Imaro: Book I

by Charles R. Saunders

  Busa considered Imaro’s words. His choice was stark: become part of the band of outlaws that had terrorized his people and stolen their most sacred object – or live a life of lone exile, a life likely to be short in this harsh land where the trees were sparse, and rivers tumbled down hills instead of flowing between banks in the forest.

  “I accept,” he said.

  Imaro turned to the haramia.

  “We have a new member,” he said.

  The bandits murmured among themselves, having learned of Busa’s origins through Kongolo and the others who had gone on the raid in the forest. In their eyes, the scar-skinned newcomer had no reason to be loyal either to Imaro or the haramia. They did not know that Busa owed his life to Imaro.

  Kongolo spoke for the others.

  “You are our leader, Imaro,” he said. “We must accept what you decide. But this one has a reason to turn against you one day. You may have pointed a dagger against yourself.”

  “I will take that chance,” said Imaro.

  Tanisha touched his arm.

  “Imaro,” she said. “What about this?”

  She gestured toward the remnants of the Afua that were strewn like unplanted seeds across the ground.

  “We will bury the Afua,” Imaro said. “Along with Rumanzila, Mbuto and all the others who died here. And we will never camp here again.”

  As the outlaws moved to carry out the bidding of their new leader, another straggler arrived at the encampment. It was Chimba, returning from his mission to negotiate the new price the Azanian noble would be paying for Tanisha. When his fellow haramia recounted all that had occurred while Chimba was gone, his eyes widened incredulously.

  Still, he had to believe what he saw: his fellow haramia tossing pieces of wood and tarnished spikes of gold into a large, freshly dug pit; the corpses of Rumanzila and Mbuto, as well as others, lying at the side of the burial hole; the outlander, Imaro, receiving the adulation of the bandits, with the Shikaza woman at his side.

  Chimba shook his head in disgust. He had been one of Rumanzila’s favorites, and his dislike of the outlander was hardly a secret. Regardless of who the leader was, though, he still had a duty to perform, and information to provide. After elbowing his way through the throng, he stopped in front of Imaro and Tanisha.

  “So, you’re the leader now,” he said, looking up at Imaro.

  “I am – whether you like it or not,” said Imaro.

  “Well, here’s a decision for you to make,” Chimba said, a sneer only half hidden in his tone. “Our friend in Azania is willing to pay twice as much as he first offered for this one.”

  He gestured toward Tanisha, who looked at him with undisguised disdain, which he ignored.

  “What do you say?” Chimba asked.

  Bomunu, who was standing not far from Imaro and Tanisha, smiled when he heard Chimba’s words about the increase in price. Before he had been forced to flee Zanj, he had been acquainted with the nobleman of his country who had originally purchased Tanisha. The acquaintanceship had been unpleasant, and Bomunu had long suspected that the man had played a role in the events that had forced him to flee for his life. Bomunu was the one who had suggested the theft of the Shikaza woman, to keep her out of the hands of the countryman who coveted her.

  This outlander may have stolen my place as leader, Bomunu reflected, but I’ll still have my share of the price this woman commands…

  “I say: the Azanian can keep his gold,” Imaro declared.

  He turned to Tanisha and, despite the continuing pain from his fall, and the wounds the Afua’s spikes had made, he pulled Tanisha into an embrace, and his mouth found hers. Even though the haramia would now profit from neither the Afua nor the Shikaza woman, they shouted praises for Imaro, for they believed that he would lead them to even greater spoils.

  Anger and envy smoldering in his eyes, Bomunu did not join the praise-chants. Neither did Chimba. And neither did Busa, who, instead, watched while the bandits threw dirt into the grave that held what was left of the Afua.

  The forging of the weapon continued…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Mtumwe awaited the return of the Afua, and of the young men who had set out to recover the statue. As time passed, some of the people of the kijiji lost hope that they would ever see either the Afua or the searchers again.

  In the meantime, the good fortune the Afua had bestowed upon the kijiji quickly vanished. Fish avoided the Mtumwe’s nets, and a mysterious blight ruined their crops. People from other kijijis, having heard tales of the magical invaders and the theft of the Afua, avoided all contact with the Mtumwe. No longer did the dugouts of the tribe ply the Damba Bolong in search of fish or trade. Along the length of the Damba, the river people agreed that the Mtumwe were cursed, and their fate was to be shunned by all, to prevent the effects of the curse from spreading.

  Only the iron will of Ariathu prevented the Mtumwe from abandoning their kijiji. The nganga insisted that the Afua belonged to them, and it would find its way back to the shrine the people had rebuilt at her suggestion, regardless of how long it might take for the return to occur.

  Then Ariathu died. Soon thereafter, the mku, Najimu, also passed away.

  Isolated and starving because their crops still would not grow, the surviving Mtumwe gathered for a council after the deaths of the mku and the nganga. The elders decided there was no longer any reason to continue their wait for the return of the Afua and the seekers. If the warriors who had gone had not found it after three rains, it was unlikely they ever would. And if there was no longer any reason to wait, there was also no longer any reason to remain in the kijiji.

  The rest of the people agreed. The next day, they abandoned the place that had been their home for many generations. Well aware that they were not welcome anywhere along the river, the Mtumwe retreated into the Kajua, leaving behind their dwellings, their dugouts, and the empty shrine that still awaited the Afua.

  Soon after the Mtumwe’s departure, the kijiji fell into ruin, and the forest swallowed it whole. No other tribe attempted to claim the site as its own, for its reputation as an accursed place had grown. When dugouts passed the area, the paddlers averted their eyes and propelled their watercraft as swiftly as possible until the former land of the Mtumwe was out of sight.

  The Mtumwe people were never heard from again. Their retreat carried them deep into the forest, far from the sight, or even the sound, of the Damba, or any other river. The Kajua yielded enough food to forestall starvation, but not much more than that. Generation after generation, the Mtumwe lived in isolation, and their numbers dwindled, and they developed new customs that would have disquieted their ancestors who had lived in the kijiji.

  With each change from the wet season to the dry, the Mtumwe enacted a ceremony of loss, in which they remembered the beautiful and bountiful land from which they had departed. They remembered the Afua, which had brought them good fortune for so long, and they praised its name.

  And they cursed the name of the demon that had come among them, and taken their good fortune away… a demon whose name was Imaro.

  HORROR IN THE BLACK HILLS

  Mightier than all,

  Mightier than all

  Is Imaro! Imaro!

  -- haramia chant

  In the pale light of Mwesu the moon, the Black Hills loomed like a horde of gigantic, crouching beasts, waiting to spring. On another night, only the calls of birds and the irascible chatter of baboons would have broken the somber silence of the thickly wooded slopes. Now, though, the hills reverberated to the chanting of hundreds of human voices and the thunder of scores of drums.

  The chant was part praise, part challenge; flung with pride and defiance from the throats of nearly a thousand men and women. To the animals that dwelt in the hills, the chant meant nothing beyond the indication that mankind had invaded their shadowy realm. Where there were men, there were spears; where there were spears, there was death. The birds roosted motionlessly in the uppermost branche
s of the trees, and the baboons moved on to safer surroundings.

  But in the depths of a still, stagnant pond sunk into the summit of the highest of the Black Hills, there slumbered a thing that was neither bird, nor baboon, nor human. A thing now awakened by the disturbance caused by the shouts of faraway voices; a thing that comprehended the words of the chants of praise and prowess as no beast ever could.

  Projecting its awareness beyond the slimy surface of the pond, this thing that should never have been aroused pursued the drifting vibrations of the chants to their source. There, it listened… and probed… and learned…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The haramias’ raucous celebration overflowed the confines of their newly erected encampment. They had ample reason to celebrate. Not only had they pillaged Tangwe, an important Azanian border town; they had also decimated the detachment of troops the Sha’a – the monarch of the kingdom of Azania – had sent to protect Tangwe from just such an attack.

  After drawing the soldiers of the Sha’a into a carefully laid ambush, the bandits had cut the Azanians to pieces, then had easily overrun the defenseless town. Laden with their plunder of ivory, precious metals and captives, the haramia had left Tangwe a flaming ruin, streets strewn with Azanian dead.

  And now, the haramia reveled. By the time word of the sacking of Tangwe reached the ears of the Sha’a in his distant capital of Mulundu, the bandits would have long since departed from their current encampment. Thus far, no soldiers from any of the East Coast kingdoms had dared to pursue the haramia into the hinterland between the East Coast kingdoms and the Kajua, for in that trackless terrain, the bandits held all the advantages.

  Imaro’s haramia danced. The glare of the night-fires flickered in crimson flashes from sweat-slicked bodies cavorting to the rhythmic pulse of the drums. The dancers swayed in a huge circle around the drummers and the crackling fires. While they chanted and danced, they clapped hands still encrusted with the blood of the luckless people of Tangwe.

  The ranks of the haramia band that was once Rumanzila’s had swollen since Imaro had become its leader. Haramia from rival bands were quick to desert their own groups and join that of N’tu-nje – the Outsider – as Imaro was now known in the borderlands of the East Coast. The success of his bold tactics and his ferocity in battle attracted others as well: criminals, dissidents, escaped slaves and adventurers who would remain loyal as long as the loot lasted.

  Even though the band’s numbers had increased since Imaro’s ascension to their leadership, some of those who had acclaimed him were no longer in the ranks. Some had been killed during raids and battles against other haramia bands.

  And one had simply… vanished.

  Angulu had not been the same since the haramias’ encounter with the Afua. The wa-nyanume had grown distant from the others as the days and weeks passed, and the haramias’ successes under Imaro’s leadership mounted. Often, Angulu brooded alone. Although he was obviously troubled, he shared his thoughts with no one other than himself.

  No one believed Angulu begrudged Imaro’s status as the successor of Rumanzila. But sometimes, the sorcerer would stare intently at the Ilyassai, as though he was searching for something no one else could see.

  Clearly, the experience with the Afua had wrought changes within the wa-nyanume – changes even he could not understand.

  Imaro was concerned about Angulu’s troubled demeanor. But he never questioned the sorcerer about his worries. For Angulu had remained behind when most of the haramia had fled after the Afua came to life, and Imaro respected the courage he had shown.

  Then, not long before the taking of Tangwe, Angulu disappeared. Neither track nor trace of him could be found.

  Kongolo had advised Imaro to mount a search for the wa-nyanume.

  “That one knows everything about us,” Kongolo said. “He could end up becoming our worst enemy.”

  “No,” Imaro disagreed. “He will be of greater danger to himself than to us.”

  Kongolo had accepted Imaro’s decision. He could only hope that the warrior would not be proven wrong.

  Now, leaping and whirling in gyrations made capricious by the ndizi-pombe they had swilled, the haramia continued their celebration. Among the dancers were women, who undulated their lithe bodies in nuances of motion that fed the flames of the men’s passions. Some had joined the men willingly, accepting a life of lawless peril. Others had been seized in raids like the one just perpetrated against Tangwe, and some had become willing members of the outlaw horde. They danced just beyond the reach of the men, who for now were engaged in the praise of their own prowess – and that of their leader.

  And as they danced, they sang a praise chant:

  “Greatest of all, greatest of all is Imaro, Imaro!”

  “Mightier than all, mightier than all is Imaro, Imaro!”

  “Conqueror of all, conqueror of all is Imaro, Imaro!”

  One woman danced apart from the others as they sang: Tanisha, her midnight-dark body clad only in a length of crimson Eastern silk knotted at her waist, and golden ornaments that flashed in the firelight. Her dance was different … a series of sensual movements unique to her Shikaza people. For only one man did Tanisha dance: Imaro, whose iron will had welded the expanded haramia horde into a formidable fighting force that was more than a match for the armies the East Coast kings had sent against them.

  Watching the dance like a sated lion, Imaro reclined against a glittering pile of gold ingots, elephant tusks, and bolts of cloth that came from the Lands across the Sea. Even in repose, the Ilyassai’s thews rolled in magnificent symmetry beneath an iron-studded harness stretched across his massive torso. Scarlet suruali swathed his legs. Unlike his predecessor, Rumanzila, Imaro eschewed ostentation. His weapons – sword and dagger – were his only ornaments.

  In contrast to the gaiety that surrounded him, Imaro’s mood was pensive and introspective. His mind was consumed with thoughts that had been absent for a time: thoughts of Naama, and the Mashataan, thoughts that threatened to tarnish his moment of triumph.

  Imaro’s lieutenants sat near him on the pile of loot. Kongolo was to his right. Imaro trusted the squat, bull-necked bandit more than he did anyone else among the haramia, other than Tanisha, even though he had also stood high in the esteem of Rumanzila. Kongolo’s judgment was sound, and the haramia respected him, for he had been among them a long time. And Kongolo showed no sign of harboring ambitions to take Imaro’s place.

  Ngodire sat to the left of Imaro. Some of the haramia were not comfortable with having the towering Ndashikuya in a position of leadership in their ranks. But Ngodire was no more or less an outsider among them than Imaro, and he had remained at the Ilyassai’s side when the Afua had rampaged through the haramias’ previous hideout. His was the advice Imaro heeded most when he needed to make a decision.

  Bomunu stood apart from the others. The Zanjian was resplendent in the silken suruali, overshirt and befeathered turban he had donned in place of his bloodstained battle garb. After the death of Rumanzila, and the haramias’ rejection of him in favor of Imaro, Bomunu had shifted his loyalty to Imaro, and convinced the Ilyassai that at least three lieutenants were needed to maintain efficient command over the large number of adventurers who had joined the outlaw army.

  Even as he appeared to accept his subordinate position, Bomunu remained ambitious. He realized his changes of wresting the leadership from Imaro were, at this time, negligible. So he accepted his continued role of underling… and he waited, for there was something else Imaro had that he wanted as well…

  Busa stood near Imaro and the other leaders, but he spoke to no one, and he did not participate in the chanting or dancing. The scarred Mtumwe had proven to be a good fighter, but he made no friendships among the haramia, and he followed Imaro as though he were the Ilyassai’s shadow.

  Sipping ndizi-pombe from a gourd, Imaro paid scant heed to either his lieutenants or to Busa. Even Tanisha could not divert him from his reverie. Lowering his nearly em
pty gourd, Imaro stared thoughtfully at the liquid pooled at the bottom. His reflection was dim, wavering – as inconstant as his own perception of his new status, as opposed to who, and what, he had been only a single rain ago, in a way of life that was now only a memory.

  No longer was he an outcast, a son-of-no-father, whose acceptance among the Ilyassai had come too late to matter. No longer was he a lone wanderer. Only a few of the haramia he led cared about his uncertain heritage. The bandits respected his strength and battle prowess, and asked no questions concerning his ancestry, for all his lack of resemblance to the races of Nyumbani’s East Coast.

  Never before had Imaro enjoyed true companionship, or recognition for his deeds. The pulsing drums and the voices chanting his praises – those were his well-earned due. Yet for reasons he could not explain, the adulation he received now left him as uncomfortable as had the overdue tribute the Ilyassai had rendered when he left the Place of Stones.

  That he was an outlaw, hunted by the armies of two kingdoms, had little to do with Imaro’s current state of disquiet. He knew only the law of the Ilyassai: the law of courage, of conquering fear. And even that primal code had, until it was too late, been denied him.

  Here, among the haramia, his word was the law. He liked that. Yet he could never fully acknowledge the esteem in which his comrades held him. The part of him that would never allow him to forget the pain of his early life was a sword that cut with a double edge, for it would also never allow him to believe he truly deserved the admiration of others.

  “What’s in that gourd that looks better to you than I do?” a familiar voice demanded, interrupting Imaro’s introspection.

  He looked up to see Tanisha standing before him, smiling as her hand smoothed her silken garment across the curve of her hips. Firelight reflected from the strings of gold looped around her body, and from the gold studs at the tips of her bare breasts.

  “Nothing, Imaro replied, a slight smile curving his lips.