* * *
From a crag amid the rocky spires that protected the Nubala dwellings, Imaro stared into the night. The stars and a moon that was not quite full lit a landscape of shadows. The few fires that still burned in front of the dwellings of those who had not yet retired for the night provided the only other illumination.
Imaro would sleep soon. But not yet. As he gazed in the direction of the Jijiwis’ part of Muyum, Imaro’s thoughts centered on Itu-Nusani Mujo: the latest of the many minions of evil that his path had crossed during his lifetime.
That the Three-Faced One was, indeed, an arcane adversary that must be eliminated, Imaro had no doubt – even though he had never before heard of such a demonic manifestation as this. Briefly, he wondered whether mchawi – the foul sorcery practiced by the long-defeated Erriten of Naama – had returned to Nyumbani despite his efforts to destroy it.
Then he discarded that notion aside like a scab from an old wound. Despite the numerous rains that had passed since he slew the last of the Erriten, the warrior retained an inner responsiveness to the presence of mchawi. And that awareness did not rise during Tuatat and Tibas’ description of the Jijiwi Champion.
If mchawi had not spawned Itu-Nusani Mujo, Imaro reasoned, then a Jijiwi sorcerer must have summoned the entity from some other nest of evil. Or, perhaps, the Three-Faced One was an intruder, or a portent ...
In only a few days, the time for the Shinda would come. Guguk was the Nubalas’ Champion, having defeated several others in competition for that peril-fraught role. Tensions rose high, for the claiming of the Gift from the previous rain’s Shinda always occurred shortly before the current one: a deliberate ploy intended to demoralize the defeated Champion’s people.
Imaro was willing to substitute for Guguk as Champion of the Nubala. But Tiba and Tuatat had made him well aware that Guguk would not easily surrender his status, even though Guguk knew his chances of defeating the Three-Faced One were minimal at best.
Imaro had no desire confront Guguk for the purpose of taking the Nubala’s place in the Shinda. He saw no reason to do unnecessary harm to Guguk. Yet Tuatat and Tiba knew that Guguk would not allow himself to be replaced without a fight. Imaro was the one who suggested a way to circumvent Guguk’s resolve – a way the warrior would not have considered or countenanced in other circumstances. Tuatat and Tiba had, with compunctions, agreed.
A scrape against the rock behind him reached Imaro’s ears. His muscles did not tense in anticipation of an attack, for he had been expecting that sound. He turned and saw Tiba standing beside him on the crag.
“Is it done?” the warrior asked.
“Yes,” the ayake replied in a harsh tone.
They were silent for a time. Then Tiba spoke again.
“Tomorrow,” she said. Without another word, she departed, leaving Imaro, once again,
alone.
* * *
The warrior woke to cries of distress coming from outside the dwelling in which he had spent the previous night. He had not displaced anyone from their home; the dwelling had been empty since its owners had taken their own lives after their children became part of the Gift to the Jijiwi.
Imaro knew the outcries did not involve him. He also knew the reason for the Nubalas’ dismay. Brushing memories from the night’s dreams, the warrior rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion and crawled out of the circular doorway.
Blinking only once before his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, Imaro spotted several dozen Nubala gathered in one of the shallow, cup-like stretches of rock that connected the spires. Tiba stood solemnly in front of a dwelling. The people in the crowd muttered and shouted. Panic distorted their features and twisted their normally graceful gestures into abrupt shudders.
As he drew closer to the knot of agitated Nubala, Imaro caught some of the anxious words that spilled from their lips.
“Guguk is stricken,” said one man.
“He sleeps, and cannot awaken,” cried another.
“His skin burns like fire,” said a woman.
“Tiba cannot awaken him,” a younger man moaned.
“First Besu Jusa abandons us; does he now curse us?” an older woman lamented.
Imaro made his way through the crowd. He moved carefully, making certain not to shoulder anyone aside as he approached the dwelling of Guguk. When he reached the forefront, he spoke to Tiba, whose expression was downcast.
“What has happened?” the warrior asked.
Tiba looked up.
“The nyia-sickness has fallen upon Guguk,” she replied in an emotionless tone. “He will not be able to recover in time for the Shinda.”
“You have told me of this Shinda,” Imaro said. “Can the contest not wait until Guguk has regained his strength?”
“No!” cried Tiba and several others, including Tuatat, who was standing nearby. It was Tuatat who provided an explanation – for the second time, though that was known only to himself, Tiba, and the outlander. The other Nubala believed Imaro had only been told the essentials of the Shinda, but not its complexities.
“The time for the Shinda was decided by Besu Jusa and Wolowo,” the wachik said. “Both the Nubala and Jijiwi Champions must appear. If one side’s Champion does not, the other side can take everything the losing side has ... everything.”
“Someone will have to take Guguk’s place,” said Tiba.
“I will,” declared a voice from the crowd behind Imaro.
The warrior turned and looked at the Nubala who came forward. He was almost as muscular as the disease-felled Guguk ... but he looked less than imposing next to Imaro.
“But Guguk defeated you, Yahyi,” Tuatat said.
“Only in the wrestling,” Yahyi said with a touch of petulance. “I matched him in the lifting.”
“You would be wrestling against the Three-Faced One, not lifting,” Tuatat retorted.
“What are you talking about?” Imaro asked, giving no indication that he already knew.
“It is not your concern, outlander,” snapped Yahyi.
“Maybe it is,” Imaro said mildly. He held the Nubala’s gaze until Tuatat
