Kamal the African Warrior: Book One of the Sharman Series

By Paul Odiaka

Kamal was born and bred amongst the Masi people, deep in the heart of West Africa. Unknown to him, he was the first son of

King Madogo Shal Adak, king of Sharman, a fact kept from him by his mother. After the kings death, at the hands of his advisor, Anaki, and his son, Malinga, Kamals village was attacked and his people were enslaved as Malinga searched to kill him. Driven from his homeland and trained by the great Maduk Kabatu, Kamal and his friends must follow their destinies, in their quest to rescue their families and people, but can they?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Apr 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483620039

Paul Odiaka

Paul Odiaka was born in Cardiff, Wales, in 1973 but went back to Nigeria, where he grew up until the age of twenty, after which he went back to Great Britain. He graduated from Kingston University with a degree in Biomedical Science and went on to work in a hospital laboratory. His love for fantasy books made him want to be a writer of fantasy. Inspired by his daughter, Athalia, he decided to write his first novel, Kamal, the African Warrior. He resides in London, with his family.

Book preview

Prologue

T he world as we see it was once different—in a time so old and ancient, an age of wonders, power and great splendour, an age of legends.

There existed a kingdom, so old in age that no one could remember its true origins. This kingdom was in the western part of the motherland, Africa.

It was larger than most other kingdoms and ruled by a true and just king—King Madogo Shal Adak. Wise and old in years, he had seen things that no one else had and been to places that few had been, yet he was humbled by his experiences. A great fighter in his time, he had led his people to war and savoured untold victories.

He had a broad nose, brown eyes underneath thick dark eyebrows, and a bold forehead. He was completely bald but could remember when he had long flowing hair, tied at the back with gold ribbons. He had had ten ribbons then, each ribbon signifying the battles he had fought and won. Now he had them around his right arm.

He was lean but still strong and full of life, despite his age. Sixty-nine summers he had seen so far, the great ones be praised. He had battle scars from the numerous battles he had fought to maintain the peace and tranquillity of his kingdom. However, for the past ten years, Sharman had enjoyed peace and good trade with its neighbouring kingdoms. A good thing indeed.

Glancing through a window, overlooking the palace garden in his bedchambers, he could not help but marvel at the beautiful craftsmanship displayed before him. He had seen it over a thousand times, yet its beauty always somehow caught his breath each time he looked at it, as if seeing the garden for the very first time.

Flowers of different varieties, shapes, sizes, and colours, so intricately arranged to form exceptional patterns, filled the large garden with looming fountains. Some shaped in the form of animals he had never heard of, nor seen. He inhaled deeply, taking in the fresh, flowery, scented air. It always had an effect on him—a warm and relaxing effect, something to soothe his nerves.

Since his wife, Queen Ada Shal Adak—may her soul rest in peace—passed away, he had kept to himself, avoiding friends and family, as well as being immune to the best of jokes, even those told by the palace jesters. He had never gotten over her death, close to five years now. ‘The queen of his heart,’ he had called her. She was the one person who had truly cared for him. Every one around him seemed too formal and fake for his liking.

Even though he was a king, he had learnt that too much formality with his subjects could create distrust and resentment. In addition, of course, he would be kept in the dark about their true motives. Knowledge meant everything to him. Without which he would not have been able to rule his kingdom for this long.

He had a son, Prince Malinga Shal Adak. The one, who they said, would one day take his place as the king of Sharman, greatest warrior of the Shatiku tribe. Yet he had other plans, one that would probably shock his kingdom.

The young prince had just seen his fifteenth summer and was already proving himself a great and formidable blade master, as well as a proficient learner in the ancient arts.

He was already taller than his father—standing about six feet in height—and was strong and handsome with hair already touching his waist. He was perfect in almost everything except for one, his temper.

Ever since his mother, the queen, passed away, he had generated some sort of hatred for his father. He was not disrespectful in any way, far from it, but you could see it in his eyes. Those eyes of his were cold, calculative, and full of distrust. He was strict to formality, even to his father. It was as if he blamed his own father for his mother’s death. Imagine that, King Madogo thought out loudly.

With a heavy sigh, he slowly pulled his eyes away from the garden and walked towards one of the lion-carved chairs, inlaid with gold and set beside a large brown table that he used for his studies. It was one of his favourite chairs, made from solid Reaki wood and carved by the finest woodcarvers in the kingdom.

His wife, the queen, had died from a bad fever that even his very own magician could not cure. It had lasted for over a week until she had no fight left in her. One day she was there, smiling, laughing, and gracing his side with her untold beauty and energy. The next she was dead, dead from only the good earth knew what.

He never remarried for fear of destroying the little relationship, if one could call it that, with his son. Yet it had cost him so much, and he was beginning to wonder if he should remarry. There were loads of young and beautiful Shatiku maidens to choose from, or he could choose from among the Masi tribe. A slight smile crossed his face at that, knowing how adventurous their women were.

His smile faded as he thought of someone else, someone he once loved and cherished, someone who bore him a… No, he had to forget the past. He had to. Yet deep down he knew that the past would somehow come back to haunt him. He would do the right thing when the time came, even though Prince Malinga and others might take offence. What had to be done had to be done. For now, he would let sleeping dogs lie.

He snapped his fingers. One of his male servants in waiting immediately proffered him warm wine. He allowed the young man to fill his cup and then drank raucously.

Sitting back, he let the rich sweetness of the wine absorb his thoughts. He had acquired a taste for palm wine, after the death of his wife. He always insisted on only the best wine to be sent to the palace for his consumption.

Another servant in waiting, much older than the first, quickly ran towards him and bowed, head to waist, with his left palm placed firmly on his chest and his right palm facing outwards to the king.

‘Anaki Al Shuta, the great necromancer and counsellor to his highness, King Madogo Shal Adak, king of Sharman and the greatest warrior of the Shatiku tribe, asks your permission to enter his highnesses presence!’

King Madogo opened his eyes slowly and looked at the servant, still bent over in observance. He was one of his trusted servants, who had come to his service over thirty years now, and always insisted on formality when anyone, other than his son, wanted to see him. How he hated formalities!

With a slight nod, the king watched his servant run towards the huge chamber doors and whisper something to one of two Shatiku warriors stationed there.

The door slowly opened to reveal a dark figure. Anaki, his advisor and magician, walked in and closed the door behind him.

He was old and grey, very skinny and very unattractive. Perhaps one of the reasons people were so petrified of him was because of his peculiar look—large black lips and a very broad nose underneath dark, intense eyes that seemed to bore holes into you when he looked at you.

He wore a loincloth of diverse colours and a chain made of some huge animal’s set of teeth, around his neck. His face was painted white and his eyebrows painted red. He had a rather large conical-shaped hat, made of lion’s hide and covered at the top with the bones of an Adlet, a type of wild dog like humanoid, or so they claim.

Some people would have called him evil, but despite his atrocious methods of dealing with certain people, he still was an exceptional advisor to the king and well learned in the art of magic. His son, the prince, seemed to like and respect him. Moreover, they always spent time studying together.

‘Your highness and most high warrior of all the clans of Sharman, I greet you with heart, body, and soul,’ he said with that crusty, dry voice of his, as he bowed, head to waist just like the young servant, only not as low.

‘How fares thee, my good friend?’ King Madogo never truly liked Anaki; he was somewhat… wary of him. He seemed to always, somehow, know what the king was planning.

Anaki raised his head and looked intently at the king, with eyes of the soulless. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, but a matter of concern has called for your majesty’s immediate attention. I would not have come in such rapidity otherwise.’

King Madogo looked at him, wondering what this urgent message was all about. Anaki smelt of anticipation, not fear. So maybe the news was not that appalling. He inclined his head slowly for the sorcerer to continue.

‘The people of Tongi have refused to acknowledge you as their lawful king. They have… may I say, bitten the hand that fed them all these years.’ Anaki twisted his mouth with disgust, his eyes never leaving the king’s. Those eyes of his could truly bore holes right through you.

‘They have even gone as far as sending emissaries to your highness to quite, certainly, discuss the prospect of inaugurating an exclusively separate king to rule over them. Imagine their impudence!’ he concluded, with eyes like fire and a face as if carved of stone.

King Madogo looked away from the man standing in front of him. He wondered what Anaki was up to. ‘Continue,’ his rich voice echoed throughout the large room he used as his study.

Anaki raised the black staff he held over his head dramatically. ‘I suggest we show them that the great kingdom that is Sharman would not take kindly to those who bring impertinence and ingratitude towards it. We should send ten thousand Kalaki warriors to… shall I say, teach them a lesson in humility.’

‘Listen to me, my friend,’ King Madogo began. ‘The people of Tongi have remained a separate entity from us for the past five years now, and they have done very well on their own so far. We promised to bestow them their freedom after they helped us in the Great War, over ten years ago. They have waited patiently all this time. They deserve their freedom and a king of their own, don’t you think?’

Anaki’s face was a visor of thunder. ‘But, your highness!’ he hissed, ‘you simply cannot allow these… vermin to make manifest this absurd ideas of theirs. It is unheard of in our history!’

‘Yes, we can, Anaki, and maybe it hasn’t been done before, but this is a new age, and we need allies not enemies around us.’

‘But, your highness…’

‘Enough of this talk!’ shouted the king, standing up so quickly that wine spilled all over his hand. ‘I shall not permit it, end of story. Or do you dare question your king?’

Anaki’s right hand tightened on the snake-headed wooden staff he was holding. But there was no visible expression shown on his face.

‘As you wish, your highness, and may your words enlighten my soul.’

Bowing slightly, he made as if to leave and then turned suddenly towards the king.

‘The elders of the seven tribes of Sharman seek an audience with your highness… to discuss matters concerning the deaths of over two hundred people from the different clans. They say these people were killed in their sleep. Their bodies utterly drained of blood. They seem to point fingers at an Asiman.’

Anaki smiled, if it could be called a smile. He seemed to be smirking at the king.

‘They may go ahead and blame these so-called mythical, vampiric creatures. However, I believe it is a form of magic that the Tongi are using to make us scared and bring disquiet and uncertainty amongst our people.’

King Madogo looked at his advisor straight in the eyes. He knew that for the elders of the seven tribes of Sharman to agree to come together as one, for such a meeting, it meant that there had to be an element of truth in what was rumoured.

‘Tell them that they should meet me in the Warriors Hall at noon tomorrow.’

With that, Anaki left, the door closing with a slam. He surely was beginning to be more audacious. But removing him from his position as advisor and chief magician would be unwise. He knew how to get information like no one else could. And his magic was incomparable to any he had seen. But what must be done had to be done. He simply could not allow any form of discord to exist between the two kingdoms.

They were once part of the Sharman kingdom, East Sharman it had been called. But an alliance had been made after the Great War, ten years ago. If not for the people of Tongi, he would be dead by now. Their warriors had saved him during the great battle. And they had fought like no other. That was why he had decided to give them back their lands and let them be a separate kingdom as they were once. He would not falter from his promise, not now.

He sat back with a heavy sigh. He suddenly felt his age. Ruling a kingdom was never easy.

‘More wine!’ He breathed as he closed his eyes, thinking of what he would utter to the elders the following day.

The door closed behind Anaki. The four huge guards eyed him warily as he walked on. They knew he was angry, and they knew his reputation. Anaki carried on towards the far end of the hallway where three more guards stood, eyes fixed on him.

They were warriors picked from each of the seven tribes of Sharman, chosen to protect the king with their lives. He laughed at that. How soon before all that would end. Things would change around here, but first, certain… minor obstacles had to be removed, and soon.

He walked on, the smile never leaving his face as he passed the perplexed guards.

Prince Malinga smiled at the man lying face down on the hard ground, moaning in pain. Two others circled around him, eyes fixed with intent, wooden swords at the ready.

Malinga’s practice sword still lay at his side, unsheathed. He didn’t need it for this exercise.

He sidestepped towards his left as one of the warriors made a thrust with his sword and then spun around suddenly, his out-thrust fist catching the man right on his jaw. The other warrior’s momentary surprise was enough for Malinga to execute a flawless sidekick to his ribs. The man landed heavily, bottom first, on the ground and doubled over in pain.

A great cheer arose from the crowd of warriors who had gathered to watch. Whenever the prince came into the training ground, every other warrior stopped what he or she was doing, just to watch him in action.

Malinga lightly dusted his shoulders with the tips of his fingers in a self-composed gesture and looked at his handiwork. Three grown men, all seasoned warriors from the Jatsuku tribe, lay on the ground in diverse compositions of pain.

He always chose warriors from different tribes each day to train with, and none of them, so far, could surpass him in combat. A great achievement for one of such an age as his, some people might say, but he wanted more. He was never satisfied. That hunger was what made him push himself harder than most. He craved greatness, and greatness he would one day attain.

He looked around at the crowd that had begun to slowly dwindle until his eyes fell on Anaki. He wondered how long the sorcerer had been watching—no doubt admiring his handiwork.

Anaki made a small nod with his head and then turned and walked away from the practice field towards the palace quarters.

‘Time to learn some more sorcery, I presume.’ Malinga looked at the golden sunset. He must have been practising for over three hours, and he didn’t even feel tired.

He took the plaque of black, native soap from the kneeling servant, rubbed his face and arms with it, and then rinsed himself with water from a large silver bowl that another female servant had brought. That would do for now until he got back to his quarters, he thought as he wiped his face and arms with a soft brown cloth.

‘My young lord has done fairly well today. However, you should not allow pride and arrogance to get in the way of your training.’

Malinga turned around suddenly, only to see Maduk Kabatu, the chief warrior captain of the king’s elite warriors, behind him. He always hated how Maduk did that. He had a way of appearing right behind you when you least anticipated. The little, old sneak.

‘Old man, I do what I want when I want. And besides, if you want me to stop making a fool out of your so-called hardened warriors, then you send me one who would at least make me draw my sword.’

Maduk shook his head sadly. Teenagers were a nuisance in many ways, most of all, this one, who seemed bent on causing havoc to his pride. He remembered when the young prince challenged him to a dual. Malinga was good, but he taught the prince a few lessons in humility.

Being a blade master for thirty years showed its worth then. But this was now. And the prince had shown so much knowledge and skill during the past year that he himself was beginning to wonder whether he could still best the young prince again.

The most frustrating thing about the whole situation was how Malinga took his time to humiliate and totally disrepute his opponents—men over twice his age and seasoned warriors, not to say the least.

There was no mistaking that the prince was good, maybe even the best Maduk had ever seen. But what on the good earth’s name was he turning into?

‘Just remember, young prince, pride goes before a fall. And I truly wouldn’t like to see that happen to you. You are one of the best fighters whom I have ever seen. But never ever underestimate your opponents. Even a little mouse can catch an elephant by surprise.’

‘You forget something, old man. I am even better at sorcery than I am at combat. So don’t you ever think for once that my actions are irrational and without direction. See you same time tomorrow, and this time, make it five of your best warriors to face me.’

Malinga turned away from the captain of the king’s army with a slight smirk on his face.

Maduk Kabatu watched the young prince walk away from the training ground towards the main palace quarters. What was the prince up to? Surely, he had become almost invincible as a fighter. But why the constant insult on his warriors?

He knew that Anaki was evil personified right from the very first day he laid eyes on him, thirty years ago to be precise. But what had he turned the prince into?

He wondered why King Madogo still allowed such a monster near his son or even in the palace for that matter. Anaki reeked of pure, unadulterated evil. How the king could not perceive that was beyond him?

‘Katu!’

A middle-aged battle-scarred warrior captain came running towards Maduk. Hand touching heart and lips in reverence.

‘Yes, Chief.’

‘Tell the men to retire from training. They have done sufficiently for today.’

‘Yes, Chief.’

Maduk watched the warrior run towards the other captains. They would spread the word and ensure his men did as ordered.

Over ten thousand warrior solders could train, at any one time, in the large training field situated at the back of the great palace of Sharman.

There were other similar training fields scattered all over Shatiku and Lamakatu. This was where the bulk of the king’s army resided, a hundred and ninety thousand warriors, a fearsome and formidable lot gotten from the seven tribes of Sharman.

It wasn’t easy keeping up with their training and welfare. That is why he had captains and senior warriors to help organise his army of warriors. It was hard work, but someone had to do it.

He felt a storm coming, and he didn’t mean the weather. Whatever it was, he knew he had to prepare his men and himself.

With a deep sigh, Maduk Kabatu, chief captain of the king’s warriors, walked towards his own quarters. Thoughts of a good bath and warm food filled his head.

Anaki sat cross-legged on a multicoloured rug made of sheepskin in a large room, deep in the basement at the palace—a place he used for his studies and other important things that needed shielding from prying eyes.

Lit lamps hung from the ceiling provided moderate light. That was all he needed for his magic provided enough illumination to brighten the entire room. There were carvings of different animals and entities unknown to many but himself.

The room smelt unworldly, somewhat alien. But he was used to it. He had summoned many beings from the forbidding land to this very room to do his bidding, and each time they left, a taint of their unworldly presence remained. Creatures of the dark one that would enable him rule the whole of Africa and the lands beyond.

He laughed, a pity some people would have to be removed from their positions of authority or maybe have their lives shortened along the way. Names filled his head. People he would sooner be purged of.

He felt Malinga at the door. Without turning, he told the young prince to come in, chortling at the gasp of astonishment from him.

Malinga walked in majestically, angry at the little gesture of surprise he had just shown. He hated when people surprised him.

Anaki sat on a brown rug made of sheepskin; he had his back facing the wooden door. The sorcerer was full of new information and tricks, but he felt that Anaki was holding back quite a lot still. One of these days, he would make the sorcerer cough out everything he knew, and more. But for now, he would learn as much as he could.

‘So the dark sorcerer can sense people even before he sees them. How grand? Were you going to share this trickery with me or keep it all to yourself and use it to make me look foolish?’

‘Please, sit, young prince. All will be revealed in due time. Right now you must learn the art of summoning.’

‘Summoning!’

Malinga looked taken aback, shock visibly showing on his face.

Anaki looked at the young man standing next to him. He showed promise, a lot of promise. But he was impatient just like every other teenager out there. Still he would be taught just enough to be used in fulfilling his grand scheme.

Anaki gestured towards another rug set in front of him, for Malinga to sit.

Malinga walked towards the rug, curiosity clearly marked on his young face, and sat cross-legged, as instructed. He smelt of anticipation and a slight pang of fear.

‘What goes on in this room is between you and me, understand?’

Malinga looked at him, chin raised high. ‘I understand, sorcerer.’

Anaki breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Good, I know that summoning is against the law of this land, but desperate times call for certain rules and laws to be overlooked.’

Malinga looked on, the wary expression on his face slowly but surely fading.

Anaki motioned for him to extend his hand, palms facing upwards, and then he touched them with his own palms. A bright orange light suddenly appeared around their palms and then slowly spread out until it completely enveloped the both of them.

Malinga’s eyes turned white, as did Anaki’s. He tried to speak but could only open his mouth in silence. He could hear Anaki’s voice in his head, instructing, teaching, and directing him. His head ached. His body trembled, yet he couldn’t move a muscle on his own. Then suddenly, the bright light vanished, and everything returned to normal.

Anaki looked at the young prince. He looked quite shaken. But he would survive. This was just one of the many forbidden lessons he would be taught. And when he was well learned in the art of sorcery, he would then be used to help him create a new and powerful kingdom, one that would bow down to him and him alone.

Anaki smiled. A deep throaty laugh escaped his lips as he watched the prince, still white-eyed and motionless, start to convulse.

The night was dark, darker than usual, with no moon to offer any form of illumination. Few people were awake in the small village called Shintu, located east of the Lakuki hills.

A light cold wind blew over the straw-thatched huts scattered over the grassy landscape. It blew over the forested hills that overshadowed the small village.

The Asiman slowly glided over the dust-filled road, its large red eyes transfixed towards a small hut, just yards from its part. It smelt human blood, and it couldn’t wait to feed.

It normally travelled as a ball of white light, but it did not want to be noticed in this dark night.

The creature had singled out this hut, watched its only occupant—an old grizzled farmer, sit on a small, rickety wooden chair, adjacent to the door of his hut, for over an hour, drinking and singing loudly to himself before reluctantly standing up and walking, with a slight stumble, back towards his shabby-looking hut. Maybe the cold air had driven the human indoors. Humans were such sensitive creatures.

The old man had suddenly turned his head towards the roadside, looking this way and that, as if sensing something, before muttering something incomprehensible, to himself and finally going inside, his lamp by his side.

The lamp had gone over half an hour ago, which meant that the old man was asleep. The Asiman loved to attack its victims when they were fully awake. Blood from a fearful human tasted so much sweeter, but it had been instructed to only kill when its victims were asleep, something it did not understand but knew it had to be obeyed.

Still, blood from a human tasted much better than any other animal.

It glided slowly, in eerie silence, towards the wooden door, now locked from the inside. A smile, if that could be called one, crossed its chapped lips, as if mocking the feeble attempt of humans in trying to protect themselves and their worldly possessions.

A thin tentacle of bright orange light shot out from one of its fingers. It snaked its way underneath the space between the door and the dusty ground and then continued upwards until it reached the wooden latch, which it slowly and carefully unbolted. The door opened with a slight creak and in went the Asiman.

The savoury, sweet smell of fresh, warm human blood felt stronger in here. A tingling sensation filled the Asiman’s inhuman body. It licked its lips as it surveyed the middle-sized room.

The hut had two separate sections: one side contained farming tools and a couple of calabashes, while the other section had a tattered-looking mat for sleeping on. A small chair and clothes were folded and placed in a corner beside the wall. The old man was sleeping noisily on the mat, his back towards the door. Although, to the human eye, it was stark dark in the room, the Asiman could see every minute detail of its surrounding.

It glided towards the sleeping man, stopping inches from him. Then a tread of silvery light shut out from one of its hands. It wound its way around the man’s body, feet first, until it got to the man’s head. Like a thing alive, it split into two and slowly entered the old man’s eyes.

The body jerked and thrashed and then suddenly went still. The Asiman lifted its hand, and the man’s body began to rise until it was level with the creature’s shoulders. No longer able to hold back, the Asiman opened its mouth and sank its pointed fangs into the neck of its victim.

Its eyes became larger and redder as it slowly began to drain the farmer’s blood. Blood so sweet, so warm, so fresh, the blood of a human is always the best.

Its fangs sank deeper into the old man’s neck, not letting go until every last drop was drained.

The morning sun shone brightly through the kitchen window of Mama Zupunda. She was cooking earlier than usual today. A special favour for a special someone. She hoped all her efforts would be well appreciated.

She dipped a long wooden spoon into the large pot of hot steaming goat meat stew, took a bit to taste and then smiled with satisfaction. Today would be truly special indeed, and no one would spoil it for her.

Gathering a couple of small bowls, she began filling them up with some of the stew and some cooked coconut-flavoured rice she had made earlier; then she placed them on a large tray which she carefully balanced on her head.

She slowly and carefully sneaked out of the medium-sized mud hut, which she shared with her husband and two teenage sons. They were still fast asleep, having worked until late in the night the previous day, gathering cassava and yam tubers which they would later sell in the market.

She hated what she did at times, but she never really loved her husband, a much older man whom she was forced to marry at the tender age of sixteen. He was a hard working man; still, he never seemed to have any time for her, except when he wanted some companionship. Men could be such inconsiderate and uncaring mugs.

However, the man she had been seeing for the past two months was different. He truly cared for her and showed it in so many ways. She smiled, just thinking about some of the ways the old farmer expressed his love for her.

Thoughts of Yamundu filled her head as she set out towards the narrow footpath, through the small forest, that would lead her to her lover’s hut.

A few men could be seen preparing to leave for their various farms, some sharpening knives and machetes, while others could be seen brushing their teeth with chewing stick, a small piece of branch cut off from a tree known for its teeth-cleaning qualities.

Most of the men were farmers and traders, taking their produce to other villages and towns to sell, while the women mostly did the cooking and clothe-making.

Before long, Madam Zupunda was standing at the front of the little hut that was home to Yamundu. It was only a ten-minute walk from her home, but it felt like an eternity. Hopefully, the folks won’t be awake until another half-hour, enough for what she planned to do with the little old farmer, the true love of her life.

She tapped at the door tree times, a signal they both acknowledged as representing her presence. There was no reply. Strange, he knew she was coming so why the delay. She gave the door a slightly strong shove. It opened with a creak. Naughty old man playing his little games. That was why she loved him. He was always coming up with new ways of thrilling her.

‘Yamundu, my love, my heart yearns for you. I have brought you something to entice your tongue and soothe your stomach.’ It was dark inside the small hut, and apart from the smell of stale wine, there was a strange smell lingering in the air. Something she couldn’t quite place a finger on.

She located the only window in the hut and opened it to let in some fresh air and sunlight. Yamundu was still sleeping on his mat. He was lying on his side with his back towards her. ‘Men!’ she exclaimed loudly, ‘never awake when you needed them.’

She walked towards the sleeping farmer and knelt at his side. Placing her right hand on his shoulder, she began shaking him lightly. ‘Yamundu, wake up! It’s me Mama Zupunda.’ Suddenly, she noticed two small red marks on the side of his neck. ‘I don’t remember giving you love bites. You have some explaining to do, Yamundu.’ She yanked him harder this time, turning him around so he faced her. Anger suddenly turned to shock and then sheer horror as what stared back at her were two eyeless sockets on a dry cold body devoid of life.

An ear-piercing scream shattered the once peaceful village of Shintu.

King Madogo raised both hands up as one of his servants in waiting placed his ceremonial sword in its golden strap. It was almost midday, and the chiefs and high elders of the villages and towns of Sharman would be already waiting at the palace conference hall.

He knew of what the subject for conversation would most likely be: increased levy on farmers, reducing trade with certain kingdoms they felt were the enemy, and increasing positions of eminence amongst certain people who, he felt, did not deserve it one bit.

He knew what he would say to them, but still, there were good men amongst the chiefs. Men he grew up together with, men he knew he could trust with his very own life. Yet these friends of his would never open their mouths to complain about anything or demand anything. They would simply say what needed to be said and then listen attentively to what others had to say.

A short stout-looking female servant brought a bright red cushion laced with gold. On top of it was the famous crown of Sharman. It was a thing of unimaginable beauty, with golden feathers around the top of it and an array of precious stones placed in the middle of each feather. It had a golden emblem in the middle, showing two crossed swords and a long spear in between, indicating that the bearer was a blade master as well as a king.

A thing passed from generation to generation from the Shal Adak family, who were known to be the greatest warriors of the land. His very own father had handed it to him on his deathbed. He was only seventeen years of age then but a proficient blade master and wise for his age. Wise enough to know that the crown of Sharman was not just a crown but also something else.

It had magical properties, one that no one could understand. He knew for one that the crown never dulled in appearance as if it cleaned and polished itself. He always felt a slight surge of power whenever he wore it. That was one reason why he avoided wearing the thing, only if he knew he had to.

He had noticed his sorcerer, Anaki, looking at it on several occasions. The man seemed bent on getting his hands on it, even telling him that he was the one person who could deduce the magical properties of the crown. However, he would not give Anaki or anyone else the privilege of doing so, for reasons he alone knew best. His forefathers had made a decree in all the land that no one, apart from the ordained king, should as much as touch the crown, and he would do the same.

The female servant bowed as she raised the cushion towards him. He carefully took the crown and placed it on his head and then signalled that he was ready to proceed. The door to his quarters opened, revealing two lines of hardened warriors, twelve in each line, all dressed in ceremonial attire for the monthly occasion.

Each warrior had a thick hide of animal skin, painted a deep red with white dots, for an upper body protector. An undergarment made of soft cloth adorned with white fur covered the lower part of their bodies. With swords at their sides and spears held upright, they began the slow procession with the king right in the middle.

Anaki was waiting at the end of the hall, dressed in his usual garb consisting of a black shawl and a fearsome-looking mask covered with teeth from different strange animals. He seemed to be wearing a slightly malicious grin, but the king simply took it as nothing out of the ordinary. Anaki was Anaki. He was a strange man who had talents that he needed and would use until he had no further use of him.

Ten minutes later saw the king sat on his throne in the large conference hall, with Anaki at his right-hand side. There were over a hundred people in the hall, consisting of the seven high chiefs of Sharman, each a leader of a tribe. Others included high and low elders, minor village chiefs, and a few attendants.

Each one of them had shown their respect by bowing to him as he made his way to his throne. A few of them were much older than he was, while others were old friends whom he grew up with. There was Chief Tinka of the Masi tribe, Chief Gozagoza of the Kalaki tribe, and Chief Amadu of Shatiku tribe. These were old friends he knew he could always rely on, true friends who had his back.

‘My people, my friends, and my subjects, before we proceed with today’s very important meeting, let us appease the spirits of our ancestors by sharing in the traditional offering of kola and wine.’

A low murmur of agreement reverberated around the hall as one of the ten servants in waiting brought a large tray filled with the hard nut. The youngest of the minor elders, a large thick-boned man from the Kalaki tribe named Uchi, took the bowl from the kneeling servant. King Madogo said a few prayers and then poured a bit of wine on to the ground, as was customary, before Uchi began offering the kola nut first to the king and then to the high elders according to age, before sitting down, a kola nut in one hand and a jug of wine in the other.

King Madogo did not really like the taste of kola nut. It had a somewhat bitter taste to it, but tradition meant he had to offer it to his guests during meetings and other important functions. However, it was soothing to the belly, and it made one more alert.

‘My friends and leaders of our people,’ the king began. ‘We have gathered here as one. Let us begin and end this meeting as one!’

‘And may our words be heeded!’ the congregation voiced out in synchrony.

‘Let the meeting begin!’

A tall, skinny grey-bearded old chief, by the name of Azu, stood up. He straightened the dark-coloured beads around his neck and then looked around him and then at King Madogo. ‘My king, the people of Kaki and I greet you. May the spirits of our ancestors and of the good earth guide your hands always.’

Clutching a wooden walking stick with red engravings, he looked around at the congregation again, before continuing, face set with determination.

‘We have, most of us here, travelled a long and great journey to reach where we are this very day. Many here will remember the Great War and can count their losses.’ A few chiefs and elders wore grim expressions, recollecting the past was hard for some. Chief Azu continued, ‘Today, we bathe in peace and tranquillity, blessings harvested through our sweat and blood.’

More people could be seen nodding thoughtfully, while others murmured their approval.

‘However, a great threat has risen from the very depths of the forbidden land. So far, my king, over 200 people from the different tribes of Sharman have suffered a terrible fate in the hands of this monster. The last recorded death took place just two days ago in a village called Shintu, east of Lakuki. Each victim was as dry as stock fish when found, not even a single drop of blood was left in their withered-looking bodies.’

A sudden quiet encompassed the large hall as every ear strained to hear what chief Azu was saying.

‘Whatever is causing this, be it monster or man, I say we should deal with it by putting more patrols around and within the villages, especially during night-times.’

‘You are right when you say that something has arisen from the very depths of the forbidden land, but it is not a man, it is definitely a monster and of the very worst kind.’

King Madogo turned towards the sound of the voice—Chief Malak, one of the oldest and craftiest people he ever knew stood up with a bit of difficulty, using his wooden staff for support. He had shifty eyes and was completely bald. He was a skilled war tactician as well as equally adept at hunting, either man or beast. One thing the king