Songs of the Past by RG Long
Dabura stood before his tribe, his broadshoulders casting a long shadow over the crowd of Ndoli Warriors who watchedhim with eager eyes.
The sun was sinking, stretching crimsonfingers across the sky and bathing the gathered warriors in a wash of red. Afaint dust hung in the air, kicked up by the feet of those assembled andlingering like a whisper of spirits long gone.
The wind carried the scent of earth andsand, a reminder of the dry desert that surrounded their land. Dabura’s darkfur bristled in the cooling air as he raised his spear. This hunt, however, wasunlike any they had faced before—it was no mere search for food or territorybut a battle for something far more important.
At Dabura’s side stood Hakemba Padrakasi,the tribe’s shaman and keeper of their ancient lore. Draped in layers ofvibrant cloth, his weathered face was marked with intricate, faded symbols thatspoke of wisdom and the ability to commune with their ancestors. His deep-seteyes held a thousand stories, and tonight they gleamed with a sense of urgency.
“My brothers and sisters,” Dabura called,his voice booming over the silent gathering. “We are called to reclaim what wasstolen from us by those who know nothing of honour, only of decay and greed.The Drum of Ndota, our tribe’s most sacred relic, lies within the cold hands ofthe Mummified Undead. We will smash their bones into dust!”
A murmur ran through the crowd. They allknew the significance of the Drum of Ndota—an ancient relic, passed downthrough generations of their ancestors. It held within it the knowledge of pastbattles, lost loves, and the whispered memories of their people.
When beaten, it would awaken voices ofthose long gone, guiding the living with wisdom drawn from their victories andfailures. Its beat could restore not just their spirits but their pride as apeople, rekindling the fire that had once made the Ndoli feared across theland.
Hakemba stepped forward, raising his staffinto the air. The shaman’s voice, low and gravelly with age, cut through thenoise of the crowd.
“The Mummified Undead who took the drum,”he said, his tone as sharp as the spear he carried, “have been driven todesperation by the curse that afflicts their people. It has taken their veryflesh from them, barred them from the joys of life and the release of death.Perhaps their leader, the Priest Hattuk, believes the sacred drum holds somesecret to lift their curse, or merely that its music might offer his peoplesome solace, as it has eased our hearts and our forebearers’ hearts since ourhome was destroyed.”
At this, the crowd stirred, whisperingamong themselves. Dabura raised a hand to silence them, his gaze as steady asthe rock faces that lined the distant hills.
“We have heard enough of that PriestHattuk’s ambitions,” Dabura continued, his voice thick with resolve. “The timehas come for us to act. To reclaim our past, to honour our ancestors. The Drumof Ndota is not merely an artefact; it is a part of our people’s history,memory, and very soul.”
The warriors responded with a roar, theirchants echoing through the night air. Dabura felt his heart swell with pride.Here stood his tribe, ready to follow him into the desert where the cursedMummified Undead awaited in the shadows.
But as their chants filled the air,Dabura’s gaze returned to Hakemba, whose expression remained pensive. The oldshaman had a look of deep contemplation, his eyes fixated on a point beyond thehorizon.
“Speak, wise one,” Dabura said quietly,aware Hakemba was not only speaking of the coming battle. “What troubles you?”
Hakemba turned, his voice dropping low sothat only Dabura could hear.
“Young one, I have seen the rage in yourheart. It is a rage that many of our people share. Yet, I fear that it willonly bring more destruction. Go, if you will, but remember that you leave toreclaim a precious part of our past, not for the sake of revenge. Better thatwe lose the drum than start a war.”
Dabura hesitated, his grip tightening onhis spear.
“The Drum of Ndota. I have heard you singof our past with it many times, but I know little of its magic. Is it trulypowerful enough to break the curse upon Hattuk and his people?”
Hakemba shook his head, a look of pity inhis gaze.
“No. I believe that he clings to it indesperation: its old inscriptions and its ancient magic; perhaps he believesthat it may hold some trace of his people’s past or a clue that could guide hissearch. Or, he seeks, as we do, to hear songs of better days; the drum holds init some inkling of the songs of our ancestors, from a time where his own stillbore flesh.”
The wind shifted, carrying with it a faintwhisper, as though the very desert was murmuring in agreement.
Dabura nodded, taking the Shaman’s wordsto heart, “Whatever his purpose, the Drum of Ndota carries in it our past.Perhaps we can never return to those days, but only through learning from itcan we hope to build a better future.”
Hakemba inclined his head, a brief smilecrossing his face.
“Then go with the blessing of ourancestors, Dabura. May their spirits guide you and their strength fortify you.”
With a final glance at his tribe, Daburaraised his spear high, signalling their readiness. The warriors lifted theirown spears in response, their united strength a testament to the bonds thatconnected them all. For tonight, they would rest, but tomorrow, they wouldcross the vast desert and face whatever horrors lay within the MummifiedUndead’s domain.
As the crowd began to disperse, Hakembaraised his staff and began chanting softly, a low, rhythmic hum that resonatedthrough the sands. Dabura remained rooted in place, listening, feeling theancient power of his people filling the night air. His heart beat in tandemwith the chant, and for a fleeting moment, he could almost hear the beat of theDrum of Ndota, calling him to the battle that awaited.
As dawn broke, a quiet determinationsettled over the Ndoli Warriors as they prepared for the journey ahead. Thedesert, vast and foreboding, stretched endlessly before them, its sandsshifting like the back of a slumbering beast. The red sun climbed over thehorizon, casting long shadows as the warriors set out, spears ready, withDabura leading the march.
Hakemba Padrakasi walked just behindDabura, chanting softly under his breath as he scattered fine dust upon theirshoulders. It was Spirit Mantle, a protective charm to ward away harm thatmight try to deter them from their path.
Hours passed under the blazing sun, eachstep carrying them deeper into the barren landscape. Here, the desert seemed tobreathe with ancient life, as though it bore witness to countless battlesfought and forgotten, memories buried beneath layers of sand and time. Dabura’seyes scanned the horizon, alert for any sign of the Mummified Undead, though heknew their enemy was no ordinary prey.
Suddenly, a low rumble rolled through theair, faint at first but steadily growing louder. Dabura halted, raising a handto signal the others to stop. The warriors froze, their eyes darting about,scanning the desert for the source of the sound.
And then they saw it—a cloud of dustswirling up from the ground, forming a storm of sand that twisted and writhed,filling the air with an unnatural energy. Within it, to Dabura’s horror, wereskulls that seemed to dance, chattering and grinning as they circled above thewarriors, their empty eye sockets glowing faintly with a sickly green light.
The sandstorm roared, and the air filledwith an eerie wailing that sent a chill through the warriors’ bones.
“A Storm of Skulls. Such magic is known tothe Priests of the Desert Gods, yet I have never seen a single priest evoke astorm of this size,” Hakemba murmured, his voice tight with fear and reverence.“Hattuk seeks to deter us from our path…”
Dabura’s jaw clenched as he gazed into theswirling storm. Hattuk was toying with them, testing their resolve. But Daburawould not be swayed.
“Find shelter!” he shouted, his voicecutting through the howling wind. “The storm will pass, and we will not allowthe conjurings of Hattuk to deter us from our path!”
The warriors echoed his cry, their voicesfilled with defiance as they pushed forward, bracing themselves against thestorm. The skulls whipped around them, laughing and sneering, but Dabura ledhis people with unflinching focus, his heart pounding with a mix of anger anddetermination.
As they passed through the storm, Daburasaw a massive skeleton from a fallen creature lying among the dunes. He orderedhis Warriors to seek shelter there, hoping that it might offer some protectionfrom spectral skulls on the raging wind.
The hours passed, and Dabura felt astrange sense of dread creep into his mind, like a shadow that had followed himfrom the past. Yet, Hakemba began recounting the story: the struggles of greatwarriors, noble leaders, and teachers who had managed to navigate thembefore.
It was strange, Dabura felt, hearing thesetales without the drumbeat behind them. Still, he felt some measure of thepride and strength that usually came to him as Hakemba told these legends. Someof the other Warriors even told their own tales, faltering without the drum’smagic to aid their telling, yet still Hakemba smiled as they spoke, thankingthem as he was always thanked for his own stories.
The storm faded and sand settled aroundthem once more. No sooner had the sand begun to settle than a rain of arrowsfell down upon them. The shots flew wide, carried on a last gust of wind, andDabura caught a smile flash across Hakemba’s face; the spirit mantle had doneits work.
Dabura rose to face his foe, drawing hisblade. There he saw before him a host of Skeletal Warriors and Archers, attheir centre was the mummified Priest, Hattuk. In the Priest’s arms was nestledthe familiar drum.
The Beastmen around Dabura readiedthemselves, with one of them sounding out a horn to ready themselves for acharge.
Yet, before Dabura could give the order,he saw Hattuk step forward. With a single gesture, he ordered the SkeletalArchers to lower their bows.
“Greetings to you, noble Ndoli Warriors.You have journeyed far, all for such a simple instrument.” Hattuk’s voice,smooth and mocking, drifted down from the shadows. “Tell me, Beastman, are youreally so determined to seize this old drum that you are willing to throw yourlives away?”
Dabura’s muscles tensed as he steppedforward, his gaze locked onto the dark entrance.
“The Drum of Ndota does not belong to you,cursed one. It is the heart of our people, and we have come to take it back.”
Hattuk chuckled, the sound hollow andhaunting.
“Oh, I am aware of what the drum is, youngwarrior. I know of its power to reveal memories. But do not think I brought ithere without reason. It serves a purpose greater than your simple minds canunderstand.”
Dabura clenched his fists, his bloodboiling at the Undead Priest’s mocking tone.
“It takes little to understand a foolishand petty thief such as yourself, Hattuk. The Drum of Ndota does not have thepowers that you seek. Surrender it, or I’ll find a way to bring pain to yourold, cursed, bones.”
For a moment, there was only silence, astillness that seemed to press down on them from all sides. Then, Hattuk’svoice dropped, filled with an edge of bitterness.
“You do not understand the potential ofyour own people’s relic. You have lost so much, but I know. I shall find thesecrets of the curse that plagues my people, and I will not allow you to stopme when I have come so close.”
Dabura took a step forward, raising hisspear.
“Then we shall take it by force. Prepareyourself, Priest.”
Hattuk’s gaunt, mummified face wasexpressionless, yet there was a cruel intelligence behind his gaze.
“Come, then,” Hattuk sneered, gesturing tothe figures that surrounded him, which far outnumbered the small band of NdoliWarriors and their ageing shaman. “I will teach you the meaning of futility.”
With a cry, Dabura raised his spear, hiswarriors following suit, the blast of the horn echoing as the Ndoli chargedforward, spears glinting in the fading light as they clashed with the undeadforces, the air filling with the sounds of grunts, growls, and the sickeningcrunch of bone meeting flesh.
The battle was brutal; the desert sandswere soon stained with the blood of the Ndoli Warriors and bone fragments ofthe Skeletal Warriors. Dabura fought with relentless energy, his every movementa testament to his skill, yet the Mummified Undead were not so easilydispatched. Lacking flesh and unable to feel pain, they rose again from blowsmoments later from attacks that would have killed a mortal foe.
As the fighting raged, Dabura’s gaze fellupon the pyramid’s entrance, where the Drum of Ndota awaited, lying in theshadows as though mocking him with its inaccessibility. He pressed forward, hisheart pounding, his mind consumed by the need to reclaim what had been stolenfrom his people.
But Hattuk moved to block his path,raising a skeletal hand. With a whisper, he summoned a wall of spectral energy,a barrier that shimmered with an unnatural light, holding Dabura back even ashe struggled to reach the drum.
“You are persistent, Dabura,” Hattukhissed, a faint trace of amusement in his voice. “But you are struggling toclaim a relic that you do not understand; you have lost so much that yourpeople have forgotten their own potential.”
Dabura gritted his teeth, his musclesstraining as he pressed against the barrier.
“I do not care, Priest. I will take whatbelongs to my people even if I must shatter each of the bones in your smugfingers to do it.”
For a moment, a flicker of somethingunreadable passed across Hattuk’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it hadappeared. The Priest raised his hand, preparing to strike, and Dabura bracedhimself, his grip tightening on his spear as the battle for the Drum of Ndotareached its peak.
Dabura strained against the barrier thatshimmered before him, pulsing with a sinister glow that radiated from Hattuk’sbony hand. The undead priest’s mocking smile remained fixed, as if he wasrelishing Dabura’s struggle.
The Ndoli Warriors clashed with Hattuk’sskeletal soldiers behind him, the air thick with the sounds of clashing spearsand the warriors' fierce battle cries.
The magic wall pressed against Dabura’sspear, crackling with each movement. For a brief second, he glimpsed the Drumof Ndota, resting just beyond Hattuk, its polished wood gleaming faintly in thedim light. The drum seemed to throb in time with Dabura’s heartbeat, like adistant pulse calling out to him, urging him to press on.
“Your conjurations will not hold me,Priest. You will find my fury only growing more overwhelming due to your cheaptricks,” Dabura spat, driving his spear into the barrier.
“Perhaps they will not defeat you,” Hattukreplied coolly, “but I need only delay you long enough to drain yourstrength—and your resolve. Your bones shall rest forever inside of this beast,fool. Just another forgotten memory of your people.”
Summoning all his willpower, Dabura pushedforward, calling upon his ancestors’ strength. The wall of energy wavered,flickering for a moment as Dabura’s determination clashed with Hattuk’s divinemagic. Sensing his resolve, Hakemba began chanting behind him, his voice risingin a rhythm that echoed across the sands.
“By the spirits of my forebearers,”Hakemba’s voice rose, stronger and louder with each word, “I will tear awayyour very limbs!”
As Hakemba’s rage grew more powerful, thePriest’s expression contorted into fear. Slowly, the Ndoli Warrior pushedthrough the magical Protection that his foe had cast.
“No!” he hissed, extending his hand. “Youdo not understand the powers that you invoke!”
With a mighty shout, Dabura drove hisspear forward, sending a ripple through the air that knocked Hattuk backward,his form wreathed in wisps of energy as he stumbled.
The Drum bounced along the sand, rollingaway behind the mummified Priest.
Taking advantage of the moment, Daburacharged forward, his warriors following closely behind him. Hattuk raised hishand, summoning his undead forces to defend him, but the Ndoli met them withrenewed ferocity.
Dabura ducked and weaved, his spear movingwith a precision born of years of hunting. Yet, the Priest reached the drumfirst, as the Skeletal Warriors rushed towards Dabura.
“Your magic will not save you!” the NdoliWarrior shouted.
Hattuk turned, his voice a frantic whisperas he hissed the words, “If I cannot wield its power, then neither shallyou!”
The Priest took a sharpened piece of boneand held it over the Drum of Ndota. “Leave, or I shall destroy it.”
Dabura lunged forward, crushing Hattuk’shand with his spear. Yet the blow drove the Priest’s hand down into the drum,puncturing the skin.
A shockwave of energy erupted fromthe drum, knocking them both to the ground as the relic emitted a low, powerfulhum. The Beastmen and Mummified Undead alike froze, transfixed by the drum’slast call—a haunting note filled with the memories of countless generations.
Dabura found himself kneeling before theDrum of Ndota, his hand resting upon the now broken relic. It had split intotwo, its skin waving in the desert wind. Hattuk lay nearby, weakened anddisoriented, his magic seemingly drained.
“I will make you beg for a death that willnot come, Priest,” Dabura shouted, his voice filled with rage and pain as heturned to Hattuk. “You will regret what you have done.”
The Undead Priest wailed in agony as hesaw the broken drum and looked up at the Ndoli Warrior who stood above him.
“I do not fear you,” Hattuk saiddefiantly. “I have all but forgotten the joys that come with life and have lostany hope of a peaceful rest for my soul. You cannot hurt me.”
“I can certainly try.” Dabura said as rageflooded through his heart. He drove forward to impale the Undead Priest.
“Dabura!”
The call was strong and loud and stoppedthe Ndoli Warrior in his tracks. Looking for what cursed Undead was causingthis delay of his wrath, Dabura looked frantically as his Ndoli Warriors beganto gather around him.
That was the moment Dabura locked eyeswith Hakemba.
“It is done,” the ageing Shaman said. “Wecame for the Drum of Ndota, and it is no more. Once, our people lived peacefullives; we honour them not by telling their stories but by living as they hopedthat we would.”
“The past is lost to us, but the futurelies with you, Dabura,” Hakemba said solemnly.
Dabura looked down at the mummifiedPriest. He could take the Priest’s gem and find a way to break it, or at leastensure that he remained trapped a long time without a body. It would notrestore the broken Drum, but it would feel as though some portion of justicehad been carried out.
Then the visions returned to Dabura in hismind’s eye. They were tales of wonder and beauty, of peace and learning in theBeastman’s past. The legacy of his ancestors was not one of bloodshed andviolence.
He lowered his spear.
“Hattuk,” he said with resolve in hisvoice. “The Drum we fight for lies shattered in the desert sands, but it neednot be forgotten. I shall take half, and you may take the other. When anyoneasks you why you carry half of a Drum, I ask that you tell them our story.”
A rumbling came from behind him. Daburalooked back at his warriors and silenced them with a hand as he reached down tocollect half of the Drum.
Slowly, the priest nodded his head,picking up the other half.
“It is a strange story, but perhaps suchtales will rekindle a hope of friendship between our people,” Hattuk said. “Andend the ignorance that divides us, for it has ended mine.”
Dabura grunted and turned away from theshrivelled figure. He could see the unspoken questions in his warrior’s eyes;doubt, even, in his leadership.
Dabura stopped and looked over hisshoulder.
As the Ndoli warriors made their wayacross the scorching sands, Dabura thought of the vision he had been granted.He had seen their history. Their lineage. He carried it within himself now. Itwas his burden to carry. And to pass on.
They arrived at their village by dusk,greeted by the elders and families who had waited anxiously for their return.Dabura saw the faces turn to disappointment as they heard the news that thedrum had been lost.
Hakemba Padrakasi, weary from the battleyet full of hope, began recounting their journey, his voice weaving theirstruggle and triumph into a tapestry of words. The village listened, enrapturedby tales of ancient curses and courageous battles, their faces lit by the firesburning brightly in the gathering darkness.
When Hakemba finished, he invited Daburato share the final moments of their quest, sensing the weight of somethingdeeper within him. Dabura hesitated, casting his gaze over the faces of histribe, who looked to him with hope and pride. But as he remembered the battle,the ancient drum slipping from his fingers in the chaos, and the fleeting imageof Hattuk’s anguished eyes as he yielded, Dabura felt a surge of emotion risewithin him.
"Yes, we fought," he began, hisvoice clear but calm. “But the Drum of Ndota was broken. I have reclaimed onlyhalf of it; the other I gave to Hattuk in thanks. I learnt from him that ourstrength doesn’t lie in holding tightly to the past. It lies in carrying thepast forward, into what we do and who we are each day."
His words were met with silence, but notthe silence of judgement—rather, it was one of understanding and reflection.Dabura looked at Hakemba, and as he did, he could almost hear the voices of hisancestors whispering, a reminder that their stories, their spirit, were withinhim.
One of the young Beastmen approached him,hesitating slightly before asking, “What will happen to Hattuk and hispeople? We will fight them again?”
Dabura considered her questionthoughtfully.
“Perhaps,” he answered. “But perhaps not.We have shown him a gesture of kindness this day, one worthy of our ancestor’stales. If his people are wise and learn from such tales, perhaps they willremember us as friends.”
The village murmured in agreement, noddingslowly as Dabura’s words settled over them. Even Hakemba nodded, a look ofapproval in his wise, steady gaze.
As the stories continued into the night,Dabura found himself looking at the stars, his heart both light and full. Thejourney, he realised, was far from over. It was only the beginning of a newchapter for the Ndoli—one of unity, wisdom, and strength. They would carrytheir ancestors within them, not in relics but in memories, in honour, and inevery step, they took toward their future.
With a deep breath, Dabura turned back tohis people. He felt the weight of his past lighten, replaced by a vision ofwhat his people could yet become, united not by relics but by a shared spirit,destined to live on long after he was gone.
And with that, Dabura knew they were trulyhome.
