Headhunters of Argaron

by Slawomir Rapala

Part 2 of 4

He watched his pursuers with a hateful grin, as more and more of them appeared before him. Having sighted the prey that had eluded them for days, they abandoned all caution and sprinted forward with great speed, urging their horses and beating them over their shapely heads with short whips.

Already Aezubah could hear their war-cries carried forward by the wind along with the galloping of the steeds. It was an unnerving sight, but Aezubah stood still, smiling mockingly at his enemies. Come, come claim me, he thought, drawing his sword and plunging the blade into the ground.

They were perhaps half a league away when the night was suddenly broken by a terrible cry that rose from the depths of the Black Steppes. The scorched earth stirred and came to life as hundreds of ebony warriors rose to their feet with a savage howl.

The Tha-kians pulled hard on the reins of their steeds and tried to turn back, but it was too late. They rode into the swarm of warriors who overwhelmed them like a vicious wave, bringing men and beasts to the ground. War cries and painful wails sounded throughout the steppes. Black-skinned warriors crashed with brown-skinned slave-traders and steel clashed against steel in a short and wild struggle that claimed the Black Steppes for a moment.

Aezubah watched it all from a distance, his eyes focused on the swarming mass of bodies, though he could not distinguish individual men. Cries of pain rose to the sky again and again they were silenced by the tribal howling of savage warriors. A moment later they quieted down and the swaying mass of black bodies slowly came to a halt.

A shadow crossed the silver-lit steppes. Aezubah looked up and watched a reddish mist pass over the full face of the moon. The battle was over, the Tha-kians were slaughtered. He wasted no more time, fearing that the black men would not again be as passive towards him as they were before. Disregarding the pained muscles of his legs and the heavy beating of his heart, Aezubah turned north and headed towards Nekrya without looking back.

A chant started behind him as dozens of black warriors danced and leapt around the bodies of their fallen enemies. A drum roll followed, accompanying the rhythmic song. Blades appeared in the hands of black shamans as they bent over the corpses to sever their heads, while chanting dark spells at the same time. Aezubah did not turn his head.

* * *

It was almost dusk by the time Babirye, a muscular ebony warrior, reached the outskirts of his home village. He had spent several days visiting a neighboring tribe, the Gwandoya, where he was purchasing a wife. He spent the time with her many brothers, herding cattle, drinking makena, and bartering, and only on this morning was he finally able to reach an agreement with them. The woman was to be his for the price of three heads of cattle, a quiver full of arrows and a steel-axe.

It was a costly venture, Babirye grit his teeth as he briskly walked towards his native village, especially the weapon. A bone or stone axe he could produce quickly, but a steel one would have to be bought or taken from a fallen enemy. Only the hated Tha-kians and Argaronian soldiers carried such weapons, and they seldom ventured into the Black Steppes alone. The price was high, but a wife was necessary.

He had reached adulthood two years before and the elders of his tribe had been urging him to find a proper wife soon because among the Murrundee, a man was hardly a man until he owned two or three women and a few head of cattle. Strict rules forced him to seek a woman outside of his own clan, and since none were available in his village, Babirye scoured neighboring tribes. It was a costly affair, he thought again, but a wife was an investment. The woman he chose was healthy and a good worker and, as her brothers assured him, he would be pleased.

Babirye could count himself lucky. The name he bore meant “first of the twins” and it was to remind him that he was born a moment before his brother. The Murrundee, as many of the savage tribes of the steppes, believed twins to be an evil omen, and when they were born, only the first one was spared. The second, the evil twin, was buried alive at a distance away from the village so that his spoiled spirit, offensive to the gods, could never find his way home.

Babirye was purified by fire from the contagious touch of his evil brother. The long and wide scar marking the left side of his chest served as evidence of his purity and his break from sorcery and evil. Only after successfully completing this rite of passage he was accepted into the Murrundee society.

He was lucky in birth and during childhood and adolescence as well. While many boys of his age cohort suffered from hunger because their fathers were poor and could not afford to buy and herd many cattle, Babirye never felt its pangs. His father was wealthy, he had married well on several occasions and held alliances with many powerful chiefs of the Black Steppes. His herd of cattle numbered in dozens and now Babirye did not have to worry about the three that the Gwadoya asked for his wife. Arrows he had many of, himself, and a beautifully decorated hand-sewn quiver he could coax one of his cousins into giving him. He would pay for it later with tobacco and some game meat. But a steel axe would be difficult to find.

Babirye scowled as he made his way through the scarcely scattered huts of his home village. They were small and simple structures, built from clay and straw, and covered with animal hides. Fires were being lit before them as the women tended to evening meals. Milk and blood, the staple diet of the Murrundee, was being served along with cooked vegetables. Meat was a rare luxury in the harsh environment of the Black Steppes.

Babirye quickened his pace, eager to reach his father’s home where he could be sure to find a few handfuls of food and a pinch of tobacco for an evening smoke. His father was wealthy and continued to support the many children that his five wives had borne over the years.

The only warrior who had amassed more wealth than his father was the Murrundee chief, N’Cton, who had returned to the village several years ago after spending much time in the North serving as a mercenary. He brought with him several wives and many heads of cattle, weapons, tools, and previously unseen utensils, all of which awed his brethren.

Babirye scowled as he gazed towards N’Cton’s large hut, erected in the middle of the village. After returning, he had claimed leadership over the Murrundee on the basis of blood and wealth. N’Cton’s mother’s brother had been chief before he died and the tribal elders gave him leadership, thereby effectively silencing Babirye’s father’s claims to it.

A few voices were raised against the elders’ choice, but no one dared to oppose N’Cton openly. Not only was he a dangerous and skilled warrior, but he had many powerful and mysterious friends as well. They sometimes visited the village and the chief would then lock himself with them in his hut and they would talk long into the night. Strange names and places were mentioned then, of which the Murrundee had never heard.

Sometimes the chief would disappear and return after several days, bringing more wealth and cattle. Sorcery, some whispered. The Murrundee shaman waved off these accusations and silenced the concerns, however, although Babirye suspected N’Cton of bribing the healer.

Well-known pangs of jealousy forced the young Murrundee warrior to halt when passing the chief’s dwelling. Just in time, too, because the hides covering the opening lifted and N’Cton appeared. He looked around keenly, then approached his wives who gathered around the nearby fire to prepare a meal. N’Cton crouched beside them and exchanged a few words. The whole group laughed.

Babirye stretched his neck to peer inside the hut through the opening carelessly left open by the chief. A man sat inside, a white man. He clutched a broadsword in his hands and gazed forward with unmoving eyes. The features of his long and pale face were grim, his forehead creased. Babirye studied him with curiosity for a moment, but then the stranger turned his head and looked directly at the Murrundee warrior. Their eyes locked and the black man felt a wave of ice cold fear penetrating deep into his heart. He blinked and quickly walked forward.

N’Cton in the meantime rose to his feet and directed his steps back to the hut. “Bring some more makena!” he called over his shoulder before disappearing inside and lowering the hides behind him.

A small fire was lit in the corner of the hut, somewhat mitigating the gathering shadows. Smoke rose sluggishly upward and escaped through a hole in the roof. N’Cton looked at his visitor with concern. “I have never seen you this disturbed,” he remarked, resting beside the white man.

The stranger’s lips moved as if he wanted to speak, but no word left his mouth. He clutched the sword tighter to his breast.

N’Cton noticed the motion. “If the spirits come tonight, your blade will not help you,” he added.

“How can I fight this?”

“You must first know the face of your enemy.”

“I told you.”

“You spoke of dreams and shadows, of whispers in the dark. I cannot help you.”

“Your shaman?”

“He’s a fraud,” N’Cton shrugged. “I pay him off to silence the elders and to speak in my favour before the tribe.”

“You’re looking after your interests,” a small grin surfaced on the white man’s thin lips. It lingered for a moment but soon faded, swallowed by grim thoughts.

“The politics of savagery.” The chief showed off his teeth in a wide smile.

“I thought your brethren would kill you when you came back to the steppes.”

“I didn’t come back to be killed. I came back to built a life. And a chiefdom.”

“Grew tired of killing men for a handful of gold?”

“And you?”

“I have to make a living somehow.”

“There’s other means.”

“Easier done when you have a home to turn to.”

“True,” N’Cton nodded.

The hides lifted and the chief’s youngest wife entered carrying a gourd full of makena. She poured the drink into two wooden bowls and placed them before the men, then disappeared just as quietly as she came.

“How did you manage all this?” the white man asked after a moment of silence during which they sipped the strong beer.

“It was done in Bandikoy after that whole mess with the King’s nephew,” N’cton replied with reluctance. “I took my men to Argaron and served at his court for while but soon got sick of keeping guard to his Tha-kian friends and watching him lick their feet, the wretched dog! Word reached me that the Murrundee chief died, so I turned in my weapons, gathered my gold and came back to claim what’s mine.”

“What happened with the King’s nephew?”

N’Cton shifted uncomfortably. “Long time ago,” he grunted.

The stranger looked at him questioningly.

“We got into a row over some spilled wine,” the chief sighed. “He called me a brainless savage and I gutted him.”

The white man smiled again and it this time lingered for a moment longer. “You were never too fond of the Bandikoyans,” he remarked.

“Like I said: long time ago. What of you?”

“I told you already,” the white man said. “I’m fleeing ghosts.”

“Why here, Aezubah?” N’Ct on threw a quick glance at his friend. “Why now?”

The white man sat motionless for a moment and looked into the fire dying in the corner, its red coals burning.

“It’s here where it all started,” he said finally.

“How so?”

“They come to me at night, when I sleep,” Aezubah gazed forward without blinking. “I can’t see them, but I feel them brushing against my cheek. They’re cold, colder than ice. I can hear them, too, whispering, hissing like snakes. I feel them gnawing away at my chest with unfleshed hands. I feel them clutching my throat with hatred.”

N’Cton listened without interrupting. Though trained in the civilized ways, he was a child of the wild and knew much of sorcery and spirits. In his world of the Black Steppes, a region furthest removed from the reaches of civilization, men, ghosts, demons and gods were very much alive.

“I’ve not paid heed to them for a long time,” Aezubah continued. “But now it’s getting worse. I feel them getting stronger. I wake up choking at night and I see them fading, fleeing. Nightmares are more frequent. The whispers are stronger. I feel them even during the day, watching me.”

To be continued...