other blindly. Already they were falling into mud holes in the swamp, and losing any but the most general sense of direction as they were forced to skirt the densest patches of thorny scrub. The insects swarmed off the algae-green puddles that steamed in the heat. The Turks sweated under their steel mail. The bronze helmets reflected arrows of light. The officers had to raise their voices to keep contact with their platoons, and any attempt at stealth was abandoned.
On the other hand, this was the kind of terrain in which the Beshwayo hunted and fought best. They were invisible to the columns of Koots's men. They shadowed them on each flank. The indunas never uttered a word of command. To guide their imp is in for the kill, they used only birdcalls or the piping of tree frogs, which sounded so natural that it was difficult to believe they issued from a human throat.
Beshwayo listened to these sounds intently. Cocking his huge shaven head first on one side then the other, he understood what they were telling him as if they spoke in plain language. 'It is time, Somoya,' he said at last. He threw back his head and filled his lungs; his barrel chest swelled, then contracted at the force with which he uttered the high, chanting cry of a fish-eagle. Almost immediately, from far out and much closer at hand, his cry was repeated from a dozen places in the thick jungle below where they sat. His indunas were acknowledging the king's order to attack.
'Come, Somoya!' said Beshwayo softly. 'Unless we are quick we will miss the sport.' When Jim reached the ground he found Bakkat squatting beside the trunk of the fig tree.
He greeted Jim with a sparkling grin. 'I heard the fish eagle cry. So, now there is work to do, Somoya.' He handed Jim his sword belt. Jim buckled it about his waist, then thrust the pair of double-barrelled pistols through the leather loops. Like a dark shadow Beshwayo had already disappeared into a dense stand of reeds. Jim turned back to Bakkat. 'Koots is here. He leads the enemy brigade,' he told him. 'Find him for me, Bakkat.'
'He will be at the head of his troops,' Bakkat said. 'We must circle out around the main fighting so that we are not trapped in it, like a bull elephant in quicksand.'
Suddenly the jungle around them echoed and resonated with the clamour of fighting men: the thudding reports of musket and pistol, the
thunder of assegai and kerrie drumming on rawhide shield, wild splashing in the swamps, and the crackle of breaking brush as men charged through it. Then the war chant of Beshwayo's men was answered by shouted challenges in Arabic and Turkish.
Bakkat darted away, avoiding the sounds of battle, circling out towards the river to get ahead of the Omani brigades. Jim ran hard to keep up with him. Once or twice he lost sight of him in the denser patches of jungle, but Bakkat whistled softly to lead him on. They reached the spur of dry ground at the far side of the swamp. Bakkat found a narrow game path and ran back along it. After a few hundred paces he stopped again, and they both stood listening. Jim was panting like a dog, and his shirt was dark with sweat, plastered to his body like a second skin. The battle was so close that, underlying the uproar, they could clearly make out the more intimate sounds of death, the crunch of a skull splitting at the blow from a kerrie, the grunt as a spearman thrust home, the hiss of a scimitar blade through the air, the gush of blood spilling upon the earth, the thud of a falling body, the groans and laboured breath of the maimed and dying.
Bakkat looked at Jim, and made a gesture of closing in upon the battle, but Jim raised a hand to restrain him and cocked his head. His breath was returning swiftly. He loosed his pistols in their loops, and drew his sword.
Suddenly there was a bull-like bellow from the thickets close at hand. 'Come, my sons! Come, the children of heaven! Let us devour them!'
Jim grinned, it could be none other than Beshwayo. He was answered by another voice, crying out in heavily accented Arabic: 'Steady! Steady! Hold your fire! Let them come in close!'
That's him!' Jim nodded at Bakkat. 'Koots!'
They left the game path and plunged into the undergrowth. Jim forced his way through a wall of thorns, and before him stretched an opening of bright green swamp grass. In its centre there was a tiny island not more than twenty paces across. On this last refuge Koots was making his stand with a dozen of his men, Arabs in mud-soaked robes and Turks in splattered half-armour. They had formed a ragged line, some kneeling, others standing with their muskets at high port. Koots was striding up and down behind the second rank, carrying his musket at the trail. A bloody cloth was wrapped round his forehead, but he was grinning like a skull, a fearsome rictus that exposed his clenched teeth.
Across the narrow neck of swamp they were confronted by a mass of Beshwayo's warriors, with the Great Bull at their head. Beshwayo threw back his head and gave one last bellow: 'Come, my children. This way goes the road to glory!' He bounded forward into the pools, scum med
with thick clumps of stinking green algae. His warriors raced after him and the swamp exploded into spray under their charge. 'Steady!' Koots shouted. 'One shot and they will be on us.'
Beshwayo never faltered: he galloped forward, straight into the levelled muskets like a charging buffalo.
'The mad fool,' Jim lamented. 'He knows the power of the gun.'
'Wait!' Koots called, quite softly. 'Wait for it!' Jim saw that he had chosen the king, and was aiming at his chest. He snatched one of his pistols from the loop on his belt and fired instinctively, without seeing the iron sights. It was a forlorn effort. Koots did not even flinch as the ball flew past his head. Instead, his voice rang out harshly, 'Fire!' The volley crashed out, and in the smoke Jim saw at least four of the charging warriors go down, two killed outright, the others thrashing around in the mud. Their companions ran over the top of them. Jim searched desperately for a glimpse of Beshwayo. Then as the smoke cleared he saw him untouched and undaunted still in the front of the charge, bawling lustily as he came: 'I am the Black Death. Look upon me, and know fear!' He hurled himself into the front rank of Arabs, and knocked two flat on to the earth with a sweep of his shield. He stood over them and stabbed down so swiftly that his blade blurred. Each time he drew it out again a bright crimson tide followed the steel.
Koots threw aside his empty musket, and whirled round. He crossed the island with long, loping strides and plunged into the swamp, heading straight back towards where Jim stood. Jim stepped out from the thicket of thorns. He drew his sword, and waited for him at the edge of marshy ground. Koots recognized him and stopped ankle deep in the mud.
'The Courtney puppy!' He was still smiling. 'I have waited long for this moment. Keyset will still pay good gold guilders for your head.'
'You'll have to reap it first.'
'Where is your blonde whore? I have something for her also.' Koots took a handful of his crotch and shook it lewdly.
'I will hack it off and take it to her,' Jim promised him grimly.
Koots glanced over his shoulder. His men were all dead. With slashes of the assegai, the Beshwayo were disembowelling their corpses, allowing their spirits to escape: a last tribute to men who had fought well. But some had already started in pursuit of Koots, splashing towards him through the swamp.
Koots hesitated no longer. He came straight at Jim, stepping high through the mud, still smiling, those pale eyes staring into Jim's face to read his intentions. His first thrust came with no warning, straight at Jim's throat. Jim touched his blade, just enough to turn it off line so that the point flew over his shoulder. In the moment that Koots was at
full extension, he shot his own blade forward, steel rasped on steel, and guided Jim's point home. He felt the hit, cloth and flesh splitting, then the shock of bone. Koots leaped back.
'Liefde tot God!' His smile had given way to a startled expression. Fresh blood spread on his muddy shirt-front. The puppy has become a dog.'
Surprise gave way to anger and he rushed at Jim again. Their blades clashed and scraped as he tried to drive Jim back, so that he could find firm footing. But Jim stood solid, and kept him pinned in the soft mud. It clung to Koots's boots and hampered each step he took.
'I am coming, Somoya,' shouted Beshwayo, as he bounded across the narrow neck of swamp.
'I do not take the food from your mouth,' Jim shouted back. 'Leave me this morsel.'
Beshwayo stopped and held up his hand, to restrain his men who swarmed eagerly after him.
'Somoya is hungry,' he said. 'Let him eat in peace.' And he laughed.
Koots dropped back a pace, trying to draw Jim forward into the mud. Jim smiled into his pale eyes and, with a scornful flick of his head, declined the invitation. Koots circled left and as soon as Jim turned to meet him he broke the other way, but he was slow in the mud. Jim hit him again, raking his flank. Beshwayo's men roared approval.
'You bleed as freely as the great pig you are,' Jim taunted him. The blood was sliding down Koots's leg and dripping into the mud. He glanced down at it and his expression was grim. Both wounds were shallow and light, but together they would drain him swiftly. Jim lunged at him.
When Koots jumped back he felt the weakness in his legs. He knew he must try for a quick decision. He looked at the man who confronted him, and for one of the few times in his life he felt a twinge of fear. This was no longer the stripling he had chased across half of Africa. This was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, forged like steel in the furnace of life.
