Black Leopard, Red Wolf

“Yes, but two were dead before we killed them. The fat one is Biza, the tall one Thwoko. Both have been missing for over ten and three moons, but nobody knew what happened to them. They—”

I heard them in the dark and knew what was happening. The dead men’s mouths tearing open. The rumbling and rattling from toes to head as if death came in fits. Even in the dark the ripples rose from their thighs, to belly, to chest and then flew out the mouth in a cloud inky as night, a cloud we could barely see, which swirled and then vanished in the air. Too many shadows to see, but I knew on the spin of cloud and dust formed wings, for we both heard the flutter. We both stood there, looking at each other, neither wanting to say anything first, anything that spoke of what we just saw.

“They will crumble to dust if you touch them,” I said.

“Then best not to touch them,” a man said, and I jumped. Mossi smiled.

“Mazambezi, was it the flames that drew you or you missed the smell of me?”

“Indeed, one lives with shit, one gets used to the perfume of it.”

Two more prefects climbed up on the roof, neither saying anything to Mossi, but both looking over at the fire and covering their mouths at the smoke that started drifting our way.

“What do we do when we watch our history burn?” Mazambezi said.

“Your words speak of such loss, Mazambezi. We shall fill a new hall,” Mossi said.

“How did it start, do you know?”

“Don’t you know? Your men—”

“Some men dressed as chieftain army,” Mossi said, interrupting me. “I saw them myself, fire arrows into the great hall. Maybe they are usurpers. Hurting us where it would hurt the most.”

“This too will need a record. And where shall we store them?” Mazambezi laughed.

“You must take a look at these men, Mazambezi, their whole bodies are racked by dark craft,” Mossi said, and looked at the bodies again. It flashed, catching the light of the fire, and I yelled.

“Mossi!”

He ducked just as Mazambezi’s sword sliced through the air right above his head. The duck made him stumble. One of the men drew a small bow and aimed at me. I dropped beside the body that had caught my ax in the skull. I tore it out as an arrow flew in and replaced it. I jumped up and flung my ax, which spun and blurred and struck him in the middle of his chest. Mazambezi and a prefect both fought Mossi with swords. Mazambezi charged at him, sword out straight like a spear. Mossi dodged and kicked him in the chest with his knees. Mazambezi elbowed him in the side; Mossi fell and spun out of the other prefect’s strike, which sparked lights on the ground. The prefect raised his sword again but Mossi swung from the ground and chopped off his foot. The prefect fell, screaming. Mossi jumped up and drove his sword down into the prefect’s chest. He paused, panting, and Mazambezi sliced right across his back. I jumped between them and swung my ax. His blade met my blade and the force knocked him clear across the floor. He rose, shocked, confused, Mossi jumped in between us.

“Enough with this madness, Mazambezi, you called yourself incorruptible.”

“You call yourself handsome, and yet I can’t see what the women see in you.”

Mossi held his sword up, as did Mazambezi, and circled as if to clash again. I jumped in between them.

“Tracker! He will—”

Mazambezi swung his sword a hair’s length from my face, and I caught the blade. It shocked the prefect. He pulled his sword to cut my fingers but drew no blood. Mazambezi stood there, stunned. Two swords went straight through his back and came out through his belly. Mossi yanked his swords back, and the prefect fell.

“I would ask how, but do I—”

“A Sangoma. An enchantment. He would have killed me with a wooden sword,” I said.

Mossi nodded, not accepting the answer, but not wanting to push for another one.

“More of them will come,” I said.

“Mazambezi was not like the others. He spoke.”

“He only possesses some. He pays the others.”

Mossi turned back to watch the crowd, all lit up by firelight. He cursed and ran past me. I followed him down the rear staircase, jumping three steps like he did. He dashed into the crowd. I ran after him but the crowd surged forward and pulled back like waves. Someone cried that Kongor is lost, for how can we have a future without our past? The crowd confused me, made me deaf and blind until I remembered that I could now smell the library master. Mossi slapped him in the dark, slapped him until I grabbed his hand. The bookkeeper cowered on the ground.

“Mossi.”

“This whoreson will not talk.”

“Mossi.”

“They murder my books, they murder my books,” the library master said.

“Let me speak for you. A man came to you and said, Send word if any man comes by asking for records of Fumanguru. I come in, I say where are the records for Fumanguru, and you sent word by pigeon.”

He nodded yes.

“Who?” Mossi shouted.

“One of yours,” I said to him.

“Stick your falsehoods up your asshole, Tracker.”

“The only thing lying to you are your own eyes.”

“Why they murder my books? Why they murder my books?” the library master wailed.