“Ghana for now.”
“Once I secured the uncle-nephew relationship. After that, Ermene had but one further use to me.”
“What was that?”
“Dinner.” Bida picked clean another bone from his plate, sucking loudly for emphasis.
Dinga quaffed the remainder of the wine. “I dispatched your raiders.”
“They, too, served their purpose; stirring up fear in the people. And collecting my ... sacrifices. The villagers prove more tractable, increasing their dependence on whoever can guarantee protection. Look out that window. What do you see?”
“A farmer foraging for scraps.”
“Some Berber. If I wanted, I could lend him my aid in turn for sacrifice and make him into the ruler of a mighty nation.”
“I have no use for magic. What problems I have can be solved with my sword arm.”
Bida rose, growing in stature even as the shadows deepened. Dinga choked back the cry that sprang to his lips, in a mix or horror and near-panic. Surely this had to be a trick of the mind. He met Bida’s contemptuous stare. The red rage welled up in him. He ground his teeth until his gums bled. His head swam, the roar of war-chariots echoing in his ears. Shadow talons raked across his chest, sending him tumbling backwards. He withdrew his sword. In his travels, too many myths had shown themselves to be realities. Thus, the old, often conflicting legends about the age before man, the rise of the Nephilim and the power of the dark lords of Kawkaw. Surely, his magicks were no match for Dinga’s iron. His quick eyes and sure feet allowed him to scramble out of Bida’s grasp. Dinga possessed an unusual wiry strength and agility, leaping to the back of the high chair to face his foe.
Dinga cleaved the robed figure at the neck.
Bida erupted into a ball of flames. His essence, what remained of it, took to the sky. Dinga followed the display to the front of the pavilion, staring transfixed. Among the gathered on-lookers, he eyed Ifriquia. A brief smile passed between them, then he turned away as if called. He locked his gaze to the horizon. Without straying, he clutched his spear, leaning on it, then marched through the parted crowd.
And thus, he departed. His eyes forever fixed on the horizon.
* * *
The old griot spoke for almost two hours. The ghana’s court dispersed slowly at the close of his tale as if their blood had congealed. The ghana left, his thoughts all his own. Only two figures remained. Okomfo approached Djobo.
“You risked great offense,” Okomfo said.
“What do you mean?”
“Ghana Menin is a Berber.”
“I know. I am both fool and truth-teller,” Djobo said. “People listen, or not, as they will.”
“Dinga Cisse truly was a man who walked a lonely path and carried a heavy burden,” Okomfo said.
“That is the way of leaders. And heroes.”
“There are others who walk such roads, but cling to the shadows.”
“I pray that I didn’t offend you,” Djobo said, hoping to spare himself any harsh words.
“Not at all, story-teller.” Okomfo adjusted his gold serpentine bracelets. “I merely wanted to congratulate you on a tale well told.”
In the Wake of Mist
By
Kirk A. Johnson
Vapor and smoke covered his eyes, hiding the sky and earth, and all in between. The thick odorless mist chilled him with an eerie silence. Its foreboding stillness crawled over his flesh with icy intent, feeding his fear. His clammy fingers gripped the fanged charm dangling from around his neck, hoping that it would protect him within the bleached prison. But the surging smoke steadily robbed his confidence in talismans with each hesitant step.
Sangara inched steadily through the dry grass, recalling the steel-helmed Manden astride their scarlet-tasseled steeds ride from the grim gates of Da Boura to Kindou’s aid. He remembered how they rode west and then north along the majestic range of the ancient Fouta Juma Mountains, its primordial peaks watching the mailed convoy ride in fervent pursuit of Kindou’s ravagers. And the Ramaasou, having little time to drop their plunder, met their pursuers with mad-howls and wolfish war cries.
The earth moaned with the thunder of iron-shod hooves and sandaled feet stirring the blood of every man within the stern-eyed cavalcade, with chariot and horse falling upon them in savage vengeance. And Sangara, seeking the taste of glory and honor, spurred his mount ahead of the unholy chaos of flesh and steel; only to feel the cruel blow of a hard-flung war-club cover his eyes.
But when he awakened the echoes of crashing shields and whispering spears were replaced by the eerie silence of an empty world. Blood stained his face. His skull throbbed and he cursed the gods for it with a nagging thought filling his mind, “Where are my kinsmen?”
Sangara’s heart drummed in rhythm with his mounting pace. The primordial fog propelled his flying feet, causing his black hauberk to rustle under his quilted battle-dress. The ground became hard and gritty underfoot. His sword cleaved in desperation and despair through the thick and steamy air, feeding his fear and goading him into a frenzied panic which threatened to swallow his soul. But a loose stone ended his mad dash and with his armor lending weight to his falling frame, his sword escaped its grasp; and echoed throughout the blank emptiness.
* * *
Moments later Sangara’s eyes blinked in bewilderment as he stirred within a gloomy cavern instead of the enshrouding smoke. Quickly he grabbed his sword, sprang to his feet, and braced for battle. A sickly phosphorous glow illuminated the unearthly surroundings revealing a high ceiling covered with teeth-like rock dripping with melting ice with faint echoes booming in the darkness.
He judged himself deep within the forbidden depths of the Fouta Juma Mountains and tales of the Bafour giants laying their kings into great tombs filled his thoughts. He imagined secrets being whispered into the ears of sorcerers and witches by eldritch abominations. And curses laid upon unwanted guests by long dead tongues who were known to feast on the men
