Imaro: Book I

by Charles R. Saunders

  “What will we do?” she asked.

  Tanisha had deliberately said “we,” for her worst fear was that Imaro would one day decide to challenge the High Sorcerers on his own, leaving her behind and out of danger. She would never allow that, for she was a woman of the Shikaza, and when such a woman found the man to whom she would belong, she was his forever.

  As though he were reading her thoughts, Imaro said: “I will not leave you.”

  She kissed him then, and for a moment, more lovemaking was imminent. But Imaro then said something Tanisha hadn’t expected to hear.

  “I will have to tell them.”

  Tanisha knew he meant the haramia.

  “Tell them what?” she asked.

  “I will have to tell them they face more than just the armies of the men who live in stone houses,” Imaro said.

  Tanisha sat up then, and hugged her knees against her breasts.

  “And what do you think will happen then?” she asked.

  “Some of them will go, and take their chances with the Zanjians and Azanians,” he replied. “Some will stay. The ones who stay will be my people.”

  “Your people?”

  Again, Imaro was silent for a time. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully, as though he was expressing thoughts he had never before considered.

  “The Ilyassai were my mother’s people, not mine,” he said. “The Mtumwe of the river could never be my people. Their ways could never be mine. But the haramia – they are outsiders, like me. The ones who will stand with me against the Naamans will be my people.”

  Now, it was Tanisha’s turn to be silent. She understood what Imaro had said, and she admired his ambition to create a tribe of his own to substitute for one he had left behind. Even so, she wondered how many of the bandits would be willing to remain at Imaro’s side after he told them about his inevitable confrontation with the Naamans, and the Mashataan. His tribe could turn out to be far smaller than he hoped.

  “When will you tell them?” she asked.

  “Not now. But soon.”

  The warrior put an arm around her, and drew her down to the sleeping-mat they shared. Tanisha yielded, as always. She anticipated that the time to enjoy such pleasures was becoming more limited by the day. The wet season was still far away, but she could sense that storms were coming.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Imaro was not the only haramia whose dreams were beyond the ordinary. The slumber of Chimba, the bandit who would be least likely ever to count himself as one of Imaro’s “people,” was also restless, though he showed few outward signs of any disturbance.

  No woman lay at Chimba’s side. He slept in a tent filled with other haramia who had swilled enough pombe to render themselves insensate. The others drank because they had survived yet another battle, and had defeated armies from which they would have fled had they not been led by Imaro. Chimba, however, drank because of his dreams, and what they compelled him to do.

  Chimba had been a favorite of Imaro’s predecessor, Rumanzila, and also of Rumanzila’s lieutenant, Bomunu. He had resented Imaro’s arrival among the haramia, and when the Ilyassai rose to the leadership, Chimba had almost departed rather than follow an outlander. In the end, he stayed, and for a time the looting was better than it had ever been under Rumanzila. But his dislike of Imaro, which was rooted in envy, did not abate.

  He had almost departed again after Bomunu’s disgrace in the Black Hills. The Zanjian had slipped away from the haramia not long after that debacle, unwilling to bear the contempt in the eyes of his fellow bandits, or the scorn with which Tanisha regarded him, or the utter indifference of Imaro, who behaved as though Bomunu no longer existed.

  Bomunu had departed in secret. Despite the misgivings of Ngodire and Kongolo, Imaro had simply said: “Good riddance.”

  Chimba would have gone as well, had it not been for the dreams, which began at that time. No nightmare images haunted his dreams. A single presence pervaded them: the voice of one who had departed from the haramia long before Bomunu had done so. Words dominated Chimba’s dreams… words that cajoled; words that promised; words that advised; words that threatened…

  The voice told him not only to remain among the haramia, but also to ingratiate himself with Imaro; to gain the trust of the Ilyassai, if not of his lieutenants; to become one whose advice Imaro heeded. Success would bring great rewards, the voice assured him. Failure, or an attempt to escape, would result in consequences that would cause death to be welcome in comparison.

  Chimba obeyed the voice’s commands. Slowly, grudgingly, he had gained Imaro’s ear, if not his camaraderie. For all his bitterness, Chimba was a sharp-witted man, and not even the skeptical Ngodire could find fault with the advice he offered.

  Yet times came when Chimba simply could not stomach the role he played, or the mask he wore – especially when the haramia fought harrowing battles against trained troops instead of looting helpless caravans or villages. Chimba had not joined the haramia to become a warrior. With each battle he survived, his reluctance to remain in the haramias’ ranks increased.

  It was when his thoughts turned to desertion that the dreams would come again, more intensely than before. Words were no longer sufficient: now, he was shown, in sickening detail, the punishments that awaited him if he failed or fled. Chimba had seen more death and destruction than most men, other than his fellow haramia. But the images that seared his sleeping consciousness were more than sufficient to dissuade him from reneging on the pledge he had made to the one who had sent them.

  On this night, Chimba had come closer than ever before to succumbing to the urge to flee. He had barely survived the latest battle, even though the soldiers had been routed in the end. He would remain, though. Well did Chimba know the sender of the dreams. And well did he fear him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Bomunu cursed bitterly as he pushed his way through the woodland that surrounded the kambi of the Zanjian-Azanian army. Even though Jua hung high in a bright azure sky, the brush was thick enough to conceal him from the eyes of sentries. But twigs and branches caught at his clothing like hands bent on impeding his progress – and announcing his presence to someone with keen hearing.

  The Zanjian had acquired a modicum of woodcraft during his time among the haramia – more, at least, than the city-bred soldiers in the kambi would ever know. He prayed to the gods of Zanj that the sentries would attribute the small noises he was inadvertently making to the movements of animals. Most of the wildlife of the hinterland chose to avoid such a large gathering of two-legs. Yet the smaller, more furtive creatures remained.

  Since his departure from the haramia, Bomunu had lived like such an animal – scavenging for food, hiding in terror whenever the predators of the wild stalked. With a scowl of disgust, he brushed at his tattered, threadbare garments. That he, the scion of the House of Kariunge in Zanj, was reduced to such squalid circumstances galled him as little else could have done. Little – save for the circumstances that caused him to crouch near the Azanian side of the kambi rather than that of his homeland. Well did he know that if he showed his face to his countrymen, he would be slain immediately.

  His chances with the Azanians were only marginally better. Accordingly, he had bided his time carefully, waiting until a succession of setbacks had demoralized the combined armies. Now, while they were licking the wounds the haramia had inflicted, the Azanians might be more amenable to accepting the assistance he would offer.

  And then, his vengeance against Imaro would begin.

  Bomunu breathed deeply, made a final attempt to arrange his attire, smiled beneath his thick, black moustache, and stood up, no longer concerned about the rustling noise that accompanied the process. Then, keeping his hand well away from the hilt of his sword, he strode toward the first sentries he saw.

  As soon as he emerged from the brush, two Azanian sentries confronted him. In the wake of the defeat they had recently endured, they looked scarcely less bedraggled than Bomunu. The leather arm
or both men wore was slashed and torn, and bandages circled a wound on one man’s arm. The points of their spears showed signs of hard use. However, the weapons were still capable of skewering Bomunu where he stood. He waited for the guards to speak.

  “Who are you, and what do you want here?” the taller of the two sentries demanded.

  “I am a friend, with news for your commander,” Bomunu announced, speaking as he would to a servant in his father’s house.

  “He look like a ‘friend’ to you?” the taller soldier asked his companion.

  “No,” the other replied. “Looks more like a bandit.”

  “Smells like one, too,” the other added, not to be outdone.

  Indeed, Bomunu’s once-sumptuous attire had been reduced to little more than faded rags that hardly covered his body. Even the peacock feather that adorned his turban had been broken in half sometime during his wanderings. And he hadn’t bathed in days.

  But he still knew how to behave like a highborn.

  “You could never even imagine what I went through to obtain the information I have for your commander,” he said haughtily. “And I cannot imagine what you will go through if he does not receive it.”

  Bomunu assumed his tone would intimidate the soldiers. The assumption proved mistaken.

  “You sound like a Zanjian,” the shorter sentry said. “Why don’t you take your ‘assistance’ to their side of the camp?”

  “I decided that the most important side should be the one to have it,” Bomunu retorted.

  A few other soldiers were now gathered to see what had caused the minor commotion. Bomunu’s words raised a few chuckles; the soldiers had little else to laugh about.

  “Never thought I’d hear a Zanjian say something like that,” the taller guard mused. “Be that as it may, we can’t leave our posts unless we’re ordered to, and we’re sure as Motoni not taking orders from you.”

  He turned to the newcomers.

  “Why don’t you escort this one to Mwenye Mkojo’s tent?” he suggested. “Let him decide if our ‘friend’ has anything worthwhile to offer.”

  His partner nodded agreement, happy to shift the responsibility for Bomunu to someone else.

  “Why not?” said one of the others.

  He motioned peremptorily to Bomunu.

  “Come with us, Zanjian,” he said.

  Seething inwardly at such impertinence from commoners, regardless of their nationality, Bomunu obeyed. He caused something of a stir as the soldiers escorted him through the kambi. To Bomunu, the troops resembled a demoralized mob more than they did the army of a civilized kingdom. Some of the soldiers honed their weapons and patched their armor. Others drank deeply from gourds, and Bomunu suspected they were swallowing something stronger than water. And some simply stared vacantly, awaiting the next command to go into battle.

  Bomunu shook his head as he approached the mwenye’s tent. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong side after all. But it was much too late for him to change his mind now.

  Two soldiers, cleaner and looking less dejected than the others, stood guard at the entrance to the tent. When Bomunu and his escort came closer, the guards crossed their spears to bar the way.

  “Who is this?” one of them asked, indicating Bomunu.

  “Somebody who wants to talk to the mwenye,” one of the escorts replied.

  The guards were about to respond when a voice from inside the tent forestalled them.

  “Let him in.”

  Resentment flickering momentarily on their dark faces, the guards uncrossed their spears. But they did not step aside. One of them held out an open hand.

  “Your weapon,” he said.

  Bomunu unbuckled his sword-belt and handed his sheathed weapon to the guard. After taking it, the guard moved away from the entrance.

  The Zanjian pushed aside the entrance flaps and walked into the tent. His eyes widened in reaction to the dimmer light inside … then they grew even wider in astonishment.

  He had never before met Mkojo, but he had known of the commander by reputation even before his exile from Zanj, and he had a general idea of his appearance. It was the man standing beside the mwenye who caused the renegade to take an involuntary step backward.

  “You!” was the single word he managed to choke out as the entrance flaps closed behind him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The man at Mkojo’s side was one Bomunu had never expected to see again. He had not known whether this person was alive or dead, nor did he particularly care. Much time had passed since the man had occupied Bomunu’s thoughts.

  “Angulu,” Bomunu said, his voice reduced to a mere whisper.

  For it was, indeed, the wa-nyanume, the rogue Azanian sorcerer who had served Rumanzila, and then disappeared after the haramia were nearly destroyed by the Afua. In the time since Imaro’s ascension to the leadership, Angulu’s name was no longer mentioned among the bandits, although the memory of his magic lingered.

  The sorcerer had changed since Bomunu had last seen him. His face had become leaner, almost skeletal. And his entire body was covered by a cloak made of cloth that was so dark it seemed to swallow the light. And Angulu’s eyes threatened to swallow Bomunu …

  “Indeed, it is I,” the wa-nyanume said. “I saw you coming. We instructed the soldiers not to harm you. Mwenye Mkojo would like very much to hear what you have to say. So would I.”

  Struggling to maintain a measure of aplomb, Bomunu bowed low to both men. He addressed his first words to Mkojo.

  “As Angulu must have told you, mwenye, I am a former member of the haramia,” he said. “How it is that I joined them is of no consequence. Eventually, I became sickened by the excesses of the barbarian who leads them. I realized that he must be defeated, and his bandit army scattered. If that does not happen, the entire East Coast could collapse into chaos.”

  Neither the commander nor the sorcerer spoke. Fear was beginning to turn Bomunu’s courage into water. But he pressed on, for his wits were the only weapon he had left to wield.

  “I am well-acquainted with N’tu-nje, the barbarian,” he said, his words tumbling quickly, desperately. “I know his secrets. I know how he thinks. I could help you bring about his downfall …”

  Mkojo laughed then, and Bomunu’s fear congealed into a small, hard knot at the pit of his stomach.

  “What could you tell me, Bomunu of Zanj, that I have not already heard from Angulu?” the mwenye asked. “He has told us of how N’tu-nje came to be among the haramia, and he has told us the outlander’s true name – Imaro. And he has told us more than that. What knowledge can you add?”

  Bomunu had no answer to give.

  “I cannot think of any possible use I could make of you,” Mkojo said. “However, I am certain that my fellow mwenye, Chuwumba of Zanj, would be grateful for a chance to speak with you.”

  It took all of Bomunu’s will not to drop to his knees and beg for his life. He knew that such a display of cowardice would earn only the disgust of the commander, and further reduce his rapidly diminishing chances of leaving the kambi alive.

  “Your fame – or is it infamy – has reached even into Azania, Bomunu of Zanj,” Mkojo said with a smile that caused Bomunu’s knees to tremble. “The ‘highborn haramia,’ I believe you were called… Yes, you and Chuwumba will have much to discuss …”

  “Wait,” said Angulu.

  Mkojo paused, then nodded in acknowledgement of the wa-nyanume. That display of deference caused Bomunu to forget his overwhelming fear, if only for a moment.

  “Bomunu could still be of some value to us,” Angulu said.

  “In what way?’ Mkojo asked.

  “He has been with Imaro longer than I was,” Angulu replied. “I never knew Imaro as a leader. Bomunu does. He may be able to help us anticipate what the barbarian will do next.”

  Bomunu gave Angulu a glance of gratitude, which the sorcerer did not return. Mkojo’s brows creased in thought. Then he nodded.

  “That may well be,” he said. “Si
t, Bomunu of Zanj. Let us hear what more you have to say.”

  Bomunu almost sank onto the stool toward which Mkojo motioned. The three men talked well past sunset. And in the darkest hours of that night, Angulu’s voice intruded into Chimba’s dreams, imparting new instructions.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Towering cliffs dominated the site at which the haramia had located their latest kambi. It reminded Imaro of the place where he had first become involved with the haramia, even though that place was far away. The heights provided a vantage point from which the sentinels Imaro had posted could see the enemy coming from afar.

  And they would come…

  Regardless of how decisively the haramia defeated them, the soldiers of Zanj and Azania continued to pursue them. The losses the bandits inflicted on the ranks of the soldiers were heavy, yet reinforcements continued to arrive from both kingdoms.

  In contrast, few newcomers augmented the ranks of the haramia. In earlier days, not long after Imaro succeeded Rumanzila as their leader, other outlaws had flocked to his side. The pickings were plentiful; the chances of death, minimal. After the haramia had sacked the small border city of Tangwe, however, the Sha’a and the Mwamu had intensified their efforts to eradicate the bandits. Now that the kingdoms’ armies had joined forces, the hunt had become relentless, and the appeal of the Outsider’s banner had dimmed considerably. Bomunu had been only the first of several haramia to make a clandestine departure from the ranks.

  A spring flowed from a crack in the yellow-and-red rock that formed the face of one of the cliffs, leading to a stream far below, where the haramia washed and slaked their thirst, as well as that of their few horses and pack animals. Water was plentiful here; food was another matter. Between the supplies they took from the soldiers and the meat the haramia who could hunt provided, Imaro’s forces were not starving. But a reliable food source was becoming a concern, especially since Imaro would not allow the haramia to slaughter any cattle they captured. The part of him that was still Ilyassai could not countenance such a defilement – he still felt guilt over the fate of the cattle he had freed when he escaped the Shaming.