Desperately, the chieftain of Ougon flung himself backward. The needle-sharp point of Dibango’s sword carved a crimson furrow across the sweat-slick skin of his stomach. Had Sankruu been a shade slower, the thrust would have disemboweled him. Wincing in pain, Sankruu struggled to maintain his balance, for Dibango’s missed death-blow had left an opening.
Like a streak of wizard-fire, Sankruu’s blade flickered toward Dibango’s exposed throat. With a strangled cry, the chieftain of Faroun went down, blood spouting from the wound Sankruu had inflicted.
Ignoring the seeping gash across his abdomen, Sankruu looked down at his dead foe. He felt no exultation over his victory – only sorrow. Sankruu had not wished to slay Dibango. The two chieftains had fought side-by-side in the last war against Imal, in which Djenne had preserved its independence from the empire-builders. Dibango had saved Sankruu’s life during that war. But the chieftain of Faroun wanted war against Djenne-the-City at any price, including that of his own life. Now, his body would be borne back to his village, for no reason other than pride.
Sankruu was only beginning to feel the pain of his dripping wound when he heard pelting footsteps and shouts of amazement behind him. Turning his attention to this new excitement, the chieftain was startled to see Ahmadu pushing his way through the throng.
Only briefly did Sankruu notice the scrawny black animal his son was leading. Then explosive wrath kindled in the chieftain’s breast. It was unthinkable that Ahmadu would leave the cattle and nyuka he guarded – especially with the last of the breeding-stock in such dangerously depleted condition. Yet here he was ...
Well aware of the rage building within his father, Ahmadu immediately prostrated himself at Sankruu’s feet. Then, before the grim-faced chieftain could speak, Ahmadu blurted out his message:
“A stranger has come to Djenne-the-Land, with many cattle like this one, and he offers to sell them to our people!”
The thundering rebuke Sankruu was about to deliver died on his lips as the people of Ougon murmured in astonishment at Ahmadu’s breathless announcement. Sankruu looked at the silent black calf. The creature was so young that its horns were still skin-covered knobs on its forehead. A pitiful-looking specimen it was, not much better than Ougon’s own drought-stricken beasts.
“Are this stranger’s other animals as miserable-looking as this one?” Sankruu asked, ignoring the pain of his wound and the increasing clamor of the crowd.
“No, Father,” Ahmadu replied, still on his knees. “They are all fine, strong animals, as our herds once were.”
Sankruu considered. A new herd of cattle would be a gift second only to a rainfall. It would provide enough food to keep Ougon and the other villages of Djenne-the-Land alive until Shango’s rains finally arrived – as he firmly believed they would. Also, the course of action for which he had fought and killed would be followed. Djenne-the-Land would wait rather than go to war against their city kin.
Bidding Ahmadu to rise, Sankruu ordered his people to disperse and resume their ordinary tasks. Sankruu and the other chieftains would go to the pasture to bargain with the nameless stranger. Despite the blood reddening his breeches, Sankruu did not heed his wives’ entreaties to stay and have his wound tended.
“It’s only a scratch,” he snarled irritably.
As the procession of chieftains, along with Ahmadu, left Ougon, the last thing they saw was the spearmen of Faroun bearing Dibango’s body to its final resting place ...
WHEN THE CHIEFTAINS of Djenne-the-Land saw the swarm of black cattle and their sinister guardian, they were no less discomfited than Ahmadu had been. In normal times, they would have been suspicious of both the stranger and his herd. But these were times of distress, and they saw only meat with which they could fill their shrinking bellies.
In the face of the stranger’s silence, it was Sankruu who spoke first.
“My son tells me you wish to sell these ... cattle,” he said.
The stranger merely nodded in agreement with the obvious.
“How many are you willing to part with, and at what price?” Sankruu asked after another silence.
Before the gray-swathed stranger could reply, Bombaye of Kaboun interjected.
“You see how dry this pasture is,” he said. “It is like this throughout Djenne-the-Land. How are we to expect these beasts of yours to be of much benefit to us if they have nothing to eat? Of what use is a heap of carrion?”
Though timid, Bombaye had a well-deserved reputation for shrewdness. His fellow chieftains nodded, for Bombaye’s questions were pertinent.
Now the stranger was forced to speak.
“These cattle are a hardy breed,” he said in a voice like the creak of an opening casket. “They come from the high country of Axum, far beyond the Gwaridi-Milima Mountains. They can eat fodder a goat would disdain, and they flourish in places where a camel would die of thirst.”
“And how many of these wondrous beasts will you sell us?” Bombaye asked skeptically.
“All,” the stranger replied succinctly.
An incredulous, excited murmur spread among the chieftains. As a whole, the herd of sable beasts was large enough to supply the needs of every village in Djenne-the-Land. But the price of such a large number of animals would be too steep for the herdsmen to even contemplate.
“What must we pay?” Sankruu asked.
The cadaverous stranger threw back his head and laughed through the cloth masking his mouth. Like the cachinnations of a ghoul, the laughter echoed across the dry plain. Bombaye was not the only Ku-Djenne to shudder at the sound of it.
“In one rain’s time, I will return to collect my price,” the stranger said portentously. “Then you will know.”
His garments rustled as he moved his arm in a sweeping gesture. Suddenly, a mighty gust of wind began, hurling clouds of dust and dead grass into the faces of the startled Ku-Djenne. By the time the chieftains and Ahmadu had blinked the dust out of their eyes, the stranger was gone. The Ku-Djenne searched in all directions, but found
