* * *
Night had long since fallen, and the woman who had gazed at Imaro was in his arms. Earlier, he had learned her name: Miryat. And Tiba had explained the woman’s role in the rituals that preceded the Shinda.
Miryat had been chosen by lot to be the bearer of the Champion’s seed. Regardless of whether a Nubala Champion won or lost a Shinda – or whether he lived or perished – part of him would continue to exist among the people, if that were the will of the ancestors and Besu Jusa. Miryat had not yet received Guguk’s seed. Now that the stricken Guguk was no longer Champion, Imaro would be the provider of the seed.
Imaro’s hands caressed Miryat’s mbama-marked skin. It was as though his palms were gliding across tiny pebbles of flesh. If Imaro’s smooth skin disconcerted Miryat, she gave no outward indication as she lay beneath him.
Few words passed between them. Imaro strove to maintain a mental barrier between the present and the past. He struggled to banish his memories of other women who had lain beneath him; of the child he had not seen in more rains than he dared to count; of the salvation and suffering his choices had wrought ...
His decision to aid the Nubala was yet another fateful choice. What would it bring to the cattle-herders? What would it bring to him? He did not attempt to anticipate the answers to those questions. But he did believe there was scant difference between Itu-Nusani Mujo and his long-vanquished enemies, the Erriten of Naama.
He harbored no fear of the Three-faced One. He did not fear death, for he was Death’s Friend. And, was he not now giving life to the Nubala, as well as hope for freedom?
In the gloom of the dwelling that had been set aside for them, Miryat could see little of Imaro’s face as she clung to him. She sensed restraint, but not reluctance, as he thrust inside her. She did not know whether the outlander’s seed would result in a child. She only hoped that the warrior would defeat the Three-Faced One, and end her people’s nightmarish ordeal.
Miryat’s mbama-marks slid across Imaro’s skin as, spent at last, he removed his weight from her body.
“Do you want me to go?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “Stay.”
She remained with him until dawn.
* * *
The sun shone bright, hot, and fierce on the day of the Shinda. At the same spot where the Gifting had occurred, the Nubala and Jijiwi gathered, each tribe on its own side of the unseen demarcation between grass and sand. The Nubala made their presence known with repeated blares from the hollowed horns of cattle; the Jijiwi responded with rhythms beaten from small, hide-covered drums.
A final cacophonous crescendo, accompanied by the braying of the Jijiwis’ camels, announced the coming of the Champions. As was the right of the previous Shinda’s victor, Itu-Nusani Mujo appeared first. The white-robed Jijiwi made way hastily as Itu-Nusani Mujo strode to the open ground – half-grass, half sand – that served as the arena for the contest.
As the Jijiwi Champion drew nearer, the people at the forefront of the Nubala spectators involuntarily stepped backward, jostling against those who were behind them. Even though they had seen the Three-Faced One on more than one occasion, his presence still unnerved the Nubala.
The man like being stood nearly seven feet in height, and the length of its arms and the breadth of its body were reminiscent of the great apes that dwelled in the southern forests. Its legs, however, were not ape-like, but fully human in length and proportion, and sheathed in lithe muscle.
The skin of Itu-Nusani Mujo was the color of ash. Because vision seemed to bend when looking directly at the entity, it was impossible to determine whether that pigment was real or decorative. Save for a white cloth loin-pouch, the Three-Faced One was naked.
And the faces ...
One of them was positioned forward on the Champion’s thick neck. The other two jutted from the left and right sides of a huge, bulbous, hairless head. The three faces were identical – each one a gruesome mélange of human and demonic features. The eyes of Itu-Nusani Mujo were crimson slits. Feline fangs hung from its lipless mouths. Short horns protruded from its broad foreheads. The tips of those horns resembled sharpened stakes.
Now the Three-Faced One stood silently in the vacant space, awaiting its latest challenger.
The lines of the Nubala parted. And Imaro stepped forward.
Like the Three-Faced One, the warrior was clad only in a loin-pouch. Imaro’s garment was made from cowhide rather than cloth. Some of the Nubala began to murmur misgivings as their Champion approached Itu-Nusani Mujo.
Hope had risen in the Nubalas’ when they saw Imaro lift the huge rock higher than Guguk and Yahyi had done. Now, seeing the way Itu-Nusani Mujo towered over the outlander, those hopes began to wither.
As the Champions faced each other, a loud voice from the Jijiwi side broke the silence.
“What is going on here? This man is no Nubala!”
The speaker stalked forward and stood at the side of the Three-Faced One. He was Zuburi, the umad, or headman, of the Jijiwi. His white garments clung closely to his long, lean frame. Though his skin was as dark as that of any Nubala, his features were somewhat narrower. Beneath his turban, his eyes pierced like those of a hawk as he glared at Imaro.
“Who are you, outlander?” Zuburi demanded.
“Imaro,” the warrior replied.
As with the Nubala, the Jijiwi showed no indication that they recognized a name know throughout the rest of Nyumbani. Then Tuatat stepped from the crowd and faced the umad. The wachik gestured toward the Three-Faced One, while looking steadfastly into Zuburi’s eyes.
“And this one is no Jijiwi,” Tuatat said quietly.
Zuburi opened his mouth to retort. But Tuatat was quicker to speak.
“When the Three-Faced One first became your Champion, we objected because he was not one of you. You said we were afraid
