HALF A LEGEND, page 3
“I have trusted men walking around the camp,” the Accuser said. “I will hear of every rumor and whisper. And we will strike on time.”
Sakhan looked around him proudly. “Brothers,” he called them, though every man here was far older than himself. “There were those who doubted our march beyond the Hill of Skulls. We knew little of the White Wanderers and they had already refused Chief Sheeru before me. But look outside, they come to me and I will welcome every one of them, every clan to respect my call.”
“They come because they fear destruction,” Takaang said. “They know your name, but not you. They do not trust us.”
“That is true,” Sakhan said, approving the need for caution. “But in time, when the arrows fly and the blades come down, the clans will trust the man who kills with them.”
He rose from the log. The Abun had come a long way to be contented with just half the reward. If he could have all the White Wanderers, he would. Though his back itched with worry whenever he walked through the camp, it was a price he was willing to pay. When the drums of battle played, every warrior would be needed. He prepared for that day, taking no half measures. Sakhan gave his head a sharp jerk to release the tension in his neck.
“But we must be watchful,” he went on, now comfortable with holding their attention. “There might be those who will seek to test your strength, our strength. Do not show weakness, no insult goes unpunished. Any white warrior to march with us must understand only one voice. Mine.”
*
The narrow path widened into a yard, protected by thick cliffs of polished stone. It was the only route into the White Garden as smoky mountain tops loomed in the distance. The warriors guarding the pass numbered about fifty. Half a dozen stairs curled behind statues and onto the ridge that overlooked the land beyond the wall. The entire landing had been carved from a single rock, supported in places by wooden beams and hemp rope. To the right, a large stony snake coiled around the entrance of a cave, the eaves sharpened into fangs.
Kunai and his friends were patted down for weapons, rough fingers pressed into every inch of their bodies. The Edorians were thorough, sensing the grim mood of the visitors. For a heartbeat, Kunai regretted coming with just twenty sandmen. If this went according to his plan, those blades might be needed.
The Edorians formed small groups around the visitors as a girl accepted their weapons and ran into the cave to announce their arrival. Plenty of the guards were women armed with short blades and bows. Kunai looked around at the sandmen to judge their reaction. The sand chief wore a scowl, his shoulders stiff.
“This is the most feared tribe of your people?” the sand chief whispered in the common tongue. The man had very thick lips and a flat nose, with hard eyes like that of a man who saw enemies in every smile. His head was clean-shaven except for a single lock of hair wrapped in a golden mesh of miniscule flames. He wore dark brown armor inscribed with spears sprouting from a golden disk over his chest. A thick yellow cloak was secured around his neck by two golden teeth, the cloth running down a side of his body to be gathered up in his left hand.
“Do not be fooled, Lord Commander,” Kunai said, noticing the Edorians inching closer. “Every one of them can put an arrow through your eye faster than you can blink.”
The man snorted just as the girl came running out again.
“You may enter,” she said, “with just four of your men.”
The sand chief did not look around as he stepped forward. Without command, two more warriors followed him and Kunai brought the rear.
The throne room of the Edorians was the same as he last saw it, except for the smoking peak that could be seen through the massive hole in its northern wall, the fire burning its way to the other side of the mountain. The walls of the room were of limestone, carved snakes looking down from them. On the southern face, soaking in the full spirit of the dawn, a throne was wedged into the wall, the oily blackstone glistening in sharp contrast to the whiteness of the room. And in an instant, Kunai felt like he was back to the day he accompanied his father and sister here.
The Edorian chief had been old even then, and she remained seated on the upraised throne as they approached, watching them with faint disinterest.
“I am honored to stand in your presence, great chief,” Kunai greeted, keeping his back straight. “I come as the chief of the Menjun people, and may the snake under your feet lose its poison.”
“Poisons do not frighten me, my child,” she said in a squeaky voice, frowning so her face wrinkled even more. The Edorian chief was short and stooped, dressed in black snakeskin and too small for the massive throne. Her scanty white hair was held back in a ponytail. “And you do not come alone.”
Kunai nodded, realizing he had pricked the Black Widow. The woman was old enough to be his grandmother, with an ego and ruthlessness that had worsened over the years. He meant to use it. “This is the warrior Tuguru, from the lands beyond the Sea of Sand, Lord Commander of the Yellow Shield and the Right Hand of Sahara,” he recited from memory, giving the man great authority in the room.
“I am honored to be in your presence,” the sand chief said, holding his head high.
Nobody spoke for a while, the Black Widow looking down at them through blood-stained eyes as she tapped on the cane in her lap. A double line of ten nchindas were positioned between their chief and the visitors, their faces emotionless.
When the silence became obvious, the old woman leaned forward in her great throne, pursing her lips. “The walls are bleeding,” she murmured.
Her voice held something that put Kunai on edge.
“These are bad times, great chief,” he said quickly. “The land mourns, the tribes are loose, brave warriors have fallen. The Lions are broken and the Abun remain divided. The Yonkos have grown in confidence and the northmen are moving south. The land bleeds but Tuguru was sent by the skyfather to end all that, to water the fires and bring the tribes under control.”
“I heard of the Lions,” she said. “Where were your people when the Yonkos attacked them? Your father was a friend to the Horselord of the Lions.”
Kunai sensed the sand chief’s unease at being left out like a common messenger, the man’s irritation barely restrained. The Edorian chief knew what she was doing and Kunai decided not to play along.
“The skyfather gives and the skyfather takes away,” he said. “Promises are forgotten and friendships are lost. But sometimes even the cold burns, and enemies become friends. Tuguru is a mighty warrior and a friend, and chief of a great army.”
The sand chief seized the opportunity immediately. “My forefathers knew this land. They came here with blood and fire. And they lost. I come to bury those old bones. My people come for peace. The past can be forgotten.”
“You brought an army,” the old woman said, closing her eyes for a moment. “How many?”
The sand chief frowned. “Thousands, tens of thousands,” he boasted.
Kunai forced himself to relax. The man had a hard tongue, and even harder words. Of course, he did not understand the pride of the Black Widow, a reflection of her people. Kunai would have spoken, but when he caught the eye of the Edorian chief, he remained quiet. The woman would kill even for an imaginary insult.
“That is not an army for peace,” she said. “You offer me nothing. All I hear are the calls for battle. The walls are bleeding.”
The sand chief took a sharp step forward and the guards shifted quickly, warning. Four of them raised their bows, the arrows angled at his chest. The others allowed their hands to gently touch the hilt of their swords.
“I speak with the voice of Sahara,” the man said, paying no mind to the warriors who waited for him to give an excuse to kill. “We have mountains of gold, red stones, green stones, moonstones and even stones that can trap the sunlight and blind you in the dark. We have forced rivers into our villages and food is aplenty. My people are blessed but the land is choked. We can be generous neighbors. But I will not offer you something that is beyond the sands. You ask what I offer you? I offer this land. I want all the tribes under one control. Yours.”
The Black Widow smiled in amusement. “The sandman still offers me nothing,” she said. “You do not offer what is already mine. Instead, you want me to kill my friends, those who will resist you. I will not fight against the blood of this land.”
“It will not be a fight. Those who will stand against me shall fall. Help me to save the blood of this land.”
“You are as arrogant as your forefathers. Go back to your lands or you will die like them.”
The sand chief was a head taller than the warriors around him, and his anger made him seem even larger. It was obvious the man was not used to such a blatant threat. He clenched his jaw for a moment, his lips in a hard line. “I have a duty to my people,” he said at last. When his hands formed into fists, his two guards marched forward to stand beside their commander, roughly pushing Kunai out of the way.
“Even bad blood can be washed away,” the sand chief said in a decided tone. “This is my last offer. I stand on your soil and under your roof. You have a chance to keep them. Peace,” he said, clapping the shoulder of the man on his right, “or war?” he asked, clapping the other man.
The Black Widow sat up. “Only a child or a fool will throw their life away by threatening me here,” she said, striking the butt of her cane against the armrest of the throne. Immediately, the nchindas raised their bows again. “The walls already bleed. Bring me war.”
The nchindas unsheathed their swords and stood ready for an attack just as a bow snapped to send an arrow through the dark throat of the warrior to the sand chief’s right, dropping the man in a heap. For a moment, nobody moved as blood pooled on the stone floor. Three other bows creaked again, one for each of the standing visitors.
“Bring your men and waste them at my door,” the Edorian chief called. “Even a hundred thousand will not break through the White Garden.”
The sand chief said something in their strange tongue, halting the warrior to his left.
The Black Widow watched them, striking her cane again in irritation. “This is my offer,” she said. “Your men will need a herdsman to drive them back beyond the Sea of Sand, that is why you will leave here alive. Take your men, ride away, and you might still keep your skin.”
“My men will ride,” the sand chief promised.
*
Sakhan faced him in the darkness, a gentle mist thickening around them. They had found a good spot in the bushes away from eavesdroppers as the spread of tents rolled into the distance.
“You heard the Accuser,” he said to the older boy. “The white warriors have always had a handler as their chief, or as their commander at least.”
“Why must it be him?” Haikachi asked, angry. He looked more menacing with all that paste of herbs and ash on him, a repellant for the hornflies. “He was chief of the Abun rebels before he came back in. Those men abandoned their true chief and followed him for a reason. They can do it again, and now you gave him command of the White Wanderers too? With enough support, Takaang can turn on you.”
Sakhan understood his situation. “I cannot be a handler, brother,” he said. “He is only my eyes and ears among the white warriors. The Snake clan look to me as their chief and the men know who they follow.”
“The White Wanderers will follow the handler. You are only a name to them, a name that can be forgotten.” Haikachi made a sweeping gesture with his hand, large muscles roiling in his broad shoulders. “I know Takaang. I stayed in his camp and listened. The man is dangerous and some Abun still see him as the blood of Agboo.”
Sakhan remained quiet, considering. He was forging an army of different tribes, every warrior raised with a deep regard for their own traditions. He must show respect to all of them. However, in truth, the command over the White Wanderers was a reward. For a short time, Takaang was chief in his own right before surrendering to Sakhan. Most men would be hard to lead again. Instead, the man was dutiful and helped to bring the white warriors into the great camp. This was just a gesture of approval for the unflinching loyalty, proof of the reward awaiting any warrior of similar conduct. More so, even if the handler had all the white warriors, the man would not stand a chance against the Abun chief. Sakhan would still have the numbers to break him.
“Do you know how a handler is made?” he asked.
Haikachi hesitated only a heartbeat. “I do not care,” he replied. “I might not like it, but our fates are bound. You and I. And we did not come so far to fail now. If the princes of the white warriors can make the choice, I will do no less.”
“To the White Wanderers, it is a duty.”
“I have always been dutiful, brother.”
Sakhan shook his head. “The Accuser told me the story of an old chief of the Hawk clan. The man had a promising rule, strong and competent at first. Then after he had ruled for just five rains, he became madder than the Mad Bull. The white chief claimed the happiest moment of his life had been when he was able to handle a hawk. When they asked if it was for the freedom of flight through the clouds, the chief laughed. Do you know what he said?”
The older boy did not respond, already suspicious.
Sakhan shrugged. “‘No,’ he said. ‘I could finally bed with woman hawks. There is nothing like it in all the world’,” he went on. “The skill of a handler is a curse and I will not wish it on a brother.”
“Then do not see me as a brother,” Haikachi said sharply. “I am the Butcher, and you promised me an army.”
“I promised you a throne and you will have the lionchair,” Sakhan snapped, frustrated by his brother’s impatience. “You vowed never to bow to me, but you will treat me with respect. I am chief of the Abun, and as long as we are here, it is my right.”
Haikachi was taken aback by the burst of rage. After a moment, he summoned his composure and took his hand away from the hilt of his sword. “Is it your right to fool them?” he whispered. “Do they know you were born a Lion, a blood enemy to their people? We do not know why that talisman chose you, but you are not one of them. Perhaps you look away because you do not want to see. Things are not what they seem. Even your white warriors might not be as friendly as you hope. Do you know why they call your friend the Accuser?”
“He took vengeance for a murdered child.”
“Yes, a prince of their clan was accused of killing a child for refusing him fruits. And the Accuser challenged and killed him in turn. That prince was his cousin,” Haikachi said, thrilled at Sakhan’s shock. “The man wears his duty as he wears that white paste, and he will vex at your lie. Do not be fooled, brother. No matter how long a lion plays with wildebeests, it would never grow horns.”
“I know a wildebeest that grew claws,” Sakhan said, ignoring the older boy’s confusion. He was once threatened with this same secret, at a time when he struggled with himself. Now he knows better and would not be blackmailed so easily. “If you tell them of the Lions, I will deny it. Yes, it will weaken my support. But after that, where will you stand? We can fall together, brother, or rise as one.”
Some people were bred to follow and others were born to lead. However, sometimes the right person was thrown into the wrong role. Haikachi was molded too stiff, unable to kneel or bow. He was proud and desperate like a lion trapped in water. The frustration of his situation seemed to suffocate him, obvious as the cold in their bones. But his brother could not roar and risk the wrath of the same men who would come for Sakhan.
“I am sorry, Chief Kaan,” Haikachi said at last and took a step back. Without another word, and as angry as he had come, he spun around and headed toward the glare of cooking fires.
Sakhan was left standing alone, clenching and unclenching his left hand. He could not please everybody. Even his father had not tried to. Yet this was different, his grip on the army still shaky. His brother’s arrogance would have to be curbed before it caused a storm from a misspoken word. Here, every rebuked warrior became a smiling enemy. Dark decisions waited ahead, he suspected. Sakhan shook his head, the future looking more steadily at him than he could look at it.
-CHAPTER THREE-
WARRIORS ON THE WALL
The day already grew colder, and in the jungle, a lone rider was a feeble thing. Shoku was thirsty and starving. His stomach grumbled with every passing moment but he ignored it. The woods flew past in a greenish blur as he pressed on, fearing the Yonko general might change his mind. The man had offered him a strong horse and a dagger. For that at least, he was grateful. And that was all. He had only his life to compliment the gift.
“Nobody will ever trust you,” his brother once told him.
Perhaps they should not. Shoku had never truly delivered on that trust. The Horselord trusted him with the life of a son, and another son became chief only to demand Shoku kill the new chief’s brother. Somehow, he succeeded in disappointing both. Even his own uncle had wanted the head of Sakhan, but Shoku returned without his prize only to be reunited with the news of the old man’s passing. He tapped the pouch around his waist and felt the hump of a pendant, the mark of rank that once belonged to his uncle. He had recognized the golden pendant around the neck of one of the Yonko guards. The man swore he claimed it from a corpse.
Now that he thought of it, there had been a lot of swearing back in the village. A desperate man would swear to anything, and a man facing execution would swear even more. Shoku would have taken an oath to bring the head of the sand chief in a single night, if that had saved his skin. It did not matter now. Here he was, though he knew the Yonko general did not trust him. The man was just desperate. The Yonko chiefs were going against his advice to consider siding with the sandmen against the Edorians. And General Bekele was the lone voice of the past. However, the man did not believe they would listen and Shoku’s release was proof of that.
It had not been hard to piece things together. He overheard some Yonko guards talking of how the sand chief meant to cut a bloody path through the mountains of Edor, and he wanted the Yonkos as part of his army. With the Lions broken, only one of the great tribes was still to choose a side. And now General Bekele wanted him to find them. Though Shoku was amused by the idea of surprising the Yonko when the general expected him to run away, only a fool would venture beyond the Hill of Skulls. There would be no Abun army answering General Bekele’s call, sadly.
