Imaro: Book I

by Charles R. Saunders

  For a seemingly endless span of moments, man and monster strained against each other in a grotesque parody of a lovers’ embrace. Then Imaro’s foot slipped on the silty bottom of the pool, and he lost his balance. Instantly, Isikukumadevu seized her advantage and lifted Imaro off his feet, robbing him of his leverage. Then she sank deeper into the pool. Like the simulacrum she had created of Imaro’s former self, the demon now intended to drown the warrior.

  Back and shoulder muscles knotting beneath the pressure of Isikukumadevu’s arms, Imaro forced the she-demon’s head so far upward that her eyes stared directly into the face of Mwesu the moon. But he still continued to sink downward until the liquid of the pool closed over his head.

  Now, only the upward-bent head of Isikukumadevu remained above the surface. Alarmed at the pain lancing through her creaking neck, Isikukumadevu unleashed the song that had disabled the haramia. The surface of the pool roiled in sudden agitation. Then Isikukumadevu sank from sight.

  And the surface of the slimy pool became still and smooth again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Bomunu rose slowly from his hiding place in the foliage through which Imaro had hacked. The Zanjian rubbed cautiously at his ears, as if that action could erase the remnants of the pain that still throbbed through his skull and left a ringing sound behind. He thanked his gods and ancestors that Isikukumadevu’s song had finally ceased – for the second time that night.

  The Zanjian had followed Imaro from the encampment, keeping to the shadows, hiding behind bushes and trees each time the Ilyassai turned his head in Bomunu’s direction, moving as silently as he could. He had followed Imaro all the way to the pool at the summit of the hill. And then he had seen the warrior go mad – or so, at first, he had thought.

  Eyes wide in disbelief, Bomunu watched as Imaro swung his sword wildly, ducking and dodging as though he were engaged in deadly combat. Yet Bomunu saw no foe in front of Imaro. Then Bomunu’s mouth dropped open in astonishment when Imaro threw away his sword and plunged backward into the pool, as though he had been struck by some unseen force.

  For a few moments, Bomunu thought Imaro had drowned himself. Then he saw the warrior resurface – and he saw Isikukumadevu.

  A paralysis of terror had rooted the Zanjian to the spot where he crouched as he watched the ensuing struggle between Imaro and the she-demon. After Isikukumadevu succeeded in dragging the warrior beneath the surface, Bomunu’s heart leaped in unholy joy. But when Isikukumadevu’s wordless song attacked his ears, Bomunu crumpled to the ground, writhing and whimpering like a punished child.

  The surface of the pool lay placid and serene when Bomunu finally recovered his poise. Dark gratification suffused his soul as he realized the full significance of what he had witnessed.

  Imaro was dead! And now he, Bomunu, could lay claim to the leadership of the haramia, even though Imaro had named Kongolo as his successor. But Bomunu had no doubt he could take the leadership – and Tanisha.

  Without another glance at the pool, Bomunu turned and raced back down the jagged trail Imaro had cleared. To his horror, the Zanjian saw that Isikukumadevu’s pathway of light was beginning to fade. Stumbling and cursing as his silken garments tore on protruding twigs and thorns, Bomunu ran frantically down the wooded hillside. To the ancestors who had long since disowned him, Bomunu prayed that he reached the encampment before Isikukumadevu’s pathway disappeared completely, and he became lost.

  The final glimmer of the path died when Bomunu at last burst into the encampment. The haramia, who had maintained a sleepless vigil since Imaro had gone, rushed toward Bomunu, peppering him with questions about where he had gone, and whether he had seen Imaro. Bomunu paused before answering them, savoring his moment of triumph.

  “Imaro is dead!” the Zanjian shouted. “He’s dead! Isikukumadevu has taken him. I saw it with my own eyes!”

  Tanisha broke loose from the haramia who surrounded her and confronted Bomunu. Her eyes blazed, and her breaths came hard with anger.

  “You lie,” she said. “Imaro cannot be dead. I would know it if he were.”

  Bomunu caught Tanisha’s wrist in a grip that caused her to wince in pain.

  “I tell you I saw him die,” he insisted. “And with him gone… you belong to me now.”

  “No!” Tanisha shouted, struggling fiercely to free herself.

  “Let her go,” a new voice said.

  It was Kongolo, who had swiftly grasped the import of Bomunu’s actions, as well as his words.

  “Let her go,” Kongolo repeated. “We have only your word that Imaro is dead. How do we know you are telling the truth?”

  “Who are you to be giving me orders?” Bomunu said with a sneer reminiscent of his days as a courtier in Zanj, speaking to a servant. “And why do you doubt the truth of my words?”

  Even as he spoke, though, he released his grip on Tanisha. She gave Bomunu a glare of contempt, then moved to the side of Kongolo.

  “Have you forgotten what Imaro told us before he left?” Kongolo rejoined. “He said if he did not return here by dawn, I would become leader. That’s who I am.”

  The others around Kongolo, including Ngodire, Busa and Ochinga, murmured words of support and encouragement.

  “As for how truthful you are,” Kongolo continued, “If Imaro is dead, why are you still alive? Why did you not help him if he was being attacked by Isikukumadevu? Who are you, Bomunu?”

  An angry rumble rose from the ranks of the haramia. Many of them preferred to believe that they would have aided Imaro against Isikukumadevu, however fearsome the demon may have been. Others remembered that Bomunu, like so many others among the bandits, had fled when the Afua came to life.

  Bomunu was becoming uneasy. This was not going at all the way he had anticipated.

  “Did you not hear the demon’s song?” he demanded. “I was helpless, paralyzed. The demon killed Imaro and vanished with him before I could do anything.”

  “We heard no song, Bomunu,” said Ngodire. “At least, not a second time. We only heard it once, while all of us were here.”

  “No… song?” Bomunu repeated numbly.

  Could it be that Isikukumadevu had concentrated her song so that it could only have been heard at the summit of her hill, and nowhere else? Had his ancestors truly cursed him with such ill fortune, to thwart him at every turn?

  Thinking quickly, Bomunu decided that only a desperate gamble would save his ambitions – and possibly his life – now.

  “You ask me who I am,” he said. “But, in turn, I ask you this: who is – or was – Imaro?”

  The haramia stared at him as though he had lost his senses. Bomunu pressed on before any of them could reply.

  “Imaro has brought us great riches,” he continued. “But at what price? Do you not remember the gold-spiked statue that came to life and almost killed us all? Is it not strange that Imaro and the statue came to us at the same time? Is it not strange that he led us to where this Isikukumadevu lurks?”

  Doubt appeared on the faces of some of the haramia.

  “Imaro is dead,” Bomunu repeated. “If you want to obey the wishes of a dead man, then follow him.”

  The Zanjian gestured toward Kongolo, who was scowling at him.

  “If you want to be led to more riches, and not to demons and statues that walk, then follow me.”

  “If you want to follow a coward and a liar, follow Bomunu!” Kongolo shouted. “If you want to go and see what truly happened to Imaro, follow me!”

  Bomunu’s sword sang from its sheath.

  “You dare to speak to me that way?” he said, his tone dangerously soft.

  Kongolo drew his own sword.

  “I dare to speak the truth,” he said.

  As the bandit lieutenants faced each other, the haramia split into two groups. One, with Chimba the most prominent among them, stood behind Bomunu. The other, led by Ngodire, Busa and Tanisha, stood behind Kongolo. When the sorting of the factions ended, Bomunu quickly realized that he and h
is followers were outnumbered by a factor of five to one.

  A wicked grin creased Kongolo’s wide, ebony face.

  “Do you still want to fight, Bomunu?” he asked. “As you can see, the odds are against you.”

  “No!” Bomunu cried, enraged at the ignominious unraveling of what had appeared to be his greatest opportunity.

  “What if Isikukumadevu challenges more of us?” the Zanjian demanded. “What would you do then? I’ve seen Isikukumadevu. Only I can protect you from this demon. Are you all fools, to gamble your lives on loyalty to a dead man? How many times must I tell you that Imaro is – ”

  “Here.”

  All heads turned toward the sound of that deep, quiet voice. And a chorus of choked gasps, muffled screams and muttered curses greeted Imaro’s return to the haramia.

  The slimy liquid of Isikukumadevu’s pool dripped from Imaro’s massive frame as he stood in the moonlight. His eyes burned with a light the haramia had never seen before, not even in the heat of combat. His features were set in a rictus that denoted supreme effort as he staggered toward the bandits, who quickly backed away to give him room.

  In one hand, Imaro held his sword, its blade coated from point to hilt with a greasy, gray ichor that bore only a slight resemblance to blood.

  In his other hand, Imaro carried something that caused even the most hardened of the haramia to turn away, hot gorge surging to their throats. The Ilyassai’s fingers were twined tightly in the filamentous mane that covered the head of Isikukumadevu. There was no body beneath the head. The she-demon’s wide-open, silvery eyes glowed lambently in the moonlight as her head swung from Imaro’s hand like a huge, grotesque pendulum.

  Slowly, Imaro walked toward Bomunu. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed in terror, the Zanjian retreated, his sword hanging forgotten in his hand. He attempted to speak, but only strangled sounds escaped his throat.

  “Do you think I did not know you followed me, Bomunu?” Imaro grated between clenched teeth. “Here. Take this gift!”

  With an effort that nearly pulled the muscles of his arm from the bone, Imaro swung Isikukumadevu’s head in a circle, releasing his grip on the filaments at the end of the arc. Then the head shot straight at Bomunu, who uttered a single, piercing cry before the macabre missile crashed into his body.

  The Zanjian fell, and lay motionless, the gaping jaws of Isikukumadevu cradling his head. But Bomunu was not dead. He had lost consciousness from the shock of seeing Imaro alive – and vengeful.

  Whatever respect Bomunu had accrued among the bandits was gone now, vanished like an impala at the scent of a lion. The haramia who had sided with Bomunu now fell to their knees, begging Imaro to forgive their disloyalty.

  “Please spare us, Imaro,” one of them implored. “We thought you were dead …”

  Ochinga the Ndurubu stared in morbid fascination at the head of the demon his people had feared for more rains than he could count. Then he prostrated himself at Imaro’s feet and began to chant:

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

  “Get up,” Imaro snapped, his voice suddenly a whip. “All of you – get up and be quiet. And don’t ever kneel to me again.”

  Uncertainly, the defectors – and Ochinga – rose, the Ndurubu doing so with great reluctance. Without another word, Imaro turned his back on them all, and went to Tanisha.

  “I knew you could not be dead,” she said.

  Imaro did not speak. But she could read his eyes. His eyes told her that Imaro needed her. And she knew he would never say that aloud. Tanisha took Imaro’s hand, and led him toward the shelter they shared. The haramia watched silently as he followed her with stiff, weary steps, as though he had reached the limit of his endurance.

  For the rest of the night, the haramia talked about what had happened. Their reactions were varied. There was, however, one impression that underlay all others. Before they had come to the Black Hills, the haramia had respected and admired their young chieftain. Some almost worshipped him, as though he were a war god destined to lead them to victory against all foes. Those who admired his prowess had done so without envy, unlike Bomunu.

  But now … they all feared him.

  There were flaws in the forging …

  BETRAYAL IN BLOOD

  Your worst foe,

  Can be your best friend...

  -- Nyumbani saying

  Imaro’s blade sang a song of death as he attacked his foes. Neither swords nor shields nor leather armor nor flesh and bone could disrupt his deadly rhythm. He slashed rather than thrust, for he could not afford to waste the time it would take to pull his sword out of an impaled enemy.

  The warrior was armed with a shield as well, but he used it to batter his foes as much as he did to protect himself from their weapons. Whenever he battered a soldier with his shield, his sword would flash in front of him, turning aside swords and spears alike.

  He, too, was clad in leather armor, stripped from the corpse of a foe who had fallen in a previous battle. It was barely large enough to fit Imaro’s huge frame, but it was sufficient to protect him from the slashes he didn’t deflect.

  A helmet – also scavenged – protected Imaro’s head. Beneath its brim, his eyes blazed with a ferocity that appeared only when he was fighting. His nostrils widened, as though they were smelling the blood from the wounds he inflicted. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace that was half smile, half-snarl, and totally terrifying to his enemies.

  As Imaro engulfed the soldiers who faced him in a storm of steel, a group of haramia stood behind him, weapons poised to foil anyone who attempted to circle around the Ilyassai and strike him from the rear. Only a few of the soldiers made the attempt, and they died swiftly.

  Corpses littered the ground at Imaro’s feet. As the reality of the damage the warrior could inflict became clear, the soldiers fell back. Imaro looked back to the bandits behind him, and gave them a brief nod. At that signal, the haramia shouted a close approximation of the Ilyassai war cry, and surged forward toward the demoralized soldiers, who continued to retreat.

  Stepping aside, Imaro raised his own voice in a cry that carried above the clash of weapons and the shrieks of the wounded and dying. He waited a moment. Then he heard an answering shout, partly muffled by the foliage of the forest in which the battle raged. Cutting down yet another foe, Imaro raced off in the direction of the cry he had heard – a signal that he was needed elsewhere.

  The haramia were facing two armies that would, on any other occasion, have been fighting each other. Zanj and Azania were neighboring kingdoms that had been rivals for pre-eminence on the East Coast longer than anyone could remember. Peace between them came only intermittently. Most of the time, they engaged in warfare, with neither kingdom holding an advantage over the other for more than a few rains.

  However, the threat that Imaro’s haramia horde posed to the borderlands of both kingdoms created the need for an alliance neither of them truly wanted. Negotiating through clandestine emissaries, the monarchs – the Sha’a of Azania and the Mwamu of Zanj – agreed to send a combined army to crush the bandits, and to bring back the head of their leader, who was known as N’tu-nje – the Outsider.

  Under the joint command of each kingdom’s highest-ranking military officer, the huge army marched into the hinterland, overweeningly confident in its capacity to crush a rabble of outlaws led by a barbarian outlander. Quickly, and painfully, they learned that the haramia were formidable fighters, and none more so than N’tu-nje himself.

  The bandits refused to engage in direct combat. Instead, they harassed the army like a pack of wild dogs snapping at the flanks of a buffalo. When the commanders sent out smaller units to hunt down the attackers, the haramia ambushed them and cut them to pieces. And whenever the haramia suffered setbacks, N’tu-nje would rally them with a new strategy, or simply through the example of his own demonic ferocity in battle, even though the combined armies vastly outnumbered their bandit foes.

  Well aware we
re the East Coast commanders of the fate that awaited them if they returned to their respective monarchs in defeat and disgrace. Thus, they continued their wilderness campaign, hoping to break the will of the haramia through sheer attrition.

  Recently, fortune had appeared to favor the soldiers. They had herded the haramia into a woodland, which the armies soon surrounded. Then they advanced inward, like the closing jaws of a trap.

  Soon enough, they realized their error. In the forest, their advantage in numbers was negated, and tangles of brush rendered their horses almost useless. The haramia remained elusive, and they attacked the solders in small clusters, vanishing before reinforcements could arrive.

  And then there was N’tu-nje…

  The commanders, and many lesser-ranking officers, had scoffed at the stories they had heard about the mysterious barbarian who came from no known kingdom or tribe, who had welded the haramia into a disciplined combat force and fought as though he were possessed by a djinn – a demon – or was, himself, a djinn in human guise. Now, they knew the truth of those tales. And some of them were beginning to believe that the Outsider was, indeed, a djinn…

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Imaro responded to yet another call for aid. Azanian and Zanjian soldiers alike were learning to dread the sound of the warrior’s answering cry, for they knew that before the echoes died away, he would be among them like a lion, rending and tearing at their ranks, heartening the bandits and eroding the soldiers’ will to continue.

  Even as his sword reaped a red harvest, Imaro observed the soldiers’ demeanor. Despite the loud urging of their commanders, the troops of both kingdoms were falling back toward the edge of the woodland. With sufficient numbers, the haramia could have turned the soldiers’ encircling tactic against them, and the battle would have become a slaughter. Instead, Imaro used calls and runners to instruct his forces to drive the soldiers out of the forest, then pursue them – but only until the enemy was out of sight.