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By
Kirk A. Johnson
Vapor and smoke covered his eyes, hiding the sky and earth, and all in between. The thick odorless mist chilled him with an eerie silence. Its foreboding stillness crawled over his flesh with icy intent, feeding his fear. His clammy fingers gripped the fanged charm dangling from around his neck, hoping that it would protect him within the bleached prison. But the surging smoke steadily robbed his confidence in talismans with each hesitant step.
Sangara inched steadily through the dry grass, recalling the steel-helmed Manden astride their scarlet-tasseled steeds ride from the grim gates of Da Boura to Kindou’s aid. He remembered how they rode west and then north along the majestic range of the ancient Fouta Juma Mountains, its primordial peaks watching the mailed convoy ride in fervent pursuit of Kindou’s ravagers. And the Ramaasou, having little time to drop their plunder, met their pursuers with mad-howls and wolfish war cries.
The earth moaned with the thunder of iron-shod hooves and sandaled feet stirring the blood of every man within the stern-eyed cavalcade, with chariot and horse falling upon them in savage vengeance. And Sangara, seeking the taste of glory and honor, spurred his mount ahead of the unholy chaos of flesh and steel; only to feel the cruel blow of a hard-flung war-club cover his eyes.
But when he awakened the echoes of crashing shields and whispering spears were replaced by the eerie silence of an empty world. Blood stained his face. His skull throbbed and he cursed the gods for it with a nagging thought filling his mind, “Where are my kinsmen?”
Sangara’s heart drummed in rhythm with his mounting pace. The primordial fog propelled his flying feet, causing his black hauberk to rustle under his quilted battle-dress. The ground became hard and gritty underfoot. His sword cleaved in desperation and despair through the thick and steamy air, feeding his fear and goading him into a frenzied panic which threatened to swallow his soul. But a loose stone ended his mad dash and with his armor lending weight to his falling frame, his sword escaped its grasp; and echoed throughout the blank emptiness.
* * *
Moments later Sangara’s eyes blinked in bewilderment as he stirred within a gloomy cavern instead of the enshrouding smoke. Quickly he grabbed his sword, sprang to his feet, and braced for battle. A sickly phosphorous glow illuminated the unearthly surroundings revealing a high ceiling covered with teeth-like rock dripping with melting ice with faint echoes booming in the darkness.
He judged himself deep within the forbidden depths of the Fouta Juma Mountains and tales of the Bafour giants laying their kings into great tombs filled his thoughts. He imagined secrets being whispered into the ears of sorcerers and witches by eldritch abominations. And curses laid upon unwanted guests by long dead tongues who were known to feast on the men of the world. Evils driven into the earth by the Hunter-Lords and who now call these places—home.
Then a howl shattered the dead silence, challenging him as it echoed throughout the cavern. And from out of the surrounding rock hurtling towards him seven ragged and rough rogues brandishing cruel blades and savage eyes. The godless Ramaasou, which he had so ardently pursued, were now thrown at him by the mysteries of fate.
Sangara charged the wild men with eyes ablaze and dark abandon pumping through his veins. His hungry blade swung left and right, severing matted heads and shoulder joints; mallet-hard fist dislodged decaying teeth from ruined lips. He battered his way through the blood-keen mob, creating a wedge in their ranks toward the cave wall. There he braced himself. His swarthy visage hid behind grisly streaks of gore and sweat; his sleeveless jack dripped black-red with scars and cuts, as he realized his long-awaited dream of battle and blood.
“Come dogs, and test skills with the Daan Toura’s son!” he roared.
A full-on charge answered him and he replied with heavy blows, gashed skulls, and severed muscles. He had become a giant-king of old, towering over the desecraters of his tomb; arching his coated blade back and forth, summoning death cries and crimson screams, which painted his ebon arms and quilted chest. No more a lost child in the dark, but a wraith of war feasting on the brutal thirst of battle-madness.
The marauders neither wavered nor faltered from their labor, scarring Sangara’s flesh with long damp slits. But he felt none of their stings. And as the last foe fell; a great call rang throughout the cavern walls warning the ancestors —- a Da Bouran is born.
Exhausted, his powerful chest heaved in tempo to the beating of his heart as the battle-rage slowly flowed out of him. Heavy erratic breathing resounded within the lifeless space surrounding him. He sat against the cave wall staring at the carnage left in his wake. The reek of death choking the damp air.
This was not his first kill. Twelve cycles ago, he alone hunted and slew the kura of the west, and whose massive fang now adorned his corded throat as a charm. That was the greatest triumph of a youth . . . until now. He had prevailed against a greater number of armed men and trophies were necessary for ceremony and honor-bound gifts.
Wearily, he rose from against the wall, brandishing his arm dagger and set forth to work with his trophy-hunt when a chilling laugh echoed through the blackness. A maniacally ancient tone that traveled in and about the depths, chilling his heart. It seemed to come from every crack and cavity of the ancient den.
“Welcome slayer” crooned the voice. “Rejoice! You have survived your first ordeal and so are marked!”
The strange accent was of neither Xaftaan nor Zarman in fashion. His acute ears also caught the mark of scholarship and madness, the brand of cursed men.
“Look yonder man-boy and accept refreshment from my spring,” invited the voice.
With sword and dagger still drawn, Sangara quickly turned. He saw a crowned eagle-head carved out of the raw stone, bowing over a basin jutting out underneath. Its skillfully carved beak spouted a stream of crystalline water, the clearest he had ever seen. The glittering splashes moistened his dry mouth. And as if in a dream, he found himself gliding over towards this most inviting of apparitions, forgetting well-fought trophies and the curse of giants. He stared long into the water as it flowed out of the walls.
“Go on! Drink!” the voice commanded. “You have earned it.”
Sangara sheathed his dagger and gingerly stretched out his dirtied palm into the spouting liquid. The taste sprinkled his palate with a peppery, honey-sweet taste and as cool as the western breeze. A delicious mixture that excited his mouth and beckoned him to take more. He braced himself on the edge of the basin and submerged his crested pate deep into the pool. The ever-flowing water washed away the sweat, blood, and uncertainty. A strange surge coursed throughout his soul. He felt the ease of control and his body straightened itself, like a great baobab tree in defiance of hard winds. There was neither exhaustion nor fear. He felt the power of his entire bloodline boom within him and felt the rule of gods bend to his will.
Laughter from the gloom echoed once more with mocking delight. “Ha. you have been poisoned!”
Bewilderment shot through Sangara’s face, but instead of grief or sadness, he felt fury and determination.
“Then if I am to die! Show yourself! ‘Toad of the dark’! ‘Knave in rock’! Come and allow my passing to be painted with your blood!” he defiantly cried.
“Stout words for one so young. I do believe the effects have taken hold,” answered the voice.
Sangara’s eyes narrowed as he realized that the voice was right. He was bolstering with the voice of his father, granting him the timbre of a warrior in full prime.
“To arms gallant!” called the voice. “The mist beckons you!”
Quickly, Sangara turned and spied an eerie glow illuminating from a tunnel he had not noticed before. Across the chamber, the pale, glowing mist that greeted him earlier had returned carpeting the cave floor. Fallen weapons and butchered bodies vanished into the undulating phantasm as it crept toward him.
“What? Does the slayer fear lighted corridors?” Sinisterly mocked the accent. “Go! Hurry before the light fades and I leave you in black bewilderment!”
Sangara warily approached the tunnel mouth with sword gripped and jaw clenched, stalking cautiously into the glowing maw of rock and stone.
* * *
The ashen mist trapped within the wide corridor pulsed with a disturbing aura. The stench of foul, butchered flesh alerted his battle-honed sinews to the black doom that awaited him. The tunnel meandered on for endless paces. The floor felt marred with grooves and furrows beneath his sandaled feet, and adding to his ever-growing unease crept the eerie fluorescence. Eventually the tunnel opened up into an expansive sub-terra identical to the chamber he had previously exited. He started to question whether he had gone around in a circle or perhaps left his sanity behind on the sub-terrain battlefield. He noticed, on further inspection, the far walls cavitied with slime-covered burrows and crimson scars.
While Sangara pondered his new surroundings, the escorting mist whipped and surged as it slowly emptied out of the grotto, leaving him to discover new horrors.
Stone hewed braziers sparked to life, shining dim dancing flames of a ghastly-lit arena. A better look at the walls confirmed his suspicions that the cavities were indeed burrows, constructed without rhyme or reason in placement and design, as though great rats had chewed out their homes in the granite flesh of this fetid prison. His eyes descended the burrowed wall, taking notice of the foul ichor that stained the edges and pool at the base. The length of the wall was covered with mounds of the meaty bones and skulls of men, which lay strewn about him, peppering every darkened corner and lighted stretch of the chamber. Mixed into the vile heaps were the torn raiment and ripped corselets of the many foreign nations and tribes. The scarlet soiled robes of Xaftaan nobles bestrewn alongside the silken tunics of haughty Daehans from the faraway south. Mantles of hardy Kajanjuden hunters scattered among the ripped mail coats of Manden and Asuah heroes. Sangara also spied the gruesome remains of the base and fierce thunder-stone mandrills—-the gongberous. But the Sacred Songs declared them driven into the far north by the “Mighty Seven”. Few were ever seen alive within the borders of the Seven Cities, entering mostly as the pelts and odd ornaments of lucky Sonkoden hunters.
A thunderous roar rocked the burrowed depths, shaking Sangara out of his trance. Then a hundred more roars broke out from the multi-laired walls as he drew his notched blade. At that moment, the hall sprang to life as the hideous forms of the gongberous bounded onto the flat surface of their feasting hall, crushing bones and skulls underfoot.
The lusty vigor of his tribe hummed within his heart as he witnessed the ancient foes of men gather before him. If he was to fall in battle then he swore to give a heroic account of himself; one sword-borne Bouran against a hundred fanged horrors.
The growing multitudes slowly advanced, with deep-throated growls as stone-clubs scraped the littered ground, backing Sangara slowly away from the crescent shaped advance. His eyes darted across the grim visage looking for first blood, but they abruptly halted and grudgingly lopped back on their bow-legged feet. He took notice of the fear and reverence displayed from their snarling snouts and this change in nature gave Sangara a morbid sense of hope. Perhaps they heeded his ferocious carriage. However, as they retreated, they looked past and over him, causing him to turn and glare at the cause of the recoiling horde.
A massive gongberou lumbered from the shadows dripping foam from its ghastly snout. The brute stood three spears tall from foot to crest with the stained bones of both men and beast covered its barreled chest and the skulls of its valiant meals decorated its waist with a leather strap. Graying fur covered bulging forearms and legs as its snout glistened black as its violent eyes. Two sabered fangs flanked a blood-besmeared beard. Bow-muscled trunks held it upright and heavy arms carried grim-nailed paws, which could easily tear Sangara asunder.
“Would you rather exchange wanton blows with the gongberou brood? Aye, man-boy” chimed the phantom voice.
Sangara raised his sword and with the radiance of courage charged the towering dread. A great bellow lanced from its maw as the distance closed between Sangara and its rushing outstretched mitts. Hairy paws grasped Sangara’s taut limbs with ravenous intent and carried him straight to its gapping jaws. Sangara, seeing his head dart towards flashing fangs, swung his lower body back, kicking both his legs skyward; driving its lower jaw shut. And in a fit of pain, tossed Sangara aside, sending him against the far wall.
Sangara staggered to his feet from the death-dealing impact. Over the ringing in his ears, he heard the brutish throng jostle and howl with disquieting excitement. His body ached and the thought of broken ribs creased his brow. He watched his towering foe turn and charge looking to grab him once more. Sangara, with no time to think, bounded towards it, sidestepping the extended grappling talons and cut deep into its forearm, slicing through fur and tissue. Its bloodied arm swung a frenzied mallet of hard flesh grazing Sangara in the back of his skull, sliding him across the littered floor into a pile of meat-rotting bones. The beast’s agonizing roar agitated the on-looking crowd as their king bled from its torn forearm. Raising himself on his elbows, Sangara saw the agile behemoth bearing down on him; its’ left paw descending to smash his skull into a wet pulp. Quickly, he raised high his sword point and buried the ridged blade deep into its fleshy palm delivering a crippling blow. A great howl rocked the cavern walls as the full length of Manden steel sank deep within its arm severing tendon and sinew from wrist to elbow. Sangara quickly twisted the blade causing it to violently withdraw its damaged arm with a metallic sucking sound and showering him in grisly black juice.
The air shook with barks and the violent smashing of stone-clubs as the gongberou chief, crippled by the cold magic of men, twisted and screamed to its knees. Sangara rushed over to the kneeling foe, his sword buzzing with a mighty sweep, slicing muscle and bone, and sent the giant head into the air onto a pile of welcoming bones and grinning skulls.
The grisly hall fell silent as the feral horde retreated into the recesses of their holes. Black glaring eyes spat curses as they left the headless mound of fur and blood with the victor.
* * *
Sangara’s sagging limbs succumbed to the weight of fatigue and exertion as he lay against the wall feeling his rib’s painful strike. Thoughts of his father and clansmen in battle with the reavers surfaced in his mind as blood spilled from his mouth. What is happening to them? Is the battle over or does it still rage? Does Da Boura suffer or do they conquer? There was no time to think about it before, but now he wondered and the desire to return gnawed from within.
“Yes, yes, you deserve a rest from your ordeal,” crooned the eerie voice.
Sangara looked up, recognizing the voice was in front of him. He beheld a tall shape of a man. Though age had grayed his unruly locks, he stood as tall and lean as any man of Xaftaan, with magic and wonder dancing in his eyes.
“What of my clan brothers, woliyo?” Asked Sangara, blood drooling from his lips. “Do they prevail or suffer defeat? Does my father look for me among the dead or does he lay with them?”
“The conflict rages on,” replied the wizard. And with his frail form veiling great vigor lifted Sangara, and brought him over to a hidden fountain. “But of its present stage I cannot say. Perhaps they prevail, but only the gods can tell. Come and restore your strength.”
They approached a graven ox head jutting out of the course, rocky surroundings. Its recurved horns and massive head bore smooth and seamless details cleanly cut from the surrounding granite. A golden ring looping through its flaring nostrils. Water of magnificent clarity spouted from its bellowing mouth. Beside it stood a great, black eagle with a high crest crowning its head. It eyed the wizard as he approached with Sangara in tow.
“What is your name man-child?” asked the wizard.
“I am Sangara Aarn-Toura, son of Daan Binoudjan-Toura and great-grandson of Hadang Dafee-Toura”, answered Sangara.
“Ha! Your name is still shorter than mine,” laughed the wizard, “I am Youssou Ousman Ganaar Diop, Grand Woliyo to Buur Antu Lamin and Buur Idrissa Gancax, Reaper of the Striped-Wolf Horde, and the Destroyer of Chief Saikou Simbene,” proclaimed the wizard, “as well as the keeper of ‘the Fountains of Farro.’”
“You lie old man!” cried Sangara through gritted teeth. “Buur Antu Lamin and Buur Idrissa Gancax are bone-dust legends. No man lives so long.”
The eagle shrieked a jest bringing the ancient sorcerer to a haunting chuckle.
“Yes, the gods do seem to play more tricks than before. These new heroes are less courteous,” said Youssou, leaning Sangara against the fountain basin. “Boy! I am not bound to the mortal constraints of time. I have traveled beyond and within, through veil and dust, where gods bow and men fear to tread. Where lies find truth and truth twists into oblivion. Now, drink!”
Sangara looked into the rippling pool and wondered what the effects would be.
“Before I drink. What is this?” inquired the young warrior.
“I will promise to tell you,” answered the Youssou as his long fingers delicately caressed the great bird. “After you drink.”
Sangara took a deep breath and drank from the basin, cleaning his mouth of bloody spit. Almost immediately, the pain in his ribs subsided and powerful thighs erected his muscular body. He felt the strength of a Djeran bull flood his body with magnificent might, arousing him, puffing his deep chest with lean sinew.
“Yesss, yesss,” smiled Youssou. “This be the Fountain of Fear. The ‘Waters of Iron’ which bestows strength to those who have survived the second ordeal. Witness the powers awaken your form and heal your wounds. And the great eagle-head fount was the Fountain of Tuur. The one that has poisoned you with the ‘Waters of Fire’, fore a lesser man would have fallen on his sword than seek death in battle when the beasts gathered about you. These are the gifts to which you have earned Sangara of the Touras.”
Mighty black wings stretched out blotting the base of the wall behind him and a majestic cry resonated throughout the cavernous enclosure. At the spectacle’s conclusion, its wings folded back revealing a yawning tunnel mouth. Sangara knew it was not there before and no mist came to greet him, just the lean figure of the wizard calling him to follow. But he was no longer worried about the specter of magic that plagued these primordial caverns nor the beast he will be challenged to defeat.
Entering the mouth behind the wizard, “Ho scoundrel. Will this take me to my father?” asked Sangara, “I have . . .”
“How ungrateful a whelp,” chided Youssou. “Yes, I will take you to your sire.”
A few words escaped Youssou’s lips and the corridor glowed with the bewitching mist that brought Sangara to this mountainous mystery.
Youssou’s ancient words bothered him. Names and places were mentioned that were heard before but only in the praise songs of the djelis of Da Boura and Da Famadjan. Buur Antu Lamin was the King of Xaftaan before the Great War, but a thousand years is long even for the most renowned of woliyos. And the Striped-Wolf Horde was a hundred years before his birth and a continent away. How could this possibly be?
Sangara never noticed the wings cover the opening as they entered or the darkness creeping slowly behind them.
* * *
After a short walk they emerged into a small well-lit chamber adorned with glyphs of unrecognizable design. The carefully crafted motifs along the walls waved and danced in flowing dashes and bold lines, the work of expert hands and cursed minds. A section of the domed ceiling remained bare but for a single ivory orb at its apex. Sangara awed at the construct of this new space. Gone were the disfigured furrows of molten rock and marred stone. This was more like a temple than mountain cave. Time and space seemed to unfold unevenly within the presence of this ancient man and his monstrous omen-bird. Symbols and caricatures spoke to him from some distant past, from the eons of lineage and generations long dead. As he brought himself back to where the wizard stood, two entrances flanked him. At the top of the brilliantly carved arches were round tablets. The one on the right held a warrior-glyph
and an eagle-glyph on the other.
His expression suddenly turning grave, Youssou Ousman Ganaar Diop stretched out his arms. Gnarled and ringed fingers peaked out from within his voluminous cotton robe as he exclaimed, “You must choose! The one on the left to your father and the battle without! The other to the final ordeal and that which all men covet!”
Sangara stared at the two yawning mouths. He thought of the men with whom he rode with; Daan Toura the cheerful giant, the dour chief Sannou of Kindou, the cavalier brothers; FaKoli and Nfansu, and the valiant heroes of Toura, Cisse, and Ba-nde. Though their lives were not his to worry over, he could not help but wonder their fate. Then again, the power that coursed in his veins awakened the desire to know what else was for the taking. What final boon is being offered? He may now speak with the voice of his father, but the curiosity of a child still held sway. He drew his sword and entered the darkened gateway.
* * *
A cold breeze blew brushed past him as he walked through the enclosure. A chill ran across his flesh as he felt a foreboding presence seeking his soul and beating life. The beauty of the outer chamber was now absent, replaced by a tight winding cavity without light or smooth surface. Untrodden gravel crunched under Sangara’s weight and the tunnel’s narrowness suffocated him. He was either entering the guts of the mountain or Jahanaba—hell.
At the exit, he spied another vast chamber. Almost identical to the others, except for the fact that he stood on an unlit tier above the cave floor. The familiar mist covered the floor with its eerie phosphorescent glow that ignited the entire space from top to bottom. He spied a cave to the far left and the fountain to the right. The presence of neither man nor beast could be sensed but he knew an ambush would greet him.
A set of stone steps led down into the nether level of the great hollow and with sword in hand he descended. His vestments were tattered and bloodstained, his blade notched, resembling a blunted tool than a keen cohort. But his hard-chiseled arms spoke of mighty efforts and crippling strikes. His ears caught the faint clash of steel and chaos, but the cave was empty. He thought to follow the sounds, but as Youssou’s voice seemed everywhere, so were these muffled cries.
At the bottom of the stairs, the mist faded to a thin sheet carpeting the bottom. The dimming luminescence darkened the corners allowing only the cave and the third fountain to be seen. The floor felt damp and filthy as a muck-swamp or a flooded lowland. The smell of decaying refuse rose from the muddy surface to choke Sangara’s corded throat. He counted thirty paces to the fountain and sixty to the cave. Maybe it leads to the outside or abode of some unimaginable horror. Steadily, he crept backwards toward the fountain, not wanting to be taken from behind. He noticed as he moved further and further away from the cryptic lair the devilish mist pulsated with its pale sickly glow. He judged the distance, concluding the prize of mysterious waters must be behind him. And swiftly turning, came face to face with a pair of burning red eyes and jagged lips murmuring foul words between putrid gasps of air.
Sangara felt his body convulse and fall back in violent alarm. His feet losing its balance sent him onto the slim and vapor surface. Frantically raising his sword, he saw an old man, back crooked with age, skin leathered with wear, and eyes of sparkling deviltry. His ragged garment hung in the tatters of an ill-fitting tunic and a long cord adorned with massive claws sagged from around his neck. Sangara quickly gauged this new threat with a little humor.
“I’ve fought a murderous rabble of armed men,” he mused rising from the murky bed, “and triumphed over the chief of the Gongberou. If you be a buwaa, you inspire little fear.”
The outlandish figure stared intently at the bolstering warrior. Neither smile nor grimace bared itself upon the witch’s stony face. As Sangara stared back, he finally noticed that the fountain, which should have been behind the morbid apparition, was actually the foreboding cave he so gingerly stalked away from. Sangara steadily backed away from this strange phantasm of a man and readied himself for an onslaught.
The strange man, eyes alight and legs braced began to babble and foam at the lips, violently yanking his long necklace, inhaling and exhaling great quantities of air in heaving gust. The mud and mist shifted and splashed around him as an awful disturbance encircled the ragtag witch. His bent form cracked and stretched into a tall figure of a man, but then his body bloated and expanded as the throat of some swamp toad. Pulsing veins inflated with rushing torrents of blood. Arms and legs widened, and thickened with each heaving gasp as the shapeshifter’s massive torso fell on all fours. A bulky armored tail burst from underneath his browned garment, which shredded as it grew. The once grim face undulated and shuddered as each muscle contorted in such grotesque fashion, causing Sangara’s eyes to squint in disgust. An inhuman bellow rolled out of a now course and warped snout as the grim foeman altered himself into the titanic makasutu, a great croc of the Northern rivers.
With relenting speed, dagger-like teeth flashed as its maw sprang forward seeking to grab Sangara’s muscled torso. Sangara dodged out of its deadly range, only to find the ground slick and intractable, causing him to skid across the floor from his mammoth foe. The beast charged, and folding its legs along its scaly body and tail, glided toward Sangara with ardent intent. Bracing himself against the wall, Sangara launched himself straight towards the coasting head and with sword held high landed onto its snout, and plunged the blade into its skull. But the blade snapped in two, leaving him with a shattered piece of metal. The great mud-beast violently rocked its grotesquely knotted head back and forth trying to fling Sangara off into the sloppy muck.
Sangara, wrapping his powerful arms around its head, spied a leathery cord looped around its neck, and with the vigor of purpose wound it tightly around his forearm. The forceful thrashing of its head flung the desperate warrior off, but because he had held the cord, he was too close for it for the teeth to do their deadly work. The beast trashed and whipped as it tried unsuccessfully to dislodge Sangara from the deadly noose. Still grasping the cord, he straddled its massive neck and yanked. Muscle, sinew, and bone strained and bulged as he exerted all the strength his hero-like frame possessed. If he could not break the source of this witch’s power – then he would strangle him with it.
The ferocity of the struggle smeared them with slime and waste. The buwaa, folding its legs again, set them into a savage death-roll with the hopes of shattering this bane from his lock and delivering him into its jaws. Sangara felt the dizzying pressure of weight and speed push him to the limits of his endurance. If the beast rolls to close to the wall he would be crushed to a gory pulp. The might of Sangara’s knotted arms and legs held him in place and tightened the unbreakable saabou. His biceps curled and strained exerting every muscle in his steel-like grip. A growl of pain escaped his bruised and bloodied lips, as the cord bit into his flesh. Sangara felt the mass underneath him shrink and wiggle with every squeeze and turn of the cord. Slowly, he realized the beast fading in bulk and savagery. Shortly, Sangara was no longer straddling a titan croc, but a limp, old man. His dangling limbs buried in the putrid mist of magic.
For a moment, he stood over the lifeless body, the saabou still wrapped around his powerful arm.
“That which gives power will rob you of it,” warily regarded Sangara.
He loosed his grip of the talisman and turned to the fountain. He still felt the vigor of the previous fountains return and triumphantly strode over to his spouting reward.
* * *
He found this fountain more ornately decorated than the others. Gems of sparkling brilliance and hue danced within a basalt arch. The figure of a mighty limbed man of obsidian exquisitely carved underneath, a sword in one hand and a lion’s head in the other. His chest was covered in armor, which detailed the light quilted coat of the Dens and the shining scales of the Xaftaangaas. An ivory torc encircled his neck and gold armlets adorned outstretched arms. A makasutu’s head hung underneath, with gaping jaws and teeth as white as the snow-capped Kolourou Mountain. Diamond-sparkling brilliance spouted from its uninviting mouth. The basin from which it filled was of the most precious of ivory, expertly carved, and etched with the heroes of ages past; The seven Hunter-Lords of the Manden city-states, the first buur of the Xaftaan kingdom, and even the Daehan sinuirang who traveled to the North and showed them the might of the ox-bow. All these and more decorated the basin of this mystic mountain shrine. The gushing water splashed and flowed, but never fully overflowed from its cream-colored basin.
Bracing himself on the edge, he bent his back low and gorged himself on its sweet and bitter flavor. Almost immediately, the vomiting mouth stopped and the draining waters emptied.
“No man will take more than he needs from the Fountain of Daraja,” replied the ancient woliyo. “And you will have exactly what has been taken.”
Then as smoke from a waking volcano the enchanted mist belched forth from the crocodilian maw, enshrouding Sangara in blinding mist within his entombed surroundings. Though the ensuing mist screened his vision, he no longer panicked nor feared the unknown menace that he sensed lurked within. A sudden rush of wind and a painful sensation encircled his throat. The blow dropped him to the floor, stunning him. He was not sure, but the figure of Youssou seemed to be drifting in and out of the smoky wafts.
“Here is a new charm. A torc of pure ivory with the incantations of Nakula Funo. To keep your body parts in place,” laughed the woliyo.
His dirty fingers gingerly fingered his new neck charm. The torc encircled his muscled neck terminating at the ends in perfectly shaped globes. He felt the hard lines and deep cuts scrawled on the yellowish-white surface. He could not make out what the etchings said or the language it was written in, but he deemed them powerful enchantments.
As he began to rise, a leather-bound grip smacked into his hand. The feel excited him and his knuckles tightened around what he knew to be a sword.
“You will need this for your return,” explained Youssou. “It is not of the same sorcery as your saabou, but it will aid you in battle.”
“What battle? Youssou, what battle do you speak of? Where in Farro’s name are you? Youssou! Youssou!”
Sangara’s shouts rang hollow throughout the hazy-white shroud. He dared not move, but kept his arm stretched out. His shining blade pointing forward.
* * *
A short time passed before a cool breeze brushed over his crested skull. He was outside again. Though the mist still enveloped him, he no longer sensed the blackened dampness of caves. He could now smell the freshness of the savannah plains and crisp air of the Fouta Juma winds. He took a few cautious steps forward and found the ground soft and carpeted underfoot. The grassy bottom was now visible to him. He saw his spear lying a few feet from him and heard the commotion and chaos of pitched battle. Wasting little time, he grabbed his spear as he ran in the direction of the familiar sounds, the haze clearing at each pounding footfall.
A swirl of mist vanished in the onrushing wake of Sangara’s emergence. Everywhere he turned the din of battle thundered throughout the wind. The Ramaasou fought with the heart and ferocity of heroes, but their numbers made more the difference in the confusion of biting steel and bloodied shields. The fama of Kindou was beset on all sides with only two of his retinue, holding high their shields and valiantly defending their chief by his overturned chariot. His father and clan brothers were scattered all over the field mixing with Cisse, Ba-nde, and Ramaasou within the homicidal tumult. Even his cousin, Zambele “of the Ten Blows”, was encircled and quickly losing the power behind the mighty swings of his ivory club. Sangara knew that if Sannou fell the reavers would redouble their efforts and clear the field of Manden.
Limbs flexed with cruel purpose as he pierced the fray. And the crash of thunder announcing the coming of Daan Toura’s son. He dashed straight into the rabble that surrounded Kindou’s beleaguered chief. His spear, well-missed and hungry, sang through the air impaling a reaver through his spine. His sword, newly–gifted and keen, tore open backs and breasts with barbarous gaiety. Sprinkles of light rain fell from the once sun-decked sky, baptizing the coming of Sangara Aarn-Toura.
The rising and falling of Sangara’s singing steel stole scarlet veils and floating limbs from the most reluctant of combatants. He tore life from veterans and scoundrels, disfiguring both the lucky and the luckless. He was a man possessed with oxen-strength and lion-speed. No matter how many Ramaasou rushed to greet him, he addressed them all with ruinous blows and swift sword-sweeps. The sword-labor and battle-bliss possessed his very soul as torrents of pelting rain drove him to feats of horror and butchery that surpassed even the most savage god. A crimson stained giant summoned by the despair of Kindou—he had become Farro, the son of Mangala—the bearer of vengeance.
Soon the great Ramaasou horde lay sprawled and disfigured on the wet soggy field. Droplets of rain rippled in blood-pools and ran down sword blades imbedded in armored chest and muddied earth, as resting bodies heaved out fading breaths.
The moments crept by while the clans of Da Boura gathered wounded comrades and brothers. The Fama of Kindou, decorated with the bruises and cuts of hard fighting, approached Sangara followed by the weary survivors and a lone retainer.
“You there! This victory is yours to be sure. What clan claims you?” asked the chief.
“I am of the Touras, son of Daan Binoudjan-Toura and great-grandson of Hadang Dafee-Toura,” replied Sangara.
“You come from a mighty circle. We knew your great-grandsire as Hadang ‘of the Hammer-Spear’. He was well renowned for his battle-skill and stout-heart. The djelis of Kindou would sing me to bed with tales of his prowess. It is only right that you receive an honor-name. Sangara ‘of the Victories’”, proclaimed the fama.
It was then that a mighty cheer rang out through foothills as the surviving Manden looked upon Sangara’s heroic frame, wet with rain and blood, “Hail Sangara! Hail the mighty Sangara “of the Victories”! Thunder-Son of the Touras, the Hammer of Da Boura!” And the heavens thundered with the triumphant roar as Mangala, the One God, joined in unison.
Yet, Sangara could not revel in the merriment, for as he saw some of his clan brothers and friends among the surrounding helmets and mail, he could not see the regal bearing of his father, the tallest among the Bourans. As the cheering swelled, he pushed his way through the jubilant host to see if his father was among the wounded. But as he emerged, he saw to his left the carcass of his father’s manly build, laid low by a jutting spear; his head cruelly separated from its torso; and around him were the lifeless forms of Fakoli and Nfansu. Their blood mixing and staining the grass while their glazed eyes stared skyward from torn, ruined bodies.
Heavy-hearted, Sangara gently ran a hand over his father’s eyelids, closing them in eternal sleep. The honor-torc felt heavy and guilt-ridden as it sat secure around his bent neck. Mournful reflection engulfed the once fiery spirit as he gazed upon the lone head of his most-loved clansmen. Aloft, a great black eagle soared, bringing the jubilant warriors to reverent silence as they reeled from its size and power. However, Sangara already knew the beast and only he could understand its booming call.
“A blood-price is paid for the last fount-boon. He who seeks the vain destiny of gods, forfeits the humble comfort of mortals. That is the price for receiving the Waters of Glory. Sangara ‘of the Victories’.
