In-Depth Look: Scourgers
BROKEN WINGS
Chuma shielded his eyes and looked up to the double tower. Its exterior reminded him of a Kasuku’s ruffled feathers, only that it had an oily shimmer. One of the towers had a round structure on top, like a crown. Red pieces of cloth hung from the windows, billowing soundlessly in the wind. The abode of their host, the Voivode. Immediately below, the towers were linked by an enclosed bridge. Man-sized cages hung from it. They were empty: their contents had already been sold.
Chuma felt the hot hand on his shoulder. He looked down and stared at the skull mask. Reflexively, he winced and struck out. Skin hit skin, his arm was pressed upwards, he felt a hard grip on his wrist, saw the towers spiral from view and hit the ground. He gasped for air. Kabaila stood above him, legs spread widely, one knee slightly turned inwards to be able to block an attack on his groin faster. But no, this fight was over. Chuma laughed, ignored the hand that Kabaila offered him, rolled sidewards, and jumped to his feet. He had not expected to be able to surprise a Dumisai or even send him to the floor. He chuckled at the thought. Quite the contrary – the little struggle gave him confidence. They were still strong, even in the realm of the Crow.
The pack was gathering. They all wore masks and helmets made of blue steel. Chuma reached for the Scourge at his belt. The Voivode had said no guns, and the fat Neolibyan Wamwara had agreed. His ass was pressed into a sea of pillows right now, sipping sweet tea on the bridge of a Surge Tank.
Harsh, short calls sounded from where the slaves waited. Chuma didn’t understand a word. He walked over, saw the shaved heads, sunken eyes. Their black outfits with the white stripe in the middle were torn and hung from their bodies in cut rags. Chuma stared at them. Their skin was so… white.
One of them straightened and spoke. Again this harsh croaking, the sounds of the Crow. Chuma checked their manacles. They were tied to a row with short lengths of chain. Their feet had been left unchained, though. They would have to walk. The slave started speaking louder, raising his hands, made the chains jangle.
Chuma went to the Kom and took the hook from the windlass. The steel rope whirred. Hook in hand, he approached the first slave. The man tried to turn away, but Chuma grabbed him and joined the hook to his chain. It clicked closed. Chuma tested it once: tight. The slave was now actually screaming, like a crone. He took a step towards Chuma, dragging along the men behind him. They staggered, one fell and thus dragged the screaming one down, too. Chuma turned around, walked to the Kom, and got in.
The street was a muddy track, but it led to the gate. Iregi led the way in his Kom. The buggy’s engine roared and spewed forth a jet stream of black exhaust. The Kom creaked with every hole in the road and every rock jarred Iregi’s bones.
Tonight, he would be complaining and cursing, and all would laugh at him and call him a Dufu. There was nothing anyone could do: the suspension was broken. Wamwara had only supplied them with junk for this mission.
Chuma followed. Slowly, so that the slaves could keep up. He looked to one side. The houses along the road had sagged, the roofs hanging above the wooden fronts like bushy eyebrows. Faces stared from the open windows. Yes, fear us. We are the devils from your dreams. A girl made a face at them, rolled her eyes and mimicked little horns with her hands. Chuma laughed loudly and heard his comrades join in.
They left Beograd. The forest surrounded them with the scent of resin and pine needles. Here, under the boughs of ancient trees, the light was dim and the forest floor seemed to swallow even the roar of the engines. Kijani jogged alongside Chuma’s Kom. He had loosened the mask, and Chuma saw that he was chewing seeds: his gums were black. On the other side was Taye, the pack’s Simba. Every step was a majestic move, proving his nimbleness. The flak jacket left his arms bare, and Chuma marveled at the grace of his muscles. How long would it take him to…
Iregi’s Kom roared and jumped forward, throwing pine needles and dirt from its wheels into the air. It careened onwards. Dirt rained down on Chuma’s mask and torso. There was something up ahead, two figures between the trees: Iregi drove toward them. A warbling cry on Chuma’s left side, the Chaga Hakima ordered them to stick together. Iregi would never be able to hear this, not in his roaring pile of junk. What an idiot, next time Hakima would…
Figures stepped from the shadows of the trees next to Iregi. Chuma saw steel flash, and Iregi’s Kom bucked like stubborn cattle. The rear wheels lifted into the air, the buggy veered to the side, the wheels hit the ground again, but now the Kom was careening across the forest floor, having left its original course at a right angle, threw pine needles and dirt into the air and smashed into a tree. Pinecones rained down upon the wreck. Taye, Kijani, Kabaila, and Hakima started running. Chuma looked back, saw the slaves, and hit the steering wheel. Damn! More figures stepped from the trees next to him. Pale skulls, spears with that weird triple blade at the ready. They ran towards him. He accelerated, felt the chains grow taut with a snap, heard the screams and jumped from the Kom. He landed on his feet, ground them into the forest floor, and then started sprinting. The attackers had stopped, pointing to the slaves swinging back and fro on the Kom’s chain like some child’s dolls. With a few long strides, Chuma reached the first pale skull. The guy stared at him sheepishly, starting to raise the strange spear, but one of Chuma’s feet was already on the shaft as he raised his other knee, hitting his opponents chin running. The guy’s head snapped back, and Chuma landed on the floor, dropped to one knee, and clawed at the forest floor. He was up again in no time, now readying his Scourge. The barbed whip crackled. St. Elmo’s fire danced along it. Another opponent had approached. Yes, this had to be one of the Spitalians, and his weapon was a Splayer.
Chuma gauged his opponent. A young man with eyes full of fear. The Splayer’s tip trembled. No, not an opponent. Prey.
The Spitalian screamed and started running, head held low, Splayer in front of him. It was a child’s scream. Chuma sidestepped, raised his Scourge, ducked below it, and attacked the Spitalian. The whip hit his torso, the barbs piercing the neoprene. It grew taut, and Chuma held fast, toppling the pale skull. When he brought the Splayer around, Chuma discharged the Scourge. Sparks crackled along the metal filaments; for a second they glowed and melted through the neoprene. The Spitalian screamed and jerked, then he collapsed. Foam dribbled from his mouth.
Chuma threw away the Scourge and looked around. Several pale skulls were lying on the floor. Kijani’s mask was dented and covered in blood. Kabaila thumped his breast and roared. “Taye!” Kijani pointed between the trees. Chuma saw and started running. Kabaila followed.
Taye and a white man big as a mountain circled each other, each waiting for an opportunity to strike. On the white man’s face was a Spitalian tattoo, one of its arms reaching up to his forehead. In his right hand, he held a sword that was black as night.
Kijani ran past Chuma, but he grabbed him.
“No, my friend.”
Taye was the pack’s Simba, their lion. He alone had the honor of killing the strongest opponent. The Scourgers encircled the two combatants watching each other. They were something special. Chuma thanked his ancestors for the opportunity to watch this legendary fight.
Taye and the white man attacked each other.
DRAWINGS
The city of Agadez is ancient, left nearly deserted for eons – but it’s not as old as the suffering of the African people, the bound Lion. Steppe grass grows in the streets and rustles in the mid-day breeze. The chalked fronts of the apartment blocks are still standing, but the roofs have sagged, and the rubble within is overgrown with dusty shrubbery.
Drawings can be seen around the window cases. Here, Africa’s history has been recorded with colorful earth pigments, blood, and spittle: black areas dotted with red, fragile figures, broken bodies. Bullet holes. Legions of white chalk lines advance unstoppably, cut through the great waters and color the rivers red with the blood of their enemies whom they slaughter like animals. Dark streaks disappear in the oceans.
The next fresco is hidden under a layer of fine stone dust. When wiped away, it unveils the silhouettes of big cities with slender towers and peaked portals, surrounded by yellow cornfields. Red flames lick from the towering superstructures. Next to them, triangles can be seen, surrounded by black lakes. The chalked lines are feeding from them, carrying dark lumps back home. Some drag groups of dark lines away, many of them die.
Every ruin caters to another era, talks of pain and humiliation from the white man’s crimes against Africa back in ancient history and up to today.
TEMPEST Far to the west, clouds form a wall of rain, a sharp contrast to the cerulean sky. The contrast between yesterday’s Africa and today’s Africa is just as sharp.
We leave the old frescoes behind and approach the present. Now, dark, looming figures are looking down upon us from many walls. Their bodies consist of complex patterns, their faces hidden behind shields like death masks of red ash. While their bodies vary in color and design from wall to wall, the masks are all alike. Eight keep reappearing. They represent the eight ancestors. They are spirits guarding their descendants. They will guide them in the terrible days when the white people will come.
The cities are still burning, but in the hinterland, armies of black and red lines are forming. At first, they are singular, small groups, some led by animals or hybrids of lion, gazelle, and hyena, others surrounded by some sort of light. One by one they unite, becoming a rolling sea, surrounded by the eight giant ancestors looking down on their people – some gracious or angry, others mad with rage or sadness. But they all lead the way to the ground molested by chalk lines, point with their fingers to the perpetrators.
The dark clouds are now almost above the city, hiding the sun. The first drops hit the street, stamping craters into the dust and making the steppe grass tremble. Soon, the tempest will wash away any dirt, and the roaring of the water will be the only sound in the jungle for many hours to come.
Before us is another building. The painted plaster has fallen from the mud bricks in large areas. But the image of the dark figure with the great muscles and the angry look can still be easily seen due to its size. The figure is wrestling with the white man, grabbing the hand holding a cat o’ nine tails. The drawing next to it shows the dark figure – the African – gloating over the prone white man and grabbing his whip. There is one image after the other.
The Scourge now cuts glowing lines into its former owner’s body. The black lines chase the white ones from their cities and keep pushing them into the land of chalk lines. The hybrid creatures and animals stay home, while the eight ancestors accompany the fighters to battle.
Again, cities burn. But they are crude, barbaric and inhabited by the pale chalk lines.
We are in the present time.
Rain keeps hammering the ruins, torrents run over the house fronts and collect in seething puddles. Through a window opening, an old man sits grinding earth and roots to a blue pulp in a mortar.
What is future today will soon be represented on the chalked wall.
THE LION'S CLAWS
If the African people are the Lion, the Scourgers are its claws. They are as accustomed to fighting as the Neolibyans are accustomed to negotiations and the Anubians to the secrets concerning the Thread of Life. Facing the Crow is considered the greatest and only honor that an African can bestow upon the ancestors.
Every day, the Scourgers walk and run through the plains, jungles, and overgrown ruins of Africa to train their fitness and agility. They climb mountains and ruins, jump chasms, roll with the impact, and hit predetermined stones and trees with their Scourges fired up. They run through the Psychovores, avoiding the thorns and the garish flowers. They battle each other, fighting to the first blood. The ancestors would not accept any other form of thanks.
In the settlements, young women adore them. Children come running, laughing and admiring their muscles, tugging the girls’ hair: “Eke loves a Scourger!” If a Neolibyan walks by or is even carried past in a palanquin by slaves, the Scourgers strike a pose in front of him and denounce him as a weakling. If they get the chance, they grab the merchant’s garments and tear them off him.
They despise fat bodies. It was the predilection for greasy meat and alcohol that enabled the white man to conquer proud Africa. The renunciation of the ancestors and finally unbridled capitalism sealed the black continent’s fate. Although the Neolibyans bring wealth to the villages, the people look up to the Scourgers, for they sacrifice their lives while the merchants sell their souls.
THE CROW
The ancestors had chosen them to push back the conquerors and destroyers. And then what? Wait until the white man has recovered? Scourgers see Europeans as born oppressors who need to be chained in order to avoid causing more damage.
Scourger packs in Al-Andalus march forth to push the Hybrispanian Guerreros into the Warpage, burning down every hideout. One day, the Castilian high plateau will fall. With the aid of Surge Tanks, they purge the ruins in Purgare or Borca of Scrappers. Although the Neolibyans have negotiated a peace with the Voivodes, Scourgers and white men still clash in the forested mountains of the Balkhan. Prisoners are enslaved so they can work off their centuries-old debts on Africa’s fields. They call this balancing, not injustice.
LIVING HISTORY
The wall paintings in Agadez are unique, but no Scourger will enter this ruined city. The past is alive for the warrior Cult and must be experienced through a storyteller – for only through him can the ancestral spirits pass on their wisdom to their descendants. Looking back into a tribe’s history often turns into an ecstatic party where the participants entrance themselves through the monotonous beating of drums and dancing.
The rhythm leads the way into the depths of their souls. Their pupils widen, their breath slows down. They gather around the oldest Scourger present. He sways back and forth. His teeth are blackened from the concoction of the intoxicating Psychovore seeds: the gates to his mind are wide open. An ancestral wind blows through. He raves incoherently like an oracle, speaks in tongues or starts some weird chant. But something happens to those gathered around him, who keep moving closer to him. He leads them down to the sea of collective memories, pulling them with him into the absolute blackness.
Eventually, it stops. Mind and body rejoin and solidify in the present. Some lie immobile and gaze into the sky, others laugh or pass around gourds of water. They are parched and tired, but filled with the ancestors’ spirits. They are one. They are the Lion.
GUARDIANS OF TRADITION
There is a spirit in every stone, every plant, and every animal. Some are cunning and bring illness and bad luck. Others promise fertility. They all are very short-tempered. However, with some vigilance and small sacrifices, they can be tamed. Africans treat the ear of corn on the field with respect, carefully remove the stone from the road, and thank the butchered antelope for agreeing to become the hunters’ prey.
The world of ancestors and spirits has always existed parallel to the human world. On certain days, sacrifice or irreverence causes the barrier to dwindle, and powers and souls float to the other side. This exchange guarantees the balance. But the spirits never interfere with human problems. Never.
With one exception.
Africa stood on the brink of ruin. The Lion lay torn; thousands of beak wounds spilled his blood, and the Crows were marching on his dying body. At that time, the eight ancestors caressed his sides and lent him strength. They breathed life into him again and gave him anger. The Lion rose, rid himself of the bird plague, and shouted out his anger, making himself heard even in the northern lands.
The power of the eight ancestors flowed through young warriors throughout Africa – they had been chosen to repel the Europeans as champions of the eight. Years later, these warriors were only known by the name Scourgers.
The results of this choice of the eight can be felt today, for the African people still see the Scourgers as closely related to the ancestors. They expect a lot of them: not only to defend the land, but also to safeguard its traditions against the ravages of time. Whenever an African is caught lying, has done some damage to another African, or even needs to move a rock to build his hut, the Scourgers are called in. The Scourgers decide in the spirit of the traditions, and they decide quickly. Liars may not speak until the good spirits of the village send a sign, those who have caused damage to others have to repair that damage, even if they must do so by their own hands’ work, the rock may only be moved if no one in the village opposes the idea and the spirit inhabiting the rock has been pacified with sacrifices for a whole month.
WARUI
Swahili, Arabic, Hausa, Malinke, Kikongo, Amharic, Somali, and thousands of other languages were spoken in Africa, some by populations of hundreds of millions, others by a few dozen people on the brink of extinction. Even decades after the Eshaton, the variety of languages in Africa was overwhelming, but it has declined more and more during the past centuries.
It started in the south, close to the Psychovores. The people lost their fathers’ tongue and communicated on a rudimentary level with simple words, clicks, and other basic sounds. This new language formed images in the minds of its users, conveying a painful intensity of emotions with few phonemes. The Scourgers call it Warui, meaning “from the river”. They consider it the legacy of the eight ancestors who pierced the barrier by interfering with the human world and making way for a flood of emotions and ancient knowledge. Those who drink from this river are rid of the intellectual ballast of centuries, of grammar and vocabulary, and regain the first and most primordial of all languages in which the spirits and ancestors communicate with the Africans.
Without the Warui, the Scourgers hailing from villages and cities all over Africa could never have joined together. In battle, it unites the warriors’ souls in a way that is far beyond human language.
But in the cold north, the ancestors’ influence diminishes, and so does the strength of the Warui. The link between the Scourgers is breaking. Like invalids, they stumble through a world they had stormed before relying on grammatical constructs and worn-out phrases. That is why many carry Psychovore seeds. Chewed, they expand the ancestors’ influence up to Borca.
IMMODERATE
Scourgers want neither riches nor luxury. They live off of nature’s gifts and take what is offered to them. When one pulls aside a curtain and casts a searching glance into a dimly lit hut, the inhabitants would not keep their fresh fruit from him, and neither would they deny him a quiver full of arrows. To deny him would mean offending the ancestors. However, there are limits to what a Scourger can demand. If he’s thought to be immoderate – hoarding riches or demanding gifts that he doesn’t need to do his job, for example – his brothers take care of him. Quickly, and without much ado. Wherever he may indulge these debaucheries, be it at a Neolibyan’s table or in a brothel’s bed, they grab him and drag him away, kicking and screaming. Outside, they tie him to a pole naked and torture him until he loses consciousness, laughing all the while. His blood summons mosquitoes; they rise into the air with every hit he takes, only to attack him again with a vengeance afterwards. The sun burns. This goes on for hours until his will is broken, the pain purges his mind, and he remembers what he is: the Lion’s claw.
EQUIPPED
Scourges are considered symbols of the African warrior caste, but the shock whip is only one of many weapons the Scourgers carry. In the Neolibyans’ arsenals, assault rifles and hand grenades wait for them, as well as machetes, spears, nets, and bolas.
The Scourgers get their traditional flak jackets, camouflage pants, and helmets from the arsenals at Tunis, but the city has been shut down since the slave revolt. Some equipment can still be found in the overgrown military bases in the hinterland. To loot them is often a young Scourger’s first trial.
When they are traveling Europe, the Neolibyans supply Scourgers with Koms. These buggies are maneuverable and have powerful engines, can climb any hill, jump chasms, and run down slaves. When equipped with a cage on the bed, they are perfectly suited for hunting – humans or animals.
Many Scourgers also train hyenas that can track enemies in areas where Koms cannot maneuver.
Just like at the Neolibyan’s table, a Scourger has to be modest in battle: a Hybrispanian village full of old people, women, and children will not be subjected to a softeningup barrage, but attacked with spears, a boar will not be killed from a distance, but attacked with a knife.
For the Scourgers, fighting means a battle between souls and a trial of strength. What cowards would they be if they shower even the weakest enemy with artillery and grenades?
DEATH MASKS
When fighting in the land of the Crow, the Scourgers traditionally wear their death masks: grinning skulls styled after the ancestral masks. These masks form a link to the eight ancestors and supply their wearers with their powers. Enemies seeing those masks know that death has come to exact its toll.
FAMILY TREES
Scourgers are famous for their wood carvings depicting the complex family trees stretching back through the generations. Here, the spiritual relationships are shown, but also the physical ones that can usually be traced back to one of the eight ancestors. In African villages, there is an elaborate ebony plate in front of every building, telling the family’s proud history to strangers.
Carving is the only form of handywork permitted to the Scourgers: working the crops or toiling on the oil fields are considered dirty and inferior.
Fighting, hunting, and carving are fitting pastimes for a tradition-conscious Scourger. Everything else ought to be left to the slaves.
FAR FROM THE FRONTLINES
Peace is something that Scourgers can only find in death. Even when they’re at home recuperating from their wounds they live in places needing their protection – at refineries, on oil fields, or in coastal cities. The inhabitants can send them into the jungle at a moment’s notice to hunt down some wild animal. Neolibyans can use them as caravan guards. A slave has fled? The Scourgers are there. The only calm they know is between their trips through Africa’s jungle or at the front in between missions.
But people love them for their eternal vigilance. In the evenings, they are invited for dinner, to eat with the tribe and talk about their adventures. Children crowd them, climb on their laps, and admire their biceps. Then there is arm wrestling or friendly brawls with lots of laughing until late in the night. The Neolibyans grimly observe the merrymaking. They do not join in but watch the villagers squander their wealth – and adore the Scourgers.
EIGHT
Every African has felt the ancestors’ influence. There’s a tingle that runs through the body, the breath quickens, and gibberish floods the mind. They have accomplished something. They feel to the core of their being.
Every ancestor plucks the string of life in his own special way, and every ancestor appears alone. The emotions he triggers jump from person to person and spread like a bubble. The people are carried by the wave: at the epicenter, the emotions smash the walls of reason and determine the people’s thoughts, emotions, and actions.
A few hundred paces further out, the effects fade. The emotions sink to the subconscious. They guide without resulting in full turns. Days later, the influence fades completely or is replaced by other emotions, another ancestor.
Scourgers and Anubians are especially sensitive to this. While Anubians lower their gaze in silent meditation, the Scourgers become inspired and exercise every aspect of the ancestor. They don’t know his name: the eight ancestors come from a time and sphere that has no room for words, only emotions and conflation as experienced today in the Warui or in dreams, nowhere else. To discuss these ancestors, one has to choose the roundabout way, talking about their aspects or using metaphors.
The first ancestor is often characterized as an eagle. He soars above everything, broadening his gaze to the horizon of his own being, but also taking in his surroundings. He strengthens intuition and gives hints of the future.
The second ancestor embodies the strength and superiority of the Lion. If this ancestor comes over a region, the people square their shoulders, compete with one another in duels, and take on any challenge.
The third ancestor is like earth in one’s hand, like a wall crumbling to dust because of a thought, like an earthquake. He manifests in the form of creative energy and of physical and mental exhaustion. Under his influence, great works of art and giant buildings are created.
The fourth ancestor opens people’s hearts. He is community and love. Joining on a spiritual level, he tears down barriers.
The fifth ancestor is pure physical desire, colliding bodies that have only one goal: sexual reproduction.
The sixth ancestor blows like a clear thought through the minds of the affected. The thousand layers of communication with their meta-meanings and lies crumble until only one layer remains. Every word is understood as intended. Every thought is a blazing star rising in the thinker’s mind.
The seventh ancestor only appears where at least two ancestors’ influences collide. He superimposes them and unites their aspects. The Scourgers see him as the source of Warui.
The eighth ancestor is the shadow cast by the other sevens’ light. He overwhelms and oppresses. His teeth and thorns catch every thought. People under his influence who may have been open-minded and friendly a moment ago suddenly act subversively and only for their own gain. But the Africans accept it without complaint. Their world has always been full of good and evil spirits: both are a part of the order.
UNTO DEATH
Being a Scourger is not a birthright, but great deeds do not help a young African to become part of the warrior caste, either. It’s a mother’s sole decision: no amount of complaining will help if she thinks that a Neolibyan would be good for the family. Many a boy flees into the jungle looking for a Scourger pack willing to take him in. But no, if the child is not handed over by the mother herself, the warriors chase them away.
Once a Scourger, he has to prove himself worthy at the age of 12. In the vicinity of Gibraltar, he will have to hunt down a freed slave. In Tripol, he will be abandoned in the jungle to confront wild animals, equipped only with a spear. The rites of acceptance vary from place to place, but they are all life-threatening. The applicant should not expect anyone to help. Even if a slave bashes his head in, the Scourgers will not interfere. Either the ancestors elect the child and lend their strength to the applicant, or not. If not, maybe they would’ve been better off as a Scrapper or Neolibyan after all.
After this trial, the child is presented as a Scourger in his home village. Now he can draw on the Neolibyans.
Between the age of 12 and 28, all Scourgers are cared for by their village’s community. These adolescents and adults may not marry: their deaths would cause existential problems for their partners. Of course, this does not stop them from having purely sexual relationships.
After the age of 28 and a rite of passage, they swear to use their heads more and their fists less. They are now considered elders. They still fight, but now they act from the background and are now more responsible for planning missions. Older Scourgers may marry, but are fully liable for their partners and children. The Neolibyans are only obligated to take care of the warrior himself, not any of their hangers-on. The Scourger may still not work, though. Usually the profit from the selling of slaves to Neolibyan plantations guarantees suitable life with two to three partners for them. But they never get away from the fighting.
At the age of about 50 – a foggy line, because many Scourgers stop counting the years once they become elders – they are considered sages. They lead their villages, passing judgment or entering a permanent liaison with their ancestors as shamans or hermits. Their numbers are few. The calmer years as an elder do not make up for the stressful life as a warrior.
Not many reach the age of 45.
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