"Child of the sands, listen well." The old priest's voice, raspy as dry leaves skittering across stone, filled the small hut.
"I hear the whispers of iron echoing in the bones of the earth, crimson rivers threatening to spill through the cracks of our fragile peace. The threads of fate have snapped! War dances in the very heart of this land."
His blind eyes, milky white and unsettling, swiveled as if he could see the doom he foretold. "A thousand heads shall rise against Uzazzu's breath, threatening to swallow it whole. But one shall rise—fierce, unbroken. A true warrior whose steps on the battleground of destiny shall quell this storm. Within her blood lies the strength to break this cycle of destruction."
Askia Ishaq II, the king of Uzazzu, shifted on the mud floor, the rough texture a stark contrast to the smooth silk of his white babanriga. The heavy scent of burning herbs thickened the air, each curl of smoke a tightening knot in his chest. The small hut felt suffocating. He tried to subtly stretch his cramped legs, his gaze fixed on the ancient priest.
The blind man's lips moved in silent incantations, a low murmur that vibrated in the tense silence. Beside the king, his Makama and Sarkin sojoji
exchanged hushed words.
"Which warrior does the oracle need when I stand ready?" The Sarkin sojin's whisper carried a sharp edge of pride.
"You mustn't question the oracle, young man," the Makama's low voice rebuked.
"You may be our chief warrior, but this is clearly beyond your capabilities."
A muscle twitched in the Sarkin sojoji's jaw. "Beyond my capabilities?" he hissed under his breath.
The old priest's head snapped up, his unseeing eyes seeming to fix on the young warrior. "Surely you do not dare question the guidance of the Oracle, Sarkin sojoji?" His voice, though frail with age, held an unexpected weight that silenced the room.
"Forgive me, wise one," the Sarkin sojoji bowed his head instantly.
Agitation churned in the king's gut. He clenched his fist. Why now? Why, during my reign, does the oracle speak of war and bloodshed? For thirty-five years, peace has blessed Uzazzu. Now, a warrior is needed? A woman, at that.
Doubt gnawed at him. Was she even in Uzazzu? Would I have to scour distant lands to find her? And what price would such a warrior demand? The
oracle had revealed so little. A frown creased his brow, a shadow falling across his face that did not escape the priest's notice.
A dry, grating sound began in the priest's chest, a hesitant vibration that clawed its way up his throat. It broke into a series of short, rasping coughs, each one like the grinding of stones. His wrinkled face contorted, his brow a tight knot above his unseeing eyes, which continued their unsettling dance. His thin lips stretched into a tight, uneven line, revealing a glimpse of yellowed teeth.
A corner of his mouth twitched, and a deep crease etched itself between his eyebrows, as if he tasted something foul. The joyless chuckle grated on the king's nerves, a raw, unpleasant sound.
If he weren't the voice of the oracle…
"Wise one," the king began, his voice tight, but the old man shook his head sharply, cutting him off.
"The warrior you seek is already within your Uzazzu. In fact, she is within your very walls as we speak."
The king's brows slammed together. "Do you know her name, wise one? Tell us, so we can begin preparations."
The priest threw back his head, another grating chuckle erupting, sending a fresh wave of confusion through the men. When the unsettling sound subside, his frail body settled into a stern posture on the mat. He pointed a bony finger directly at the king.
"That girl… the one who came from your loins. Our very own Gimbiya."
"Impossible!" The king's denial was a harsh bark. He didn't register his legs pushing him to his feet, didn't notice leaving the stifling heat of the hut.
His Waziri, his chief advisor, a man whose knowledge of spiritual matters ran deep, hurried after him. "My king!" he pleaded, but the heat in the king's stare silenced him. Yet, duty compelled him. He hovered behind the agitated king as they strode away.
"The guidance of the oracle has never failed our people, not for generations. Not even during the reign of your father, Askia Ishaq I."
The king spun around, the sudden movement startling his advisor, who immediately bowed low. "My Amira? Gimbiya, sole heir to my throne, who is barely five years old? She should step onto the battlefield. What kind of father, what kind of king would I be if I allowed my daughter to walk into the valleys of war?" He sighed, a heavy sound of defeat, before he turned as his Makama and Sarkin Sojoji approached.
The sounds of herbs being mashed in a mortar filled the air as they passed a half-clad woman.
This is the end of it.
If war came, he would fight. Men led armies, not children, and certainly not his Amira. The oracle was wrong. He would forge his daughter's destiny, and it would not be paved with blood.
Silence, thick and heavy, blanketed them as they walked down a narrow path worn smooth by countless feet. Colossal trees, ancient beyond imagining, loomed on either side. Their gnarled branches, thick as pythons, twisted and interlocked overhead, creating a cathedral of dappled shadows and hushed whispers. The forest of the oracle was said to be alive, its rustling leaves a whispered language, its depths holding ancient power. A cool breeze stirred,
causing the branches to groan and sigh, a mournful chorus that echoed the king's own turmoil.
They reached the edge of the forest and mounted their horses. The king, his jaw tight, remained lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts, the weight of his future and the fate of Uzazzu pressing down on him.
Amira… a warrior?
The oracle must be mistaken.