Chapter One
The Savanna had no name. From the dawn of history, it was known only as the Savanna. For time immemorial, the tribes of the Savanna Folk had wandered its grassy plains moving from one fertile place to the next and grazing their herds. Nuru looked down from a hundred feet up onto that expansive sea of grass, taking in its beauty as its green and yellow stalks caught the light of the rising sun. It was the start of the final day of his childhood.
He just didn’t know it yet.
He and a dozen other men and boys from his tribe had spent the night camped atop of two of the Spires—a series of skinny, towering cliffs rising near the edges of the Savanna where it met the mountains. Many of the huge formations were flat at their peaks so those who dared climb them could walk along on top of them. They waited there for Nuru’s uncle Folami and the other warriors of the tribe.
The warmth of dawn drove away the cool night air. He liked coming to the Spires. From there, it was like the entire Savanna stretched out before him, slowly revealed by the growing light. The news that they would be returning to them had brought a smile to his face. His uncle had instructed them to lay their trap there.
“Any sign of them?” said Mosi, sitting up from the bedroll he had slept in.
“Not yet,” Nuru said. “They said the morning of the third day, so it should be soon.”
Mosi was a half-a-year older than Nuru and had been his best friend since they had left the baskets their mothers carried them in as infants. They had learned about the law, how to ride, and how to fight together. The two of them always sat together when they camped, did their chores with one another, and gawked at girls when they met with other tribes or traded in the villages that were built around the edges of the Savanna. Neither of them were warriors yet so, like Nuru, Mosi’s scalp was shaved down to nothing. Nuru was tall for his age and yet Mosi still rose a head above him. Mosi’s mother joked he was so tall that one day he wouldn’t need a mount, he could just run beside the rest of the tribe. His friend climbed out of the sleeping mat and rolled it up.
“I wish they’d hurry up,” Mosi complained. “I barely slept last night. I never can atop a spire. I just know I’ll roll off one day.”
“You won’t roll off,” Nuru said, rolling his eyes.
Mosi took a seat beside Nuru.
“Next time we’ll tell my uncle we want to go with him,” Nuru said. “At least then we could ride instead of waiting up here.”
“Your uncle only takes warriors on hunts,” said Mosi. “He wouldn’t want us slowing him down.”
“We’re better riders than half the warriors in the tribe!”
A horn sounding from the other spire interrupted them. The wild mokele had been spotted.
“Come on!” yelled one of the others, and their band leapt into action. They jumped onto the ropes they had secured when they had ascended the Spires the previous day and slid down. They had been awaiting the arrival of eight wild mokele all night. Mokele were enormous hairy beasts of burden which stood twenty-feet off the ground—and taller when one stood up on its rear legs—with long skinny necks and equally long tails. They made up the herds that his people relied upon for everything from food to serving as mounts.
Small wild herds like that ran before hunters could get close. Cornering them required patience. The spires would slow the animals’ escape. Folami had taken ten riders to push the beasts west and then south toward the Spires where Nuru and the others lay in wait. He slid down the rope, the wind rushing through his hair. A hundred feet later, his feet hit the dirt. He let go of the rope and ran over to his mount, Chu, clambering up the netting that ran up his sides. He grabbed the reins and gripped his saddle on the huge beast. Chu responded with an ear-ringing trumpet. It was almost deafening when seated right behind his long skinny neck.
“Come on, Chu,” Nuru yelled, giving the reins a tug.
The riders formed up in an arc and thundered off toward the wild animals. Skinny gazelles, wild furry rhets, and other small creatures ran out of the way as the line of hunters moved forward and enclosed their quarry. Folami and the other hunters converged from the other direction and together they surrounded the eight mokele. They corralled them together and swung lassos tied around the bellies of their mounts, reeling them in. Nuru and Mosi cornered one themselves and—after a few tries—secured their ropes around its neck safely. Quickly and efficiently, the riders brought the creatures under control. Across the field, one creature still struggled, though.
Four riders circled a bull mokele, but the huge beast had snapped all the lassos they had tried swinging around it. It wheeled around in a circle, angrily lashing out and swinging its heavy tail at any who got too close. One of the hunters threw a spear which dug into the bull’s side. The bull responded by swinging its tail into the hunter’s mount. The hunter grabbed onto the reins, his mount tumbling to the ground. He let go at the last moment and spun out of the way, narrowly avoiding getting crushed by his own mokele. The man got up and ran toward the edge of the fray but didn’t look like he was seriously wounded. Nuru mounted back up to help them.
Then Folami galloped past.
The seasoned warrior stood up, balancing his feet expertly on his saddle, and held the reins with his left hand while he prepared a throwing spear in his right. He circled around the creature until he maneuvered close enough for a sure shot. Just before he was within reach of the bull’s mighty tail, the Chieftain hurled his spear with arrow-like accuracy into the top of the bull’s neck. The bull gave one last weak trumpet then collapsed onto the ground, blood pouring out of at least seven wounds. A cheer went up from among the hunters, barely audible over the bellows of the mokele. The mighty bull fell onto the hard soil so hard the ground shook.
Nuru helped Mosi secure the mokele they captured and then made his way over to where the bull had fallen. Several of the warriors stood there already, admiring their work. Nuru’s father, Folami, inspected the spears they had thrown, checking if any were salvageable. Nuru strode up to his father. The older man greeted him with a gentle punch on the arm.
“A good hunt!” Nuru smiled.
“A good hunt,” Imari nodded, rubbing his son’s bald head. “I saw you and Mosi take one of them down. It was a fine capture.”
Nuru beamed. He had helped capture a full-grown wild mokele before, but he’d always needed the aid of one of the warriors. For him and Mosi to do it without aid was something to be proud of. Just then, Folami marched up to them carrying a bundle of bloody throwing spears over his shoulder. Folami wore a cloak made from the white hide of an Anbessa Lion—something that had established him as a nigh-legendary warrior. Killing an Anbessa Lion was the sign of a great warrior in times past. Some tribes even required a man to have slain one to be named Chieftain. Too many of the giant pale beasts had been killed though, and by Nuru’s time, almost none remained. That Folami found one, let alone slew it, was considered by some an act of divine favor.
“We did well today,” Imari chuckled at his brother and took the bundle of spears from him. “You need not look so serious.”
“I will laugh when we have the camp assembled,” Folami said in his usual low rumble.
Nuru rolled his eyes. He could count on one hand the times he’d seen his uncle smile at all. Although they were brothers and Imari was only five years Folami’s junior, they couldn’t be less alike. His father was happy, jovial, and always had a joke on his lips or some wisdom to impart. His uncle was quiet and stern to the point of being intimidating. While Imari had shown some of the weight which often came with middle age, Folami looked strong, lithe, and cut the perfect image of the Savanna warrior. His left eye didn’t soften his image. It was glassy-white and blind; a token from one of his first battles after they had formed the tribe.
Building the tribe had taken them years. The brothers’ father had supported a losing contender for Chieftain in their old tribe. Folami hadn’t even been sixteen when they were exiled, wandering the land, forced to survive on their own. Both also wore the single long braid only permitted to Ende warriors of the Savanna tribes—all others among their people wore their heads bald or with nothing but stubble, including the women. What truly united the brothers was the love they shared for the tribe they had created together and their reliance on one another so it remained strong.
“There are men who will always look at those weaker or different than them and claim they have no place in this world,” Imari often told Nuru, “but that only means you get to prove them wrong each day just by waking up in the morning.”
Folami walked off toward his mount.
“I will ride back and inform the Elders that the hunt was a success and lead the rest of the column here.”
With adults weighing more than twenty tons, moving a dead mokele was next to impossible. Fortunately, moving the tribe’s camp was easy. The domesticated mokele of their tribe thundered across the plain, rendezvousing with the warriors. Everything was carried on the backs of their great beasts in baskets. Supplies, sacks of belongings, and the tribes’ very homes swayed back and forth, secured on their mighty backs. The members of the tribe rode atop them waving and cheering upon seeing the results of the hunt.
The hunts were their livelihood. Mokele were the source of their food, their means of transportation, and their source of wealth. Their bones would be cleaned and bound up for the frames of tents, weapons, and tools. Certain organs were harvested for their use in medicines. They tanned the skin for leather and cut and dried the meat into strips. When an area became too crowded or water became too scarce, they packed up and moved on.
The caravan reached the hunting party around midday, Nuru spotted Yana, racing ahead at the front of the column the way she always did. Nuru approached the mount she shared with her little sister, Tia. The girls dropped the woven netting from their perch behind the mokele’s neck and climbed down. Nuru strutted up, giving the mount a pat it probably barely felt through its thick hide.
“Did you see us bring it down?” he said.
Yana rolled her eyes.
“No, I couldn’t quite make out the twenty-foot animal stomping and trumpeting all over the Savanna.”
Yana was just shy of a year younger than Nuru. She had a skinny build and always wore an orange scarf wrapped around her shaved head that her mother had traded two blankets for.
… And she was beautiful.
Her eyes—big enough to fall into—were a rich hazel. And then there was her spark. No one told Yana what to do. When they were both ten-years-old, one of the other boys had teased Yana about marrying her and how she would give him many sons. The next day, her parents surrendered one of their herd to the boy’s family on account of her breaking his arm. That was the day Nuru knew he liked her.
“I snared one of the new beasts myself,” Nuru bragged. “My uncle says I will be ready for the tests next time we travel to the Holy Mountain.”
I mean, he didn’t actually say it, he silently amended, but he knows I’m ready for the tests to become an Ende.
No one in the tribe was better at herding and he had been learning the short sword from both his father and his uncle. He beat all the other boys in the tribe. Even those two or three years older than him.
“How nice for you,” she said flatly, helping her sister down from the netting.
He grimaced then tried another tact.
“Would you like to race around the Spires later?” he said. “I’ll bet I can beat you this time.”
Yana pulled out a large stake and a hammer from a pouch tied to the bottom of her mount. She swung the hammer around just a little too close to her would-be suitor’s head for his comfort and pounded the stake into the ground.
“You never beat me,” she said, a small bit of pride seeping into her voice.
“I’ll wager I will this time,” Nuru said between the crashing sounds of the hammer beating on the stake.
Yana swung one final time securing the four-foot piece of wood into the hard soil.
“You’ll wager me what?”
“I’ll tend to your beasts for ten days if I lose.”
Yana looked up, perhaps slightly interested.
“… and if I lose?” she asked.
“You kiss me.”
For a moment she looked as though she might break his arm, but then she looked over his shoulder and something suddenly softened her attitude.
“We’ll be carving up the mokele you brought down until sunset,” she said, surprisingly coy. “Then the Elders will want to eat together tonight. They always do after a kill.”
Nuru leaned a shoulder against the leg of her mount. “We have time now.”
Yana smiled and tied her mount’s long reins to the stake she had just secured. “You don’t.”
“And why is that?”
Why does she keep looking behind me?
“Your mount is running away.”
“My—?”
Nuru spun around.
Damn it, Chu!
Chu was stomping off away from the Spires. Nuru had forgotten to tie him down the way Yana had. Yana and Tia giggled behind him while he sprinted off after him. Mosi mounted back up and allowed Nuru to ride behind him. Together, they caught up to Chu and grabbed his reins. After they had brought Chu back and firmly anchored both mounts to the ground, Mosi glanced over at Yana preparing chunks of meat beside her mother and sister.
“You know, she would probably like you if talked less about yourself,” said Mosi.
“Yana’s crazy,” Nuru said. “I don’t think she’ll ever like anyone.”
“I’m serious!” Mosi insisted while they made their way through the now-assembled camp. “Try asking her questions about herself. Girls love that.”
Mosi fancied himself an expert on women. He claimed he had kissed four girls from other tribes, although Nuru had only ever seen one of them with his own eyes. He never mentioned this, of course. They were friends, after all.
The pair strolled through the camp of mokele-leather tents. A hundred paces out or so—and well downwind—their mounts, beasts of burden, and the rest of the herd had been staked in place or tied together so they didn’t wander off. Baskets of water and mokele milk had been unhitched and carried into the center of camp, woven rugs were arranged on the floors of tents, and the baskets carrying young children were transferred from the sides of the mounts onto their mother’s backs. They stepped around a few of the small furry creatures called rhets that every tribe kept around in order to shear their fluffy fur off for clothing, sleeping mats, and blankets.
Nuru entered the tent he shared with his mother and father. A moment later, his mother, Emem, lifted the flap and entered. She wore a pale yellow tunic wrapped around her body and loose-fitting woven pants that swept across the ground. She bore a familiar stern expression.
“Where have you been?” she said. “Sunde and Bolla had to help your father and I set up the tent.”
“Chu ran off. Mosi and I had to catch him.”
His mother sighed and shook her head.
“Not tying up your own mount … you would lose your head—”
“… If it wasn’t attached to my body,” Nuru finished, having heard it a thousand times before.
“Well, you can make it up to me by helping dry our share of the meat from today,” she said. “And then you can check Fek’s front hooves before dinner. She had a strange gait while I rode her today.”
Fek was his mother’s mount, an old brood mare with an attitude that matched his mother’s. Nuru chafed at the extra work, but he knew arguing with his mother would do no good.
Besides, I didn’t help set up any of the tents. It’s only fair.
His mother looked up and met his eyes.
“Nuru? I love you.”
She said it in a bland tone most saved for debating prices at the market.
“I love you too, mother,” he shouted back, already gone.
His father had once remarked Emem was like a danze fruit: a hard outer shell protecting the sweetness within. Nuru knew this to be true, although he allowed that often times it was a thick outer shell. His mother’s smiles were as rare as his father’s were frequent. Still, anyone who didn’t listen to her usually regretted it. Emem was the best at sums in the entire tribe and no one could predict how long it took to reach a destination or manage supplies like her. She was undoubtedly their best healer as well.
Nuru completed his chores and pulled some splinters out of one of Fek’s hooves. By the time he finished, the sun had set and all that remained was a purple light fading from the edge of the sky. While individual families within the tribe usually ate together inside their tents, the Elders always proclaimed a feast around the fire for the whole tribe when they had something to celebrate.
The Elders were the warriors who had grown old enough that their fighting days were done. It was they who chose the greatest warrior to lead them as Chieftain. Even if Folami hadn’t been the one who founded the tribe, no one would have ever considered choosing someone besides the stalwart warrior who had led them through good times and bad. Nuru’s uncle led the first song after everyone had assembled. Folami often scoffed at the task, but a Chieftain who did not sing was unheard of. After he had finished, the tribe sat down and pulled off the fresh mokele flesh that had been cooking over the fire all afternoon.
Nuru took a seat beside Mosi and Yana and one of the Elders led a song while they ate, telling of how Engok had created the first mokele out of the ground. It was an old song and one sung at almost every group meal. During the third song, when the meat was finished and the fermented milk had been brought out, the tribe sang a more playful song, with the men singing half, the women responding, and then vice-versa. Cooked eggs were passed around on platters, roots and vegetables foraged by the tribe were roasted on sticks, and bowls of nuts were handed from person to person. During this, a mischievous member of the tribe had passed along some wine purchased from one of the villages. Nuru looked at his father on the other side of the fire when the jug got to him. Imari merely looked up at the sky, shrugged, and smiled. Nuru smiled back.
Of course, it was father. Mother will be angry for him wasting good coin, but she won’t be so angry that she won’t take a drag or two of a good city vintage.
Nuru chuckled, took a drink, and went back to chatting with Mosi and Yana. It had been a good day.
… But during the fourth song, the darkness came. It staggered into camp in the form of a sick old man moaning for help.
Three of the men always volunteered to watch the camp’s perimeter and keep an eye out for trouble during a meal. One of them rushed into the center of camp dragging the old man forward and calling for help. The singing abruptly stopped. Nuru was caught in the wave of gasps and worried stares that swept over them like a wave. Folami marched up, seeing what was going on. Nuru’s parents were close behind. Soon, half the tribe had gathered around the man. He wore the same leggings and long flowing shirt tied at the waist common among the Savanna Folk—only his was spattered and caked with dried blood. He had taken a slash to the body and held the wound together with a dead man’s grip. Emem dropped onto her knees, examining the stranger. The newcomer pleaded for help from no one in particular, and whispered words which that were difficult to hear over the muttering crowd.
“Dead … they are all dead,” the old man spat out. “Monsters … monsters.”
Emem looked over the man.
“Carry him to my tent,” she said, radiating the authority only one charged with healing possessed.
Imari and several others gingerly lifted the man’s body and did as Emem had bid. The tribe was a chorus of whispers after that. Most agreed he was a criminal. Nuru didn’t know what to believe. Chances were good that they were right. An exile, already half-dead, would hardly walk up and announce he was a pariah. Nuru retreated back to his family’s tent after a few minutes of such talk. He had hoped the man was speaking again and perhaps he might find out more. Unfortunately, the man was asleep when he arrived. Imari and the others had left to consult the Elders and Nuru’s mother treated the stranger. She dug through her basket of herbs to mix something that might help. She looked up upon hearing her son enter.
“What’s wrong with him?” he said.
“The wound has festered,” Emem said in the slow, deliberate way she spoke while mulling matters over in her head. “Now he has a fever … and I don’t think he has had any water for at least a day.”
“Can you help him?”
“I doubt it,” she said, shaking her head. “A wound like this might be cleansed if it were fresh, but this is not.”
“Can I help?” said Nuru, perhaps too boldly than was couth.
Emem met her son’s eyes for the first time in the conversation. They were brown and flecked with gold. Nuru had always thought they were pretty in their own way, but when she stared at him it was like looking into the sun.
“You can sit quietly while I work.”
Her tone made it clear there would be no discussion on the matter—but Nuru tried anyway. He wanted to stay inside the tent in case the stranger awoke.
“Could I help with the herbs?”
His mother considered it for a moment. She clearly had not been fooled by Nuru’s polite tone but relented anyway. He guessed that her hands were just getting tired.
“Grind some aava seeds. It is probably too late, but they might bring down his fever.”
His mother cleaned and sewed the wound together while the man slept. He had seen his mother treat terrible injuries before. Emem talked quietly while she worked; more to distract herself than to actually instruct Nuru. Healing and making medicines was considered woman’s work among the tribes, yet he listened all the same. She finished about an hour later.
“It isn’t ideal to sew the gash closed while he’s still feverish,” she explained, “but there’s little choice with a cut so deep and—”
The stranger suddenly shot up from the mat, screaming. Nuru fell back, his heart skipping a beat. The man shrieked mindlessly. His eyes were still closed and must have been having a nightmare. He beat his arms in a panic and looked as though he was trying to rise off the sleeping mat and push his body into the ground at the same time. His mother gripped the old man’s arms, holding him in place.
“Grab his legs!” she shouted at Nuru. “Gently!”
Nuru did as he was told, but the man still struggled wildly and shouted words he couldn’t make out. The stranger’s eyes sprang open. Emem whispered into his ear, explaining who she was and where they were, but the man seemed to hear none of it. His screams drew Imari back into the tent. He looked from the stranger to Emem and back. He bent down beside her and grabbed the old man’s head gently so they were nose-to-nose. He cupped his hands around the stranger’s jaw so he couldn’t scream.
“Look at me,” his father said to the man. “Look into my eyes. Calm. Calm yourself, old one.”
The man finally stopped struggling. He collapsed back onto the mat, his breath heaving.
“Calm yourself,” Imari repeated soothingly. “Breathe.”
While Imari kept eye contact with the man, Emem looked down at his belly, ensuring the wound had not opened again. A moment later, she sat back, content her work had held together. Nuru crawled around to the other side of his legs so he could hear his father and the old man.
“Do you know where you are?” said Imari.
“No,” the man rasped through his pain. “Far …”
Calmer, Nuru’s father eased the old man back down into the bed.
“This is Folami’s tribe,” Imari said. “Descendants of the great Gray Stone Tribe. Are you of the Savanna Folk as well?”
The man didn’t seem to hear. He appeared slip in and out of lucidity.
“What is your name?” said Imari.
The man mouthed something, but it was too quiet to hear. Nuru’s mother soaked a fresh rag in a bowl of water and placed it on the man’s forehead. Nuru himself listened with rapt attention, his father quietly questioning their unintended guest. He muttered some words, half of which they couldn’t make out. The most common were “silence,” “death,” and “screaming,” None of it sounded very reassuring to Nuru.
“You are hurt,” Imari continued after several minutes. “How did it happen?”
“Monsters … monsters …” the stranger murmured.
“Who did this to you? Was it slave bands from the south? Are they crossing the river once more?”
“No,” the man said, feebly shaking his head. Holding his eyes open appeared to take all the will he had. “Others … monsters.”
“Who?” Imari said again.
The man licked his lips.
“Eaters of the dead,” he moaned, struggling to get out each word. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Creatures from another time.”
His father looked from the old man to his wife and then back, a look of confusion on his face.
“The Adze?” Imari asked, skeptically.
“… Adze …” the stranger whispered, faintly nodding his head. “Adze …”
His father and mother exchanged a dark look. Nuru didn’t blame them. All Savanna Folk had heard of the Adze. They were the monsters who took away children who disobeyed their parents, man-things that slaughtered those who wandered too far away from their tribe, cursed creatures which feasted on human flesh. Mosi claimed he had seen one inside a cave once when they were young, but even then, Nuru knew it was only an empty boast. The words had sapped the last of the man’s strength and he fell back into a twilight sleep. Emem looked over the man, feeling his heartbeat, and checking his temperature.
“He will not last long,” she said.
Imari stood and walked back toward the front of the tent. Nuru jumped up and followed him.
“What does that mean?” he asked his father.
Imari looked down at the floor, lost in thought.
“Perhaps nothing,” he finally said. “Folami and the Elders will wish to know what he said, though.”
Nuru grabbed his father’s arm.
“He spoke of monsters,” he said, trying not to sound like a frightened child. “Why would he say such things?”
Imari looked at the old man and then back at his son.
“He is sick. He wandered long and fevers can give men strange dreams. When Mosi’s father was dying, he thought was flying. It is nothing.”
His father’s face did not match his words, though. Nuru saw fear in his eyes. After Imari left the tent, he looked back in on the stranger. He was still unconscious under the watchful eye of his mother. Nuru retreated to his sleeping mat. Every now and then, the man muttered through his fever again in the same disjointed way he had done before. Sleep came to Nuru slowly. It arrived eventually though, amid rantings and ravings about indescribable horrors, mythical beasts, and ancient evils now returned.