The Tower of Bashan (2 page)

Why did I come here?

A servant beat on a large drum made from stretched water buffalo skin. Kanu, ruler of the Dawaro tribe, entered. Her father towered over all in attendance, and by sheer presence alone demanded everyone’s attention. There was no question where Andrasta had inherited her height.

Kanu carried his walking stick, or branch, as other tribe leaders liked to jokingly call the thick piece of acacia. In her youth, her father would whip the stick out as fast as a striking puff adder to put someone in their place. However, the way he leaned on the staff with each step, Andrasta expected that her father wouldn’t even be able to stand without it anymore.

Kanu had forgone his traditional attire of lion skins, instead wearing a plain robe of red cloth draped over his right shoulder and tied about the waist with a strip of alligator skin.
No need to go all out for me. It’s only one of your many daughters.
She glanced at her three dozen sisters, all ranging in size and appearance. Each shared the beauty of their mothers.

Even among your sons, I’m the only child to favor you, father. Yet I mean the least. Will anything ever change that?

Kanu sat on his throne—a large wicker seat lined with alligator skin and topped with ostrich feathers. She wasn’t sure what creaked more, her father’s joints or the chair.

He whispered something in one of his servant’s ears, making Andrasta wait even longer without acknowledging her presence. She forced herself not to scowl, knowing it only made the diagonal scar across her face more pronounced.

Kanu straightened. “Dear daughter,” he began softly. He never raised his voice, yet each word carried so all could hear.

She took a knee and bowed her head. “Father.”

“Why are you in my home?”

She winced.
My home. Not ours.
Did he hope I would never return?

“I’ve heard about the troubles afflicting the land.”

“These troubles are nothing new. Why are you here only now, Amani?”

She hated the use of her birth name. It meant peace in the Juntarkan language and her life had been anything but peaceful. She began calling herself Andrasta several years ago after a particularly grueling day of training in which she nearly lost a foot due to her clumsiness.

The name came from her mother’s people. It referenced a great female warrior who, according to legend, developed such great skills of war that she challenged the Caelic god of battle himself and won, thereby taking his place in their pantheon. During the worst of Master Enzi’s training, that story had given her hope that with enough effort she might one day earn a place among her father’s warriors.

“Master Enzi minimized our contact with the outside world. I only recently learned of these happenings.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

She didn’t fail to notice that her father had not given her permission to rise as was customary, announcing without words to all in attendance that she was not worthy enough to stand in his presence. “I’ve come to help.”

“Help? You? How?”

“By fighting. The migration of the herds is changing drastically and the crops are not turning in what they had previously. Alliances usually break down as resources grow scarce.”

“My alliances do not fall so easily. It’s nothing new for herds to change their patterns or crops to have bad years. These things are temporary and will return to normal after the next rainy season. Za has seen this.” He glanced to the old shaman standing off in the corner. White paint adorned the charcoal skin of his face and bare chest.

You are growing too relaxed, Father.

The Dawaro tribe had always been a strong military power, but so were others. Where the Dawaro truly separated themselves was with their mighty shamans. Za, her father’s closest advisor, was especially feared throughout Juntark.

She glanced at the decaying stone and faded rugs, a symbol of the true cause of her concern. “I know there is something wrong with the ability to call upon the magic of the land. Whispers of shamans weakening in power followed me during my return home. If the magic within the land is dying, then the only way wars will be won is by strength of arms.”

“Those stories are lies,” said Za.

His voice sounded hollow, like the first echo reverberating off the walls of a deep cave. Andrasta hated that voice.

Za continued. “The land speaks to me every day. It speaks to me now and wonders why you’re stirring trouble where there is none.”

Andrasta caught a faint quiver in his voice.
He’s hiding something. He knows I’m right.
However, accusing Za of being anything less than truthful would win her no favors. He had held her father’s ear for too long.

Kanu leaned forward. “You speak of fighting and strength of arms. Do you mean to take up a spear and join my army?”

“If necessary. However, I had hoped to do more. My training is superior to your army’s. Perhaps I could lead a small—”

“Lead?” cut in a voice to her right. Mosi, one of her three younger brothers stepped forward, smirking.

He was practically born with that arrogance.

He wore the traditional warrior garb of the Dawaro tribe, a boiled-leather vest dyed red and plain brown trousers tight at the thighs where more padding provided protection from punctures of arrow or spear. A short sword with a tear-drop blade hung at his waist. In his right hand, Mosi held a spear, in his left a long, oval shield of animal hide. No paint adorned the face of the shield, signifying that her brother had yet to see battle.

Andrasta glared at the prideful way Mosi carried himself. Among her brothers, she recalled him treating her with the most cruelty. Wide shouldered and square jawed, she saw some of her father in him.

“Our precious Amani thinks that a few years of training under a washed-up, old man makes one a warrior.”

Andrasta stood on her own, no longer caring to wait for her father’s permission. Her eyes narrowed, knowing it would draw attention to the scar on her face. “You would not last a week under Master Enzi’s training.”

Mosi laughed. “Father, let me teach your daughter what it means to be a warrior of the Dawaro tribe.”

“She is better armed,” said Kanu, rubbing his smooth chin.

It was true. Master Enzi did not believe in wearing the traditional warrior garb of Juntark, saying such things were meant for children, not for men. Any warrior who trained under Enzi knew the benefits of boiled leather, chain mail, and occasionally light plate. She wore a ring mail shirt that extended to mid-thigh, vambraces, and shin guards, all imported by Enzi from far off lands. A long sword hung at her waist. It joined the daggers strapped to her boot, waist, and chest.

“A sign of her cowardice,” said Mosi. “Let her have it. It will make her defeat more absolute.”

Kanu shrugged. “So be it.” He motioned for a guard to throw his spear to Andrasta.

She caught it in one hand, weighed it, then tossed it back.

“Second thoughts?” grinned Mosi as he began to circle.

“I already have a spear.”

“Where? Will you perform magic when you claim our shamans cannot and make a spear appear from nothing?”

“No. I’m just going to take yours.”

Mosi’s smile faded. He shuffled in quickly, spear darting up toward her throat. Andrasta leaned right as the point missed her face. Mosi stabbed three more times in rapid succession. Andrasta avoided them all with a slight sway to the left or right. Her brother withdrew a step wearing a look of surprise.

“You dance well.” The tone was meant to be mocking, but it came out shaky.

“You hold a spear like a child,” said Andrasta.

Mosi’s temper flared. He charged again, this time leading with shield. She crouched and held her ground, throwing her shoulder up at impact. The resistance threw her brother off balance. She drove forward, and bowled him over. He struck the floor hard. Several gasps sounded.

Mosi clamored to his feet and dropped his shield in order to grip his spear with two hands. He came in again, stabbing low and high, spinning the spear to strike her with the butt after feinting with the head.

Andrasta dodged the attacks with ease, moving less than two feet from where she stood. She grabbed hold of the shaft with both hands, and slammed her boot into Mosi’s gut. He fell to the ground, clutching his stomach, leaving his weapon in her grip.

The throne room fell silent except for Mosi’s labored breaths. Though she had little love for her siblings, Andrasta had not come to fight them. However, she would not let anyone embarrass her again. Man or woman, young or old, it did not matter. She had risen in skill under Master Enzi’s watchful eye until few could offer her any semblance of a challenge. An unblooded warrior would not defeat her.

A faint, careless scuffling sounded behind her.
Two sets.

She wheeled while raising the spear over head with outstretched arms. The shaft met the descending hilts of two short swords held by her other brothers. Shocked expressions flashed across their faces. Three quick moves disarmed them. A sweep with her brother’s spear dropped them beside Mosi on the ground.

Andrasta stepped lightly back to the center of the throne room. She held the spear at her side, point up.

During the fight, Za had moved beside her father. The shaman whispered something in Kanu’s ear. He nodded, then addressed Andrasta. “A warrior proud, indeed.”

Andrasta bowed her head. It was the closest thing to a compliment her father had ever given her. “Does that mean you will allow me to lead a portion of your army?”

“No. Nor will you hold a spear in the ranks.”

Her head snapped up. “But I’ve proven myself.”

“What you did was embarrass my sons. Look around you Amani. Do you see anyone that loves you here?”

She didn’t need to look to know the answer to that question, but she did anyway. Hateful stares greeted her.

She said nothing.

“Your name means peace, something your mother found amusing because of the peace our marriage brought to our border with Cael,” her father continued. “Yet all you bring, all you have ever brought to my house is discord. I had my doubts that you would survive Enzi’s training when you left. To be honest, I thought you’d be dead or would run away in defeat within the first few days. Yet, here you are.”

Her mouth twisted. “Your sons wanted the fight. Not I.”

“And they will not be the last. Do you plan to fight everyone in my army until they accept you?”

“I will do whatever it takes—”

“Then you will leave. You never should have returned.”

A tightness formed in her chest. “I only came to help. With the magic leaving our lands—”

“The magic is fine,” said Za. “Be honest, you only came to help yourself. To be accepted as a member of our tribe.”

Andrasta held her tongue, ashamed there was truth in those words.

Za snorted. “Your presence poisons us.”

Andrasta clenched her jaw and met the shaman’s eye. “You know that I’m right. And you know that when father sees you weakening, he’ll begin to rely on others. Me being here will only hasten that moment.”

Za laughed. “I do not fear you, child.”

“You should.”

Kanu shook his head. “You continue to prove my point. But you still share my blood. I will forget this meeting. Go and do not set foot in this hall again. Next time I’ll forget our ties.”

She broke her stare with the shaman, and turned to her father.
Master Enzi was right. This was a mistake. I have no family. I have no home.
Yet, a part of her, the child who always wanted her father’s acceptance still refused to move on. “I’ll leave, but I promise to return. When I do, I’ll have a way to restore the power of our lands.”

Za chuckled. “You’ve already done the impossible by becoming the first woman to survive Enzi’s training. Now, you think to wield magic too?”

“No.” She thought of the stories everyone knew about artifacts of old, items powerful sorcerers once used millennia ago. Most were lost to time, surviving only in fireside tales.

But not all.

Her people desired one artifact over any other. The most famous of fireside tales, legend said Thalamanak stole magic from the lands of Juntark when he created the artifact thousands of years ago.

If anything could restore the magic to the land and also strengthen my father’s power, it should be the jewel.

Andrasta continued. “I’ll return with the Jewel of Bashan.”

She spun on her heels and left.

No one stopped her. No one seemed to care.

* * *

Andrasta rode hard during the humid night, ensuring she’d be into her mother’s land before daybreak. She had never set foot outside of Juntark, but visiting Cael was something she had always wanted to do.

Crossing through the long valley separating the two countries, her first steps on Caelic’s rich soil came uneasily, not fully trusting the drastic change in scenery. She dismounted and brushed her hand over the dark green grass, a stark contrast to the tall plain grass that separated the forested areas of her birth country. Her skin came away damp with morning dew. On the Caelic side of the valley, the jungles of Juntark faded into a lush, hilly landscape.