Prologue | The offer
I find myself in yet another creature fight, except this time I expect no coin reward if I survive it.
The small farming village stands on the Eastern edge of Nganda.
While they had hired me earlier to fight a low-level Monki that fed on their crops, they’d only managed to round up 20 silver coins (which is half the amount I normally charge), free food, and lodging for the night. The plan was to stay the night and trek down to the south, where it is rumored my kind are paid handsomely.
The attack of the undead comes as an annoying surprise—as all supernatural attacks are—to the villagers, but specifically to me.
All I craved was a good night’s sleep before my journey, but here I am, yet again, soaked in black blood and gore like it is my favorite midnight skin routine.
The man, who is part of the Nambi Guard and unofficially the man whose smirking face is currently my source of consistent irritation, allows a sliver of curiosity to pierce his veneer as he asks for my name.
I conclude that he is part of the Guard’s Elite squad based on the symmetrical, intricate black ink that dots his forehead.
While I am grateful the Guard portaled in to fight off the undead (because let’s face it, there is no way I would have defeated all of them on my own), I dislike my current predicament—forced to converse over loud shrieks and metal plunging into skin.
My stamina for balancing banter and slaughter is non-existent, and I pride myself on excellent banter skills, so you see, I have a reputation to keep.
I spent the last eight moons hunting and fighting creatures for cash, and sometimes simply a bottle of good ale, or food and lodging, and I am far too practiced (by now) in observation to miss a tiny shift in one’s emotional landscape.
It is a useful skill to have in such a field.
“Oh really?” I reply, careful to keep the boredom in my voice palpable enough to carve stone. I do this in the same breath I cut an undead’s head, clean off.
I am a professional creature hunter now, or at least a professional creature botherer, and in this business, boredom is simply a useful psychological tool to convince the gods you aren’t worth the effort. Even if death sometimes seems like the better alternative.
The man doesn’t bother with a verbal response.
He merely lets his smirk widen an imperceptible notch, pivots on one worn leather boot, and sends a silver dagger to the heart with such economical brutality that the lumbering undead creature, which was en route to my side with the distinct, unpleasant intent of ending my sad lifetime early, is sent plummeting backward into the mud.
The noise it makes is precisely that of a sack of sorghum hitting the bottom of a well. It is, admittedly, an undeniably impressive way to dispatch what I myself had planned to handle with a well-aimed sword to the head. The two ways to appropriately kill the undead.
Nambi guards often fight with magic and brutal speed in a way that puts panthers to shame—magical panthers. My new companion seems to thoroughly enjoy the thrill of killing as much as I enjoy a good bottle of ale.
An eternity later, the guards and I are fully covered in gore, and the ground is strewn with fallen bodies of both the undead and some unfortunate villagers, marking the messy conclusion of the attack. The air is left smelling faintly of death and bleak futures (like washing gore out of my waist long dreadlocks).
The man wipes his blade clean on his brown pants and turns back to me.
“So,” he begins again, sheathing his weapon with a practiced click. “Will you tell me your name?” His brown eyes shimmer with faint genuine interest.
I merely hitch an eyebrow, a gesture which conveys, with impressive brevity, exactly how far up the scale of urgent priorities that question ranks. “Why?”
“I mean,” he continues, utterly unfazed. “I’ve saved your life at least twice just now. Courtesy suggests a name is appropriate, particularly as you’re not a dweller of this fine village.”
I scoff. “You wish. Saving my life was merely a side effect of you doing your job, and I should point out that I saved yours, too.”
The Nambi Guard was created by the royal family centuries ago to protect our realm from supernatural attacks—specifically Walumbe’s, the god of death, so you could say I find his reasoning lacking.
“Seriously,” he insists, folding his large arms. The smirk returns, but it is softer now, leaning toward persuasion.
“You don’t need my name,” I say, looking pointedly toward the desolate treeline that marks the dark forest. That was the direction my mama had been taken by the weepers, eight moons ago, and that was the direction I usually drifted, searching for anything I could blame.
“I’m a Gwana—I freelance. We’ll probably never meet again.”
“That’s the thing,” he rushes in, and this time, when the smirk vanishes, I take notice. His tone becomes unnervingly professional. “I was actually thinking you could come back with us. Join the Nambi Guard.”
The offer is completely unexpected.
For the last eight moons, it had been all about the money, the hunt, the numb efficiency of revenge. Blood-soaked mindlessness. Barely living. But the Guard? They were organized. They had resources. They got the toys to kill creatures quicker than I ever could alone. Magic too.
On the other hand, it means choosing a career in fighting the supernatural—until the supernatural pulls you into its dark bosom. I’ve never heard of a Nambi guard who retired to live a full life after service. The only way out seems to be through starting a new life...in the afterlife.
Join the Nambi Guard? I taunt the idea. The sheer simplicity of the offer is appealing. A purpose. Stability. Free food and lodging. I won’t lie, the last two are pretty strong motivations.
Fight Walumbe’s creatures. Creatures that killed my mama.
What girl would ever turn that down?Not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. He extends a hand, the permanent—now knowing smirk back in place.
“I’m Mbali Sha, by the way—Second in Command for the Nambi Guard. And frankly, we could use someone good on their feet as well as you are.”
“Kirabo Ndo,” I reply, taking his hand.
The contact settles something cold and heavy inside me.
For the first time since I lost the only person who mattered, I can envision a future that doesn’t involve crawling through the mud alone, driven by revenge to the brink of joining my ancestors, only to be compensated with goat stew. I do like goat stew, but that's not the point, is it?
The future gleams just a little brighter with a new purpose. Join the Nambi Guard. Cleanse this earth clean of Walumbe and his creatures.
