“Then let our blades clash, and drink in place of the spears of Faroun and Ougon,” Sankruu said, completing the age-old challenge to single combat.
Dibango nodded agreement. Now, the battle would involve only the two chieftains, and there would be no war between Ougon and Faroun, regardless of the duel’s outcome.
Solemnly, the gathered chieftains filed out of Sankruu’s house to watch bloodshed decide the course of action Djenne-the Land would take.
IN THE DESICCATED PASTURE, Ahmadu could not be aware that his father was about to engage in a fight to the death against the redoubtable Dibango. But he was well aware of an increasing restlessness among his herd, and that worried him. As the third son of the chieftain, custom demanded that he bear responsibility for the cattle and nyuka. If anything happened now to the remaining skeletal beasts, Ahmadu would have to face the wrath of Sankruu.
Carefully, the tall youth surveyed the yellow plain. There was no sight of any lions, or marauding packs of hyenas. Yet something in the heat-laden breeze was troubling the miserable beasts, for they were bellowing and bleating in obvious distress. They milled nervously, as though they were sensing a menace more dangerous than beast or raider ...
Ahmadu’s flaring nostrils caught the hint of a faint, disquieting odor before he spotted a growing cloud of dust on the eastern horizon. Before Ahmadu could make anything of this phenomenon, the herd abruptly broke into a terrified stampede. Even in their weakened condition, the beasts’ spindly legs propelled them faster than Ahmadu could run. They fled in all directions ... except to the east, where shapes were beginning to take form as the dusty haze drew nearer.
Yelling in anger and frustration, Ahmadu chased his charges for a few hundred paces before he realized that he could not overtake them. He stopped running, and stared disconsolately at their rapidly dwindling rumps. He had failed at his task. He did not relish having to tell Sankruu that the last of the breeding-stock was gone. At the least, he could look forward to a severe beating.
When the son of Sankruu turned dejectedly to where the herd had been, an astonishing sight met his eyes. A great herd now swarmed the parched plain. Magnificent beasts they were, with sable-black coats and spiraled horns that curved like scythes above their heads. They were not true cattle; they were actually a breed of antelope. But in Nyumbani, many beasts served the same purpose as cattle.
Unlike most hoofed animals, the sable beasts neither bleated nor bellowed. Instead, they maintained an unsettling silence.
Despite the strangeness of the herd, however, Ahmadu’s attention was focused on the man who accompanied the beasts.
At first glace, the intruder seemed to have the lean, sinister aspect of the Turaag, a rapacious nation of masked nomads who raided the length and breadth of the Sahanic lands. But closer inspection showed that despite his mask, this man was no Turaag, for they always wore bright blue garments. The stranger’s clothing, which resembled burial cerements, was a pale, spectral shade of gray. In the narrow strip of dark flesh that lay between his turban and mask, the mysterious herdsman’s eyes burned like cold flames in hollow pits.
“I have a herd to sell to the people of Djenne-the-Land,” he said in a distant, imperious tone. “Go to your village and inform the chieftain that I wish to bargain.”
The implication of following the stranger’s command flashed like a bolt of lightning across Ahmadu’s mind. To desert his herd ... he could be punished by death. Then he remembered that he no longer had a herd to guard.
“I ... I must have something to show the chieftain, who is my father,” Ahmadu managed to stammer. “If I don’t, he will not even listen to me.”
Wordlessly, the stranger turned and walked among his black herd. A moment later, he returned, leading a scrawny-looking calf by a rawhide thong looped around its neck.
“Here is your evidence,” he said. “Now, go.”
Something in the gray-robed stranger’s tone told Ahmadu that the command must be obeyed. Gingerly, he grasped the end of the tether and led the unresisting calf toward Ougon.
IN THE CENTRAL SQUARE of Ougon, Sankruu and Dibango prepared for their ritual duel. From the scatter of dome-shaped mud-brick dwellings, a crowd of white-turbaned men and women had gathered along with the assembled chieftains. Wide-eyed children completed the ring of spectators surrounding the two combatants.
With a minimum of ceremony, the duelists removed their voluminous outer garments. Bare to the waist, their powerfully thewed black bodies contrasted sharply against their white breeches. Though Dibango was clearly the larger of the two, there was little else to choose between them. Both men combined the bulk of a bull with the quickness of a cat. This would not be an easy battle for either.
No sudden clash of blades heralded the beginning of the fight, for the Djenne dueling sword had a long, tapered blade that would shatter if struck directly. For that reason, a Djenne duel was more dance than battle ... a dance that would end in death.
Like lightning, the blade of Dibango stabbed toward Sankruu’s chest. As Sankruu leaped away, he appeared to glide through the air before landing lightly on his feet. Then the chieftain of Ougon jabbed his point at Dibango’s throat. With an almost imperceptible shift of his head, Dibango avoided the thrust.
Feline in their grace and economy of motion, the two Ku-Djenne thrust, leaped and dodged in lethal rhythm. The only sounds were the shuffle of the combatants’ feet and the occasional ting that marked the few times their blades chanced to meet.
Before long, the pace of the battle slowed, for even the warriors of Djenne-the-Land could not maintain such a furious tempo forever. Sooner or later, one of the duelists would falter. The one who did was Dibango. Losing his balance, the Faroun chieftain slipped to one knee. Like a striking cobra, Sankruu leaped in for the kill. But Dibango had
