
For a moment, all
wars quench death’s
hunger. But it soon
hungers for more.
— Ulum Phalik, Priest of Ogun, the God of war.
Ogun, Nigeria. The year 1654.
Breaking the ice-cold silence, two howls sounded in the distance, north from where he was crouched behind a large but ragged stone. A signal of some sort. Or perhaps not. But he thought it so. Seconds passed. He raised his head slightly above this studded rock, glancing about. The moon overhead was full, its light brightly soft. Silence again.
Leagues before him stood vast walls of stone, he could see, encircling the village behind them — Gamelun — in what seemed a taut barricade. Without his god’s help, it’ll be impossible to breach those walls, even with the element of surprise, Ilaph of Uy knew; to defeat the spear-wielding guards manning it, surge into Gamelun, and emerge victors of this war.
Behind this hefty man, his small army of not more than two hundred men lay on their stomachs across the grassy field — they had been lying that way for a couple of hours now, waiting even until midnight; for the time when signals from their leader, to whom they entrusted their lives, would come. Signals to begin the ambush.
‘Ogun.’ Ilaph muttered as he unsheathed his sword from its scabbard, which hung from his left thigh. The blade hissed free into the air. ‘Those two howls had better be you. Don’t lead us to our deaths.’
He swung a hand in the air. A gesture. His army rose in unison, tailing their leader as he moved forward, slowly and carefully,
half-bent.
When they were twenty paces behind the wall, another howl sounded. Then barks sprang from within the walls.
‘Dogs! Dammit!’ Ilaph cursed in his mind. ‘Those howls weren’t signals. These damned Gamelun people have got dogs, and the damned beasts can sense us! They knew! They knew we were coming!’
Alongside warriors, dogs soon surged out of Gamelun’s gates, the beasts racing directly towards where Ilaph and his army were now crouched.
A sorcerer — Hurh, the last one among the tribes who could manipulate magic — leaped from behind Ilaph, to flank the warleader. He stretched hands into the air, yelled a curse. A ball of sorcery, glowing red, burst out of his palms, exploding upon the ground in a flame. Shrieks of dying beasts rasped, the air reeking of their burning flesh. Another explosion and the dogs were all gone. Dead.
The sorcerer fell to the ground, weakened by the vast energy that welled within him. Power always steals power. He was shuddering. It would take days to recover from the effects the magic he had released were having on him.
Gamelun soldiers closed in on Ilaph and his army. Ilaph’s longsword caught the ones which came too close to him; slashed through flesh. Blood sprayed, the men falling to the ground in death.
Compared to himself, and of course his men, the Gamelun were unskilled with the sword. But, in war, it is numbers that matter; not skill. For numbers always defeat skill. The Gamelun were too many. To them, it was more of a slaughter of Ilaph’s soldiers than it was a war with them. In minutes, they were all dead, save Ilaph and two men — who were now encircled by a score of Gamelun soldiers.
Ilaph was sheathed in blood, most of which wasn’t his own, his head thumping pain. His sword had drunk to its fill tonight, and now his blood will quench another’s sword’s thirst. Ogun had failed him. He would die. Like the rest of his men.
He raised his sword once more, assuming a defensive stance. Just then, the ground began to rumble. Himself, and all around him toppled over. The rumbling continued until the earth tore open on all sides. Figures emerged from these rifts. Ghosts, glimmering a sorcerous glow.
‘Ogun has arrived.’ Ilaph yelled as he jumped to his feet. ‘Victory has arrived!’
Ilaph was right this time. Victory had arrived. And by this hand, Gamelun was after much battle conquered in the name of Ogun, the god of War.