Through my grief, I’m dimly aware of the sand turning to rock beneath my feet, of the barren limestone peaks replacing the dunes ahead of the caravan. We stop at a large trading post near a river, and the slavers let us drink our fill of water. It lifts the fog from my mind, but that only sharpens the pain of losing Ampah. The image of her limp body dragging through the sand is branded in the supple skin of my memory.
We were almost out of the desert. If she’d only held on for a little while longer.
It takes us over a week to cross the arid plains and canyons of the low mountains, passing only shepherds and the occasional far-flung village. Then, suddenly, we’re surrounded on either side by fields of grass and golden grains and the reddest soil I’ve ever seen, its rich, earthy scent filling my nose. The air is mild, the breeze moist enough to soothe my parched skin, and I almost feel glad that I’m still alive.
It continues like this for two more days, until, at last, we reach the city of Anfa.
I take in the imposing rammed-earth walls, only a few heads taller than me but stretching as far as the eye can see. The rusted metal gates heave a great sigh as they rise, revealing a swarm of people against a backdrop of brightly colored stucco homes. My senses are overwhelmed by sights and sounds and smells, a jarring contrast from the void of the desert and the mountains and the stillness of the farmland. The clinking of metal blends with shouts, laughter, music. The scent of incense wafting through the air gives way to sizzling meats and tantalizing spices trickling out of the gated courtyards, making me even dizzier with hunger than I already was.
But the scents also conjure the vague memory of when I was here with Papa, so many years ago. I remember the arched doorways and mosaic swirls, the crumbling ruins of a distant past forgotten and built around.
Our captors lead us deftly through the maze-like streets. I wonder how they remember where to go. The city of alleys—that’s what Papa called it.
At last, we arrive at the market district. Each craft has its own section: leather-workers standing knee-deep in honeycomb vats of dye; weavers selling tapestries in breathtaking, intricate designs; herbalists waving pungent concoctions in the noses of our captors, who wave them off like flies. I don’t have time to take in all the details as we’re hurried to a large, covered space that looks like a resting spot for camels.
New men come to greet our captors. They pass around more stale bread and pour water into the troughs, motioning for us to drink. Like we’re animals, I can’t help but think to myself again, but the thought washes away in the gulps of water sliding down my throat. The camel I’ve been sleeping on leans down beside me and slurps water up his long neck. It’s been days since we cleared the desert, but I don’t think I’ll ever quench this thirst.
A cool breeze sends a loud whoosh through my ears. I raise my head and breathe deeply, smelling salt in the gust. I can’t see the sea, but it must be close.
Our captors untie the camels and tether them to posts, leaving two men to guard them while the rest lead me and the villagers down to a large open square with a rickety wooden platform in the center. This is where they will hold the auction.
I look over the caravan with renewed worry. I’m shocked to see how short the line is without the camels; many more than I realized died in the desert with Ampah. Those who survived are little more than walking skeletons draped in skin. Including me.
The slavers jostle us into an orderly line around the platform. More and more people crowd around as they notice our company.
People who want to buy us.
My stomach twists. What kind of life awaits me here? Most likely, someone will buy me to work on their farm or serve in their house. But what if I’m bought by a merchant, just to be taken across the sea and sold again? Al-Andalus—that’s what Papa said the kingdom across the sea is called. I don’t know what happens to slaves there. Anfa is as far as I’ve ever traveled; other than the name, I know nothing about al-Andalus. The thought fills me with dread. My entire future is dependent on who buys me, and what they want from me.
I scan the faces in the crowd pushing in toward the rickety stage, searching for a hint of—I don’t know what. Kindness? Compassion?
No. Even if I found it—even if I could choose who I left with today—it wouldn’t matter. Ampah is dead, but my family is still out there somewhere. So I will find a way to escape. I will make my way back to Wagadu. By all the gods, no matter how long it takes, I will find Mama and Kamo and Goleh, and together we’ll start a new life.
One of the slavers climbs onto the platform and points to a gangly boy at the front of the line. Two of his companions untie him from the rest of us and bring him forward onto the platform. When I recognize him, my blood grows cold.
Masireh.
The slaver shouts some sort of advertisement, loud enough for all to hear. He points to Masireh’s arms and legs, then grabs his jaw and yanks open his mouth to show off his teeth. Three moons ago, Masireh would have spit in his face for such an insult. Now he just stands there and wilts, like a stem of hood grass.
The other slavers chuckle, revealing their yellowed, rotten smiles. I cringe, feeling a wave of nausea wash over me.
A hand raises a bag of coin above the crowd. The figure holding it pushes his way to the front, revealing himself as an elder with faint, discolored skin. The slaver kneels down at the edge of the platform and takes the man’s pouch. He pours six gold coins into his callused palm and hands Masireh to the old man, along with the empty pouch.
Masireh was never anything but cruel to me. Still, I watch with a sinking feeling as he bows his head in defeat and disappears with the old man around a corner.
The slaver points to the second person in line. As the people call out their bids, I spot a tall, lean man at the front of the crowd. His skin is even darker than mine, and he’s dressed in a gossamer red-and-gold tunic and a finely embroidered round red hat—the garb of a wealthy man, a noble or more likely a merchant.
The man shouts something out. All at once, the crowd stills and goes quiet.
Then he points to me, holding out a hefty sack of coins.
I hold my breath. Two other slavers start to untie me.
What?
I have no time to rub my aching wrists before they bind them together again with a separate rope. They yank me around the wooden platform and shove me over to the merchant.
He looks me up and down, licking his cracked lips with a hint of lust that makes my blood boil, even as my throat closes in on itself in fear. He circles me like a vulture and utters some words whose meaning I can well guess.
I feel a harsh grip on my backside. Instantly, rage uncoils within me, tensing my limbs. The merchant’s hand snakes up my waist and fondles me roughly over my kaftan, eliciting laughs from the other men at the market.
I whip around and strike my head against his. Hard.
He screams, stumbling backward. When he regains his balance, he raises his open palm to slap me. I shut my eyes and steel myself for the blow.
“Aieeeeeeeaaa!”
Instead of his palm, a piercing shriek hits my ears.
Where did it come from?
A murmur goes up among the slavers and buyers alike. They glance around nervously.
The merchant digs his fingers into my braids and yanks my head back. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his own eyes darting around the square, searching for the source of the shriek.
A spear flies over my head, fast as a bolt of lightning. It soars over the crowd and buries itself in the wooden platform behind me.
What in Legba’s name is—
I get my answer before my mind finishes forming the question. But when I see her, my first thought is that I must be dreaming.
A woman with skin the color of bone and hair the color of night flips off the balcony of a house on the edge of the square. She lands in a crouch behind the crowd.
She looks like no woman I’ve ever seen before. Long black hair falls flat as a board next to her deathly pale cheeks, but every other part of her body ripples with muscle. Despite the heat, she wears a fur vest adorned with the face of some animal I don’t recognize, its jaw open, pointed teeth bared in a fearsome display.
Her light-blue eyes graze mine. A shiver washes over me, as though I’ve been doused in a bucket of cold water.
The hilt of her blade seems to wink at me, and I lower my gaze to the sheath in her hand. I can’t see the sword itself, but a powerful nyama emanates from the inlays on the silver cross guard.
The markings of magic.
She flips the sheath from one hand to the other and the sword flies out in an arc above her. I gasp as it soars through the air, glittering in the sunlight.
“Valhalla!”
The bellow is so deep and rumbling, I can hardly believe it came from her mouth.
She catches the hilt of the sword in her other hand. Not a moment passes before she slices it through the air, cleaving the unlucky man closest to her in two.
My jaw falls open.
“Majūs!” The screams go up in a chorus all around me.
Majūs. I know that word.
But I can’t think. All is chaos. The slavers shout and draw their swords, starting toward the woman. The auction-goers push past one another, trampling each other in their rush to flee the square. The villagers, still lashed together, try to run in different directions and wind up pulling one another to the ground.
The merchant tightens his grip on my hair as he backs away, dragging me with him.
“Valhalla!”
I yank my head straight just in time to see two more pale-skinned women leap down from the balconies around the square and move to flank the first. The one on the right is short and sturdily built, with pinkish skin and straw-like hair shorn close to her head. She holds an ax in either hand. The one on the left, a lithe woman with a single braid cascading to her waist, brandishes a sword and a yellow wooden shield painted with two black birds on either side. The shield immediately goes up to block the blow from the first slaver to reach them.
And then the battle truly begins.
The first woman carries no shield, but it quickly becomes clear that she doesn’t need one. She whirls around, parrying blows with her sword and hewing down the slavers with ease. I watch in awe as she runs the glittering blade through one slaver, kicks his body away, then spins and hacks off the arm of another before he can even raise his weapon. A wide grin lights up her otherworldly face as the bodies fly from her path. It’s glee, I realize—a rabid, animal glee. The woman on her right wears a far more focused expression as she sinks an ax into one slaver’s neck. Blood spurts from the wound as he goes down. Meanwhile, the one on the left races forward and uses her shield to knock the weapon out of another slaver’s hand.
My view is suddenly obscured by the back of the wooden platform as the merchant hauls me out of the fray.
Fury courses through my veins, giving me new life. I dig my heels into the dirt and propel myself backward, slamming back into his chest with full force.
He lets out a snarl and staggers back. My hands are still bound, but I throw an elbow at his nose and draw blood. As his hands fly to his face, I drop down and sweep my leg under his, swiping him clean off his feet.
I turn to run—and crash right into a panicked slaver doing the same.
A split second of confusion, but it’s all the time the merchant needs.
I feel his grip locking around my ankle just before I hit the ground.
The fall knocks the wind out of my lungs. As I struggle to suck in air, he grabs my hair again and resumes dragging me out of the square, away from the commotion.
Lisa is blinding, spotting my vision. I feel my back scraping against dirt and stone. I hit the merchant’s hand over and over with the thumbs of my bound palms. A sharp pain blossoms in my shoulder. I howl.
All the fire leaves me at once. My body goes slack. The merchant looms over me, a blade in his hand and a murderous look in his eyes.
Suddenly I’m no longer the bold heart my father raised me to be. I’m just a girl, weak and helpless.
I fought. I fought with everything I had, but it was no use.
I’m going to die.
Fight harder, my daughter, Papa urges me in my mind. Believe you are stronger than your enemy.
I’m sorry, Papa. I can’t.
I shut my eyes.
But a gruesome squelching sound pries them back open.
Blood spatters across my face. A blade juts out through the merchant’s eye, skewering him from behind. His mouth lolls open as his body sags and crumples to the side, revealing another silhouette behind him.
I blink up at the ivory-skinned woman towering over me. Her left eye is a shard of ice cutting through the tattered curtain of her straight black hair as she holds my gaze.
It’s Mawu. Lisa’s other half, the darkness to the light, who holds both life and death at her command.
The goddess herself has come to my aid.
A wordless moment passes between us. Time slows to a crawl. The screams and shouts in the distance fade to a dull roar.
She says something to me. The flowing vowels of her strange tongue seem at odds with the grindstone roughness of her voice. I continue to stare at her, still dumbfounded.
She repeats herself, more urgently this time. I shake my head, trying to convey that I don’t understand.
A horn blasts out from somewhere inside the city. She looks over in the direction of the sound and grunts in frustration. Before I can blink again, she flicks her sword up between my wrists, slicing the binds.
I force myself to sit up, fighting a wave of dizziness. The woman quickly searches the merchant’s corpse, tucking a coin purse into her vest. She starts to jog away, then stops and looks over her shoulder at me.
A silent question hangs in the air between us, the clarity of its meaning bursting through the barrier of our different tongues.
My mind flashes to the image of her sword arcing through the air, to the look of savage exultation on her face as she cleaved that wretched man in two.
I’ve spent six long years feeling ashamed of my own wildness. Part of me believed that I really am jugu. So I built a dam to contain that wildness, to keep it inside, where it couldn’t hurt anyone—or get me hurt.
But she is wild, and she is not ashamed. Neither are the other two. They are warriors. I don’t know how it’s possible…but somehow it is.
By the time the horn sounds again, I’ve made my decision.
I scramble to my feet and take off after her. My legs scream in protest, but I force them to match her long, thunderous strides as she runs back into the square. It’s almost empty now, the slavers and buyers all dead or fled. The two other women are looting the bodies that litter the ground. I scan for the villagers, but I don’t see any of them among the dead. They must have escaped.
The black-haired woman shouts something to the other two as we race past. Instantly they’re on their feet, falling into step behind us.
The four of us skid to a halt at the wall that separates the city from the sea. Bloodcurdling screams and the clang of iron on iron emanate from the other side, coming from about a stone’s throw to our left. That’s why no reinforcements came to the square: The guards are busy with the real battle. The gate to the sea must be over there—but there’s no way to get there without leaving the square and finding our way through the maze of alleys, and from the sound of it, there’s no way we’ll make it out regardless.
What now?
The black-haired woman whips an ax out from her belt and slams it into the wall with all her might. The first blow ricochets off, but the next catches a groove and holds fast.
My jaw drops open. I’ve never seen a blade so strong it can cut through rammed earth.
She grabs the handle with both hands, pulls her body up, and swings her legs over the ledge with astonishing nimbleness. I wonder again if she isn’t a goddess in human form.
From astride the wall, she pulls the two other women over. Then she holds her hand out to me.
I throw one last look over my shoulder at the auction square.
No, there’s nothing but death in that direction. Which means there’s only one way to go.
Forward.
I take her hand.
On the other side of the wall, my aching legs sink into the white sand of a vast beach. My eyes widen at the sight of the battle we were just hearing.
To our left, a horde of bone-colored men are locked in a battle with Anfa’s guards.
No—not a battle. A slaughter.
Most of the guards lie slain, their blood staining the white sand red. The surviving guards are surrounded on all sides, save for the gate behind them, on which they bang their weapons in desperation. That’s what we were hearing on the other side of the wall.
But the gates won’t open.
The bone-colored men throw themselves on the helpless survivors with abandon, hacking and mauling like buzzards tearing into a buffalo corpse. My stomach churns, but I can’t look away. The pale men fight like they’d welcome death if it came, but they know it won’t.
As if summoned by my thoughts, more guards appear from behind the gate.
Archers.
Panic grips me. A handful of the bone-colored men go down. An ax flies from their ranks, spins through the air, and strikes one of the archers between the eyes. Blood pours from his head as he tumbles over the wall into the sand.
With the three of us at her heels, the black-haired woman takes off toward the sea, barking something at the men. The order echoes down their ranks, and soon everyone is falling back from the assault.
Do all these soldiers follow her orders?
A woman—in command of a whole army?
How can that be? My heart swells with awe and confusion.
An arrow whizzes by my ear, banishing the questions from my mind. The black-haired woman grunts as it skims her outer thigh but keeps running. The two other women overtake us both as another bone-colored man goes down to our left. I pump my legs with wild abandon, my thighs stinging with the strain of pushing off the sand. It’s as if the sand doesn’t want to let me go, like it’s greedy for the life it couldn’t take from me in the desert.
It feels like forever until we’re out of the archers’ range, and still we run with everything we have. My heart threatens to burst through my rib cage.
Then I finally notice what we’re running toward.
Dragons.
Not dragons—dragon ships. There are maybe two dozen of them looming over the merchants’ skiffs tethered to the docks. They have green-and-white-striped sails and sit impossibly high on the water, almost as though they float just above it, like water-insects resting on pond film. The head of a dragon glares at us from every prow, and on the decks, yet more ivory-skinned men rush about, reeling in anchors and lowering oars into the water.
I don’t see any other women.
The men from the beach wade into the sea and are hauled by their comrades onto the ships, which are surprisingly shallow for their size. I splash in after the three women, and we wade almost up to our shoulders before we’re pulled aboard the last ship, the only one with red-and-white sails.
The black-haired woman starts shouting commands, and the ship lurches forward. A spasm of pain rocks me as my body slams hard against the deck. I roll onto my side and suck air into my ravaged lungs. I try to stand up, but my head spins and my knees buckle beneath me. Instead I grab onto the bulkhead with both hands and peer over it, watching the bay of Anfa as it slides farther and farther from view.
Darkness creeps in around the edges of my vision. All at once I’m overwhelmed by a bone-deep exhaustion. I notice a tingling in my shoulder and look down.
Blood blooms red against the sand-covered tatters of yellow cloth.
A voice crashes over me like a wave. I turn to face it, but all I can see are curtains of night around two piercing blue eyes.
I feel myself fall, and all is darkness.