Chapter 10
“I’m going down there,” Magere said, and started off. Okello grabbed his arm and wheeled him around.
“You’re needed more up here. We’ve almost completed the mission. One more round and all their officers are gone.” He turned to the archers. “Listen up! Owiti’s in charge.” He nodded at a young, square-jawed archer, and tore down a narrow path.
Magere watched Okello dart down the hillside, springing from foothold to foothold. With a maddened yell, Okello hurled himself into the skirmish at the foot of the hill.
A new wave of Lang’o arrows shrieked through the sky. Magere held his twin shields aloft and the archers huddled behind him. They were quick, but the darts were quicker. An archer yelled in pain and grabbed the shaft jutting out of his arm. His companions were beside him in an instant. One pulled out the arrow. Another tied a leather thong above the wound. A third took out a dagger, made an incision around the gaping wound and sucked out the wounded man’s blood.
“Will he be all right?” Magere bellowed.
“Give us cover,” Owiti replied, cradling his injured comrade’s head in his hands.
Magere wheeled about to face the battlefield. His eyes scoured the fighters for Okello. He couldn’t spot his stocky figure anywhere. A cloud of dust rose where the fighting was thickest. He squinted, trying to pierce through the murky haze.
Then he saw him.
Okello was on his knees, parrying blow after blow from a man dressed in garments and wielding weapons Magere had never seen before. Magere sized up the situation in an instant. It was only a matter of minutes before his friend’s life would come to a bloody and abrupt end.
He tossed his shields to the ground and pulled his twin swords out of their scabbards.
“What are you doing?” Owiti demanded.
“Okello’s in trouble.”
“No, wait! What about our mission?”
“How many officers left?”
“Three.”
“Leave them to me.”
“What about us?”
“Retreat down the other side. I’ll buy you time.”
He sprinted forward, leaping through the undergrowth like a gazelle. He kept his eyes peeled on Okello. The youth was putting up a brave fight - dodging, parrying, striking.
The back line of the Luo soldiers loomed in front of him, their white headdresses gleaming in the afternoon sun. He planted his right foot into a rock and pushed off hard, sailing clean over the heads of his brothers-at-arms. With a heavy thud, he landed square in the middle of the Lang’o horde.
For a split second, the Lang’o warriors around him paused, wondering who this new entrant was. Then, with a crazy yell and a blur of muscle and iron, they attacked. Magere had only an instant to glimpse the cowrie-shells laced on the neck of the Lang’o fighter closest to him. The mark of an officer. Magere crashed to his knees, skidding across the ground and crouching between the officer’s legs. He thrust his blades upward. There was a sickening crunch of bones, and a loud gasp. Magere leapt to his feet and pulled the bloodied sword out of the screaming and writhing mess behind him.
A cold, hard metal tip smashed into his ribs. He spun around. A Lang’o warrior was staring at the broken shaft in his hand, mouth agape in bewilderment. The spear head lay on the ground, twisted and notched. Magere noticed the cowrie-shell strung about the man’s neck. His blade swished.
The officer fell where he stood.
Magere spotted Okello again, and hewed his way towards him, his crimson blades whistling above the cries of agony of the men he felled, angry wounds gaping on their chests and abdomens. He was in his element. Not thinking. Not feeling. Just being. Time stood still. He could continue forever.
Something hard smashed into the back of his skull. Magere tumbled forward, losing his foothold, dazed by the blow. Both his swords clattered to the ground.
He never saw who or what had hit him. As he regained his footing, he spotted the foreign-looking man hacking and hewing away at his hapless friend. He wore an orange turban that fell from the top of his head, across his broad back and wrapped around his waist, all in a single piece. Beads of sweat glistened on his well-oiled skin and a brace of golden anklets clanged above his bare feet.
Magere lowered his shoulder, sprinted forward and rammed into the man. Caught off balance, the man spiralled through the air and landed a few feet away. He leapt up in an instant and lunged at Magere with his blade. Magere took the blow straight in his gut. The metal creaked and bent. His opponent’s eyes widened, but less in horror and more in recognition. With a single, swift movement, he dropped to his haunches, pulled a spear out of a nearby corpse’s hands, and drove it into Magere’s neck. With a loud crack, the shaft snapped in two. The man fell to his knees.
“Mercy,” he sobbed. He splayed his arms and buried his face in the ground.
Okello grabbed the broken spear tip and lunged. Magere threw his arm out in front of the man’s exposed neck, absorbing the blow. The blade glanced off his skin.
“No, Okello. He begged for mercy.”
Okello’s eyes narrowed. He breathed hard. Magere shook his head. Okello’s hand went limp and let go of the spear tip. It hadn’t touched the earth before the stranger’s arm shot out. He grabbed the blade and drove it into the spot where Magere’s shadow darkened the stony, greying earth. Blinding pain tore through Magere’s side. His insides knotted and he gasped for breath. At that moment, the ground fell out from underneath him, and he tumbled into darkness. The air whizzed past him as he blasted through a tunnel. Then, with a painful jolt, his feet slammed onto solid, flat concrete.
Luyanda was back in the warehouse.