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As their combat raged on, neither the Uloans nor the tsotsis could gain an advantage. The tsotsi’ nihilistic viciousness was more than matched by the Uloans’ fanatical frenzy. Mangled bodies lay sprawled in the street; gore slid across stone, but battle-rage on all sides was unabated, and blood-lust was not yet slaked.
Hyenas from a pack that had followed the tsotsis out of the Maim were already dragging some of the corpses away. The fires the Uloans had started crept closer to closer to the scene of the battle. But the combatants didn’t feel the heat from the approaching flames, and they paid no heed to the hyenas.
Jass Nunu had gone down. His head and body lay several feet from each other. For now, the surviving members of the Hafar set were content to obey Jass Mofo’s commands. They would name a new Jass later – if any of them survived the invasion.
Gore covered Mofo’s leather battle-gear. Weariness seeped into his muscles as he struck, backed away, then struck again. His tirss was growing heavy in his hand. His speed was diminishing, and that loss was bringing him closer to death.
Never before had he and the other tsotsis been forced to engage in such sustained battle. Tsotsi fights tended to be fierce but short, with the losing side fleeing down the nearest alley once its cause appeared hopeless. But the Uloans fought to the death; even the gravely wounded in their ranks continued to swing their weapons until loss of blood or limbs brought them down. Slowly, the tide was turning against the tsotsis.
Had only one set of tsotsis been involved in the fray, it would have long since cut its losses and escaped. But there were two. If one fled, the other would quickly spread word of its lack of courage throughout the Maim, and that would be the end of the reputation the set needed to ensure its survival in the streets. Thus, the tsotsis stood, fought – and died, even as they dealt death in return.
During a brief respite, Mofo spotted the Uloan who appeared to be leading the others. As he looked at the muscular Islander, he realized he had only one chance to win the battle and save his set. He took it.
“You! Scar-head!” he called. “You and me! We fight for all! Heard?”
The common tongue of the Matile and Uloans had diverged greatly during their long period of hostilities, and the tsotsis spoke a variation of the language that was unique to them. Still, Bujiji understood Mofo’s meaning well enough. It was a challenge he could not resist.
“Die, blankskin!” the islander replied.
The rest of the fighting subsided as the leaders approached each other on the blood-spattered street like gladiators in an arena. Bujiji was the larger and stronger of the two; Mofo the quicker and more agile. Both warriors were battle-weary, but the killing lust flared unabated in their eyes. Bujiji carried a curved sword to oppose Mofo’s tirss. Blood dripped copiously from each man’s weapon.
Sword and tirss flicked out in a few exploratory passes. Then Bujiji swung his sword. Instead of parrying with his own weapon, Mofo leaped backward to avoid the sword’s deadly arc. He didn’t want to catch his tirss on the edge of the sword.
Not yet ....
Mofo feinted, then jabbed his tirss at Bujiji’s face. Bujiji swung in return and struck off one of the tirss’s spikes, which pinged against a wall on the side of the street. The Uloan laughed when he heard the sound. He anticipated hearing it again.
Bujiji pressed forward. Mofo retreated, staying out of the bigger man’s range, jabbing with his tirss to keep his foe at a distance.
“Why you run, blankskin?” Bujiji taunted. “I and I catch you soon enough.”
Mofo did not reply. He kept moving.
Suddenly, Bujiji leaped forward and slashed at the tsotsi’s head in an effort to open the tsotsi’s defenses. But it was Mofo who saw the chance for which he had been waiting as he reached out with his tirss to parry the blow. The spikes of his weapon caught the Uloan’s sword in mid-swing. With a practiced twist of his arms, Mofo yanked the trapped sword out of Bujiji’s hand. The blade clattered to the street. And Bujiji stood defenseless.
Mofo did not pause to savor his triumph. The moment the Uloan’s sword fell away from the tirss, Mofo swung with all his remaining strength. The spikes of the tirss bit deep into the side of Bujiji’s head. Their tips punctured the Uloan’s skull and lacerated his brain. Bujiji died instantly, a stare of astonishment frozen on his face. He was dead before any outcry could escape his throat
Still holding the shaft of his tirss, Mofo refused to allow Bujiji to fall. He glared at the other Uloans and called out, mockingly, “Retribution time!”
Then he released his hold on his weapon. Bujiji’s corpse crumpled to the street. And the rest of the tsotsis, Ashaki and Hafar alike, descended on the suddenly demoralized Uloans with redoubled fury, their bone-weariness forgotten.
When the slaughter ceased, all the Uloans were dead; none of them had fled even though their leader had fallen and the tide had quickly turned against them. Most of the tsotsis were dead as well. Of the handful who survived, some were Hafar, a few more Ashaki. The difference didn’t seem to mean much of anything anymore. The Ashakis’ triumph over the Hafars and Uloans was hollow; only continued existence mattered to the victors.
The fires were still approaching, the flames so close now that the hyenas had ceased their scavenging and slunk back into the shadows. By the flames’ increasingly lurid light, Mofo searched again for the Fidi, Athir. But the Ship’s Rat was nowhere in sight.
Neither were the bags of loot over which the Ashaki and Hafar had been fighting before the Uloans intervened.