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Bwire tells his tale in this fashion, the fashion of all liars and cowards:

Full darkness had fallen. Bwire and the Breathstealer Neshi returned to the hut where Neshi had almost defeated Jojo. On a ridge overlooking the water hole, Bwire called for a halt. The Breathstealer stood beside him, and at his feet lay the mist that was the feral shadow, obedient as a dog. Goats clustered in the clearing beside the hut. Jojo and Fola stood there, talking.

“Silence, goatboy and little sorceress,” announced Bwire, and his voice thundered, strong as a lion’s roar. “I am here, and your time on earth is over.”

The goatherd responded like the fool he was, as if unaware of the power and terror of the great shaman. He said: “Bwire, I suppose. I do not know you, but you and this sorceress here are invited to leave this plain now, with all the hospitality of the Mtenda granted to you on your way out.”

The shaman laughed to be compared with a mere hedge wizard, scarcely more than a child. She at least was silent, struck dumb in blind fear, he knew with certain contempt. “We need talk no longer,” he said. “I, my Breathstealer, my feral shadow, and all my powers, are enough to raze this pitiful oasis and take your pathetic goats. Then with the ‘Yellow Rock,’ as you say, we will hold cities and kings at our mercy. Starting with Kenlo, I imagine.”

In his wisdom, Bwire could sense the presence of the panther who had proved so useless earlier. Bwire spoke to Neshi: “Here I must summon the Night. You must call the panther to us; I cannot begin the ritual of Raising the Night without her.”

Neshi agreed, and raised his dagger. Then the panther leapt, and Neshi was fighting for his life. Light fled. The veil of Night parted, and the great Spirit of the Night stepped forward to serve Bwire, the Night’s master.