Even from the distant escarpment, the warrior could see clear differences between the groups. The people of the grassland were very dark in hue, and wore almost no clothing. With them were long-horned cattle of a type similar to the ones the warrior had herded during his youth.
It was difficult to discern much about the people on the other side of the few yards of space that separated the groups. For their bodies were wrapped in lengths of white cloth that threw back the sunlight in a blinding glare. Turbans of similar cloth covered their heads. Camels stood placidly at the swathed people’s side. The humped beasts bore saddles and bridles.
Neither side carried any weapons that the warrior could see. Yet the tension between the contingents was apparent even at a distance.
They must be here to trade, the warrior thought. To his way of thinking, the cattle-herders would surely get the worst of any bargain. Despite the many rains he had spent away from the herds of his childhood, the warrior continued to prefer cows to camels.
Then he realized that none of the white-robes’ camels were unsaddled or without bridles. And the warrior saw no bundles or stacks of other goods for exchange. He frowned in puzzlement.
One of the white-robes made a sudden, emphatic gesture. With ill-concealed reluctance, the herders acknowledged the signal, and urged all the cattle they had brought to go to the westerners’ side. Nearly a score of the herders followed the cattle. The ones who went with the beasts were not young enough to be considered children, but still too young to have reached adulthood. They carried sacks and containers with them. As they departed, they did not look back. And the herders left behind looked at the ground.
Not trade, the warrior realized. Tribute. The robed ones take not only cattle, but also slaves and other goods, from the herders.
The white-robes mounted their camels. The warrior heard echoes of harsh words and cruel laughter as the westerners drove the cattle and captives into the semi-arid side of the land. The herders watched silently for a time. Then, heads still down, they turned and trudged toward the jumble of tall rocks that shimmered in the distance.
The warrior frowned. He had wandered a great distance since his last sojourn with other people. Increasingly, he had become careful concerning such contact, and drained by its demands. In most parts of Nyumbani, his name preceded him. So did tales of his deeds. Some of those stories were true; others, exaggerated; and still others nothing more than the imaginings of the griots and praise-singers who told them.
To some, he was The Liberator. To others, he was known as The Deathless Warrior. More ominously, some referred to him as Death’s Friend. He had overthrown empires, destroyed demons, freed slaves, slain sorcerers. It was whispered that a deity dwelled inside him – a Cloud Strider from ancient times.
The whisperers spoke truth. But the warrior was still a man, though unlike any other. At times, he wearied of the importunings of men and women, as well as the toll he exacted from himself as he reflected on some of the things he had done.
He was aware that the lands to the immediate south of Motoni were isolated and mostly unknown. He had never ventured this far north before. He wondered if the tales about him had spread to this place. If they had not, there was a chance he could find the peace that eluded him elsewhere.
But the scene below did not look peaceful ...
I should have known better, he thought as he gazed at the unfamiliar country, through which the wild beasts roamed more freely now that the men and their tame creatures had gone.
Although memories of his life with the people among whom he had been raised remained bitter, the cattle had not judged him, and the quietude that had imbued him when he was among the herds on the vast Tamburure savanna had afforded him solace. These people who had allowed their cattle to be taken were not like the people of his past, who would never have allowed such a shameful incident to occur.
But the warrior did not pass judgment on these strangers. Instead, a familiar stirring rose from deep within him, and he knew he would not rest until that stirring was satisfied. Something is wrong here, he thought. And I am needed to make it right.
“Yet again,” he said aloud.
The warrior climbed to his feet and quickly descended the escarpment. When he reached the ground, he followed the trail of the disconsolate herders, who had now passed from sight.
* * *
Desultory nods and mutters greeted the members of the Nubala contingent as they returned to their dwellings. It was always thus on Gifting Day, the time during which the Nubala of the east were obliged to honor their longstanding agreement with the Jijiwi of the west. Inevitability did not diminish the resentment and rancor that accompanied the giving.
“They ask for more every rain,” grumbled Achok, who strode at the front of the unhappy procession, alongside his uncle Tuatat, who was the wachik, or head, of the various Nubala clans.
Receiving no reply from Tuatat, Achok continued: “If their demands increase, one day there will be nothing left of us.”
Tuatat paused and glared at the younger man.
“Perhaps you will be Champion someday,” the wachik said. “Perhaps you will be the one who saves us all.”
Those words caused Achok to lower his gaze and fall silent. Both men were tall, lean, and dark as the wood of the ebony tree. Like all Nubala, they wore nothing but cow-hide loin pouches and a few strings of multi-colored beads. Yet they could not be considered as truly naked. For nearly every inch of their
