Like a self-propelled battering ram, the Dwarven fighters crashed into the ranks of the disoriented jhumbis. The warriors’ diminutive stature proved an advantage: the jhumbis’ knees were in a direct line with the arc of the dwarves’ and Tokoloshes’ swords and axes.
Several jhumbis fell as the Tokoloshe and dwarves hacked away at them. But the animate dead quickly recovered from the sorcerous ambush that preceded the charge, and they rained down blows that stunned even the most powerful of their new foes. Some of the dwarves and Tokoloshe began to fall, but they continued to stand their ground while the Matile and the Fidi regrouped behind them.
The invaders’ momentum stalled. And the Matile commanders took full advantage of the change in circumstances. From his vantage point, Jass Eshana saw what had happened. And he knew what the city’s defenders had to do next if they were to have a chance to win this battle.
“Attack!” Eshana shouted, eyes blazing beneath the lion’s-mane crest on his helmet.
Forgetting their fatigue, the newly heartened defenders rushed toward their foes, living and dead alike. For the first time since the Uloan ships arrived, the Matile had hope of winning their battle for survival.
But that prospect proved short-lived ...
5
Dardar Alemeyu stood on the highest balcony of the Gebbi Senafa. From that point, he could gaze out over much of the panorama of Khambawe. During the daytime, the Jewel City stretched below him like a colorful carpet laid out for a deity. At night, the torches that lit Khambawe’s streets and homes glittered like stars shining in a sky fallen to earth.
But this night, torches were not all that was aflame in Khambawe. On street after street, burning buildings blazed like sunbursts. Slowly, inexorably, those fires were creeping closer to the palace.
Alemeyu was clad in garments of war. Armor of leather and steel decorated with silver and gold sat loosely on his lean frame. Atop his head was a helmet covered almost completely with hair taken from the manes of lions. It was said to have been handed down from the great Dardar Issuri himself, as was the sword that hung in a gold-chased sheath at his side.
Many years had passed since an Emperor personally had led Matile troops into battle, however. On this night, the Sword of Issuri would remain in its sheath.
Tradition required Alemeyu, as Emperor, to don the martial raiment of an imperial commander. Reality dictated that he remain far from the scene of combat. For good or ill, the Dejezmek, Jass Eshana, would lead the remnants of an army that had once held sway over a continent in what Alemeyu sensed was the final battle against an ancient foe.
Alemeyu looked at Issa. The Empress was dressed for travel rather than war: loose cotton tunic and senafil; no chamma or jewelry, save for the inevitable hair ornaments that glistened in the light of the torches on the balcony.
Issa gazed at the fires, which still burned at a long distance from the palace. Faint sounds of fighting drifted to her ears, and Alemeyu’s. Moment by moment, those sounds intensified.
“They are getting closer,” Issa murmured.
“I know,” said Alemeyu.
He said nothing about the even worse news Eshana’s messengers had been delivering: the full-scale invasion of Uloans; the walking dead fighting at the islanders’ side; the steady advance of enemy forces. The intervention of the Tokoloshe and the dwarves had slowed that progress only temporarily; the Uloans were swarming through the city like an invasion of vermin at a garbage heap.
“Mesfin.”
The voice came from behind the royal pair. It was Bekele, the officer Eshana had assigned to see to their safety. Bekele was a strong-limbed young man who reminded Alemeyu of himself at a younger age, when he was still a prince and not yet obliged to sit on the Lion Throne.
Alemeyu and Issa turned to face the soldier.
“What is it?” the Emperor demanded.
“Jass Eshana has sent another message,” Bekele said. “He thinks it best that you leave the Senafa now, and go to the Gebbi Zimballa – the Old Palace.”
A sharp hiss marked the sudden intake of Issa’s breath. Alemeyu said nothing.
“Soon you will not be safe here, Mesfin,” Bekele continued. He said nothing more. The final decision belonged to the Emperor.
“We will go,” Alemeyu said.
They followed Bekele from the balcony. Later, surrounded by the Emperor’s Guard, and accompanied by Makah, the Emperor’s cheetah, they departed from the Gebbi Senafa. Behind them, a long line of servants carried items that were the last legacy of a long dynasty. Now, they were going to the place where that dynasty had begun.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Street Chaos
1
Athir Rin was well-acquainted with fear. Indeed, dread was his best, and perhaps only, friend. Without its constant companionship, he would have been dead many times over. Fear kept him alert. And as long as the Ship’s Rat stayed alert, he stayed alive.
Never before, however, had Athir’s companion been as persistent as it was now, as he ran in the midst of the Ashaki set of tsotsis through the dark streets leading out of the Maim and into a city under siege.
Fear had first spoken to him earlier in the day. He had been giving Jass Mofo yet another lesson in the exacting art of throwing weighted dice.
Mofo had already made excellent progress in a short time. Athir himself had not mastered so much of the art so quickly, and he had been considered a fast learner by a mentor whose compliments were given only grudgingly. Unlike his own teacher, Athir always made certain the tsotsi chief knew how well he was doing at acquiring this new skill. And he suspected his teacher would not have been so quick to criticize a pupil like Mofo.
But patience was not a primary characteristic of the tsotsis. Life in the Maim was intense, frantic and deadly. Tsotsis lived for the moment, not the future. Athir had always considered himself an impulsive person. Compared to the tsotsis, though, he felt like a priest trapped amid infidels.
Jass Mofo
