Only a statue, nothing more, Kiemba thought numbly. Still, she spoke the name of the god-man the sculpture represented.
“Sundiata,” she whispered through dry lips. “Sundiata...”
Without conscious volition, her feet carried her across the empty space between herself and the sculpture. Reaching it, she dropped to her knees in hopeless supplication. She leaned against the sculpted feet. Stone toes butted against her face.
Kiemba began to weep. In a bitter flood, tears cascaded down her dark cheeks, splashing onto the stone feet of Sundiata. It seemed she would stay there forever ... until she heard harsh noises behind her.
Kiemba dragged herself to her feet to face the intruders. They were scouts from the Sao army – five wiry men in light leather harnesses. Close-fitting helmets framed their scowling black faces. Swords sprouted from their clenched fists.
“Kotoko bitch!” spat the foremost Sao. “Did you truly think you could escape us by leaving a trail a child could follow? That doesn’t matter now, though. We are going to make you pay for the death you gave Ikeno.”
The Sao advanced. The expressions on their faces were as flat and deadly as the blades of their swords. Kiemba stood in hopeless resignation. The dream that had sustained her through so much travail was as dead as the stone of the statue behind her. Head bowed, she awaited the bite of blades into her flesh.
Suddenly, the footsteps of the Sao halted, and Kiemba heard several sharply indrawn breaths. She looked up ... and saw that their faces had become masks of shock and amazement. Behind her, she heard a rustle of cloth against flesh. Turning slowly, Kiemba gazed upon a sight that astonished her as much as it had the Sao.
Sundiata lived!
Sundiata was standing. Gray, lifeless rock had become smooth black flesh and bright white cloth. On his dark, narrow face, an expression of terrible wrath was forming. A blue-white nimbus flickered around his staff as he lifted it high above his head.
Then Sundiata stepped off the dais. The motion shattered the spell of disbelief that had initially stunned the Sao.
“It’s only a man with a piece of wood,” one of the soldiers shouted. “Let’s kill him!”
Swords upraised, the five Sao rushed toward Sundiata, who had calmly positioned himself between them and Kiemba. He held the long staff lightly as a wand, unmindful of the blue and white lines crackling up and down its length.
The Sao formed a semicircle around Sundiata. Then their spokesman leaped forward and slashed viciously Sundiata’s throat. Sundiata’s staff flicked upward to meet the Sao’s blade. As cold steel struck enchanted wood, a dazzling discharge concussed through the cavern.
The attacker collapsed, dead before he struck the stone floor. Wisps of smoke floated from the Sao’s charred corpse.
Fear replaced the confident sneers on the faces of the remaining Sao. This stranger was no easy victim after all; powerful sorcery was evidently his to command. Almost as one, the Sao whirled and rushed toward the chamber’s exit – and crashed and stumbled against each other in their haste to come to a halt when they saw the grim-faced Sundiata blocking their escape.
Merciless marauders though they were, the Sao stood frozen with dread as Sundiata raised his glowing staff. With both hands, the robed man held his weapon high above his head as his eyes blazed in merciless wrath. Before any of the Sao could think to move, streams of spectral, white incandescence shot from the staff. The stricken Sao screamed in agony, then dropped – each one a blackened husk that crumbled on impact with the floor.
Kiemba stared blankly at the litter of shattered corpses reduced to ashes. Then she walked toward Sundiata. When she reached his side, she again fell to her knees and buried her face in the folds of his robe.
“You live,” she murmured. Thank Nyame, you live.”
SUDDENLY, KIEMBA FELT herself being raised to her feet. Sundiata’s touch was neither gentle nor forceful. It was as impersonal as the pelting of rain during the wet season. Looking into his face, Kiemba saw that the rage that had twisted his features was gone. His eyes now mirrored calm concern – and reproach.
“Who are you, and why have you awakened me?” he demanded.
Kiemba could not reply. Remembering the fire that had struck down the Sao, she shivered – fear momentarily replacing the adoration she bore for Sundiata.
“Do not fear me, child,” Sundiata said, as though he could read her thoughts. “Your belief in me has awakened me from my slumber. I would not harm you, even though I prefer the peace from which you have summoned me. Yet I must know why you sought me, and why come to me bleeding and pursued by the Sao.”
Kiemba lowered her head in shame, mindful of the clothing the Sao had torn from the upper part of her body and the blood that caked her thighs.
“Speak, child,” Sundiata urged gently.
As the story of Kiemba, daughter of Otunji the drum-maker unfolded, the emotions reflected in Sundiata’s face ranged from pity to wrath. There was war between Kiemba’s kingdom of Kotoko and neighboring Sao, homeland of the charred marauders. The struggle was as ancient as the founding of the two kingdoms, the advantage ebbing and flowing like the tides.
In the current conflict, however, the Sao had acquired a champion: a being possessed of the strength of the mightiest warrior and the skill of the most adept sorcerer. Oshahar was the name of the champion who had led the army of Sao to the gates of Kotoko.
“Oshahar?” Sundiata interrupted, surprise echoing in his tone.
“Yes, Sundiata ... your brother, Oshahar,” Kiemba replied. “But we know your brother could not be part of this evil. The one who leads the Sao must be a sorcerer or demon who has stolen Oshahar’s name.”
“Perhaps,” Sundiata said, shadows clouding his dark eyes. “But you do not believe that, child. Not truly. If you believed that Oshahar had departed, along with me, at the end of the Second
