Convergence

The log spun like a stick kicked by a child. The near end of it lifted off the ground, caroming towards the guardhouse wall. Zhura shoved Jinai and Keya down and clear. Splinters and bits of debris struck her head as she dove. The log crashed to the ground, rolling into the brick wall, crushing wounded men.

Dazed, Zhura tried to climb to her feet. The earth swayed beneath her.

The zenkomo bellowed in triumph in the breach. The demon lifted its roar to the sky, taunting the heavens, shaking the ground. The massive obsidian blade gleamed like fire in the torchlight.

Zhura grimaced in pain as she stood to face the behemoth.

The bellow died in the demon's throat, like a well run dry. The scythe fell from its fingers and thumped to the earth.

The zenkomo leaned. Then it fell, like a rotting tree, striking the ground with a hammer's blow.

An arrow as long as Zhura's arm sprouted neatly from an eyehole of its mask.

The pitiful line of defenders swiveled to guard the broken barrier, even as snarling bajari poured through the breach. Jinai, with a blade in each hand, charged forward, tearing into the hyenoid demons. They tried to avoid her, shying away from the consecrated wards that seared their flesh.

Zhura staggered, trying to shake her head free of haze from whatever struck her. The surviving zenkomo had cleared the ditch and crashed through the berm. Bajari raced past the enormous demon to clash with the shields of wardens and askari. The zenkomo, however, twisted and turned, trying to smash the lone adversary that dodged and circled and struck.

It was Ngo. His shield had been splintered, but he jabbed with his long-bladed iklwa, ducking to elude the demon's great maul.

Zhura pushed towards the fight, crippling a bajari demon that was too slow to get out of her way. The zenkomo was turned away from her. With all of her strength, she swung the club into the back of xhis muscled leg. The demon flesh blistered as she neared. The leg buckled with the blow, sending the zenkomo to one knee.

The next moment, Zhura threw herself to the ground as a boulder-sized fist whistled over her head. Demon skin split and steamed so close to her and Ngo's wards, reeking of ichor and burning dung. The demon roared again as Ngo attacked from the front.

The sound of battle cries and pounding feet drew near as Zhura rose again.

It was Emmi, a huge hammer in his hands, charging at the head of a crowd of Casters and refugees, joining the fight.

The zenkomo threw Ngo aside. The Sung warrior slammed into the log that blocked the bridge entrance. The demon began to turn on Zhura.

She reversed her kirri club and stabbed the demon with its tapered end. The zenkomo howled as Zhura drove the shaft deep into its side. Its skin blackened and smoldered, but still the demon had the strength to toss her away. Zhura tumbled hard into the ditch, falling atop dead men, even as the men and women of Emmi's reserve leapt over and past.

The herb-witch hurt everywhere. Sticky wetness trickled down the back of her neck.

This is not over.

The voice between her ears willed her to her feet, even though her body wanted nothing more than to lie in the dirt.

The zenkomo still kneeled, head hanging down, still as a statue. The kirri club pierced xhis side, driven in almost to the knob. Several arrows still stood in xhis steaming flesh. Dark ichor pulsed from its wounds. Slowly, it slumped to the ground.

Ngo lay some distance away. Zhura breathed a sigh of relief as she saw him rub his head.

The battle still raged. The bajari were trapped now, between the battered line of wardens and askari on one side, and fresh fighters from the Guild on the other. With the melee at close quarters, most of the bowmen from the tower would descend to reinforce the wardens. The bajari were outnumbered and badly outflanked.

Mortar, meet pestle.

Zhura clambered out of the ditch, looking around. She spotted Keya's pale face beyond the melee. The priestess stood near the guardhouse door, as wardens emerged past her, come down from the tower.

Jinai tore into the bajari with a blade in each hand. The demons that shrank from her found themselves trapped between foes. A few of the creatures on the flank broke away, loping into the road towards the safety of the dark shops. Even as she watched, one staggered and fell, run through by another arrow from Musa.

And there...

Bayati watched Zhura from across the intersection, on the Brassbelt. Her yellow skirt was untouched by blood or dirt. She had sent her demons to their demise, without the courage to lead them.

The Thandi was far enough away to be safe from bowshot. But Zhura saw the smirk that played on her lips.

She wouldn't get away, to summon more infernals and launch more attacks. Zhura couldn't allow that to happen.

She strapped the shield to her back. As Zhura began to move, Bayati clutched her staff and turned to run.

Screams and clashes of metal faded behind her, like the roar of a waterfall dwindling to the soft hiss of rain. The Brassbelt was vacant, as deathly quiet as a ruin, as Zhura chased down the woman who had been her friend.

Bayati veered right. She cut through a narrow alley between compound walls. Zhura caught glimpses of yellow in the passageway, choked as it was with spiky plants and overhanging trees. They tramped through a tiny plot of finger millet behind someone's shop. Bayati vaulted over a low wall to get to a street.

Zhura slowed as a mottled dog raced at her, barking. She calmed the dog with a raised hand, and then jumped the low wall.

The street was quiet. To the left was the Brassbelt. To the right, the empty street headed south. Both ways were decently lit.

A wall ran along the east side of the street, cordoning off a huge lot full of granaries. Zhura slipped her shield off of her back, securing it on her arm again.

Bayati was fast. Zhura grimaced, reminded again of how long the woman had fooled her.

Where did she go?

She had to be amongst the granaries. One-handed, Zhura vaulted over the wall.

Her nose filled with the smell of grain. Sweeter and grassier than the rice of the Sung Valley, but it made the mouth water all the same.

It was impossible to be completely silent. Like granaries everywhere, some small bit was wasted. Baskets were spilled; birds and rats took their tribute. Empty husks and chaff littered the ground, softly crunching under Zhura's feet.

She stopped, and listened. Bayati couldn't have gone far, not without making noise herself.

The forest of little round storehouses stretched before her, steeped in shadow. There were no sconces or torches here. The only light came from the stars above and what leaked from the sleeping city. There wasn't enough space for a person to hide underneath the granaries, and the roofs of each were more than an arms-length overhead.

Zhura crept down one of the rows, shield ready. She moved slowly, listening and letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. The herb-witch ventured past several storehouses. She turned to creep south, down a column.

Her first warning was a whiff of hibiscus oil. Quick footsteps and the rush of something moving fast. Zhura fended off the staff with her shield. Bayati followed the clash with a flurry of strikes.

The Thandi woman had learned the staff well. She had certainly held back her strength and speed when she and Zhura had trained together. Her strokes were deft and efficient. Even in these close quarters, there was no wasted movement, no hindrance of her strikes. Zhura scrambled to ward off blows that might lick over or under the edge of her shield.

Without a weapon, Zhura had nothing to counter with, and could only hope that Bayati would make a mistake. The herb-witch skipped back, narrowly avoiding a downward thrust that would have shattered her foot.

There were no words now. Only labored breath, Bayati's shrieks of rage and the slam of wood on hide.

Zhura felt rage too. She had known Bayati. The woman had not been entirely false. She had won Zhura's trust for good reasons. Underneath the herb-witch's fury was a well of grief. Zhura struggled to keep her head above that surface, to keep her mind fixed on survival.

Driven back by the blows of Bayati's staff, Zhura rounded a corner. It was there that she saw her opening. Blocking a sweeping strike, Zhura pinned the staff against a granary wall. She stepped forward, her shield grinding Bayati's hand against the dried mud. Bayati's free hand clawed at her face. Zhura knocked it away and drove her palm up under the woman's chin. Bayati's head slammed into the brick, and she sagged like a heavy sack to the ground.

Zhura let out a slow breath. Bayati may have been dead or alive, but it was clear she wasn't getting up again soon.

The herb-witch eased down, sitting next to the woman that had been her friend. She was wracked with pain. Her head throbbed from an unseen wound. Her heart ached even more. Her fingers curled reflexively around the shaft of the staff.

"You've come such a long way," a voice said. "But finally, you've returned."

The voice was familiar, in that southern drawl that was common in the Nubic Kingdoms. But Zhura had heard it for the very first time eighteen months ago.

The Scarred Woman Ntoza stepped out of the darkness. She wore a robe of dark teal; a single strip of fabric strategically wrapped around her body. It left much of her midriff and all of her legs bare, exposing sinuous scarification patterns and a body that was as alluring as ever.

Somehow, Zhura never expected to see Ntoza out in the open. She seemed a woman who much preferred manipulation to fighting. She wasn't even carrying a weapon.

Zhura glanced at the unconscious woman next to her. Hefting the staff and shield, she slowly rose to her feet.

"Let's end this now," she said. She tensed, ready for one more contest. But for the first time in so long, she gazed again into the dark wells of Ntoza's eyes, and memory gave her pause.

Ntoza's expression was one of admiration and sadness. She revealed the small item she held in her hands, a bead-eyed doll of dyed raffia. The linen on the doll resembled a halter and short wrap skirt. What appeared to be human hair twirled around its fibrous head.

"I agree completely, Zhura of Boma." Ntoza said.

Light streaked out from the doll.

The world spun.

**

How was it possible to win every battle yet still feel as if you'd lost?

The southern reaches of the kingdom were at once barren and beautiful. The scrublands still showed evidence of war and fire. Blackened, skeletal remains of trees and farms still clawed the sky where retreating armies had scorched the ground behind them. But new grass sprouted, to choke away what was left of croplands of millet and beans.

Like the edges of a watering hole during the dry season, the soldiers and farmers had fled this place and not come back. In Morore, there had been rumors that this land would become a new kingdom, carved out of Chide. After their defeat at Bandiri Slopes, the Sizwe impi had withdrawn far to the south. Farmers hesitated to resettle disputed land. Perhaps after the next rainy season, the villagers would return.

Or perhaps they never would. Perhaps this land would always remain wild and free.

But the Big Mongoose still flowed. It swept through great ravines and tumbled over bluffs, casting off a many-colored mist as it snaked towards the great rifts of Northern Nyandema. Its banks nourished the succulent roots and grasses that fed Anathe's elephant herd. The herd, and the remnant of Anathe's army, followed the river, hoping to find a new home.

In the months after Bandiri Slopes, the city of Morore had not been kind. The nobles and clans who had fought side by side at the battle began fighting each other. People said Anathe was a barbarian, raised by wild animals. She was the consort of a demon. She was the secret lover of Yende, already pledged to a daughter of the powerful Malindi clan.

Anathe's followers, by the hundreds, had chosen to stay. The kingdom, at least, promised land to settle, and life without war or privation.

So Anathe had left, along with those few of her people who knew there was still a war to win. Of those who had remained with her, only Mande openly argued that she should stay in the city.

But even though Anathe refused to stay, Mande remained by her side. Anathe didn't know why, but she guessed that it was because the Thandi woman carried Tswe's offspring. Mande had stopped drinking blood-seed tea before the battle, and she must have known Tswe would never leave Anathe.

Wind blew delicate ripples along the surface of the watering hole. The presence of the elephants drove dangerous crocodiles and even hippos away. Tswe and a few of the warriors kept watch so that others could bathe and rest.

As Anathe sluiced cool water over her neck and breasts, she looked over to the grassy shore, where Sathu nursed baby Zhura. Sathu had also been pregnant during the battle. The babes could grow up together. Anathe had never had a human friend as a child. She never really felt she understood most people.

For Zhura, it would be different.

"Do not fear," Mande said. "Your daughter will always be loved and cared for." The Swaga woman's skin gleamed as she waded closer. Like Anathe, Mande was submerged to her chest.

"We will make a home for her," Anathe said. She opened her arms as Mande embraced her, soft skin kissing her own.

"Yes, we will..." Mande whispered.

The blade was cold, numbing, as it slipped between Anathe's ribs. Anathe gasped as Mande drove it deep. Steel seized her in an icy grip.

"...without you."

Anathe's eyes grew wide, uncomprehending. She tried to pull away, but Mande held her tight, as a lover would.

"Why?"

"Shhh..."

The water around them had already taken on a crimson tinge. Anathe felt weak as she began to struggle.

"Tswe will kill you," she snarled.

"Not while I carry xhis child. Kukuru are loyal to their offspring. No matter what Tswe feels for you, you are not xhis offspring."

Anathe twisted, looking away.

Other bathers had not yet noticed. On the shore, Zhura suckled at Sathu's plump breast. She was safe and content, for the moment.

All a mother could ask.

Anathe lunged, shoving Mande away. But not far enough. How did the woman become so strong?

Anathe's vision began to cloud. It was too late.

Forgive me, Daughter.

The rest of this journey, you must make on your own.

Chapter 5

The last dream had not been like the others. Zhura felt as if she'd watched the water bloom with her own lifeblood.

Zhura had never been in a cell before, but she had imagined them. Deep dark pits under the earth where prisoners were left to die. Keya had spoken of the lofty spires in Namu where condemned nobles had lived out their last days.

The place she woke to was like nothing she'd ever imagined. The walls were rough-hewn rock; rusty red, white, and moss green. A chain, locked around her wrist, was bolted to the wall, allowing her to move a couple of paces away from the wall, but not all the way to the grate that was the cell's only exit.

But the most bizarre part of her prison was the lights. The ceiling was alive with their pale glow, and the luminescence reflected upon bright veins of ore. Zhura peered at the tiny, brilliant spots above her, and guessed that they were some sort of lichen or tiny mushroom.

She crept as far as the jangling chain would allow, until she could look through the gate. A Thandi woman appeared to be standing guard outside. The Scarred Woman spotted her as well, and slipped from Zhura's view.

Hunger twisted Zhura's belly. She reeked of sweat, blood and ichor. Her skin was streaked with filth. Zhura tested the chain, and her strength. She was weak. Normal.

She guessed it had been several hours since she had fallen. Perhaps it was the following night. The wards that had adorned her wrists were gone, as was the sanjuskin wrap she wore.

Where was this place? An old mine, perhaps. But Zhura didn't know the surroundings of the city well enough to even guess a direction.

She winced as she remembered throwing Keya to the ground at the end of the battle. The priestess was barely a third of the way through her pregnancy. The child should be fine. It would have been rather worse off had Keya's head been detached from her shoulders.

In her mind she could still see Ngo tossed through the air, striking the wooden barrier. She'd seen him move after that, but that didn't mean he'd recovered.

She'd been wrong to leave them. So foolish, to run off alone after Bayati.

The sound of women's voices came from where the guard had stood. Zhura stretched the chain taut. It was Ntoza and a bajari demon.

The pair unlocked the grate and stepped into Zhura's cell. The demon, tall and broad around the shoulders and hips, had to stoop and squeeze its way inside.

The Thandi woman wore a white dress that opened to her navel and hung in panels to below her knees. The hyenoid demon was golden furred, with blue runes painted on its flesh. Its notched ears were adorned with gold rings.

Zhura's heart sank. She had seen this bajari, near the end of the battle, in the handful of infernals who escaped.

During the battle, the infernals had worn harness, but this bajari was naked. Its cock hung, thick and the color of coral, along its thigh. Zhura edged back towards the rock wall.

Noting the herb-witch's apprehension, Ntoza smiled with satisfaction. She watched Zhura, basking in her triumph.

"This is so tragic," Ntoza said. "I hoped it wouldn't end this way."

Zhura inhaled, calming herself. If Ntoza expected her to grovel, she would be disappointed. "You mean, you hoped it wouldn't end with your forces getting crushed on the Brassbelt like overripe fruit. How is Bayati, by the way? Is she able to sit up yet? She might need an herb-witch."

Ntoza turned her wry smile to the demon beside her, as if proving a point. The bajari licked its chops, eyeing the herb-witch hungrily.

"I'll never follow you," Zhura vowed.

"That is clear. Painfully so," Ntoza said smoothly. She tipped her head to the ceiling, as if remembering the past. "You are remarkable, Zhura. When I found you, you knew nothing. Since then, you have learned much. I never expected you to become as formidable as you are.

"And yet you know only a fraction of what I could have taught you. Among us, a girl half your age would know more of her traditions, her abilities. That is what is so tragic."

The bajari crouched before Zhura, examining her with an amused expression. The pink length of flesh between xhis legs twitched with excitement. The demon reached a clawed hand towards Zhura's bare foot. She flinched away.

"As my farewell to you, I have given you a great gift." She produced the doll from her dress, and tossed it into the cell. 'It has a little piece of you and your mother, made from hairs you left behind. With its magic, you were able to channel your mother. To know what she knew, and feel what she felt. All the way to her crushing end."

The Thandi woman sighed. "I've always given you what you truly needed, Zhura."

Zhura stared at the doll. All of the confidence and eagerness of the past days had drained away, leaving only sorrow. She wiped away tears, and turned back to her captors.

"What is happening in the city?" she asked. Even if she lacked it, she had to show strength. She didn't expect the truth, but she hoped Ntoza might reveal something.

"Morore remains in your father's hands," Ntoza said, watching Zhura closely. "But soldiers from Chide are already in the outskirts of the city. The defenders are badly outnumbered. The Upper City will soon be under siege, and when starvation and thirst sets in, it will fall. The battle you take such pride in was ultimately futile."