A swirl of mist vanished in the onrushing wake of Sangara’s emergence. Everywhere he turned the din of battle thundered throughout the wind. The Ramaasou fought with the heart and ferocity of heroes, but their numbers made more the difference in the confusion of biting steel and bloodied shields. The fama of Kindou was beset on all sides with only two of his retinue, holding high their shields and valiantly defending their chief by his overturned chariot. His father and clan brothers were scattered all over the field mixing with Cisse, Ba-nde, and Ramaasou within the homicidal tumult. Even his cousin, Zambele “of the Ten Blows”, was encircled and quickly losing the power behind the mighty swings of his ivory club. Sangara knew that if Sannou fell the reavers would redouble their efforts and clear the field of Manden.
Limbs flexed with cruel purpose as he pierced the fray. And the crash of thunder announcing the coming of Daan Toura’s son. He dashed straight into the rabble that surrounded Kindou’s beleaguered chief. His spear, well-missed and hungry, sang through the air impaling a reaver through his spine. His sword, newly–gifted and keen, tore open backs and breasts with barbarous gaiety. Sprinkles of light rain fell from the once sun-decked sky, baptizing the coming of Sangara Aarn-Toura.
The rising and falling of Sangara’s singing steel stole scarlet veils and floating limbs from the most reluctant of combatants. He tore life from veterans and scoundrels, disfiguring both the lucky and the luckless. He was a man possessed with oxen-strength and lion-speed. No matter how many Ramaasou rushed to greet him, he addressed them all with ruinous blows and swift sword-sweeps. The sword-labor and battle-bliss possessed his very soul as torrents of pelting rain drove him to feats of horror and butchery that surpassed even the most savage god. A crimson stained giant summoned by the despair of Kindou—he had become Farro, the son of Mangala—the bearer of vengeance.
Soon the great Ramaasou horde lay sprawled and disfigured on the wet soggy field. Droplets of rain rippled in blood-pools and ran down sword blades imbedded in armored chest and muddied earth, as resting bodies heaved out fading breaths.
The moments crept by while the clans of Da Boura gathered wounded comrades and brothers. The Fama of Kindou, decorated with the bruises and cuts of hard fighting, approached Sangara followed by the weary survivors and a lone retainer.
“You there! This victory is yours to be sure. What clan claims you?” asked the chief.
“I am of the Touras, son of Daan Binoudjan-Toura and great-grandson of Hadang Dafee-Toura,” replied Sangara.
“You come from a mighty circle. We knew your great-grandsire as Hadang ‘of the Hammer-Spear’. He was well renowned for his battle-skill and stout-heart. The djelis of Kindou would sing me to bed with tales of his prowess. It is only right that you receive an honor-name. Sangara ‘of the Victories’”, proclaimed the fama.
It was then that a mighty cheer rang out through foothills as the surviving Manden looked upon Sangara’s heroic frame, wet with rain and blood, “Hail Sangara! Hail the mighty Sangara “of the Victories”! Thunder-Son of the Touras, the Hammer of Da Boura!” And the heavens thundered with the triumphant roar as Mangala, the One God, joined in unison.
Yet, Sangara could not revel in the merriment, for as he saw some of his clan brothers and friends among the surrounding helmets and mail, he could not see the regal bearing of his father, the tallest among the Bourans. As the cheering swelled, he pushed his way through the jubilant host to see if his father was among the wounded. But as he emerged, he saw to his left the carcass of his father’s manly build, laid low by a jutting spear; his head cruelly separated from its torso; and around him were the lifeless forms of Fakoli and Nfansu. Their blood mixing and staining the grass while their glazed eyes stared skyward from torn, ruined bodies.
Heavy-hearted, Sangara gently ran a hand over his father’s eyelids, closing them in eternal sleep. The honor-torc felt heavy and guilt-ridden as it sat secure around his bent neck. Mournful reflection engulfed the once fiery spirit as he gazed upon the lone head of his most-loved clansmen. Aloft, a great black eagle soared, bringing the jubilant warriors to reverent silence as they reeled from its size and power. However, Sangara already knew the beast and only he could understand its booming call.
“A blood-price is paid for the last fount-boon. He who seeks the vain destiny of gods, forfeits the humble comfort of mortals. That is the price for receiving the Waters of Glory. Sangara ‘of the Victories’.
Skin Magic
By
Djeli A. Griot
Makami stumbled, almost falling. The orange-colored cat he had nearly run over went still, the hair on its back raising. Its eyes reflected in the night, seeming to ask what bit of chance had caused their paths to cross in the sand-ridden backstreets of this small town, which only rats and shadows should have called home.
The answer came at the sound of heavy footsteps from somewhere far too near. Makami resumed his run, turning a corner while daring a glance back. The empty streets did not fool him; he was still being hunted. Who his pursuers were and their purpose in this mad chase was what baffled him.
He had noticed them earlier, like two jackals creeping after prey. They kept their distance, but their intent was too obvious. Makami had been a thief once—in fact, a rather good one. He had followed those he marked whole days, tracing their routines until he could predict their every move, waiting until they were most vulnerable and distracted to take his prize. It was done so seamlessly; most were not aware of the theft until he had long departed. Others however were not so artful—choosing to cudgel their victims senseless or leave a blade between their ribs, before
