After the happenings of three nights past he had expected Master Dawan and his family to have left him in the desert, and to have fled as far as they could from the madness, he had unleashed upon them. Instead he had awakened in Kahya’s tent, finding she and her sisters had cared for him. Master Dawan had greeted him cheerfully, sharing tea and tales while he recovered his strength. They had not abandoned him, even after all they had seen. But now, he was abandoning them.
“Friend Anseh.” He turned to find Master Dawan walking towards him, his pet hawk Izri on his protected arm. “Can I still not convince you to see us through our travels?”
“I would like to,” Makami replied thankfully. “But it is perhaps best for us all if I went my own way. Besides, it’s time I stopped running, and confronted what has happened to me.”
“You will hunt down this...Leopard’s Paw?”
Makami felt his teeth tighten and he rubbed at his chest. A brotherhood of powerful sorcerers who wielded dark magics was not someone you eagerly sought out.
“Better perhaps than being hunted,” he said. “But first I want to learn more about this skin magic.”
The old man looked concerned but did not voice his disapproval.
“In the southlands, there are a people who scar their whole skin with intricate patterns,” he said. “I have heard they know much of this magic of the skin.”
Makami nodded, exchanging a quick glance with Kahya whose eyebrows as well rose with interest. He had not revealed her secret. He supposed she would tell her family of her abilities in her own time. Or perhaps her father knew more than she thought.
“I will find them out if I can,” he said. South was home—and he had not been there in a long time. He wondered if he was ready. Looking up at the sky he took note of where the blazing sun stood. “It is time I went.” Swinging up onto the mjaasi he sat in his seat, pulling the straps of the giant lizard which rose to its feet, already eager to run.
“Manhada,” Master Dawan said, palming his forehead. “The goddess keep you in her thoughts.” Makami replied in kind, turning his gaze to Kahya. Uncertain of what to say, she spoke for him.
“Farewell. Keep safe, so my eyes can touch upon you again in this life.”
He nodded deeply, deciding he would hold onto those words and the image of her face in the lonely time to come. Veiling his own face, he gave a series of clicks and spurred the mjaasi to action. In moments he was galloping away, the sound of Master Dawan’s daughters Amazi chants of farewell and luck dying in the distance as he rode into the new day.
The Demon in the Wall
By
Stafford L. Battle
The horses wandered about the camp without supervision; but because of weeks of routine and strict discipline they kept their distance from the supply tents and the tempting sacks of oats. Camels used for transporting heavy loads grazed grumpily nearby on the sparse, dry weeds. Goats and sheep huddled in a hungry, noisy mass near the center of the multi-color collection of elaborate shelters. The caravan’s dogs, sharp fanged, ferocious protectors, astute herders, lay clumped together in the shade of a stunted tree along the camp’s perimeter; canine eyes and sensitive noses were fervently searching for their human masters.
The campsite was littered with wool, cotton and silk garments. Newly sharpened swords and spears, sturdy leather sandals, gold-embroidered caps, and prized personal charms were strewn about. Intricately woven bamboo serving platters filled with silver drinking goblets still wet with cactus ale were abandoned on a grassy border where the tropical forest melted into the hot desert. A large royal procession had paused here to make a sheltered temporary settlement and take a well-earned traveler’s supper before moonrise and the desert night creatures emerged to hunt.
Dog tails wagged vigorously as a woman and young male approached fast on horseback. The young man was sunbaked ebony with strong arms and thick muscular legs. Among his people, he was less than average stature; yet, he was considered a phenomenal fighter, and quite handsome by the ladies of the Sovereign’s court who towered over him. The gray-haired matron, long past her years of youthful auburn beauty, was still smooth faced, very slender, agile with a firm countenance.
They both quickly dismounted onto the sandy soil.
“Aieee! Grandmother, what sick nightmare is this?”
“Silence,” the senior woman hissed as she used her long iron staff to probe a pile of cloth stretched along the ground. “Your older brother was wearing this garish travel cape when I awoke this morning,” Makhulu said with remorse. “It’s his favorite, a gift from your father.”
The grandson gripped tightly his weapon. “Bandits? Only a great human army would dare attack Father.” He had to lift his chin to stare his grandmother in the eyes. “We must extract vengeance!”
“Lower your voice, boy.”
“But where is everyone? We were only gone since morning meal. I should have been here. I would have crushed the attackers with my war ax. “
“Shush!” She banged the sharp diamond tip of her staff on the rocky soil inches from his sandaled toes.
“Yea, honored grandmother Makhulu,” he submitted.
Makhulu sat down on a green jade encrusted stool to gather her thoughts. After long moments of contemplation, she said, “Feed the dogs.”
“Aieee! Aieee! Father, mother, my brothers and sisters, cousins and companions are vanished! My only duty should be revenge!!”
“Tie the camels together.”
“Who would brazenly attack the House of the Gold Lion!” he cried out again. “Grandmother! We must do something!”
“Start a fire, make tea,” she said calmly.
Vexed beyond his 21 years of life, he glumly responded, “Yea, Grandmother.”
Makhulu said with a sigh, “Stomping about like a bee-stung swamp buffalo will gain us nothing. This is not a natural event. Have you noticed there is no blood on the
