Clark/Aboja/1

Aboja

by

P. Djeli Clark

Aboja sat in the dark cave, scraping a smooth stone across his knife. Every now

and then he ran a finger along its edge, testing its sharpness. The blade was made of a

single tooth from a waterlord. He had stolen it from the carcass of one of the beasts, but

told his brothers he’d fought it to the death. Most scoffed openly at his claim, but also

wondered if it might be true. Aboja cared little what they believed. Such doubts fed their

fears. And that was good enough.

“You there!” a rough voice growled. “What are you called?”

Aboja scowled at the shadow that now obscured his vision. He looked up to find

a tall figure standing over him. Ebon as the night and powerfully built, the man glared

down with his remaining eye, the other covered by a scarred film of skin.

“Didn’t you hear me Mmoatia?” the man snapped. “What are you called?”

Aboja’s expression didn’t change, his own purplish eyes gazing up hotly. He

wondered if his blade was now sharp enough to carve out this man’s heart. Would it still

beat in his hands? And would there be a great deal of blood? He certainly hoped so. It

had been a long time since he had tasted man-flesh. Too long.

Under Aboja’s gaze, the man’s stern demeanor became strained—and his hand

lingered nervously over a sword at his waist. Beads of perspiration formed on his scalp,

and the unmistakable scent of fear filled the space between them. Perhaps it was the way

Aboja’s own lavender eyes glowed faintly in the dark. Or maybe the man realized that
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alone in this cave, no one would hear him scream. Then again, it could have been

because Aboja had taken to running his tongue hungrily across his sharp teeth.

But no. Aboja bit his tongue until he could taste metallic blood in his mouth. This

fool had been given high rank. His forehead bore the mark where their fiery lord touched

him, burning a black flame into his skin. That—and that alone—saved him from a

cooking pot.

“I am Aboja,” he answered at last, “of the Ikja clan, Wing Glider among the

Bloodskulls.” He lifted a finger to touch the crimson that painted his dark face.

“Aboja,” the man repeated, recapturing some of his diminished nerve. “There’s

little time to sit around playing idly! We need the forest scouted!”

“Not my shift,” Aboja replied, fingering his golden nose-hoop absently. “I will

take to the air when Farja and Kalija return.” Is this why the man had interrupted him?

Maybe he would just cut off and roast his fingers. Certainly their master couldn’t

begrudge him that.

“They have returned,” the man said. “Or better said their steeds have.”

It was Aboja’s turn to frown. He rose to his feet, causing the man who was easily

twice his height to back away. Ignoring him Aboja walked from the cave into the windy

night. The moon’s light washed over him, revealing the raised serpentine markings that

adorned his shaved scalp. He glanced to the side of the cliff he stood on, where on

outcroppings of rock Farja and Kalija’s mounts sat quietly—riderless.

“Both returned that way,” the man said behind him. “Perhaps they fell—?”

Aboja held up a clawed hand to cease the fool’s prattling. No Wing Glider ever

fell from his steed—ever. Certainly no Bloodskull. Throwing back his head he gave a
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shrill whistle, which was returned by a piercing screech. From out of the night a dark

shape appeared. A Sebosaman—a great black bat larger than horse. Its clawed feet

touched down heavily beside him as it folded its massive wings.

Aboja gazed at his mount, meeting fierce eyes that burned like embers. Like he

the Sebosaman wore hoops of gold strung through its nose and ears—a boast of their

bond. With agility he swung atop the monstrous beast, pulling the leather reins until it

came to full height.

“Best watch your back Mmoatia,” the man sneered.

Aboja didn’t answer, adjusting the black bow and throwing javelin slung across

his back. He had made up his mind. Mark or no mark, upon his return he was going to

cut open that fool and eat his liver for breakfast. With a series of clicks he ordered the

Sebosaman to spread its massive wings. Rider and mount plunged from the cliff wall,

gliding on the night wind toward the forest valley below.