IN THE BRIGHT GLARE of the morning sun, the Sao army was a formidable sight. Rank after rank of horsemen sat on magnificent mounts, lances glittering like rows of steel fangs. Cotton cloth and chain-mail draped horse and rider alike. Foot soldiers were positioned in front of the horsemen. Usually, these were a sullen lot composed of men unable to afford horses and mail. The Sao foot troops, however, were well-accoutered with swords, javelins and large hide shields.
Though their numbers were impressive enough, it was the faces of the Sao that inspired dread in those who sought to oppose them. Their faces were as expressionless as masks carved from jet. Only their eyes showed life. They were the eyes of madmen, men who would never cease fighting until they were cut to pieces. These were the soldiers of Oshahar.
Oshahar stood at the head of his forces. Seven feet from the ground he towered, his thews mighty as a buffalo’s. The sun glistened dully on his soot-dark skin. His only garments were a horned helmet made of bone and a lion-girdle fashioned from human skin. In his hands, the giant carried a staff much like that of Sundiata, only much larger.
This was Oshahar – the invincible, the destroyer. Like a deity of death, he stood at the van of his mad-eyed army, waiting for the men of Kotoko to come forth to meet their doom.
As if in protest, huge iron hinges groaned until the gates of Kotoko gaped fully ajar. But no horde of desperate defenders issued from the opening. Only one man strode out to meet the Sao host. Only Sundiata ...
Gaunt, robed, his staff resembling a walking stick more than a weapon, Sundiata appeared more scholar than warrior. He wore no armor and bore no blade. Yet for all his non-military demeanor, he was cloaked in quiet power and dignity.
The Sao did not react to the appearance of Sundiata, nor to the open gates of Kotoko. Only Oshahar moved. As Sundiata approached, Oshahar marched to meet him. A few feet apart, the contrasting figures halted, facing each other in a symbolic tableau of good and evil.
To the Sao, the confrontation of Gods-who-were-men was meaningless, for Oshahar’s magic had stolen their wits. To the people of Kotoko, it seemed that a titanic struggle was about to begin: an unleashing of unimaginable eldritch power. Yet Sundiata and Oshahar remained motionless, staring into each other’s eyes.
This was no battle. It was a meeting of brothers whose link was inconceivable to those who shared only blood kinship...
Oshahar, Sundiata said, his voice echoing inside his brother’s mind. Why do you do the work of the Mashataan? Why do you corrupt and destroy the people we died to save so long ago?
From the recesses of the tortured soul that seethed beneath the bone mask, Oshahar replied in a tone laden with torment.
Not ... my ... will ... Sundiata. I was awakened by ... blood. A sorcerer of Sao ... ruthless, ambitious ... discovered my cavern ...cut his hand ... bled onto my stone body ... awakened me. I killed him ... he screamed betrayal ... as I tore him to pieces ... and clothed myself ... in his skin... and made myself ... what he wanted me to be. He did not know ... what blood does ... to us. I have turned the men of Sao ... into killers. I am cursed ... must kill ... must kill ...
Sundiata wept openly as he heard the agony in his brother’s voice. He himself, had he been awakened by blood rather than Kiemba’s tears, might had stood in Oshahar’s place at the head of an army of men turned into beasts. As Sundiata wept, he knew that beneath the bone mask of his helmet, Oshahar’s face also ran wet with tears ... tears the color of blood.
You are not cursed, my brother, Sundiata comforted, his voice penetrating the whirlpool of bloodlust in Oshahar’s mind. Your torment can end. There is a way to return to peace. We must take that way, Oshahar, even though it means we must die yet again.
I know ... what the way is, said Oshahar.
The giant raised his staff. Then he swung it in a murderous arc, aimed at Sundiata’s head. Sundiata raised his staff to meet the blow. When the staffs clashed, the impact was accompanied by a report as loud as thunder, and a blinding flash of blue-white fire.
Within the walls of Kotoko, the people covered their ears and turned their faces away from the blast, as Sundiata had warned them to do. But on what would have been a battlefield, the Sao soldiers stared directly into a conflagration that seared deeply into their eyes.
Abruptly, the blue-white luminescence vanished. The space where Sundiata and Oshahar had stood was empty. The Sao blinked their lids over eyes that now reflected sanity – and blindness.
The Amir of Kotoko rode out of the open gateway, followed by a mass of mounted soldiers. Amid the horrified cries of the blinded Sao, the men of Kotoko rode, keeping their weapons sheathed.
“What have we done? What have we done? We cannot see!” the Sao cried.
The Amir looked at his men. Sundiata had cautioned him that the Kotoko might still seek to slay the Sao despite their sightless condition. For the Sao had devastated the villages and farms surrounding the city, and slain many people. And Kiemba had not been the only woman they had raped. But there was only pity in the Kotoko soldiers’ eyes as they watched the Sao stumble and grope and weep.
“Men of Sao!” the Amir cried, his voice carrying above the babble. “You are outside the city of Kotoko. You have been led to war against us by one who stole your wits and replaced them with madness. The death of the one who led you has stricken you with blindness. Great wrong has been
