Abengoni

by Charles R. Saunders

  No longer did Gebrem feel helpless to do it. The greatest amount of ashuma he had ever managed to summon was as nothing compared to the magical strength that now flowed through every fiber of his body. His ancestors must have known power like this, he thought, when they held sway over half of Abengoni ....

  This, he exulted, is how it must feel to be a god!

  Kyroun came into focus, then. The Seer’s face bore an expression of reproach, if not disappointment. And Gebrem immediately understood the reason for that reaction. Matile were dying in the streets, and here he was, reveling in personal power rather than concentrating on how he would use it to defeat the Uloans. A sudden shame flooded through him. Perhaps he did not deserve this gift from the new god ...

  Then Kyroun spoke inside Gebrem’s mind.

  I had similar thoughts when I was first granted this power, my friend. There is no need for shame. There is only the need to do what has to be done.

  I understand, Gebrem said.

  The Leba reached out. His hand closed around the glowing shaft of his abi. At the moment, he had neither plan nor strategy to save Khambawe, only the raw capability. But the moment his fingers touched the abi, he was given the knowledge of what he should do.

  And, with the help of the others in the Oneness, he did it.

  2

  In the burning, blood-soaked streets of Khambawe, no one noticed the coming of the blue mist ....

  The Uloans, sensing victory within their grasp, pressed inexorably forward. They fought tirelessly, and the jhumbis gave them an advantage the Matile were unable to overcome. Many invaders fell, but the Matile were too hard-pressed to organize a co-ordinated strategy to repel the invaders.

  Although they refused to surrender to the Uloans, the Matile were beginning to succumb to an inevitable fatigue and despair as the fighting wore on. Even so, some of the surviving city-dwellers had taken up fallen weapons and were fighting at the side of the soldiers. And they wreaked their share of vengeance against the marauders who burned their homes and killed their families.

  Yet despite their most desperate and courageous efforts, the defenders were unable to forestall the destruction of the city and their lives. Now, their only solace was that they were prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

  The smoke that had enveloped Khambawe like a deadly, choking fog rendered the mysterious mist nearly invisible. Only the leaping flames of a thousand fires provided illumination through the swirling gray clouds that had become a barrier between Khambawe and the rest of the world. It was toward the flames that the mist drifted.

  Floating in tiny tendrils, the mist appeared as insubstantial as morning dew – until it reached the fires that were devouring the buildings of Khambawe. The moment the substance of the mist touched a licking flame, a small hiss sounded – and the flame went out. This happened again and again, as though the fingers of a gathering of giants were reaching down to snuff out hundreds of candles.

  One by one, the fires were extinguished. At first, the combatants did not notice what was happening because they were fully absorbed by their fight for survival. But as more and more flames disappeared, darkness gradually descended until Matiles and Uloans alike paused in their struggle and watched with haggard and apprehensive expressions on their faces as the last of the flames winked out.

  With a pall of smoke obscuring the Moon-stars, a shroud of near-total darkness enfolded Khambawe. The fighting ceased altogether, for the combatants could no longer see their foes. Even the jhumbis stopped moving. The only sound that could be heard was the labored breathing of people who had pushed themselves beyond the limits of their endurance, but didn’t realize they had done so until now.

  Then a point of light appeared in the sky ... a speck that rapidly grew into an orb the size of the sun. The new night-sun was clearly visible even through the smoke. It was as though the hidden Moon Stars themselves had coalesced into a single sphere of radiance. From that sphere, a flood of silvery-blue luminescence poured down on Khambawe, its illumination picking out the smoldering ruins of buildings; the dead and wounded that littered the streets; the pools of blood awash in the gutters; the lines of fatigue that scored the faces of those left standing.

  As the Matile and Uloans blinked in the unnatural illumination, the jhumbis stood immobile. The clay that covered their skin seemed to be attracting the light ... and absorbing it. Within moments, the jhumbis glowed like torches – yet they cast no heat. Even so, the jhumbis did not move. Their weapons remained in their hands, but they no longer swung in deadly arcs. The jhumbis looked like crude effigies of clay rather than fearsome creatures of nightmare. They stood forlornly, helplessly within nimbuses of pale luminescence.

  Then cracks began to form on the jhumbis’ coverings, spreading like spiderwebs. And the bits of shell that formed their eyes and teeth loosened and dropped to the ground, where they broke into tiny pieces. The cracks widened, and the gaps were filled with a pale, foul-smelling ichor that streamed down their bodies and pooled at their lumpish feet. And flakes and shards of clay from the jhumbis’ body-coverings rained into the spreading puddles of ooze that mingled with the blood in the streets.

  Then the jhumbis swayed, staggered, and finally collapsed, as though the eldritch forces that animated them had abruptly disappeared. Their weapons clattered to the stones that paved the streets, and where seemingly invincible enemies once stood, there now lay nothing but heaps of clay, bone, shell, and rapidly decomposing viscera.

  An eye-watering stench rose from the remains of the jhumbis. But to the beleaguered Matile, that noisome odor was as welcome as a fresh sea-breeze. For with the demise of the jhumbis, the Uloans had just lost their most effective weapons and their most reliable shields. Now, they would be forced to continue the fight on the defenders’ terms.

  Even worse for the Uloans was the sudden disappearance of the goading influence of the huangi from the depths of their minds: a constant prodding and encouragement that kept fear and weariness at bay and pushed them to efforts well beyond the limits of human endurance. As long as that presence was there, the warriors were nearly as tireless as the jhumbis, if not nearly as impregnable. Even deep wounds had less effect on them than scratches; their courage blazed like an unquenchable fire. Even death did not daunt them, for they believed that in death, they would live forever in Legaba’s Realm.

  Now, their link to Jass Imbiah and, through her, to Legaba was gone. As their weapons dangled slackly in their hands, the Uloans stood confused and uncertain in the glare of the silver-blue sphere in the sky. Their maddening chorus of “Retribution Time” had fallen silent since the flames had vanished and the blue light appeared. And now, no Uloan was willing to resume the shouting of their battle cry.

  At that moment, the defenders of Khambawe needed no command from their leaders to take advantage of the opportunity that fell into their hands. A murderous rage lifted their spirits and banished the fatigue from their limbs. Now it was they, not the Uloans, who were the tireless ones. Yelling in triumph and vengeance, they fell upon the dispirited Uloans like a pride of lions ravaging a flock of sheep.

  3

  Tiyana was lost in the Oneness of the Almovaar. No longer was she only herself. Along with Gebrem, Kyroun and the Amiyas and Almovaads, her individuality melded with the essence of the Almovaads’ god. What one of them saw, they all saw. What one thought, they all thought. What one did, they all did. And what one knew, they all knew ...

  Tiyana had known Keshu since they met as children consecrated to the House of Amiyas – she because of her bloodline; he because his affinity for ashuma had been recognized and encouraged. They had been friends from the beginning of their time in the service of the Matile deities. But only now, in the consciousness they shared with Almovaar, did she become aware of the love he had hidden from her all that time.

  He concealed it because her father, the Leba, was of the highest royal blood; while Keshu’s sire had been a sword-maker from a small village close to the
Thabas’ country. A union between them would be precluded by custom, if not law. So Keshu had remained silent and kept his longing deep within himself. But she hadn’t ever known of it – until now.

  Their difference in social standing had never mattered to Keshu and Tiyana before, because he had so carefully kept his true feelings to himself. And now ....

  She couldn’t think further about it now. She could not even turn her head to look at Keshu. The Oneness continued to hold her – and him – in an unbreakable grasp.

  That always happens the first time, an unspoken voice assured her.

  Again Tiyana tried, and failed, to turn her head. Still, she knew the speaker was Byallis, the Adept whose hand held hers.

  You can learn how to shield your thoughts, Byallis continued. I will teach you, after this is over.

  In an eyeblink’s time, the woman allowed Tiyana to know in full who she was. Her complete name was Byallis ni Shalla, and her home was Ul-Enish, a city located near Lumaron, Kyroun’s home. Ul-Enish had been one of the first stops on the Seer’s westward journey, and Byallis had readily chosen to join the Almovaads to escape the drudgery and abuse she endured as a servant to a mean-spirited lord who had been happy to see her go.

  Kyroun had uncovered a talent for sorcery Byallis had never known she possessed. And she had risen to the highest rank of the Initiates.

  So can you, Byallis assured her. And she gave Tiyana’s hand a squeeze.

  Before Tiyana could respond, a new vision entered into the Oneness. Almovaar was showing them how the battle was progressing. It was as though they were birds hovering over the blood-washed streets of Khambawe. The Matile in the Oneness winced at the sight of the burned buildings and the bodies in the streets. But they saw something else that lifted their hearts – but also fuelled their anger.

  They saw the Uloans in full rout, pursued like hares by soldiers and any other Matile who could hold a weapon. Fear led urgency to the islanders’ flight, and they were outdistancing their dogged pursuers. Once they reached the docks, boarded their vessels and sailed away, they would be free from further retaliation, for the Matile’s ships had all been destroyed.

  Driving the Uloans back to their islands would be victory enough for Jass Gebrem. Surely a defeat as devastating as the one the Matile were now inflicting would deter the Uloans from attacking the mainland again ....

  What if it doesn’t, Kyroun whispered in Gebrem’s mind in the Oneness. What if they try again, ten, twenty, one hundred years from now?

  Gebrem did not reply. But he was thinking the same thing.

  There is a way to ensure an end to this now and forever, Kyroun continued. Your people have always known that an end is needed. And now, you can produce that end.

  And, for the second time since he had come to Khambawe, the Seer pulled his ancestor’s small Ishimbi statue from the folds of his robe.

  The moment Gebrem saw the replica, he remembered the legends of how his ancestors had utilized the Ishimbi during the Storm Wars. A skeptical part of him had doubted those old stories, for all that they were memorialized in books and woven in tapestries. Now, though, he believed them. And, gathering and focusing the ashuma that coursed through him, he began to do what Lebas of the past had done in the Matile’s time of need.

  4

  In the witch-light that dispelled the darkness of night, Pel Muldure could see the enemy drawing farther away. He was not surprised that the scar-covered madmen were escaping. They knew the Ma-teel sought vengeance; there would be no mercy for any islander caught alive in the city their invasion had come close to obliterating.

  Muldure, too, wanted revenge – for the deaths of his crew members and the loss of his ship. It infuriated him that he and the others had survived the Sea of Storms, only to face death and destruction at the hands of an enemy that wasn’t even theirs.

  Of course, with his surviving shipmates, he could build another ship. But that would take time. And once a new ship was seaworthy, where would he sail it? Back into the Sea of Storms?

  That didn’t matter so much now. What mattered most to him was catching and killing as many of the invaders as he could.

  Not so brave now that your walking lumps of clay are gone, are you? he thought vindictively.

  He cast a glance toward Lyann, who was running at his side. Her clothing had been cut to shreds, and gore spattered nearly every inch of her exposed skin. She had several open wounds, but no blood flowed from them. She should have been too exhausted to move. But she wasn’t. And neither was he.

  He knew such stamina was unnatural; that rage alone could not account for it. Clearly, it was a gift bestowed by the same sorcery that created the light; and like all such boons, its price would be tallied later. For now, though, he was satisfied that he still had a chance to kill a few more of the invaders before they were gone.

  The Matile and the White Gull crew formed a ragged, intermingled line of pursuit. Military discipline had long since vanished; Matile officers ran alongside ordinary soldiers without issuing commands. Streams of civilians joined them, ranging in age from small boys and girls to elderly men and women. Some of them wielded weapons they had picked up from corpses; others made do with sticks, clubs and pieces of broken masonry. The hatred Muldure saw on their faces made him happy he wasn’t an Uloan, and didn’t look like one.

  Far behind came the Tokoloshe and their paler-skinned Dwarven kin. Although their arms were stronger than those of almost any human, the legs of dwarvenkind were not nearly long enough to keep pace. They labored on, hoping that the final battle would not be over by the time they reached it.

  No cries of triumph rose from the throats of the pursuers. And the Uloans’ “Retribution Time” chorus had long since fallen silent. The only sound in the city was the pounding of feet against the stones of the streets and the harsh inhalation and exhalation of breath from pursued and pursuers alike.

  Soon the docks came into view. The wharves were strewn with corpses from the earliest stage of the battle, before the invaders had broken through Khambawe’s first line of defense. The Ishimbi statues appeared to glare down at the Uloan ships, which had already moved to a safe distance from the docks. From the decks of the sea-craft, crewmen tossed ropes that dropped down the hulls, then stretched like snakes on the surface of the water. The ropes would provide rescue for those among their fleeing comrades who managed to live long enough to reach them.

  Leaping over the corpses, the surviving Uloans hurried toward their ships. Before diving into the water to make their escape, they turned to face the Matile one last time. When the first of their foes came within throwing distance, the Uloans hurled a lethal hail of weapons. Scores of spears, daggers, even swords hurtled toward the Matile. Those who were quick enough raise their shields in time survived. Those who had no shields, or could not lift them swiftly enough, died or were grievously wounded.

  Then the Uloans began to dive into the water and swim toward the lifelines. The Matile who survived their foes’ final fusillade charged forward, intent on putting whatever laggards they could find to the sword. Cries of frustration rose from their throats as they realized they were not going to reach the Uloans in time.

  And no one heard the creak of stone coming to life ... not until the Ishimbi statues began to move ....

  The sudden animation of the Ishimbi brought everyone to a halt. For a long moment everyone, Matile and Uloan alike, stood frozen, eyes wide in fear and wonder as the Ishimbi walked toward the harbor. Legs that had no feet dented the docks; arms that had no hands moved as though they were reaching for the enemy. It was as though a stand of trees from the distant forest had come to life and were marching to the aid of Khambawe.

  The bottom of an Ishimbi’s leg crushed a luckless Matile who was too awestruck to step aside. As if the man’s death were a signal, the city’s defenders scrambled out of the walking statues’ path.

  Many Matiles cried out in exultation when they realized that an ancient legend had inexplicably come to
life. It was said that in their last effort to help their people during the Storm Wars, the Jagasti had brought the Ishimbi to life and used them to spare Khambawe from destruction.

  Now, the legend was repeating itself.

  “The Jagasti have returned to us!” the Matile shouted. And they joyfully cried out the names of their normally aloof pantheon.

  But the Fidi – Believers and non-Believers alike – whispered the name of another deity.

  “Almovaar ....”

  In sudden terror, the Uloans who were still on the docks leaped into the water. The splashes of their frenzied swimming echoed above the sounds of the Ishimbis’ slow progress. When the gigantic statues reached the edge of the docks, they simply stepped into the air. Then they plunged straight down into the harbor.

  The sound of their landing in the water echoed like a series of thunderclaps. Gouts of water geysered upward and landed like a torrent of salty rain on the faces of the Matile and the Fidi. Waves rolled out from the point of their landing, drowning many Uloans before smashing into their ships. The ships rocked wildly, but remained afloat.

  Cautiously, the Matile made their way to the dockside. They saw the Uloan sea-craft retreating, even as the survivors swam frantically toward the lifelines. The ships moved more slowly than they had when they entered the harbor, for there were no jhumbis left to pull the oars with inhuman speed. Already, the swiftest-swimming Uloans were dodging oar-strokes and clambering up the sides of the hulls.

  Then the featureless heads of the Ishimbi broke the surface of the water like those of gigantic fish. The statues rose higher, until their dripping, handless arms became visible. Then they moved forward. And the muffled thud of their leg-stumps against the harbor’s bottom reached the ears of Matile and Uloan alike. Their advance toward the ships was as inexorable as the approach of the rainy season, and even though they did not move swiftly, they pushed their way through the water faster than the Uloan oarsmen were able to row.