When the Arkhysian Empire invaded the northlands, a petulant scoundrel, Mmendi, refused to surrender his horses, his women, or give up his fine tent to work an Empire farm and war against barbarian thief-lords in the Golden Gulf. Empire soldiers locked the rascal in a cage and took what they wanted. They paraded Mmendi’s horses, children, and women, chained and branded, in front of him. The pampered chief went mad with grief, tearing out his beard, talking only to haints. The beard never grew back.

Seeing Mmendi raving, his people were subdued, beaten. One afternoon the captain of his Empire guard, Thalit, a strong woman with northern roots, recognized his true spirit. Thalit seduced Mmendi or he her—who can say? They ran away together, hiding and eating roots and rats at first, with no thought of much but survival and pleasure.

One night, Mmendi and Thalit raided Empire caravans for mangos, goats, and nut bread. Mmendi’s people delighted in this defiance and deserted the Empire in droves. All the men shaved their beards; the women cut their hair short as a fighting woman’s. They joined the rascal and his warrior wife and harried Empire caravans, outposts, and patrols. Mmendi and his people claimed the shadows, the caves, the night. They forced the Empire to withdraw from this desert.

Mmendi and Thalit’s spirits guide the People still.

Awa looked from Isra’s body to Bal, who trembled with rage. Yari’s story craft and man-masquerade drew cheers and whistles from the savages. Yari hated that word, but they’d burned Isra alive—what else to call them?

“Only Zamanzi know the whole tale.” The axman squinted at Yari. “How did you learn this? Unless—the walking library!” He lowered his ax. “You are Yari, the Lahesh griot who seduces husbands, wives, emperors, and snakes, who drums up the past and the future.” He pounded the ground in front of the traitor-Elders. “I won’t cut Yari’s neck and risk Xhalan Xhala. Only a fool courts Lahesh reckoning fire.”

Yari’s name moved through the crowd like a sandstorm. Three chiefs clashed blades to possess the griot who knew something about everything. Bal snatched a sword from a careless guard and challenged the chiefs. Archers aimed bolts at her, but the war chief stayed their hands and let Bal fight. “For the show if nothing else,” he growled.

The cocky chiefs underestimated Bal. They lunged at her halfheartedly, winking at women who huddled with horses and goats at the edge of feast tables. Bal slashed tendons and foreheads and danced away from disabled foes. Limping around with blood dripping in their eyes, the cocky chiefs skewered each other. A shadow warrior defeated enemies without killing. The war chief claimed Bal as soldier and Yari as his griot praise-singer.

“Join me,” Bal shouted to Awa. “Wife is too perilous.”

“Yes, choose,” the axman said, “or die.”