They engaged in combat of a different sort.
* * *
“I must leave,” Dinga said, Ifriquia still coiled in his embrace. She rolled over to face him.
“Where do your travels take you now?”
“North.”
The Soninke had entrusted themselves to his care. Dinga could not simply abandon them.
He couldn’t betray their trust.
* * *
Dinga found the raiders quickly enough. He knew of the traders’ caravan, trafficking in salt, daggers, silk, jewelry, fine cloth. The traders’ route from Maghreb to Wagadugu followed a simple path starting in Tahert, near the north. Coming down through Sjilmasa, the trail went south and inland—parallel to the coast—then round the south east, through Audaghust to Jenne-jeno. The raiders weren’t attempting to hide their trail much. Either they didn’t think much of the Soninke people or they trusted too much in the protection of their master.
Sweat dripped from Dinga's body, but he remained motionless, save repositioning his grip on his spear. He ignored both the stifling heat and the cloying dampness, waiting with the patience of a poised spider. The raiders—small fumbling creatures—turned upwind, then vanished into the bushes. Still he waited. Then an uneasy thing stirred in his stomach triggered by the sudden oppressive silence. He held his breath, not sure if he actually heard anything. Again, he scanned the stillness of the forest trail. He moved through the dense underbrush with the practiced ease of a hunter. His heart shot to his throat.
A wild scream cut through the jungle.
Puffing a curse under his breath, Dinga raced toward the source in an instant. Instinct drew his hand toward his sword’s hilt; he reveled in the opportunity to fight with both weapons. He brushed back branches with his spear, then withdrew along the dense foliage. He paused, meeting with a slight shaking of leaves. The bushes parted as the raiders came into view. They carried a woman between them.
Light dappled through the leaves. Large globules of sweat beaded along his brow. With no wind against his face, he took a more comfortable grip on his spear. A few heartbeats later, he bounded from the bushes. The first raider dropped his end of his prize, quickly bringing a shard of sharpened bone to bear. Dinga disarmed him with a casual flick of his spear. The scrape of metal on bone tore through the air. Enjoying the heft of his sword, Dinga flailed down. The blow was swift, brutal, and strong, crunching through flesh and bone. He split the raider's skull, releasing a mass of blood and brains. He waited for the other raider to reveal himself.
Suddenly, he cursed himself for a fool. He felt lured deep into the jungle, where even during the day, huge shadows loomed. Something shifted along the corners of his vision. A blur of motion. The woman had vanished. The shadows congealed, cutting him from the most direct way back whence he came. A low wail erupted along the forest floor. A wisp of spirits, engulfed in darkness, coalesced into the form of a fat beast, bulbous, like a tree frog. The shadow creature spoke in a language older than men; a spirit thing in thrall to an unseen master.
Its claws struck through the shadows. A hot wet gush of blood fled Dinga’s side. Its touch defiled him, mocked him. Its slow, lumbering movements parried his. Dinga ran, pushing his way through the underbrush, each movement sending a hot spike of pain through his side. However, he wasn't going to face this shadow beast on these terms. He entered a glade where the forests merged into the grasslands, his trail cut short by the sheer drop off that emptied into a ravine. The creature staggered wildly, weakened by the seething sunlight. Dinga stopped at the cliff's edge, waiting on the creature's slow approach. When he sensed that it was within range, he turned with an impetuous ferocity, shoving his upthrust spear into the beast's belly, sending it tumbling down the ravine. It may not be dead, Dinga thought to himself. Though there was one way to make sure: cut the head from its master.
Clutching the wound in his side, he plunged on. Running proved to be torturous. He soon spied the movements of the surviving raider. The raider pursued its own course oblivious to it being followed. He ran with ape-like lopes to the rear wall of Jenne-jeno, scaling it with ease. By the time Dinga had reached a good vantage point, he neared delirium. That was the only explanation for what he saw. Discerning the shadows, the raider he trailed halted at the grove. His skin hardened, took on a waxy complexion. Cracks formed along his face, smooth features giving way to flattened crags. Its flesh molded and hardened until it completed its transformation, assuming the form of another totem.
“Onyame take their hearts,” Dinga swore.
With that, he passed out.
* * *
When he awoke, Dinga’s keen eyes studied the shadows. He planned his entry through the thinned grove of totems etched against the night sky. Ten horses, bedecked with gold embroidered fabrics, surrounded Bida’s pavilion. Though silent as a cat, Dinga felt the sting of his lacerations as he moved; however, neither weakness nor mercy dimmed his eyes. His blood was up, his muscles twitched beneath his skin. He snuck into Bida’s quarters. Sons of a vassal ghana stood to his right, resplendent in their splendid garments and hair plaited with gold. At the door, dogs of excellent pedigree, strutted with collars of gold and silver, each collar studded with matching balls of each metal.
Coming into full view, Dinga grinned with painful effort. He helped himself to Bida’s wine. Bida glared at him with baleful eyes, then dismissed his court with a wave of his hand. The men scattered, leaving the plates of their interrupted meal. Dinga approached the lapis lazuli steps that led to the massive chair with jewel-bedecked arms and high back.
“You’ve returned, wayward son of the Soninke.”
“I have unfinished business, pretender chieftain.”
“I
