Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (53 page)

“There will be no endings here tonight,” Shabaka said, “unless you refuse to leave now. Go, before I lose my patience and send you to Baasia myself.”

Shabaka drew himself up to his full height, which still came up to only the big Duma’s chin.

The powerful shapechanger stared down at him, although it was hard to tell if it was respect or simply irritation concealed behind his dark eyes.

“Baasia must have her blood,” the priest told him solemnly.

Shabaka repressed the urge to snort derisively. The goddess needed blood? All he dared permit himself was a short, dry laugh.

“Oh, she’ll get that, mchawe. She’ll get that. I promise you.”

The moon died and rose again before Khepren returned. The fur on his left side was badly torn, and he walked with a limp, but he was accompanied by twelve young warriors, all marked with the sign of the Assur tribe. As they came closer to the Usiku camp, Shabaka could see a deep wound over his father’s left eye, which was bruised and swollen shut, but there was also the proud fire of triumph in the one that remained open.

“Greetings, Jumbe,” his father said. There was a faint air of irony in his voice, but Shabaka pretended not to hear it.

“Greetings, Father. It gladdens my heart to see you. But your wounds are still fresh—what took you so long to cry the ghafula?”

Khepren coughed, and winced, placing a paw to his wounded side.

“I think he broke half my ribs,” he told Shabaka. “What do you think took me so long? Did you think I would run out and challenge the first chieftain I could find? Young fool! No, I took my time and made sure to find a toothless old nyani I was sure to beat.”

He bared his teeth.

“Unfortunately, the former jumbe of the Assur-Chiu was a damn sight tougher than he looked. Took him a long time to die. But die he did, and as soon as I recovered, I brought you these cubs. They’re young, but they’re strong and well-blooded.”

Shabaka nodded and examined the twelve warriors. They stared back at him without fear, a good sign, to his mind.

“Your new chieftain has brought you to me,” he told them. “He is my father, but he serves me now. Has he told you why this must be?”

One of the young warriors, whose great height made Shabaka suspect he was a shapechanger, stepped forward.

“Jumbe Khepren has spoken, and we obey. We understand what he has taught us. It is necessary. You will be Kubwa Jumbe, and the People will be saved.”

Shabaka bared his teeth, pleased. Most of these young ones would not survive what was to come, but this one might. A strong body was good, but a quick mind was even better.

“Well said,” he growled. “What is your name?”

“Ikkur, Kubwa Jumbe.”

“Then you, Ikkur, shall be first of the Usiku Kisu, my desert knives. You all shall be my claws and my teeth, and together we shall make the People strong. We must be strong, so that when the legions come, the People will resist them as one.”

Shabaka spoke with confidence, as was expected of one who intended to make himself Kubwa Jumbe of the People. But even as his words sparked a fire of fanaticism in the young warriors’ eyes, he could feel his own doubts dancing through his mind.

We will resist. We will fight. But can we win?

The summer passed, and events unfolded much as Shabaka intended. Of the thirty young warriors he sent out among the tribes, twenty-one were slain in the ghafula. Nine survived the test, although three would never fight again, and only four were ultimately successful in their challenges for tribal chieftainships. But his greatest fear did not come to pass, as all four stayed loyal to him, and they brought him forty more warriors to replace the fallen in the ranks of the Usiku Kisu.

Six of the sixty-eight Chiu tribes was not much, but it was a start. As his power grew, so did the fame of the Usiku Kisu. One enterprising chieftain even began to imitate his methods and managed to conquer two tribes this way, but by that time Shabaka had seventeen tribes loyal to him, and it was a simple matter to surround the clever mimic’s camp with a hundred warriors and demand his surrender.

That chieftain—Tjel of the Mahali, the Kurka, and the Ndoro—was wise enough to quickly grasp the realities of the situation, and he readily submitted to Shabaka. By the time the moon rose a fortnight later, Shabaka realized that he had gained not only three more tribes without a single drop of blood being shed but an exceptionally skilled lieutenant as well. For the first time in many moons, he began to feel a sense of optimism about the future.

The sentiment didn’t last long. The Neheb-Kau were alarmed by this sudden amalgamation of power among the Chii. Nor did it help that the story of his first ghafula had grown into a spurious legend centered around his defiance of the priests. He had taken Amar’nya to mate, that much was true, but he hadn’t attacked any priests, and he certainly hadn’t taken to wearing the mane of the shapechanging Simba he’d supposedly slain that night. Regardless of the truth, though, Shabaka knew he was well-hated by both the traditionalist Dumai and the proud Simbai, who did not like the idea that he, a lowly Chiu, now wielded more power than the greatest mane among them.

But he needed them all. Chiu, Duma, and Simba alike, they all were required. The People had to stand together as three-in-one, or they were doomed. Already, his spies told him, the Men were preaching crusade in their stone temples, and there was open talk of new legions being formed. Only the Neheb-Kau didn’t matter—they were useless to him and to the People. They were worse than useless, in fact, because they were opposed to him.

I would destroy them if only I had the time. But time is the one thing I don’t have.

It was nearly daybreak. Shabaka stood next to Tjel, waiting for the right moment to unleash his army upon their badly outnumbered foe. This was not war as it was meant to be, the honorable meeting of two blooded warriors. Nor was it like the hunt, where life or death might hinge on a single unlucky stumble or a badly timed leap. No, this was more like knocking over a termite’s nest, and it held about as much honor in the act.

“I hope we have enough fighters,” Tjel said incongruously, considering the situation.

But Shabaka knew what his lieutenant was thinking.

Fifteen hundred Chii were more than enough to stamp out a single pride, even if it was the largest of them all. The question was whether they would be enough to stand against the joined Simbain prides, which were being gathered even now by Senwosret, the great mane of the Ndevu pride.

“They will be. Another two hundred would make little difference here. Better they keep to the training. We need the Dumai and the Simbai, but even with them, we have nothing capable of breaking the legionary lines. We must have the khifari.”

“If Ikkur can tame those evil-tempered beasts so they’ll bear a rider, I have no doubt we’ll be able to smash the mwane, even if they hide behind their tortoise shells.” Tjel laughed. “I just hope he doesn’t get himself killed in the meantime.”

“He won’t. If anyone can tame those brutes, it’s him. When will the negotiations with the short ones of the north be complete?”

“Before the new moon. They wanted gold, of course, but we have none. It didn’t help that they know how much we need their machines. Fortunately, they’re fascinated with the elephants, so I’ve ordered Quban to round up fifty or so. I think they’ll trade us one for two, in the end.”

“Do they know that the animals won’t live long up there?”

Tjel flicked his tail.

“Of course not. But as long as we receive the machines first, what does that matter? Oh, and they wanted the rights to dig things out of the ground. I don’t see any problem with that, do you?”

“Not at all,” Shabaka said. “If we win, we can renegotiate. If we lose, it won’t matter. Let them take it up with the mwane.”

Both Khatuuli fell silent as the edge of the sun peeked over the edge of the world, and golden light exploded across the horizon.

“Are you sure about this?” Tjel asked him again. “It’s necessary?”

“It is. The Simbai will never join us while they despise us as their lessers. We will teach them that we must be respected, if not feared.”

“They will hate you.”

Shabaka nodded.

“Of course. But I will give them a better target for their hate. If there was time for gentle persuasion, I would talk until my tongue dried out. But Amorr has already named its general, and he is gathering his warriors now. They will send ten thousand against us, Tjel, and we are the People’s only hope. Whoever does not join me will die—that is the lesson we teach here today. I only hope the Simbai are quick learners.”

Tjel’s tail lashed violently back and forth. There was misery in his eyes. He was obedient, Shabaka knew, and loyal. That was why Shabaka had trusted him with this terrible responsibility. But even Tjel’s loyalty could be shaken.

“And yet, to kill our own….”

Shabaka watched closely as the massive, black-maned lionman approached him, unarmed and surrounded on all sides by twelve of his best bladesmen. A deep hatred radiated palpably from the mighty Simba, and Shabaka saw huge, corded muscles flexing tautly as Senwosret resisted the suicidal urge to seek the vengeance he so desperately desired. Shabaka felt nothing but pity for him, the chief of a great pride that had been slaughtered on Shabaka’s orders, but he concealed his sympathy. The Ndevu jumbe would not welcome any such display, and might even misinterpret it as sadistic mockery.

Shabaka found himself admiring the jumbe, not for his great height and strength, but for his self-control and the air of quiet dignity he maintained. His seething hatred showed only in his eyes. He was otherwise civil in all regards. But Shabaka could see lying beneath the Simba’s composed exterior an emptiness that reflected a deep and terrible sorrow.

Nevertheless, Senwosret greeted Shabaka equal to equal, as befitted two great leaders of the People. “Honor to your clan, Shabaka Jumbe.”

“Great honor to your pride, Senwosret Jumbe.”

Shabaka spoke without a trace of irony in his voice, but even so, the ritual words caused the Simba’s eyes to flicker angrily.

“Do not name me ‘jumbe.’ My pride is no more, as you well know. Look to your paws. Are they not red with the blood of my blood?”

“They are indeed,” Shabaka admitted, bowing slightly. “But you need not be prideless, great warrior of the Simbai. There are others who have need of your wisdom. Who have need of your strength.”

Senwosret’s dark eyes burned with hatred, but for a moment, they also betrayed surprise. “Others? There are no others. There are none who have need of me—the Ndevu are dead.”

Shabaka nodded and waited a moment. Then he glanced at the guard standing next to the Simba. He had given the muscular Chiu orders to be quick with his blade should Senwosret react with violence. The Ndevu’s arms were powerful, his claws were sharp, and Shabaka had no doubt that Senwosret was quite capable of taking off his head if given the opportunity.

“I need you,” Shabaka told him. “The People need you.”

The light-furred lionman did not respond immediately. He simply stared at Shabaka, as incredulity and fury struggled for primacy on his face. Finally, he looked away and fixed his gaze upon something far off in the distance.

What do you see there, Senwosret? Do you see your murdered people bathed in their own blood? Can you see the mwane as they gather, preparing for their war of extermination? Do you understand that it had to be this way? Can you understand, and perhaps even one day find it in your heart to forgive me?

“You have need of me?” Senwosret finally spoke. “That sounds most strange in my ears. You understand I am not well-disposed towards you. I would happily give up my own life if only I could be certain of ending yours in the act.”

“I understand. The feeling does you credit, great jumbe. But I speak truly of my need for you, and for all the Simbai. The Dumai as well. Just as I speak truly when I tell you that your pride would have died in any event. At my claws or by the swords of the mwane…their deaths were certain.”

His words appeared to pique Senwosret’s curiosity. The Ndevu jumbe wanted him dead, that much was clear, but the Simba was intelligent enough to wonder what could possibly have driven Shabaka to deliberately order the murder of his kin.

“I asked for your cooperation two moons ago,” Shabaka said, “to help me unite the People against the empire. You scoffed and said that Amorr would not march. You were wrong. I have since learned that the legions will cross the Neheb in three moons’ time. So, I am giving you a choice: Go to the tribes and fight me with whatever forces you can raise against me, or join with me and fight against an enemy that seeks to slaughter us all. The Ndevu are dead, but the People need not be. We will survive if we unite and stand together against them.”

The Simba’s mind was quick.

“You slew my mates, my children, just to make this point?”

Shabaka met the angry black gaze of the maned giant. It grieved him to see the pain he had caused this noble warrior, pain deeper than any Shabaka ever wished to see or know himself.

It was necessary. There was no more time for words.

“I did. It will make no difference to you, I know, but I will tell you that I took no joy in it. Their deaths were speedy and there were no…needless atrocities.” The Simba stared at him in mute horror.

Shabaka continued. “If you will join me now, after what I have done to you and your people, the rest of the tribes will believe that the threat from Amorr is real. They will follow your lead. They will know I do not exaggerate our danger. From the time they are cubs, these mwane are taught that we are demons, and now they believe they have a sacred mandate from their god to wipe us from the earth. I do not lie when I say that I share your sorrow, great jumbe, that I mourn for every single member of the People I ordered to be slain, and yet I tell you that my conscience is clear. The Ndevu were already dead. I beg you, don’t fight me. It is too late for that. Fight those who would have slain your kin three moons from now.”