Death in Jukun

Charles R. Saunders

Beneath a huge cloth umbrella in the central square of the city of Jukun, Nkere the Drum Talker sat before his impressive array of instruments. His highly trained ears were attuned to the message of the Drum Talkers of the South Gate. Satisfied of the meaning of his colleagues' beat-patterns, Nkere proceeded to pound out the same message for the people of the inner city to hear. His calloused black hands flew with unerring precision over the five skin drumheads, and the resulting rhythms resounded like guttural human speech.
"Stranger entered by South Gate," Nkere signalled. "City unknown . . . business in Jukun unknown . . dangerous...."
Nkere had hesitated at the last part of the message. The role of a Drum Talker was to report facts, not opinions. Still, if the Talkers at the South Gate felt that the stranger was a potential menace....
"Dangerous...." the Drum Talker's hands repeated.
A large shadow blotted out the daylight in the shop of Okorun Essien, chief of the Gbona, the blacksmiths' society of Jukun. Okorun looked up in some annoyance from his forge. Only recently he had settled a conflict between another blacksmith and a customer who claimed to have been cheated. If he had to deal with either of them now, he'd....
But Okorun's first sight of the man in the doorway told him that his visitor was neither of the quarelling parties, nor was he anyone else he had ever seen in Jukun. By Jukuni standards, Okorun was accounted a big man. But the stranger stood nearly a full head taller than he. Where the blacksmith was built broadly, with ox-like muscles bunched beneath his leather apron, the stranger's thews flowed like those of a great cat. Even the rawhide loin-clout and well-worn leather breastplate he wore could not conceal the almost visible power of the man's physique.
The face, Okorun noted, was that of a man still on the near side of thirty rains. But the narrowed obsidian eyes seemed far older. The skin was deep umber in color. There were many in Jukun who were darker, but also some who were lighter. Something in the cast of the stranger's features suggested a basic foreignness, an origin not of the peoples of the West Coast.
"Who are you?" Okorun asked quickly, his brusqueness hiding the discomfort caused by the stranger's silent gaze.
"Imaro," the giant replied in a thick, half-unintelligible accent. "Imaro dan-Ilyassai."
"'Ilyassai?'" Okorun repeated, the syllables strange on his tongue. His memory searched through the hundreds of names of West Coast towns and city-states, but the name "Ilyassai" escaped him.
"Never heard of it," he grunted.
"You wouldn't have," said Imaro. "It lies far to the east, beyond the Great Nyanza."
Okorun looked again at the stranger's face, and inwardly cursed his own lack of observation. The man's cheeks were smooth. No pattern of scars marked the city-state of his birth, such as the three concentric circles of dots that told one and all that Okorun was a native of Jukun. Okorun's broad nose wrinkled in distaste. This man was not only a foreigner; he was also ajeji . alien to the West Coast and its ways.
"What do you want here?" he snapped.
Beneath his high-peaked leather helmet, Imaro's eyes narrowed even further at the blacksmith's tone. "The guard at the gate said you were the one to see to find work as an iron-shaper."
Okorun's eyes traveled up and down the ajeji's massive frame. Somehow Imaro's arms seemed more suited for swinging the weapons at his side than pounding with a blacksmith's maul.
"You are, of course, a member of the Gbona?" Okorun inquired.
"Gbona?" Imaro repeated, brow wrinkling in puzzlement.
"Surely if you are a blacksmith you belong to the society of blacksmiths!" Okorun shouted. "How can you be a blacksmith and not know of the god-that-dwells-in-the-metal? You cannot shape iron in Jukun if you are not of the Gbona. Didn't you know that, ajeji?"
Something ominous ignited in Imaro's eyes in response to the word "ajeji," which he knew to be an insult. "I learned my trade in Cush," he said quietly. "There, they rely on skill, not some god in the metal."
Okorun's wrath spilled over. Not only had this uncouth ajeji invoked the name of faraway, half-mythical Cush, he had also blasphemed against the god to which Okorun had dedicated his life!
Raising the hammer in his fist, the dan-Jukun took a step toward Imaro and growled, "You lying dog of an ajeji! Get out of here before I...."
Imaro's hand shot out almost too quickly for the eye to follow. Okorun's wrists were as thick as some men's ankles, but the Ilyassai's fingers closed easily around the one that held the threatening hammer. Imaro squeezed, and the pressure of his grasp penetrated beneath layers of muscle to the bones of the blacksmith's wrist. Okorun bit back a cry of pain, but his fingers opened and the hammer clanged to the floor.
Okorun looked up into the face of the stranger. Imaro showed no sign of strain; it was as if the giant were effortlessly restraining a small child. Panic and anger seized Okorun. He exerted the strength that had won wrestling and weight-lifting contests in an effort to tear loose from the Ilyassai's hold. It was to no avail. Imaro increased the pressure; Okorun howled in agony and sank to his knees.
Then Imaro let him go. Okorun knelt there, silently massaging his wrist. He feared it had been broken.
"I was a warrior before I learned to work iron," the Ilyassai said half to himself. "If need be, I will fight again. But there is no war in Jukun."
Okorun stared at the giant ajeji, wondering if he should call for the City Guard to remove the barbarian from his shop. Then his eyes strayed to the hilts of Imaro's dagger and sword, and he knew that the warrior could cut him down in the blink of an eye . . . a much shorter time than it would take the City Guard to come to his aid.
"If I cannot work iron, I still must earn my meat," Imaro said to Okorun. "You still might help me. Is there anyone in this city who has need of a fighting man?"
Okorun could have said many things, almost all of them unwise. He chose to say the wise thing. "I have heard that Obasanje dan-Yauri is looking for a bodyguard. He has a large plantation of silk-cotton trees outside the city. Obasanje is very rich; he will pay you well."
Imaro considered briefly, then asked the blacksmith for more specific directions. Receiving them, he turned and strode away from Okorun's premises.
Okorun rose to his feet and gazed at his doorway long after Imaro had gone. Then he reached for his fallen hammer, for there was still work to be done that day. But he found that he could not properly grip the handle of the tool. A shudder shook his sturdy frame at the thought of the ease with which the ajeji had held his arm. Suddenly he recalled a half-forgotten message, one of many pounded out by the Drum Talkers that day. It concerned a stranger who had come through the South Gate. The last word of the message echoed chillingly through his mind: "Dangerous. . .."
Like the dusk hanging low in the Nyumbani sky, Imaro's mood darkened as he rode his steed toward the compound of Obasanje dan-Yauri. Thus far, his sojourn in the West Coast kingdoms had not been the best of times. The land seemed cramped and crowded with towns and cities, customs and taboos, rules and traditions. Almost wistfully, he recalled the vast yellow savannas of his boyhood, teeming with herds of beasts the like of which the West Coast city-dwellers could scarce imagine.
Abruptly Imaro shut out all thoughts of his homeland. The Tamburure Plains were forever lost to him. Best to keep their haunting image out of his mind. . . .
The two-story dwellings of Jukun were beginning to thin out now. So, too, were the ranks of passersby who never failed to gape openly at the gigantic outlander . . . until he turned his fierce glare in their direction. Invariably the danJukuni would avert their eyes and hasten along their way.
Imaro reflected on the name of the man who sought to buy a sword. Dan-Yauri . . . the city-name indicated that Obasanje came from a coastal kingdom far to the south of Jukun, near the city-states where Imaro had served as a mercenary in the internecine wars that plagued the region. Why had the dan-Yauri come so far north, Imaro wondered. Then he shrugged his shoulders beneath the leather armor. Why have I? he asked himself.
It was almost dark when Imaro arrived at the plantation. Beyond the walls of Obasanje's compound he could see row upon row of silk-cotton trees, many white with the fiber-covered seeds that gave them their name. But even in the gloom and distance, the Ilyassai could see that half the trees were bare and twisted, as if stricken by some devastating blight. Another mystery, thought Imaro.
He rode slowly to the gate in the high adobe wall. Instantly he was confronted by two guards, both of whom pointed sharp spears at him.
"What do you want, ajeji?" one of them demanded, taking in the Ilyassai's unscarred face.
"I hear your master is looking for a new sword," Imaro replied imperturbably. "And with dogs like you to guard him, it is no wonder he's looking."
"Why you. . . ." the guard who had spoken growled. But his companion restrained him. He had seen Imaro's hand tighten on his sword hilt, and watched the huge war-horse snort and paw the ground. He sensed that the mounted giant could easily slash and trample them underfoot before they could bring their spears into play.
"Obasanje dan-Yauri died this morning," the second guard explained. "Didn't you know?"
"How could he?" snarled the first guard. "These ajejis do not understand the Drum Talkers."
At a touch of the reins, Imaro's horse reared, flailing the air with its iron-shod hooves. The guards drew back, raising their spears. Imaro leaned forward in the saddle and freed his sword from its scabbard in one smooth motion. The steel blade flickered in a swift double loop; two sharp cracking sounds of steel shearing through wood and the blades of the guards' spears tumbled to the ground. Unmoving, the two men stared open-mouthed at the cleanly severed shafts that were all that remained of their weapons.
Contemptuously Imaro wheeled his mount and prepared to return to the city to seek lodging for the night. But before he could put heels to the horse's sides, a soft, feminine voice called out:
"Where are your manners, Babatun and Egbo? Even though Obasanje is dead, we must still be courteous to our guests."
The speaker was a young woman dressed in mourning, the gele on her head covered with ashes and the agbada on her body torn to tatters. Her face was solemn in the gathering gloom as she continued: "I am Abitibi, fifth co-wife of Obasanje dan-Yauri. I invite you, stranger, to spend the night here. The way back to Jukun is long, and there are robbers and leopards on the road at night."
Imaro deliberated only a moment before grunting "I accept." And he rode past the discomfited guards, not because he feared robbers or leopards, but because Abitibi was the first person he had met in Jukun that he had not had to suppress an overwhelming urge to kill.
In a cheap room in a shabby Jukun inn squatted a second stranger, one who had escaped the attention of the City Guard and the Drum Talkers. He was a small, wizened man whose sole distinguishing feature was the pair of horizontal scars on his cheeks that identified him as a dan-Ife. The innkeeper had remarked upon the stranger's scars, for Ife was a city well renowned for the skill of its sorcerers. But the man had paid his two cowries in silence, so the innkeeper merely shrugged his shoulders and paid him no more heed.
The dan-Ife hunched in the middle of the bare floor and divested himself of his upper garment. His half-naked body looked shrunken, as if something less gentle than age had leached away his vitality. Scars from what must have been dozens of whip-blows etched his scrawny back. But as the dan-Ife reached into a pouch strapped next to his skin, his eyes burned with inhuman intensity.
Slowly he extracted a dark object from the pouch. It was a statuette, crudely carved from black stone and so large that the dan-Ife needed both hands to hold it. It was fashioned in the likeness of a beast with a humped outline, no tail, and wide, gaping jaws. As he ran his hands almost lovingly along the rough stone surface of the image, the dan-Ife's lips writhed in a grotesque parody of a smile.
Then his grip on the carving tightened convulsively. His mouth began to move, forming phonemes and syllables entirely unlike any found in the languages of the West Coast. An eerie wail, like the rush of an eldritch wind, rose above the dan-Ife's droning incantation. But the air inside the room remained undisturbed, and the other patrons of the inn heard
Suddenly a greenish glow surrounded the statuette, enveloping the hands of the dan-Ife and casting a weird illumination upon his dark features. It was impossible to determine whether the grimace on his face was caused by ecstasy or pain, or both. He continued his mysterious incantation even as the green glow brightened....
On a moonwashed plain far to the east of Jukun, beyond the towering Ataissan Mountains, the physical counterpart of the sculpture in the dan-Ife's hands crouched over the carcass of a buffalo it had just slain. The carving had captured only a hint of the strength and savagery of the reality. Great doglike jaws ripped voraciously into the flesh of the buffalo, while apelike paws pulled heavy bones from their sockets. The body of the beast sloped downward from the shoulders, much like that of a hyena. But there was also a strong suggestion of
the baboon in its form, almost as if it were the result of some unholy amalgam of the two species.
To the people of the Soudanic plains, the monstrosity was a chemosit, an eater of cattle and men, more feared than any lion or leopard. But to the hyenas which slunk like flame-eyed shadows in the distance, the grinding of the huge beast's jaws meant food for them. They knew that where the chemosit prowled, a trail of carrion followed.
Just as the chemosit had torn away the top of the buffalo's skull to get at the succulent brain, a nimbus of emerald flame sprang up around it. Snarling its bewilderment, the beast struck out at the emerald flame. The radiance did not burn the flesh of its paw, but it did increase in intensity until it totally enveloped the beast's body. Then, before the uncomprehending eyes of the hyena-pack, the flame winked out of existence . . . and with it, the chemosit.
And the dan-Ife chanted on.. , .
Sleepless and silent, Imaro lay quietly on his bed in Obasanje's guest house. His mind would not rest; his thoughts prowled like a predator baffled in its search for spoor.
It was not that the wives and servants of the late dan-Yauri had treated him ill. On the contrary; they had plied him with enough bean-cakes and fried plantains to feed three men. He had drunk liberally of maize-beer as well. He would have preferred meat, but he knew that meat was forbidden in the house of a dead man. As he feasted, one of the older wives had told him she thought Obasanje had died in despair over the mysterious blight that was progressively destroying the trees that were his source of wealth. The others had nodded agreement . . . all except the fifth wife, whose name was Abitibi. Imaro's eyes had been quick to detect the smirk that rose to her lips before her hand hid her mouth. The glares this action had elicited from the senior wives was unmistakable.
And Imaro had noted Abitibi's eyes following him as a servant had led him to the guest house. The route had taken him past Obasanje dan-Yauri's fresh grave, piled high with thorny branches to discourage jackals and hyenas from digging up the corpse. By the light of torches set in various locations in the compound, Imaro caught the flash of Abitibi's smile just before she retired to the house set aside for her.
Now, as he lay on the cotton-stuffed bed, the IlyassaiDeath in Jukun	161
frowned as he recalled that enigmatic smile. What could it signify, in this house of mourning?
Suddenly he heard a sound .. the slight scrape of a sandalled foot near the entrance to the house. A shadow crept like inky liquid across the dim rectangle of light in the doorway.
Noiseless as a cat, Imaro flowed from the bed in a single lithe motion. As he stepped to the side of the door, the intruder entered cautiously. Stealthily the dark figure made its way to the bed, stretching out a hand to touch its surface. When the questing fingers found emptiness, not flesh, the intruder stepped back in sudden confusion. It was then that Imaro moved.
Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, the visitor was instantly wrapped in a bear-like grip. There was no struggle, even as Imaro's practiced hands ran swiftly over yielding flesh in search of assassin's steel. He found no weapon. Then a familiar voice sputtered, "Ease up, you're crushing me!"
Recognizing the voice as Abitibi's, Imaro eased his pressure. But he did not relinquish his grip.
"Why did you come here?" he demanded.
"I'm not sure," the girl equivocated. Then: "Yes I am. I want you to know that this is a lie. All of it! Obasanje is no more dead than I am, even though his body • lies in the grave."
Imaro stiffened. This sounded like sorcery. And his hatred of sorcery was like an undying flame burning deep in his soul. However, he chose to say nothing, waiting for the girl to continue.
"Doesn't that seem strange to you?" Abitibi demanded, incredulous at the outlander's lack of outward reaction.
"I've known stranger things," Imaro replied laconically. "Go on."
"Obasanje has swallowed the juice of the buruku-weed, and for three days he will be as a dead man. This morning we lowered him into his grave, but we did not fill it with dirt. Obasanje is not dead. He is only hiding."
"Hiding from what?"
"From the man he fears. He told me about it one night when we were in bed and he was drunk. He said he had made his fortune years ago in Yauri by betraying a sorcerer of If e. He had accused the man of practicing the forbidden arts of the Mashataan, the Demon Gods. The dan-Ife was flogged and imprisoned, for Obasanje's accusation was not false. Obasanje fled north with the rich reward the dan-Ife's enemies had given him for his deed, came here to Jukun, and bought this silk-cotton orchard.
"He prospered, and bought five wives, of whom I am the last. But recently the blight struck the trees . . . and he began to dream of the dan-Ife. He dreamed that the sorcerer had broken free of his chains, and was on his way north for vengeance."
"And that is why he wanted a bodyguard," Imaro thought aloud.
Abitibi nodded.
"If he fears this dan-Ife so, why doesn't he run, instead of burying himself in a grave?"
"Fear has eaten his brain!" Abitibi spat. "He believes he cannot run from the dan-Ife. Before he swallowed the weed-juice, he could talk only of 'dying to escape death.' He thinks that the dan-Ife will come here, see that Obasanje is 'dead,' then disappear forever. Aie, what a fool Obasanje has become!"
"What has all this to do with me?" Imaro asked, though he could already hazard a guess. For Obasanje he felt the contempt of the fighting-man for one who flees danger. His feelings for Abitibi were more ambivalent. ...
The dan-Jukun woman pressed close to him. "I know where his money is," she purred into his ear. "Even though Obasanje's trees are dying, he still has his hoard of gold and cowries. He told me where it was when he was drunk.
"It can be ours . . . no longer will I be only a fifth-wife, cooking for the senior wives and caring for their children because I have none of my own.
"Yet I cannot do this thing alone. A wife who runs away, even after the husband is dead, can be enslaved by law. I need a man. You are ajeji, yet you are so much more a man than Obasanje, who would go mad in fear of a dream . . . It can be yours, ajeji . . . Obasanje's treasure and me, if you dare!"
An old wildness coursed like hot lava through Imaro's veins. Too long had he adapted to the ways of the West Coast: obeying their laws; respecting their customs; suppressing impulses ingrained years ago in a world of ferocious beasts and brutal men....
"I have been in these lands long enough to know what is done to a man who steals another's wife," he growled. "Are you worth the risk?"
For answer Abitibi stepped away from him and pulled her agbada over her head, her movement a soft blur in the darkness. She pressed her lush, youthful body against Imaro's towering frame and felt his arms lift her from the floor and place her onto the bed. A sudden stab of panic, as if she had just unlatched the cage of a lion, came and went. Then the outlander's lips found hers and his arms tightened against her naked back, and her fear was drowned in passion.
The dan-Ife's frame shuddered as if he were being wracked with unbearable torture. Sweat dripped from his skin, forming a dark patch on the floor beneath him. Veins throbbed at his temples, and his bony knuckles seemed about to burst through the skin, so tightly did he clutch the glowing statuette in his hands. Still, despite the pain that raced through his body, the sorcerer bore upon his lips a smile that would have chilled the marrow of anyone there to see it.
Obasanje dan-Yauri's eyes flew open, and were greeted by utter blackness. The torpid quivering of his limbs did not match the swift rush of panic through his mind, for he could not remember where he was. But the terrifying vision that had forced him from his drugged slumber remained stark and clear, as if illumined by a bolt of lightning.
It was the face of the dan-Ife he had betrayed; a face unforgotten though a score of rains had passed since Obasanje had fled Yauri. The face was hideous, and it was laughing, laughing.
A low groan escaped Obasanje's lips. Had his throat-muscles not been rendered sluggish by the buruku-weed, the sound would have been a cry of terror. For Obasanje now remembered where he was. His own grave....
Rational thought struggled against the onslaught of hysteria. Obasanje knew he was safe here in this hole of death, even though there was still nothing but blackness before his ..yes. The buruku-potion must have worn off, he reasoned as he strove without success to move his arms and legs. He tried to obliterate the leering image of the dan-Ife, and sought comfort in the knowledge that his servants would soon free him from these macabre surroundings. Even now he could hear them scraping away the thorn-branches that rested on a reed lattice high above his head.
Abruptly the entire top of the false grave was torn away. And Obasanje's eyes distended in horror at what was framed against the starlit sky. And his throat did not fail him.
Obasanje's shriek of terror resounded through the compound, jolting Imaro from the lovemaking he had barely begun. Snarling the name of a god unknown in Jukun, the Ilyassai pulled free of Abitibi's embrace. Even as she gasped, "What was that?" Imaro was already at the doorway, staring out toward Obasanje's grave.
The others in the compound also looked to the gravesite, and shuddered in primal fright at the sight of the chemosit. Turning from the open grave, the shaggy giant glared at the people whose dark faces mirrored fear in the flickering torchlight. Strangled cries were drowned in the rumble that rose from the throat of the shambling monstrosity. The chemosit was only a legend to the people of Jukun; a tale told by Soudanic griots for the price of a gourd of wine. Yet here it stood, a dog-jaws slavering in anticipation of easy prey.
As the creature reared up on its short hind legs and spread its immense arms, door after door slammed hastily shut. The flimsy wood of the rarely used doors would never stand before the onslaught of the chemosit, as those who huddled behind their pathetic protection well knew. But they could do nothing more, for the gate-guards had thrown down their spears and fled as the chemosit appeared in a burst of green flame.
From one doorway, though, came neither outcry nor sudden slam. Imaro, having ascertained the danger the beast presented, had pushed the terrified Abitibi back toward the bed and hastily donned his leather breechclout. Snatching up his long dagger, the Ilyassai stalked out of the guest-house, quietly closing the door on Abitibi's protests: "Are you a fool, ajeji? You'll be killed."
But Imaro was answering a call with origins beyond rationality or altruism. His thoughts were shaped by a warrior's pragmatism, and for the people in the compound he cared little. His was an urge present since his childhood among the Ilyassai; an urge that had impelled him to bellow his warcry and advance toward a beast whose shoulders rose higher than his own head. It was the urge to destroy anything that seemed greater than himself.
Still on its hind legs, the chemosit bared its bone-crushing fangs as Imaro came closer. For all his size and musculature, the Ilyassai appeared puny next to the giant hyena-ape. The chemosit waited until the warrior came within reach. Then it swept one arm in a blow that would have shattered the skull of a bull. But quick as the beast's movement was, Imaro was quicker. Ducking beneath the shaggy arm, he came up behind his startled foe. Like a leopard he sprang onto the back of the chemosit, looping one arm about the beast's throat and stabbing into its side with the other.
(The dan-Ife gasped as two gaping wounds appeared on his ribcage. But he continued to hold onto the glowing statuette as if his life depended upon his maintaining his grip.)
With a howl of pain, the chemosit reached back and seized Imaro in both its apelike paws. The Ilyassai had not had time to lock his legs around the creature's waist; he was easily peeled away from the chemosit's back and hurled to the ground. Agony shot through his back at the impact . . . and his dagger flew from his grasp.
Swiftly Imaro regained his feet. Frantically he searched for his blade; he knew that without it he stood little chance against a beast three times his bulk. Even as the household of Obasanje watched in despair from the narrow window-slits, Imaro spotted his dagger, and cursed in dismay. It was hanging clumsily in the hand of the chemosit! The creature snarled triumphantly, and lumbered toward the weaponless man-thing.
Imaro struck with the speed of a cobra. Like a blur of ebony, his arm leaped at the chemosit's throat. Stiffened fingers drove into the beast's windpipe; it staggered at the unexpected pain. At the same time, the warrior's foot lashed into the chemosit's hand, sending the dagger pinwheeling across space, clattering to the ground a dozen yards away.
(A grimace of pain contorted the face of the dan-Ife as a deep indentation appeared in the flesh at his throat. Then the bones in one of his hands buckled, and the carving nearly dropped from his grasp. The smile had long fled from his face, but without further outcry he maintained his tenacious grip on the thing of black stone.)
In a matter of seconds a race against death unfolded before the wide eyes of the dan-Jukuni. Imaro's goal was his dagger; the chemosit sought only to clamp its paws on the troublesome man-thing and rend it to bits. Though Imaro had a few yards' advantage, the chemosit moved with unbelievable speed, and Imaro could feel the paws swiping the air inches from his back. A desperate dive brought him within reach of his weapon.
He hit the ground, snatched at the dagger's hilt, and rolled onto his back. The chemosit was upon him! Hands with the strength of a gorilla's caught his shoulders in a crushing grip, and its jaws rushed downward at Imaro's face. Again the Ilyassai made a pair of simultaneous movements. Bracing his feet against the broad breast of the creature, he shoved with all the steel-spring power in his long legs. At the same time he plunged his blade deep into the beast's left arm and dragged it from elbow to wrist.
The superhuman force of Imaro's leg thrust propelled the chemosit backward . . . but not before its jaws snapped shut a mere fraction of an inch from Imaro's eyes. The beast's hands had been wrenched away from Imaro's shoulders, but the bones felt nearly dislocated. Though he winced at the pain pulsing through his upper body, Imaro again hurled himself upon the back of the stumbling chemosit.
(The left arm of the dan-Ife dangled uselessly, blood spouting from half its length. A wretched, reluctant groan welled from his throat, but with his other hand he continued to clutch at the thing that caused this deadly conjuration.)
In spellbound awe the dan-Jukunis' eyes remained fixed on the scene beyond their window-slits. Never before had they witnessed such savage, elemental combat. They could not have imagined a dozen fully-armed soldiers surviving against so fearful a thing as the chemosit; yet here was the giant ajeji clinging to the back of the monster, striking again and again with his crimson blade. The beast's wounded arm had weakened considerably, and Imaro's feet were now locked at its waist. Unable to dislodge the warrior with his good arm, the chemosit staggered like a wounded bull bearing a burden of death on its shoulders. Only the thick, bushy fur around its throat prevented Imaro's blade from penetrating to the jugular.
(The dan-Ife's head lolled on his bony chest. His neck was half-severed by huge, slashing wounds. A strained gurgle bubbled from his mouth, but some inhuman well-spring of vitality kept his eyes undimmed and his one-handed grip on the carving unweakened.)
A final stratagem surfaced through the waves of agony crashing through the chemosit's beast-brain. In a supreme effort, it reared once again and fell backward, hoping to crush its tormenter beneath its enormous bulk. Imaro had no chance to hurl himself clear in time. He could only tense his muscles to their fullest rigidity as the monster's weight smashed him into the ground with inexorable force.
His ribs bent like green twigs; his organs flattened against his spine; his consciousness loosened and only his iron will prevented him from losing consciousness altogether. This time, though, he kept his grip on the dagger-hilt. As the chemosit rolled away from him he gathered the strength remaining to him for a final onslaught.
The chemosit rose like a dark mountain, its fur matted with gore. There was a note of puzzlement in the beast's growl as it watched Imaro, also covered with blood, pull himself to one knee. Men had always been easy prey . . . yet this one glared up at the chemosit with hatred gleaming in his eyes, not fear.
With a roar that shook the ground, the chemosit lunged at Imaro. The Ilyassai met the charge with a double-handed thrust of his dagger. The blade bit deep into the creature's midsection, aided by the chemosit's own momentum. Ignoring the pain of the beast's fangs sinking into his shoulder, Imaro ripped his blade upward into the chemosit's heart, using his entire body as a lever. Muscles writhed like captive serpents beneath his skin as he strained upward.
The beast bellowed once, a crimson shower erupting from its mouth. Imaro stood rigid as a statue of black iron, arms still bent, dagger dripping beast-blood as the chemosit collapsed at his feet. At the exact moment of death, the bleeding hulk vanished in emerald flame.
A raw, tearing death-scream awakened the other patrons of the inn. Half stuporous from drunken slumber, they rushed to the room from which the sound had come. Finding the door barred, two of the larger men battered it until the wood splintered and they tumbled into the room. The first of the curious gagged and turned away from the blood-smeared, eviscerated thing sprawled on the floor. There was little blood left in the body of the dan-Ife; his intestines spilled in pinkish coils from his torn belly; he was dead. But to the horrified onlookers, the fingers of one of the sorcerer's hands seemed to clutch spasmodically at a curious dark carving only inches beyond his reach.
At the compound off Obasanje dan-Yauri, Imaro and the wives and servants of the compound stared down into the open grave. The dan-Yauri had not been touched by the chemosit; a torch held by a nervous servant showed a middle-aged black face incised with the scars of his city. But the features were frozen in an expression of utmost, paralyzing terror. The grave of Obasanje was no longer false; for the sight of the chemosit looming above him had stopped his heart,
Despite the fact that his upper body was one solid ache, and the blood was streaming from the wound on his shoulder, Imaro staggered to the stable and set saddle to his horse. The promise of Abitibi, who stared mutely into the grave with the others; the hidden wealth of Obasanje; all these things were forgotten as he mounted the stallion and spurred through the gate of the compound. He felt no exultation at his victory over the fearsome chemosit; his one desire was to depart as quickly as possible this land he suddenly loathed.
In the streets of Jukun, the Drum Talkers were already beating out their message of death in the city.
And on a nameless plain on the other side of the Ataissan Mountains, a pack of hyenas feasted upon fresh carrion left in the wake of a flash of green flame.