Again, Mofo scanned the scene of battle. His gaze caught the Fidi, Athir, who looked as though he was attempting to sneak away from the fighting. The foreigner was holding his dagger as if he thought it could ward off a blow from a tirss. Mofo had tried to teach Athir the use of the tirss, but the Fidi proved to be a poor pupil.
Mofo opened his mouth to shout at Athir. Then he closed it at the sight of a group of strangers suddenly joining the battle, cutting down Hafar and Ashaki alike.
The newcomers had struck silently, without warning, doing a great deal of damage before their presence was known. Now they shouted as one: “Retribution Time!”
At first, Mofo thought the intruders were some previously unknown set of tsotsis. A closer look, even in the firelit darkness, revealed their shaven heads and the spider-shaped scars on their bodies, and the madness blazing in their eyes; a vehemence that easily matched the inchoate fury that drove the tsotsis.
Mofo had never before laid eyes on an Uloan. But who else could these interlopers be? They certainly weren’t Fidi; their skins were dark, not light like Athir’s.
The Uloans’ initial rush had cut a bloody swath through the tsotsis. Then Ashaki and Hafar alike turned their attention to the islanders while at the same time continuing to slash away at each other. It didn’t take long for Mofo to understand that neither tsotsi set could survive such a three-way conflict – not with the Uloans fighting only one foe, while the tsotsis battled two.
Mofo came to a quick conclusion. Then he fought his way toward Jass Nunu, the leader of the Hafars. When he found his counterpart, their eyes met across the storm of slaughter that roiled between them. Jass Nunu was a little older than Mofo, but in many ways not as cunning.
At least, not until this night, considering that the Hafars were the first to take advantage of the unforeseen pandemonium unleashed by the hordes of screaming, scarred invaders.
“Nunu!” Mofo cried. “Truce! Heard?”
As Mofo had anticipated, his rival shared his conclusions.
“Heard!” Jass Nunu shouted in reply.
“Ashaki! Truce!” Mofo bellowed in the general direction of the members of his set.
“Hafar! Truce!” Nunu echoed.
Until later, both tsotsi leaders thought.
The moment they heard their leaders’ commands, the tsotsis stopped fighting among themselves and turned their full attention – and wrath – on the Uloans. Taken aback by the sudden shift in the flow of the battle, the islanders fell back in confusion, and all the surviving tsotsis’ weapons tore savagely into their ranks, forcing them to retreat.
Then a voice rose from the ranks of the Uloans.
“Retribution time!” Bujiji bellowed.
Immediately the intruders echoed the cry, then surged forward again, weapons swinging and mouths distended.
4
As their combat raged on, neither the Uloans nor the tsotsis could gain an advantage. The tsotsi’ nihilistic viciousness was more than matched by the Uloans’ fanatical frenzy. Mangled bodies lay sprawled in the street; gore slid across stone, but battle-rage on all sides was unabated, and blood-lust was not yet slaked.
Hyenas from a pack that had followed the tsotsis out of the Maim were already dragging some of the corpses away. The fires the Uloans had started crept closer to closer to the scene of the battle. But the combatants didn’t feel the heat from the approaching flames, and they paid no heed to the hyenas.
Jass Nunu had gone down. His head and body lay several feet from each other. For now, the surviving members of the Hafar set were content to obey Jass Mofo’s commands. They would name a new Jass later – if any of them survived the invasion.
Gore covered Mofo’s leather battle-gear. Weariness seeped into his muscles as he struck, backed away, then struck again. His tirss was growing heavy in his hand. His speed was diminishing, and that loss was bringing him closer to death.
Never before had he and the other tsotsis been forced to engage in such sustained battle. Tsotsi fights tended to be fierce but short, with the losing side fleeing down the nearest alley once its cause appeared hopeless. But the Uloans fought to the death; even the gravely wounded in their ranks continued to swing their weapons until loss of blood or limbs brought them down. Slowly, the tide was turning against the tsotsis.
Had only one set of tsotsis been involved in the fray, it would have long since cut its losses and escaped. But there were two. If one fled, the other would quickly spread word of its lack of courage throughout the Maim, and that would be the end of the reputation the set needed to ensure its survival in the streets. Thus, the tsotsis stood, fought – and died, even as they dealt death in return.
During a brief respite, Mofo spotted the Uloan who appeared to be leading the others. As he looked at the muscular Islander, he realized he had only one chance to win the battle and save his set. He took it.
“You! Scar-head!” he called. “You and me! We fight for all! Heard?”
The common tongue of the Matile and Uloans had diverged greatly during their long period of hostilities, and the tsotsis spoke a variation of the language that was unique to them. Still, Bujiji understood Mofo’s meaning well enough. It was a challenge he could not resist.
“Die, blankskin!” the islander replied.
The rest of the fighting subsided as the leaders approached each other on the blood-spattered street like gladiators in an arena. Bujiji was the larger and stronger of the two; Mofo the quicker and more agile. Both warriors were battle-weary, but the killing lust flared unabated in their eyes. Bujiji carried a curved sword to oppose Mofo’s tirss. Blood dripped copiously from each man’s weapon.
Sword and tirss
