Prologue

PROLOGUE

VILLAGE OF GBAFFO, KINGDOM OF DAHOMEY, WEST AFRICA, JUNE 1815

Afia woke to the sounds of screaming and shoved her husband Omari to wake him. Her worst nightmare was coming true.

“They’re back!” she hissed beside his ear. Omari sat up rubbing his face and listening, the whites of his eyes showing bright in the darkness of the night.

“We must run,” he rose swiftly. “Come, we survived last time, we can do it again. Come.” He pulled her from the bed and seized the spear he kept by his side at all times.

She grabbed her knife and with her hand in his, stole to the rear entrance of their house, listening to the chaos outside. The smell of burning assailed her nostrils. Her eyes widened in fear. He opened the door slowly and peered out. It was dark, but torch flames showed villagers running and the tall slender figures of the Fon warriors giving chase. Omari signalled that they should head towards the stand of trees, not far from their backdoor. She nodded and, on his signal, pelted from the shelter of the house. She could hear the thud of his bare feet behind her as she ran, her heart thudding wildly in her chest, her sweaty skin prickling with the cold night air.

They reached the safety of the trees, and she turned to watch the mayhem of fleeing bodies being clubbed and dragged to the wagons of the raiders. Some of the village’s houses were already alight, it would not take long for the rest to catch fire and for all their precious possessions to be burnt. They had so little as it was. After the last raid that took her parents and her little sisters, it seemed exceedingly cruel to find themselves a target once more.

Omari tugged at her arm, pulling her back through the trees. She could do nothing to save their things, or their friends who were being taken by the raiders. They could only run and pray to the great mother goddess Azaka, that they wouldn’t be taken too.

Muttering prayers beneath her gasping breath, she jog-trotted beside Omari deeper into the trees. They needed to get to the higher ground, find somewhere to hide in the rocks and caves that dotted the mountainous terrain above where their small village lay. If they could just get high enough, quickly enough...

The call of the Fon warriors behind her made her heart skip, and she risked a look over her shoulder. One of the tall women had spotted them and was signalling to her cohort. Three of the female warriors changed course and ran towards them, clubs raised above their heads.

Omari stopped and turned, pushing her behind him as he took aim and threw the spear with all his might at the lead warrior. The woman’s body jerked as the spear pierced her chest and she folded to the ground. The other three women, seeing their compatriot fall, gave a blood-curdling yell and kept coming.

Omari grabbed her hand, and they ran, dodging through trees and leaping over rocks in their path, bare feet slapping the ground beneath them, heedless of the sharp rocks and debris in their path.

She risked another look back and the warriors were gaining on them. Tears of panic and terror ran down her cheeks, mingling with the sweat from her brow. She took another step and her ankle jarred as her foot hit a rock. Pain lanced up her leg and she cried out staggering. Omari hauled on her arm to pull her upright, and they continued their headlong flight. Her breath laboured in her chest.

The warriors loud breathing and heavy footfalls drew closer, and she tried to put on more speed, the pain in her leg and ankle screaming along her nerve endings.

A yell behind them and a jerk from Omari had her turning as her husband crumpled to the ground beside her from a blow to the head, delivered by a Fon warrior. The woman was grinning, her heaving breath hot in Afia’s face, as a sharp pain at the back of Afia’s head exploded and the world went black.