This was my response to a story challenge put forth by Milton Davis. Find his group, Sword and Soul, on Black Science Fiction Society.
Today, there is time enough for stillness. Time enough to rest the calloused soles of my conflict laden feet upon the bare tile. Time enough to look west, out over the nshya, to the distant marshes. They give rise to a mist this day that reaches humid tendrils across the sprawling farmlands which divide the palace from the swamps. Mist which brings with it echoes, remnants of the fallen warriors of my tribe, who beat with one hand the shields which rest against their hips, as if those plates of finely engraved bronze were ingoma, and brandish their spears in the other.
As they move toward the palace, they each in turn call out their names, and the names of their fathers, and the names of their sons, and the count of their kills. And as each finishes his recitation, he then takes up the battle cry which we sing as we march out to face our would-be oppressors. Despots who throw their numbers against ours in foolish campaigns, in foolish pursuit of a land whose warriors are bred of warriors who were bred of giants. When the seldom occasion rises, and the mwami allows his golden shield to hang at his hip and the tip of his spear to rest upon the earth, I have seen this king laugh until the heavens shook at their folly.
The day stretches on. I have not moved. Neither have my eyes strayed from the procession which eddies out over the land with the mist. And as night begins to fall, as the sun begins to lower itself into the now thinly steaming bogs, one last warrior makes his way across the land. His eyes burn into mine across the distance and the beat he sounds upon his shield imitates the beat of my heart. He calls out his name and I take a hard breath, he calls out the name of his father and I stamp the tip of my spear upon the tile in acknowledgment, he calls out the name of his son and once more I stamp my spear upon the tile, in place of the child who is too small to do so. He then counts his kills and with every rising number he beats his shield harder, as my heart beats harder. At a thousand he stops and fades away with the dissipating mist.
Darkness now covers the land. I push my feet into my shoes and stand away from the wall, stillness is at an end and I must prepare. Tomorrow dawns upon my vengeance.
Image: Ludwig Deutsch, The Palace Guard, 1892
Today, there is time enough for stillness. Time enough to rest the calloused soles of my conflict laden feet upon the bare tile. Time enough to look west, out over the nshya, to the distant marshes. They give rise to a mist this day that reaches humid tendrils across the sprawling farmlands which divide the palace from the swamps. Mist which brings with it echoes, remnants of the fallen warriors of my tribe, who beat with one hand the shields which rest against their hips, as if those plates of finely engraved bronze were ingoma, and brandish their spears in the other.
As they move toward the palace, they each in turn call out their names, and the names of their fathers, and the names of their sons, and the count of their kills. And as each finishes his recitation, he then takes up the battle cry which we sing as we march out to face our would-be oppressors. Despots who throw their numbers against ours in foolish campaigns, in foolish pursuit of a land whose warriors are bred of warriors who were bred of giants. When the seldom occasion rises, and the mwami allows his golden shield to hang at his hip and the tip of his spear to rest upon the earth, I have seen this king laugh until the heavens shook at their folly.
The day stretches on. I have not moved. Neither have my eyes strayed from the procession which eddies out over the land with the mist. And as night begins to fall, as the sun begins to lower itself into the now thinly steaming bogs, one last warrior makes his way across the land. His eyes burn into mine across the distance and the beat he sounds upon his shield imitates the beat of my heart. He calls out his name and I take a hard breath, he calls out the name of his father and I stamp the tip of my spear upon the tile in acknowledgment, he calls out the name of his son and once more I stamp my spear upon the tile, in place of the child who is too small to do so. He then counts his kills and with every rising number he beats his shield harder, as my heart beats harder. At a thousand he stops and fades away with the dissipating mist.
Darkness now covers the land. I push my feet into my shoes and stand away from the wall, stillness is at an end and I must prepare. Tomorrow dawns upon my vengeance.
Image: Ludwig Deutsch, The Palace Guard, 1892
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