He ran inside and found Yusef slumped against the wall, bleeding from his shoulder and chest.
“We have to go back,” Changa said. “You need help.”
“No!” Yusef snapped. “These are scratches, nothing more. We came for Yasmine.”
Yusef stood unsteadily. “Lead the way, kibwana, unless those kittens stole your nerve.”
Changa smirked as he re-entered the house. The foyer was pitch black so he felt along the wall, searching for a torch when he heard the twang of bowstrings. He dropped quickly and rolled to his left, pulling out his throwing knives as he came to his feet. The strings thumped again and he heard Yusef grunt. Changa threw his knife at the bow sound and was rewarded with a painful cry. He moved again and the arrow meant for his throat clattered against the stone wall. Changa threw a second knife. It missed its mark but accomplished its goal. The archer opened a door across the room to escape, a stream of torchlight seeping into the room. Changa ran back to check on Yusef and found him sitting at the entrance, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. The big man grasped the arrow and broke it.
“A pin prick,” he said.
“Stay here,” Changa ordered. He chased after the bowman, entering a corridor lit by a succession of torches. The sound of footfalls from behind alarmed him and he spun about, his sword and knife on guard. Yusef was on his feet, wincing as he lumbered through the open door.
“Go back,” Changa urged.
“No, kibwana, I’m staying with you.”
They crept down the hall in pursuit of the bowman. Changa’s instincts were on edge; the house felt wrong. Abdul was a rich man; his house should have been filled with people and possessions. With the exception of the bowman they had encountered no one.
A door at the end of the hall was opened slightly. Changa saw a smattering of blood staining the white marble floor. Something more escaped from the room, something sensed rather than seen. Changa reached for the door and stopped.
Yusef eased up behind him. “What are we waiting for?”
“Can’t you feel it?” Changa whispered.
Yusef shook his head. “Feel what?”
Changa turned to his companion. “Something is not right.”
The big man was around Changa and through the door before Changa could stop him. He hesitated, listening for some response to Yusef’s intrusion but there was none. His curiosity overcame his stealth and he entered the room.
Yusef stood frozen. The bowman lay dead a few feet before the Mombassan. Beyond them both in the center of the room was a large dais. Sitting on the surface was Yasmine. She was naked, her arms and legs chained to thick iron loops protruding from the stone. A blank expression ruled her face as she stared at Changa. He felt her spirit reaching into his mind like loving fingers; his arms fell limp to his sides and he dropped his weapons. The clattering metal pulled him from Yasmine’s hypnotic gaze. He heard Yusef grunt and jerked his head about to see Yusef raising his sword at him.
“Yusef, no!” Changa shouted. Yusef raised his scimitar high then slashed down. Changa dodged the swipe then ducked the swing aimed at his neck. Yusef moved faster than Changa thought capable of a man of his size. Changa danced away knowing he had no chance stopping those powerful blows. Yasmine controlled him, driving him far beyond his abilities. Changa could not stop Yusef but he could stop Yasmine.
He dodged another swing, jumping between Yusef and the dais. He snatched out a throwing knife, holding it by the blade. The edge sliced his hand and he threw it at Yasmine, the handle striking her on the head and sprawling her on the dais. Yusef fell as she fell, crashing onto the floor in a massive heap.
Changa ran to his unconscious companion. Yusef panted, his body burning. Changa heard more footsteps. Dozens of armed men clad in chain mail and leather, their eyes weighed with the same despondency Changa viewed among Abdul’s slaves. They formed an armed barrier between the Mombassan and the dais. Abdul sauntered into the room and climbed onto the dais. He knelt beside Yasmine, cradling her injured head in his hands.
“You discovered my secret,” he said as he smiled. “Do you know the power of beauty, Mombassan? Most men just see the surface, lusting for physical contact to sate their shallow desires. But the power lies within. It is the power to manipulate and control. It’s the reason why men fear women, why we spend so much time attempting to control that which we have no control.”
Abdul propped Yasmine up, holding her face in his hands.
“But the true power lies deeper still. It is beyond women, a strength so deep it can only be tapped by ancient spells created at the beginning of time.”
Abdul closed his eyes, whispering into Yasmine’s ear. Her eyes snapped open and she sat erect. She leveled her blank white orbs on Changa and pain exploded behind his eyes. He dropped his weapons, clutching his head as the pain bored into his sanity. He was losing consciousness, blood running from his ears and nose. But then the pain went too far, touching a place within the Mombassan that even he never knew existed. Changa reared back and emitted a cry that startled Abdul
“No one controls me!” Changa yelled.
“Kill him!” Abdul yelled back.
Changa grabbed his throwing knife and hurled it at Abdul. The knife sunk into the slave master’s head, knocking him from the dais to the floor. A wail rose from the compound, a collective cry of a thousand souls suddenly released from an evil stupor. The guards ran from the room, their faces bright with the prospect of freedom. Changa staggered to Abdul’s body. He searched the
