2
Bujiji lifted his face and screamed into the night sky. So did the rest of his band of marauders. Theirs was a cry of madness and ecstasy, and it was answered by shrieks of terror from the beleaguered inhabitants of Khambawe.
The Uloan warrior carried a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. Firelight emphasized the scars the covered his scalp, and in the wavering illumination, the interplay of light and shadow lent an illusion of life to the image of Legaba carved on his chest. To the Matile who fled before him, he looked like the incarnation of a demon from the time when the serpent Adwe circled the world.
He lowered his face. And he spotted new prey: a Matile family, all terrified, no one armed. Like a pack of the wild dogs that roamed the plains of the Mainland, Bujiji and the others swept down on the Matile before they could flee. With shouts of “Retribution Time” roaring from their throats, the Uloans butchered all the members of the family, from the doddering patriarch to a girl-child ripped from her mother’s arms and skewered on a sword.
Then Bujiji tossed his torch into the house from which the family had attempted to escape. Flames caught on a tapestry that hung from a wall. The fire spread quickly, as had all the others the Uloans had set throughout Khambawe.
At the beginning of the invasion Bujiji’s band, numbering only about three dozen, had split from the main force while the battle at the docks was still raging. Doing so had been part of the battle plan Jass Imbiah had received from Legaba. While the main part of the Matile army was locked in struggle against the jhumbis, small groups of marauders would fan out to wreak havoc on the rest of Khambawe.
Bujiji glanced down at the corpses of the family he and the others had slain. Blood seeped from the tangled braids on their heads, and spattered their unscarred skin. Never before had he seen his people’s hereditary foes at such close range.
As his eyes lingered on the infant, Bujiji was reminded of Awiwi and the yet-to-be-born child she carried. But that thought quickly vanished. Burning and killing dominated his mind. It was Retribution Time, and as much as he and others had done so far, there remained more to do. Much more, even though the poison the huangi had infused on their sword-blades was losing its potency, diluted by the blood that coated the weapons from point to hilt.
Now, Bujiji looked behind him. Bodies littered the street. Houses were ablaze, their brightly painted walls turning black. Even the trees burned like giant torches. He turned to look ahead. The street was deserted. He and the other marauders had slain the last of those who had been slow to flee, and he saw no one else to kill.
Still, a sound reached his ears – a sound that rose above the roar of the flames. It was shouting – and a clash of weapons. The other Uloans could hear it as well. They looked at Bujiji, waiting for his command.
“Follow I,” Bujiji said.
The Uloans sprinted toward the sounds. Blood dripped from their weapons, leaving a crimson trail on the street. The shouting became louder as they drew closer to its source. So did the clangor of weapons and the cries of the wounded and dying.
Bujiji frowned in puzzlement. As far as he knew, no other Uloans had penetrated this part of Khambawe. And he had no idea whom any Uloans might be fighting – the Matile soldiers should still be trapped on the docks by the jhumbis, and most of the other city-dwellers his band had encountered had been weaponless.
Still, if other Uloans were involved in this fighting, they could combine forces, Bujiji thought. And they could inflict even more Retribution Time destruction. That thought brought a smile to Bujiji’s face.
They turned a corner – and nearly ran into a maelstrom of swinging weapons.
Even in the firelit darkness, a quick glance was sufficient to show the Uloans that none of the combatants was a fellow Islander, even though the fighters did not resemble any other Matile they had seen – and slain – so far. Still, they were all blankskins – the enemy.
Bujiji shook his head in amazement. Matile were fighting other Matile even as their city was being overrun by invaders. The battle was so intense that the Matile, all of whom appeared to be youthful, were not even aware of the Uloans’ presence.
Them blankskins crazy, he thought.
Combined, the Matile combatants outnumbered Bujiji’s band. But those numbers meant nothing; the mainlanders were fighting each other. Bujiji exchanged a glance with his marauders. They reached a quick, silent agreement that the risk they were about to take was worthwhile if it meant more dead blankskins. Then they charged into the thick of the fighting and plunged their weapons into anyone who stood in front of them.
3
Jass Mofo swung his tirss. Its tips tore through the face of the Hafar tsotsi in front of him. Strips of skin and an eyeball flew through the air as the screaming Hafar went down, hands clutching his ruined face.
Mofo’s eyes darted left and right. No one else dared to come near him. His Ashakis and the Hafars were battling in a mutual frenzy. The bags of booty the Hafars had been carrying lay unattended, for now, in the street.
The Ashaki leader could not determine which side was winning. There was no time to consider the circumstances; he could sense another Hafar attacking him from behind.
With the quickness of a cobra, Mofo ducked and whirled. The hooked tips of the Hafar’s tirss passed less than an inch from his face. Continuing his spin, Mofo struck at the Hafar’s midsection. His weapon’s spikes shredded lean abdominal muscles and left wounds like those of a leopard’s claws.
Howling in pain, the Hafar doubled over. Mofo landed a contemptuous kick to his
