Sangara, wrapping his powerful arms around its head, spied a leathery cord looped around its neck, and with the vigor of purpose wound it tightly around his forearm. The forceful thrashing of its head flung the desperate warrior off, but because he had held the cord, he was too close for it for the teeth to do their deadly work. The beast trashed and whipped as it tried unsuccessfully to dislodge Sangara from the deadly noose. Still grasping the cord, he straddled its massive neck and yanked. Muscle, sinew, and bone strained and bulged as he exerted all the strength his hero-like frame possessed. If he could not break the source of this witch’s power – then he would strangle him with it.
The ferocity of the struggle smeared them with slime and waste. The buwaa, folding its legs again, set them into a savage death-roll with the hopes of shattering this bane from his lock and delivering him into its jaws. Sangara felt the dizzying pressure of weight and speed push him to the limits of his endurance. If the beast rolls to close to the wall he would be crushed to a gory pulp. The might of Sangara’s knotted arms and legs held him in place and tightened the unbreakable saabou. His biceps curled and strained exerting every muscle in his steel-like grip. A growl of pain escaped his bruised and bloodied lips, as the cord bit into his flesh. Sangara felt the mass underneath him shrink and wiggle with every squeeze and turn of the cord. Slowly, he realized the beast fading in bulk and savagery. Shortly, Sangara was no longer straddling a titan croc, but a limp, old man. His dangling limbs buried in the putrid mist of magic.
For a moment, he stood over the lifeless body, the saabou still wrapped around his powerful arm.
“That which gives power will rob you of it,” warily regarded Sangara.
He loosed his grip of the talisman and turned to the fountain. He still felt the vigor of the previous fountains return and triumphantly strode over to his spouting reward.
* * *
He found this fountain more ornately decorated than the others. Gems of sparkling brilliance and hue danced within a basalt arch. The figure of a mighty limbed man of obsidian exquisitely carved underneath, a sword in one hand and a lion’s head in the other. His chest was covered in armor, which detailed the light quilted coat of the Dens and the shining scales of the Xaftaangaas. An ivory torc encircled his neck and gold armlets adorned outstretched arms. A makasutu’s head hung underneath, with gaping jaws and teeth as white as the snow-capped Kolourou Mountain. Diamond-sparkling brilliance spouted from its uninviting mouth. The basin from which it filled was of the most precious of ivory, expertly carved, and etched with the heroes of ages past; The seven Hunter-Lords of the Manden city-states, the first buur of the Xaftaan kingdom, and even the Daehan sinuirang who traveled to the North and showed them the might of the ox-bow. All these and more decorated the basin of this mystic mountain shrine. The gushing water splashed and flowed, but never fully overflowed from its cream-colored basin.
Bracing himself on the edge, he bent his back low and gorged himself on its sweet and bitter flavor. Almost immediately, the vomiting mouth stopped and the draining waters emptied.
“No man will take more than he needs from the Fountain of Daraja,” replied the ancient woliyo. “And you will have exactly what has been taken.”
Then as smoke from a waking volcano the enchanted mist belched forth from the crocodilian maw, enshrouding Sangara in blinding mist within his entombed surroundings. Though the ensuing mist screened his vision, he no longer panicked nor feared the unknown menace that he sensed lurked within. A sudden rush of wind and a painful sensation encircled his throat. The blow dropped him to the floor, stunning him. He was not sure, but the figure of Youssou seemed to be drifting in and out of the smoky wafts.
“Here is a new charm. A torc of pure ivory with the incantations of Nakula Funo. To keep your body parts in place,” laughed the woliyo.
His dirty fingers gingerly fingered his new neck charm. The torc encircled his muscled neck terminating at the ends in perfectly shaped globes. He felt the hard lines and deep cuts scrawled on the yellowish-white surface. He could not make out what the etchings said or the language it was written in, but he deemed them powerful enchantments.
As he began to rise, a leather-bound grip smacked into his hand. The feel excited him and his knuckles tightened around what he knew to be a sword.
“You will need this for your return,” explained Youssou. “It is not of the same sorcery as your saabou, but it will aid you in battle.”
“What battle? Youssou, what battle do you speak of? Where in Farro’s name are you? Youssou! Youssou!”
Sangara’s shouts rang hollow throughout the hazy-white shroud. He dared not move, but kept his arm stretched out. His shining blade pointing forward.
* * *
A short time passed before a cool breeze brushed over his crested skull. He was outside again. Though the mist still enveloped him, he no longer sensed the blackened dampness of caves. He could now smell the freshness of the savannah plains and crisp air of the Fouta Juma winds. He took a few cautious steps forward and found the ground soft and carpeted underfoot. The grassy bottom was now visible to him. He saw his spear lying a few feet from him and heard the commotion and chaos of pitched battle. Wasting little time, he grabbed his
