Writing Sample: The Warrior who would be Queen

By Gregory C. Vilfranc

The princess was exhausted. She had no idea the journey to the Portuguese trader outpost would be so long and treacherous, but if the stories of Njali's disappearance from court rang true, no distance would cheat her from finding him and exacting vengeance on his abductors. She missed 'Old One' and laughed to herself knowing that Njali probably gave his captors more of a battle than they gave him. Still, she could not fathom how one as skilled as he would allow himself to be captured. Two whole moons had passed and with his undying loyalty to king Kiluanji, she highly doubted the elder would without warning flee from the place he called home since she was born. It was then that she pieced together the only likely scenario, the catalyst of which had to be Mbandi.

There was never a person, a man for that matter, that she detested more than Mbandi the coward, which is actually how she made a note to address him. Though Njali was also responsible for her training in diplomacy, all forms of discretion seeped out of her at the mere sight of him. Being the first born son of their father the king, by default he was heir to the throne of Ndongo. Despite his birthright he was a major disappointment in every way imaginable. Mbandi possessed a unique combination of arrogance, complacency and plain idiocy--all nouns she used to humiliate him weeks ago before the entire council, sealing her banishment from court. She delighted in his anguish and shame that day and remarked that a fortnight away from the village was well worth its weight in precious metal; a minimal price to pay for exposing the would be prince for the disgrace that he was. He found great joy in torturing the weak and the small, those who could not hope to defend themselves. When she came of age and was old enough to best him in combat, Njali and two nurse maids were required to pry her hands from her half brother's throat. When asked why she did not release him when asked, she recalled telling them that she wanted him to feel what her pet chicken experienced when he choked the life out of it. She seemed to have a penchant for abashing him in public forums when he preferred to do his dastardly deeds out of sight.

As she recalled the bane of her existence she was forced to calm herself as her anger shot out of her like a wave causing a ripple effect throughout the dense jungle. Those that swung from trees and others that slithered on the ground were suddenly alerted by her presence. While she enjoyed the thrill of speaking publicly in court, the jungle was the one audience of a thousand eyes that she did not want clinging to her every word. Remembering her training, she calmed herself by kneeling and controlling her breathing until it was as shallow as one who sleeps deeply. Re-directing her thoughts toward the task at hand, she opened her eyes and sensed that she had immersed herself deep into the conglomerate of the jungle's night life. She was once again considered a fellow predator to the eaters and a threat to those that hid from them.

As she lay there by the fire fingering the head of one of her arrows, she marveled at the thought that pestered her from the moment she knew Mbandi would never be king. With two younger sisters and no male heirs in site, what was the true heart of all of the training? With her being more athletic and intelligent than her brother, it made sense that her father would take her along to war and other political matters. She had always assumed that she was more of a novelty that added years to the king's life and amused and impressed an entire village. Still, the images of herself seated on the throne filled her with a pride that went past her darkened skin and moved her outside of herself when she realized the powerful impact such a sight would have on her sisters, the young girls in the village and the entire world. In a brief moment of empathy, she understood Mbandi's vitriol. Though she never disappointed her father, she cried in her heart at the thought of letting him down. She could only imagine what Mbandi's daily plight was like with their father barely looking his firstborn son in the eye, let alone share an approving word with him. Was Kiluangi's motive of grooming his daughter to succeed him solely based on his son's failure as an heir or did he truly believe a woman was worthy of assuming the title of supreme leader of Ndongo?

The next unnatural sounds that interrupted her thoughts seemed to prickle every hair on her body as she rose slowly to a crouching position. It was the sound of men setting up camp with their lack of subtlety giving them away as Portuguese slave traders. 'Move like the panther,' Njali had said. 'His enemies never know they have an enemy until it is too late.' She steadily peered over the log she had used as a headboard down to the base of the hill where the four traders were settling down for the night. They had no captives but were still armed well enough to ambush and capture a group of ten or more of her people; her kind. Her anger began to rise up again, but was more of a simmer compared to the rage she felt just moments ago. Njali had preached against the marriage of anger and combat, but she had discovered on her own how to channel this energy to her advantage. As she drew back her bow and aimed for the head of the one who would be the leader of the slavers, any thoughts of her glorious queen-hood and her father's intentions would have to wait. Seconds before her first arrow had an intimate conversation with it's target, she had already pounced on the second with her spear, disarmed the third of his blade, re-directing it at his jugular while leaving the last to quiver in fear. She had him pegged as the weakest link from the moment she laid eyes on them. He would be the one to tell her where Njali was being held. He would also be the first to know death by the hands of a true warrior; a warrior who would be queen.