this sudden amalgamation of power among the Chii, and it didn’t help that the story of his original ghafula had grown into a spurious legend centered around his defiance of the priests. He had taken Amar’nya to mate, that much was true, but he hadn’t attacked any priests and he certainly hadn’t taken to wearing the mane of the shapechanging Simba he’d supposedly slain that night. Regardless of the truth, though, Shabaka knew he was well-hated by both the traditionalist Dumai and the proud Simbai, who did not like the idea that he, a lowly Chiu, now wielded more power than the greatest mane among them.
But he needed them all. Chiu, Duma, and Simba alike, all were needed. The People had to stand together as three-in-one, or they were doomed. Already, his spies told him, the humans were preaching Crusade in their stone temples and there was open talk of new legions being formed. Only the Neheb-Kau didn’t matter; they were useless to him and to the People. They were worse than useless, in fact, because they were dangerous to him.
I would destroy them, if only I had the time. But time is the one thing I don’t have.
It was daybreak, or nearly so. Shabaka stood next to Tjel, waiting for the right moment to unleash his army upon their badly outnumbered foe. This was not war as it was meant to be, the honorable meeting of two blooded warriors. Nor was it like the hunt, where life or death might hinge on a single unlucky stumble or a badly timed leap. No, this was more like knocking over a termites’ nest, and it held about as much honor.
“I hope we have enough fighters,” Tjel said incongruously, considering the situation, but Shabaka knew what his lieutenant was thinking.
Fifteen hundred Chii were more than enough to stamp out a single pride, even if it was the largest of them all. The question was, would they be enough to stand against the joined Simbain prides which were being gathered even now by Senwosret, the great mane of the Ndevu pride.
“They will be. Another two hundred would make little difference here. Better that they keep to the training. We need the Dumai and the Simbai, but even with them, we have nothing capable of breaking the legionary lines. We must have the khifari.”
“If Ikkur can train those evil-tempered beasts so they’ll bear a rider, I have no doubt we’ll be able to smash the humans, even if they hide behind their tortoise shells.” Tjel laughed. “I just hope he doesn’t get himself killed in the meantime.”
“He won’t. If anyone can tame those brutes, it’s him. When will the negotiations with the short ones of the north be complete?”
“Before the new moon. They wanted gold, of course, but we have none. It didn’t help that they know how much we need their machines either. Fortunately, they’re fascinated with the elephants, so I’ve ordered Quban to round up fifty or so. I think they’ll trade us one for two, in the end.”
“Do they know that the animals won’t live long up there?”
Tjel flicked his tail.
“Of course not. But as long as we receive the machines first, what does that matter? Oh, and they wanted the rights to dig things out of the ground. I don’t see any problem with that, do you?”
“Not at all,” Shabaka agreed. “If we win, we can renegotiate. If we lose, it won’t matter.”
Both Khatuuli fell silent as the edge of the sun peeked over the edge of the world, and golden light exploded across the horizon.
“Are you sure about this?” Tjel asked him again. “It’s necessary?”
“It is. The Simbai will never join us while they despise us as their lessers. We will teach them that we must be respected, if not feared.”
“They will hate you.”
Shabaka nodded.
“Of course. But I will give them a better target for their hate. If there was time for gentle persuasion, I would talk until my tongue dried out. But Amorr has already named its general, and he is gathering his legions now. They will send ten thousand men against us, Tjel, and we are the People’s only hope. Whoever does not join me will die, that is the lesson we teach here today. I only hope the Simbai are quick learners.”
Tjel’s tail lashed violently back and forth. There was great misery in his eyes. He was obedient, Shabaka knew, and loyal. That was why Shabaka had trusted him with this terrible responsibility. But even Tjel’s loyalty could be shaken.
“And yet to kill our own….”
Shabaka watched closely as the massive, black-maned lionman approached him, unarmed, and surrounded on all sides by twelve of his best bladesmen. A deep hatred was radiating palpably from the mighty Simba, and Shabaka saw huge, corded muscles flexing tautly as the visitor resisted the suicidal urge to seek his vengeance. Shabaka felt nothing but pity for him, the chief of a great pride murdered on his orders, but he concealed his sympathy. The Ndevu jumbe would not welcome any such knowledge, and would probably misinterpret it as sadistic mockery.
Shabaka found himself admiring the jumbe, not for his great height and strength, but for the air of quiet dignity he maintained. His seething hatred showed only in his eyes; he was otherwise civil in all regards. But Shabaka could see that lying beneath the Simba’s composed exterior was an emptiness that reflected a deep and terrible sorrow. Nevertheless, the jumbe greeted Shabaka with the utmost civility, equal to equal, as befitted two great leaders of the People.
“Honor to your clan, Shabaka Jumbe.”
“Great honor to your pride, Senwosret Jumbe.”
Shabaka spoke without a trace of irony in his voice, but even so, the ritual words caused the Simba’s eyes to flicker angrily.
“Do not name me jumbe. My pride is no more, as you well know. See to your paws, are they not red with the blood of my blood?”
“They are indeed,” Shabaka admitted, bowing slightly. “But you need not be prideless, great warrior of the Simbai. There are others who have need of your wisdom.”
Senwosret’s dark eyes burned with hatred, but for a moment, they also betrayed surprise.
“Others? I don’t understand you. There are none who have need of me; the Ndevu are dead.”
Shabaka nodded, and waited a moment. Then he glanced at the guard standing next to the Simba. He had given the muscular Chiu orders to be quick with his blade should Senwosret react with violence. The Ndevu’s arms were powerful, his claws were sharp, and Shabaka had no doubt that the Simba was quite capable of taking his head off if he was so inclined.
“I need you,” Shabaka told him. “The People need you.”
The lionman did not respond immediately. He simply stared at Shabaka, as incredulity and fury struggled for primacy on his light-furred face. Finally, he looked away, and fixed his gaze upon something far off in the distance.
What do you see there, Senwosret? Do you see your murdered people, bathed in their own blood? Or do you see the humans as they gather and train, preparing for their war of extermination? Do you understand that it had to be this way? Can you understand, and maybe even one day find it in your heart to forgive me?
“You need me?” Senwosret finally spoke. “That is very strange. You understand, of course, that I am not well-disposed towards you, not in the least. In fact, I would happily give up my own life if I could be assured of ending yours in the process.”
“I understand. The feeling does you credit. But I speak truly of my need for you, and all the Simbai, and the Dumai as well. Just as I speak truly when I tell you that your pride would have died in any event. At my claws, or the swords of the mwane… their deaths were inevitable.”
His words seemed to have piqued Senwosret’s curiosity. The Ndevu jumbe wanted him dead, but he was also intelligent enough to wonder what had driven Shabaka to deliberately order the slaughter of his kin.
“I asked for your cooperation two moons ago, to help me unite the People against the empire. You scoffed and said that Amorr would not march. You were wrong, and I have since learned that the legions will cross the Neheb in three moons time. So I am giving you a choice. Go to the tribes and fight me with whatever forces you can raise against me, or join me and fight against an enemy that seeks to eliminate us all. The Ndevu are dead, but the People need not be.”
The Simba’s mind was quick.
“You slew my mates, my children, just to make this point?”
Shabaka met the angry black gaze of the maned giant. It grieved him to see the pain he had caused this noble warrior, pain deeper than any Shabaka ever wished to see or know himself.
It was necessary. We had no more time for words.
“I did. It will make no difference to you, I know, but I will tell you that I took no joy in it. Their deaths were quick, and there were no… unnecessary atrocities.”
As the horrified Simba stared mutely at him, unable to speak, Shabaka attempted to further explain his actions.
“If you will join me now, after what I have done to your people, the rest of the tribes will know that the threat from Amorr is real and they will follow your example. I do not exaggerate our danger. From the time they are cubs, these humans are taught that we are demons, and they believe they have a sacred mandate from their god to wipe us from the earth. I do not lie when I say that I share your sorrow, that I mourn for every single member of the People I have slain, and yet I tell you that my conscience is clear. The Ndevu were already dead. So don’t waste your time fighting me, fight those who would have slain your kin three moons from now.”
“Had you not rendered that moot.”
Senwosret’s voice was coldly ironic.
“Yes,” Shabaka agreed. “We die but once, though, and your clan was sacrificed for the best of causes. One clan to buy the life of many.”
“It was not your choice to make!”
Shabaka shrugged off the jumbe’s anger, and his next words were hard to say, harder yet to hear.
“You made that choice for them when you refused to heed my warning.”
The blow struck home. It had the terrible ring of truth, and Senwosret dropped his eyes.
Shabaka waited. The moment of truth was upon them. Senwosret was here under a flag of truce, and although the three hundred warriors he had gathered to him could not hope to defeat Shabaka’s united Chii, a refusal to throw his influence behind Shabaka would likely doom the entire Khatuuli race. Shabaka had specifically chosen the Ndevu for destruction because of Senwosret’s reputation for great wisdom, but was that wisdom enough to outweigh the need for vengeance that must be screaming in his heart?
The great Simba finally lifted his head.
“I look into your soul, Chiu, and I see that I am either in the presence of greatness, or great madness. It cannot be easy to do as you have done. You have slain my heart, and I wonder if you have not slain your own as well.”
Shabaka knew better than to speak. He waited for the jumbe’s next words, knowing that he had already won this, his most important battle yet. Still, he found no sense of satisfaction, only relief that the People might still hope to survive.
“I will turn those who have rallied to me over to your command,” Senwosret went on to say. “I will renounce my claim to vengeance, and I will ask that the prides recognize you as Kubwa Jumbe. The People will need a leader with your cruelty and strength of will if we are to survive.”
He bowed and made as if to leave, then turned back to Shabaka. His grizzled face was heavy with grief and regret.
“You are right; the fault was mine. How I wish that I had listened to you when you spoke with words, instead of deeds. I do not hate you, Shabaka Chungu, only my own foolishness. But I do pity you.”
Shabaka nodded, and held up his hand.
“I honor your wisdom, and forbearance, great jumbe. And so that you will know that I did not lie when I wished honor to your pride, I ask you to accept this gift.”
Senwosret stared at him, with a faint look of curiosity enlivening his sorrow-deadened eyes. Shabaka stifled an anticipatory smile, and turned around, raising his hand in the prearranged gesture.
A large group of bladesmen had been standing behind him, and at his signal, they quickly moved off to both sides, exposing a large group of Simba cubs who were sitting quietly, arrayed in rows. As Senwosret, speechless, took in the unexpected sight, the cubs rose to their feet as one, and saluted him as Tjel had taught them.
“Hail, great father of the Ndevu!”
Shabaka had to look away from the radiant expression on Senwosret’s face. His incredulous joy was far too much for Shabaka’s guilt-shamed spirit to bear.
“They live?” he cried disbelievingly. “I was told you slew them all!”
Shabaka shook his head.
“The cubs were spared. I was ready to use their lives to force your assistance had you refused me today, but it is better this way. Because you freely choose to join me, I have seen that your reputation for wisdom is well justified, and I know you are worthy….”
But Senwosret wasn’t listening, the great Simba was already striding joyfully towards the surviving remnants of his clan.
The Ndevu live. Baasia grant that we all survive this war.
Quintus Cornelius Vopiscus knew that his name would never appear in the scribes’ archives as one of Amorr’s great military leaders. This was of little concern to him, since he had only agreed to participate in the Sanctiff’s ridiculous crusade against the wretched catpeople in order to bolster support for his campaign for next year’s third Consulship. It had been more than eighty years since one of the Cornelii had won the right to sit before the Senate, and Quintus was determined that not another year would pass before that honor returned to the family.
So when the subject of a full-scale invasion of the Qalabi was first bruited about the great chamber, Quintus was quick to recognize his opportunity. He became an early and vocal supporter of the crusade, and argued so effectively on its behalf that when the measure passed overwhelmingly, with the support of all three consuls and only eighteen senators dissenting, the honor of leading the campaign fell naturally to him.
But Quintus was well aware of his limitations. His only real military experience was as a junior officer on the staff of his uncle, Lepidus Cornelius, on the last campaign against the Savondese, and although Quintus was by all accounts deemed to have acquitted himself bravely, he knew he was far better suited for managing the supply trains than for leading men in battle. Therefore, he spared no expense in ensuring that he had more than enough men, supplies, and advisors for what all Amorr was expecting would be a short and easy war.
When the famed general of the Valerian House, Lucius Valerius, argued before the Senate that only one legion was required, Quintus determined to raise two. When the scarred centurion who was to command the war machines requested ten ballistae and fifteen onagers, Quintus made sure to build twenty. And although the crushing of the primitive demonspawn was not expected to take more than three months, victuals for eight had been prepared. The Senate had voted a generous supply of funds for this expensive endeavor, but Quintus’ preparations were so thorough that he had managed to spend his way through a good part of his own massive fortune as well. It was a steep investment into a campaign that was almost sure to be devoid of any plunder or material reward. The Qalabi and its barbaric inhabitants were not known for their riches.
But Quintus was sure that his efforts would be well repaid, in both this life and the next. The sanctal promise of salvation was of some value, of course, although like most of his fellow senators, Quintus was not a religious man and he harbored more than a few doubts about the efficacy of the Sanctiff’s sway with the Most High. But he knew that the backing of the Church, combined with the prestige of a successfully waged war, would make him a sure bet for the Consulship, possibly even the senior seat. And if the Qalabi was not known for its riches, well, the Consul’s seat surely was.
Quintus nodded, quite pleased with the progress of his plans. One year of bitter struggle in Amorr, then six long months of marching through this desert hellhole, followed by a year of sitting in magisterial majesty at the fore of the Senate, and then he would comfortably ensconce himself in a governor’s palace, ideally in one of the closer, wealthier, and sunnier provinces. And there he would remain. The only proper justification for the pursuit of power, in his mind, was that enough of it allowed you to do whatever it is you want for the rest of your life. Let others strive for glory, God, and Amorr. Once he had done his duty and restored his family’s prestige to its proper, proconsular place, Quintus would happily settle for a small amount of decadence and a large amount of comfort.
A swirl of dust marked the approach of a fast-riding messenger, and disturbed his pleasant ruminations. Lentulus Servilius, a quick-thinking young officer who had seemingly learned to read his mind and anticipate his wishes, immediately spurred his horse into action.
“I’ll go see what he wants, general!” he called over his shoulder.
Good lad. Quintus nodded briskly. He wished more of his staff would follow young Servilius’ example, and cease plaguing him with their constant questions. Calvinus, the senior centurion, was the worst of the lot, always trying to pin him down to one thing or another instead of thinking for himself and taking the necessary initiative.
Quintus immediately forgot the messenger, and returned to the more pleasant pastime of debating which province would be most ideal for his proconsular retirement… or governorship, as some still insisted on calling it. Baetica was very pleasant, as was Pisidia, but both of them were rather too far from the heart of civilization. That left Achaea, which, it just so happened, was sure to have a vacancy as its governor was approaching the end of his ten-year term. Quintus smiled, thinking about how the days would stretch into weeks, lying in the sunshine in a palace overlooking the calm blue waters of the Mediterranean, surrounded by skilled musicians and his most amiable slave girls.
He shook his head, sadly abandoning the vision of a happier future as his ears were assaulted by the unmistakable sound of centurions shouting orders. A large detachment was moving forward, it seemed, in what appeared to be battle formation. Where was Servilius? Damn the boy, where had he disappeared?
“General! Sir!”
Servilius came galloping towards him, pulling up his fine black mount just in time to avoid a dangerous collision.
“The scouts report a medium-sized force of armed catpeople about two leagues ahead of us. They say three or four hundred at most, all on foot. Calvinus is sending out the first, third, and fourth maniples to meet them, and he’s asked you to order the cavalry to ride wide in support of his left flank.”
Calvinus did what! Curse the fool, what was he thinking? Three hundred against ten thousand? This was obviously a trap! Quintus could feel the blood pounding in his ears; he was so furious, he thought for a moment that his heart might burst.
“Ride, boy, ride to him. Tell him his orders are to halt, at once, and start assembling the fortifications. We will camp here. I will not have us stumbling into an ambush due to his carelessness!”
“An ambush? But sir, we’re in the desert. Where would they be hiding? There’s not a tree or hill in sight for twenty leagues!”
“I gave you an order, soldier!” Quintus roared. “Do I need to repeat it?”
“Sir! No, sir!”
Servilius saluted, and immediately had his horse galloping off again. Quintus sighed with relief. That was a close-run thing! Was Calvinus out of his mind? How could any Amorran soldier forget the lesson of Galanas Wode, where two legions had been destroyed, and their aquilae lost, thanks to the carelessness of their glory-mad commander? There would be no such mistakes made under his command, Quintus vowed.
No doubt there were those who would mock him for his caution, but he would have the last laugh. It was the tortoise that won the race, in the end, and by the end of the summer, none would deny that his careful preparations had been well made indeed. Qalabicus? No, too awkward. Perhaps Felicus, yes, that was better. Quintus Cornelius Vopiscus Felicus. Felicus, now there was a name! He rather liked the sound of it.
The skies were just growing dark when Shabaka woke from his late afternoon nap and made his way to the twisted tree that served as his command post. Aside from a few brief skirmishes with the Amorran army’s outriders, he had resolutely refused to give battle, choosing instead to withdraw slowly before the invading legions, remaining in constant contact while avoiding any combat that would seriously commit his forces. The Amorran commander seemed content to follow him, marching twelve or fourteen leagues every day, then stopping long before nightfall in order to construct the massive fortifications which were inevitably torn down again the next morning.
It was an impressive sight, this daily assembling and dismantling of what to Khatuuli eyes looked like a city to rival Bas-Tiat, the stone city of the Neheb-kau. It was intimidating too, although Shabaka was starting to suspect that the Amorrans’ reluctance to press their huge advantage and attack might just possibly be cowardice. If not actual cowardice, it was at the very least an extreme sense of caution suggesting that the Amorran commander lacked faith in his troops, or, more likely, in himself. Shabaka had no reason to believe that these soldiers were any less capable than those of any other Amorran legion, whose eagle standards could boast victory after victory all across the lands of Selenoth, so he was beginning to believe that this strange reticence was a weakness on the commander’s part.
But how to best exploit this uncertainty? The huge numbers of scouts suggested that his counterpart was deathly afraid of being ambushed, so it would be very difficult to surprise him with an attack and false retreat. Besides which, the Qalabi provided no place to hide a sizable force. Perhaps the river, then? The legions were less than an eight days march from the Neheb, and despite their commander’s caution, they were going to have to cross it eventually if they wanted to wipe out the People.
Surprise was the key, but what kind of surprise was possible? Shabaka had already come up with two ideas which he was sure would take the Amorrans off-guard, but both were minor tricks at best, and unlikely to turn the odds in his favor.
He was early to the tree, and only Tjel was there already, waiting patiently for him.
“Kubwa Jumbe,” the slender Chiu bowed.
“Enough, Tjel,” Shabaka waved off the formalities. “I need your help.”
“Of course. Regarding what?”
Shabaka extended his claws and scratched them thoughtfully against the tree.
“Sooner or later, we must bring the Amorran to battle. But he is cautious, and I think it will be hard to engage him in a time or a place that is not of his choosing. And we cannot run forever, or we will starve. But this caution, it seems to me that there must also be a way to use it in our favor.”
Tjel nodded.
“I have been thinking on this very problem for some days now,” he said, unsurprisingly. “The too-wary huntress does not eat, normally, but in this case that does not apply. He is well supplied, and his trains are well guarded.”
“I agree,” Shabaka said. “They are an obvious target, and he is ready for any such attack. We would lose many warriors, with little gain.”
“So again, his caution is his strength. But think on this. It is hard for us to understand such caution, such patience. Perhaps one of his mind cannot understand boldness and speed?”
“You suggest that we attack him?”
Shabaka was alarmed at the seemingly foolhardy suggestion, and Tjel, seeing this, smiled.
“Not openly, of course. You mentioned the river?”
“Yes, it occurred to me that attempting to deny them the crossing might be our best chance for success.”
“I imagine that has occurred to the Amorran as well.” Tjel shook his head. “So he will be prepared for that. He has many war machines, and the wood they cart with them to construct their nightly fortress will no doubt be used to build a bridge across the Neheb. We could make it costly, of course, but even if we committed our entire army, we would surely lose.”
Shabaka’s heart sank. Tjel had reached the same conclusion that he had on his own. Even with the help of the great river, the Khatuuli were simply too weak to stop the Amorrans. They had only four thousand unarmored fighters, plus the two hundred khifaru riders. Caution or no caution, the legions would grind them down until there was nothing left. Eventually he would be forced to give battle, and then they would lose.
“It is clear that we cannot attack their weaknesses,’ Tjel told him. “Therefore, we must attack with our strengths.”
Shabaka frowned at him.
“Is there meaning behind your words or do you simply speak to hear your own voice? That is obvious!”
Tjel growled, but in a harmless, submissive manner.
“Kubwa Jumbe, you have two important advantages over the Amorran commander. The first is that his troops do not see well at night. Mwane prefer to do their marching, and fighting, during the daylight. That is why they build their walls every afternoon, because they fear to fight when they cannot see.”
Shabaka was puzzled. Surely Tjel could not be thinking of a night attack on the huge palisade!
“I don’t understand. We talked about this before, when we first saw them digging their trenches on that first afternoon. The walls are too strong, and the risks are too great.”
Tjel shook his head and smiled.
“I am not suggesting that we attack their walls. I am only reminding you that there are ways of surprising even the most cautious prey, especially one that is sightless at night!”
Shabaka nodded.
“Very well. And the second is magic, I suppose, since the Amorrans will not dirty their paws with it. But how are we to convert the mchawi to our cause? I have begged and pleaded, but still they will not lend their aid. They hate me, and they will not serve me, not even to save the People. And I cannot serve them, for they are fools.”
“Indeed,” Tjel agreed wholeheartedly. “They are. Even more so than you think. For the eight great ones of the Neheb-Kau have agreed to meet with me in secret, at dawn two days hence, on the river’s edge. They think to turn me against you, but it is my thought that should you happen to interrupt this meeting, you might find some more compelling means of persuasion.”
Tjel smiled meaningfully, and he raised one paw, extending his claws slowly.
“They suspect nothing?” Shabaka asked, scarcely daring to believe his good fortune. Tjel had served him well indeed! The mchawi were cowards, he had learned, and once within his claws, their will would easily be broken.
The cunning Chiu exposed his canines, indicating disdain.
“I have sworn my intentions on the honor of my tail. But what is that to one who serves Shabaka La-Mkia?
Shabaka was deeply touched. Tjel was a proud and honorable warrior, and Shabaka knew that the jumbe of the Mahali-Chiu had no intention of failing to keep his word. He reached out and placed his paw on his lieutenant’s shoulder. Many sacrifices had been made already, and more would be needed before this war was over. But the one Tjel proposed to make was perhaps the greatest one of all. Death came to all, in time, but to be without a tail was to be without honor, as Shabaka knew better than anyone. He only hoped that Tjel’s sacrifice would be repaid, many times over, in Amorran blood.
Quintus rose at dawn, and wordlessly accepted the cool skin of water from his body slave. He regarded the sweatless sheen of the man’s dark skin with envy, as the hellish heat never seemed to bother him, not even at noonday. Of course, the slave was born for this sort of climate, having been captured as a boy in the great second campaign of Numidicus.
“Sir, permission to enter,” someone with a deep voice shouted from outside his tent.
It was Calvinus, curse him. Quintus closed his eyes, wishing, not for the first time, that he was back in his palatial apartments in Amorr, where the only decision he’d be required to make at this forsaken time of day would be to roll over or not.
“Yes, yes, what is it, Calvinus?”
Despite the early hour, the centurion was already fully armed and armored. He brought his fist to his breastplate in a firm and clamorous salute.
“General, the catpeople have taken up positions on the far side of the river during the night. It doesn’t look like they’re going to dispute the crossing, since they’re not attacking the troops building the bridges, but the men will have to be ready to form their lines as soon as they cross over.”
Quintus felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his left side. This was the moment he’d been dreading for months. Here, at last, was the moment of truth.
“Assemble the senior officers at once,” he ordered hastily. “Why are the bridges being built now?”
The grizzled centurion stared at him in contemptuous silence for a long moment.
“Because last night you ordered us to begin constructing them at dawn,” he finally said.
Right. Quintus tried to recover his dignity.
“Yes, yes, of course, well, we can count it a blessing that they’re too primitive to realize what we’re about, I suppose. How long before they’re completed?”
“Four hours,” Calvinus said dubiously, as if he already anticipated the inevitable response.
“Make it three!” Quintus demanded. “We must seize the day and make it ours! By nightfall, their little army will be shattered and the desert will be defenseless against us. But we must hurry!”
The centurion sighed, but he bowed obediently enough and saluted again.
“I will convey your orders. I anticipated your wish to consult with the officers, and they will be arriving here within the hour.”
“Excellent!” Quintus returned the salute and forced himself to smile. Confidence, that was what men needed to see from their commander before going into battle. “We shall break our fast together, and this evening, we shall dine from the, erm, well, I suppose I don’t actually know. The tents of the enemy, was what I was thinking. But then, these barbarians don’t even have tents now, do they? And I can’t imagine what they must eat!”
“With God’s grace, we shall find out soon enough, general,” Calvinus answered sourly.
“So we shall,” Quintus chose to overlook the centurion’s reprehensible lack of spirit. “Very well, then, Calvinus. Strength and honor!”
“Strength and honor, sir.”
From the back of his white stallion, Quintus surveyed the battle taking place on the far side of the river. He tried to keep a stoic face, mindful of the noble writings of the philosopher-king, Antonius, but he failed utterly. How could anyone possibly pretend that defeat and victory were the same? What a ridiculous notion! They were winning, his men, they were crushing the enemy on the field of battle before his very eyes, and the day was his! It belonged to him, Quintus Cornelius Vopiscus, soon to be Felicus! He grinned broadly, and raised a fist to the sky.
“Glory in Heaven to the Untarnished God! Glory on Earth to Amorr!”
“Glory!” the officers of his headquarters staff shouted, their voices full of genuine enthusiasm for the first time in this cursed campaign.
One lieutenant was even so bold as to call for a triumph.
“Hail Quintus, victor! Hail Felicus!”
“Hail Quintus!” echoed the rest of his staff.
Quintus was pleased by their devotion, though secretly disappointed that the other officers hadn’t acknowledged his new title. Not yet, anyhow. But it would come in time, of this he was sure. The catpeople were starting to break and run, unable to stand before the constant pressure of the legions, and the speed of their retreat suggested that some would survive for a second round of battle. But seven or eight of them had fallen for every Amorran trooper, and it was clear that for all their sharp teeth and daggerish claws, the demonspawn were not only outnumbered, but outclassed by his legionaries.
A messenger approached on foot, running hard. He was helmetless, but he had obviously been in the midst of the action for there was blood staining the front of his breastplate.
“General, the day is ours! I come from Calvinus, who bids me tell you that our losses are light, while the enemy has suffered heavily. It is too soon to know exactly, but he says that he would be surprised if we have lost even four hundred men today!”
A great victory, truly, a great victory, this. For a moment, Quintus felt truly humbled. Was this how the great ones had felt at their moment of glory? How few could know exactly how Lucius Valerius felt after the defeat of the Orcan hordes, what thoughts were going through the mind of Scipio as he stood upon the shattered walls of Glaislael. And to think that now, he, Quintus Vopiscus, had been raised to the stature of these great men, that he would be forever numbered in their midst. Tears streamed down his face as he raised his eyes to the afternoon skies and thanked his Maker for the glory of this wonderful day.
The faces of the surviving jumbei were heavy, and as they gathered reluctantly before him under the cover of nightfall, Shabaka could see defeat in their eyes and in their listless, dragging tails. He sighed. It had been horrible from the very start, and yet the day could hardly have gone better as far as Tjel’s plan was concerned.
Certainly, their fears about the inadequacy of the Khatuuli army had not been misplaced. The Amorrans had not bothered with skirmishers or cavalry, but instead had sent their infantry directly against the Khatuuli lines and within moments, had Shabaka’s best warriors reeling in confusion. Even the mighty Simbai were close to helpless against the armored humans, and their powerful teeth broke harmlessly on the iron helms of the enemy even as the bronze blades of the Dumai and the Chii shattered against the Amorrans’ shields.
While the wild charge of Ikkur’s khifaru riders had managed to smash through the Amorran lines, the great beasts were maddened by the smell of blood and the confusion of battle and ran utterly amok after the initial charge. Many legionaries were trampled and slain, but so was a contingency of Dumai on the Khatuuli left. Less than twenty of the two hundred riders made it back to the safety of their lines, as those not trampled by their own steeds were thrown in the midst of the Amorran soldiers and quickly dispatched. Young Ikkur, their commander, was struck down by an Amorran spear while bravely leading a second charge in a futile attempt to rescue his warriors trapped behind enemy lines.
Quban’s war machines had done a little better, and had probably accounted for a third of the enemy’s casualties. But it did not take long for the Amorran’s skilled artillerists to find their range, and though Quban’s Chii stayed by their machines and steadfastly continued to hurl rocks as they were attacked by the enemy’s onagers and ballistae, their fortitude availed them little. The great missiles were merciless, and the last of the twenty-five machines was smashed into pieces not long after noon. Quban and thirty-seven of his hurlers survived, but without their machines, they were useless except for fighting with the infantry.
Shabaka estimated that twenty-five hundred of the People had been slain or were seriously wounded, and another five hundred were missing, presumably having run for their lives in the chaos and confusion. Three of his five thousand gone. A heavy price to pay for what, at most, had cost the enemy a tenth of his ten thousand men.
He smiled grimly. All they had really needed was thirty, perhaps forty enemy dead. But the terrible sacrifice was not in vain, for after today’s debacle, the last thing the Amorrans would be expecting from the Khatuuli was an attack. He raised a paw, and snarled loudly.
“Some moons ago, there were few who believed me when I spoke of a great danger to the People. Now, there are few who will believe me when I say that this moment is the first in which I have dared to believe in the hope of our survival. Our victory is finally at hand.”
His words were met by hisses and growls, but mostly by incredulous silence.
“I do not lie. Baasia has placed them in our claws, and it remains only for us to strike.” His eyes met Tjel’s, and he nodded. “Look, and see what the lives of our clanmates have bought us today!”
There were more hisses, but much louder this time, as ten priests, wearing mwana form as well as scavenged Amorran armor, emerged from the shadows to stand on either side of him.
“What is this? Have you betrayed us?” growled one wounded Duma chieftan.
“It is your eyes that betray you.”
As he spoke, one priest swelled suddenly inside his loose-fitting armor and transformed into his natural sehumu form. He was revealed as a Chui, formerly of the Mahali, and the surprised jumbeiroared, first in alarm, then in enthusiastic approval. They were not slow to understand, Shabaka was pleased to see.
“Under the cover of the Neheb-kau’s spells, we shall slay the guards at each of the Amorran’s seven posts. Forty warriors in mwana form will cross the bridge and gain entry to the Amorran camp, under the pretense of having been lost in the pursuit of our fleeing army. They will bear with them the body of a great fallen Simba, who they will claim was our commander.”
“Taharqa of the Mfupa fell today,” called out a Simba jumbe. “I would claim that honor for him.”
“Let it be Taharqa, then, who shall be our key to unlock the great gate. Once inside, those in mwana form will fall upon the gatekeepers and keep the gate open until the rest of our army can cross the bridge and fall upon our sleeping foe.” Shabaka spread his paws. “I am Kubwa Jumbe, but I am no mchawe. Therefore, I cannot lead the forty.”
Senwosret growled, and shook his dark mane.
“I would claim that honor, Kubwe Jumbe. In the name of the Ndevu.”
Shabaka bared his teeth, and bowed respectfully.
“Truly, your claim is great, Ndevu Jumbe. But there is one who deserves the honor more, one who was willing to sacrifice honor itself, that the People might live.”
He extended a claw towards the scarred chieftan of the Asser-Chiu.
“Khepren, my father, gave up his clan and his honor, refusing to fight the ghafula so that the People might have hope. Tonight, he shall again go into battle wearing the mwana, and there will be none to question his honor or his name!”
The assembled jumbei roared their approval. Shabaka nodded, gratified to see that their fighting spirit had been restored. There was no certainty, even with surprise on their side, they were outnumbered five to one. But now there was hope.
Quintus’ dreams were filled with light, the bright light of the sun as its rays were reflected off the blue waters of the Amorramare, so piercing and yet so pure, the hot brutal light of the merciless Qalabi, and the dancing red-golden flames of the Victory Fire that would be lit soon in his honor on top of the Sanctiff’s great palace. A harbinger, certainly, of the heavenly light to one day come, for surely Heaven’s gates would open wide for one who had served the Church and Amorr so wisely and well.
He smiled in his sleep, hearing in the distant sound of human voices the great cry of the Senate as it rose as one to salute him and acclaim before all his loyal service to the Republic. How sweet it was to think of how those who had once sneered at him as a mediocrity and scoffed openly at his appointment would sing a very different song upon his return.
Then, without warning, his dreams seemed to grow darker. The brilliant white light of the sea turned suddenly scarlet, as red as the blood of the demon people that had spilled so freely over the desert sands today. There was a clashing and a clangor of arms, screams as men were cut down by the sword, and worst of all, vicious, bestial roars which sounded like nothing less than the howling of the Gadarene legion as the Lord Immannuel cast it into the herd of doomed swine.
He started upright. This was no dream! The screams were real, and the unmistakable sound of metal on metal was ringing just outside his tent!
Quintus rolled off his cot and fumbled about the canvas floor for his sword, almost knocking over the brazier that warmed his tent against the harsh Qalabi night. He was shouting for his officers just as Servilius burst into the tent, sword in hand but clad only in a tunic.
“Sir, they’re inside the walls! They’re everywhere -”
His eyes widened suddenly, blood erupted like a fountain from his chest, and Quintus screamed with horror as the young officer was hurled right through the thick canvas of the tentside by a massive, furry arm. In the entryway, the flames revealed a feline-headed demon, its beastly body covered with speckled fur, standing upright in a grotesque parody of a man. Amorran armor hung loosely from its muscular frame, but it was weaponless except for the six-inch claws which extended from its huge paws. As Quintus watched, frozen to the ground with terror, the demon extended a thick black tongue from its jaws and deliberately licked the young officer’s blood off its claws.
Quintus closed his eyes and silently commended his soul to the Lord Immanuel. He tried to keep the thought of Daniel in the lions’ den in the forefront of his mind as he pointed the tip of his sword towards the demon and cautiously pushed himself to his feet. His earlier victory suddenly seemed very long ago, if indeed it had ever happened. He felt a brief pang of regret, not so much for the ending of what had been a mostly undistinguished life, but with the awareness that despite his best efforts, he had failed Amorr in the end. Still, for one great moment, he had known the victor’s glory, and not even death could take that away from him.
“For God and Amorr!” shouted Quintus Cornelius Vopiscus Felicus as he leaped at the dreadful foe.
The violated camp was as silent as the noontime desert. It was nearly sunrise, and the last of the Amorran soldiers had finally been sniffed out and slain. They weren’t so hard to kill without their metal turtle shells, and in a one-on-one situation, even the biggest mwana simply wasn’t capable of standing up to a single Chiu, much less a Duma or great Simba. The slaughter had taken hours, but the outcome had been sealed from the moment Shabaka and his remaining two thousand warriors stormed through the open gates.
Shabaka was surprised to learn that he didn’t feel relieved, instead, it was as if the great burden that had weighed upon his mind for so many moons had somehow been transferred to his body. Nor was he hungry, despite the exertions of the past few days and the ample supply of fresh manflesh surrounding him in every direction. He felt heavy, and he almost wished he was mchawe, so he could change into mnyama form and use four legs to bear his weight instead of two.
Tjel approached, his keen eyes dark for once.
“They have found him, Kubwe Jumbe.”
“Take me there.”
He followed his lieutenant, noting absently how the stump of Tjel’s amputated tail still glistened, red and raw in the soft glow of the approaching day. But Tjel needed no tail to bear his honor, not anymore. Like Shabaka, his name would long be chanted beside fire circles of the People. Perhaps he too would come to be known as la-mkia. There were worse fates.
They walked down the broad way that cut through the heart of this vast city of tents. Many had fallen, their supports destroyed in the violence of the night assault, collapsed during the vicious struggle. Tjel turned once, and then again, and Shabaka found himself in front of a great tent that towered overhead, twice the height of a Simba. A scent assailed his nostrils, one warm and familiar to him, known from his earliest memories. It stood out clearly from the camp’s mwana stink and the sweet, mouthwatering stench of spilled blood.
Tjel stood aside, allowing him to enter first. Shabaka growled approvingly as his eyes confirmed what his ears and his nose had already learned. Khepren, his father, lay dead on the crimson-stained tent floor, run through the heart by the short sword which still pierced his breast. But he was not alone. Joining him in death was his killer, the Amorran commander, naked, pink, and hairless, but less defenseless than he looked. It was a good death, a warrior’s death, for both.
And I thought you were a coward. I was wrong. You were only a fool.
“What shall we do with him?” Tjel indicated the dead mwana. “He was their jumbe, was he not?”
“He was no jumbe. The mwane have no chieftans, not even proper clans.”
“Then we need not send him back to them?”
“Only his head. They will not eat his flesh. They are as many as the desert sands, and they have no need of strength. And Tjel, find the ndege standards. There will be two, one for each legion. They too must go back to Amorr.”
Tjel’s ears pricked up with surprise.
“You don’t want them? They are great trophies, and an honor to the People!”
Shabaka laughed.
“An honor? No, our doom.” He pointed to the sword. “These mwane have enemies on every side, and still they sent ten thousand against us. Even if every hunter and cub among the People are counted, we number less than that now. They could have sent ten times ten thousand, had they so wished. I fear them, Tjel, even in defeat. No, we keep no trophies.”
“And the jumbe of the Assur-Chiu?”
Shabaka looked down at the body of his father and bared his teeth. He had always been proud of Khepren, and he could not imagine a more fitting end for the great jumbe.
“We will gather the jumbei at nightfall. Only the chieftans shall eat of him, for his strength was great, his spirit was noble, and the People shall long honor his memory.”
Tjel growled.
“Great honor, Kubwe Jumbe.”
“And great honor to you as well, Tjel La-Mkia. Without your crafty cunning, the People would have lost this war.”
“Perhaps. But without your wisdom and leadership, Kubwe Jumbe, the People would not have known to fight it.”
Together, the two tailless ones walked out of the Amorran tent. The mwane camp was now engulfed in the rose-gold light of the sun rising into the cloudless desert sky. The day’s heat would be merciless, as brutal as the slaughter of the night before. But with the birth of this new day, there was also new hope for the People.
We are a young race, few in number. We are cursed, godless, the children of a mad mwana and a she-demon. Yet we live! We will learn from the mwane with their cities of stone, their turtle-shells and their deadly iron weapons. One day, with Baasia’s blessing, we shall be a great and mighty People, as countless as the sands of the Qalabi. It shall be so, I swear it, as surely I am Kubwa Jumbe and my name is Shabaka the Cruel!
