where his horse was grazing. 'Where are you going?' Koots asked,
'Are you deaf or just stupid?' Le Riche asked belligerently, and placed his right hand on the hilt of his sabre. 'I told you once, but I will tell you again. I am going back to the Cape.'
'It is called desertion and dereliction of duty, but I can understand why you want to go,' Koots said, in such a mild tone that Le Riche looked surprised. Koots went on, 'If anyone else wants to go with Le Riche, I will not stop them.'
Richter stood up slowly. 'I think I will,' he said.
'Good!' said Koots. 'But leave any VOC property when you go.'
'What do you mean, Koots?' Le Riche demanded.
'The saddle and bridle,' Koots said, 'the musket and your sabre are all Company issue. The horse and, of course, your boots and uniform, not to mention your water bottle and blanket.' Koots smiled. 'Just leave all that over there, and you can say goodbye.'
Richter had not yet committed himself, so he sat down again hurriedly. Le Riche stood uncertainly, looking from Koots to his grazing horse. Then, with a visible effort, he steeled himself. 'Koots,' he said, 'the first thing I will do when I get back to the Cape, even if it costs me five guilders, is fuck your wife.' Koots had recently married a beautiful young Hottentot girl. Her name was Nella, and she had been one of the most famous filks de joie in the colony. Koots had married her in an attempt to gain exclusive rights to her bountiful charms. That ruse had not been entirely successful, and he had already killed one man who had not understood the niceties of holy wedlock.
Koots glanced at Sergeant Oudeman, his old comrade in arms. Oudeman was bald as an ostrich egg, but he had a fine dark moustache. He understood Koots's unspoken orders, and he let one eyelid droop in acknowledgement. Koots stood up, and stretched like a leopard. He was tall and lean, and his pale eyes were dangerous beneath the colourless lashes. 'One other item I forgot to mention,' he said ominously. 'You can leave your testicles here also. I am coming to get them from you.' With a metallic scraping he drew his own sabre, and walked towards Le Riche. Le Riche dropped his saddle and spun to face him, his blade leaping from the scabbard in a flash of sunlight.
'A long time I have waited for a chance at you, Koots.'
'Now you have it,' Koots said, and lifted his point. He drifted in closer and Le Riche raised his own blade. Steel tapped lightly on steel as they measured each other. They knew one another well: they had trained and practised together over the years. They drew apart and circled.
'You are guilty of desertion,' said Koots. 'It is my duty to arrest you, or to kill you.' He smiled. 'I prefer the second option.'
Le Riche scowled and ducked his head aggressively. He was not as tall as Koots, but he had long simian arms and powerful shoulders. He attacked with a series of lunges, driving in hard and fast. Koots had been expecting this. Le Riche lacked finesse. Koots faded away before him, and when he reached the limit of his extension, Koots riposted with the strike of a puff adder. Le Riche jumped back only just in time but his sleeve was split and a few drops of blood dripped from the scratch on his forearm.
They engaged again, steel scraping and thrilling on steel, but they were neatly matched. They broke and circled, Koots trying to move him towards where Oudeman lounged against the trunk of a thorn tree. Over the years Koots and Oudeman had developed an understanding. Twice Koots almost had Le Riche in position for Oudeman to deal with him, but each time he moved out of the trap.
Oudeman left the thorn tree and moved out towards the cooking fire, as if to refill his coffee mug, but he kept his right hand behind his back. He usually went for the kidneys. A blade in the small of the back would paralyse the victim, and Koots would finish off Le Riche with a thrust through the throat.
Koots changed the direction and angle of his attack, squeezing Le Riche back towards where Oudeman waited. Le Riche jumped back and whirled suddenly, nimble as a ballerina. In the same instant, he slashed his blade across the knuckles of Oudeman's hand, which held the dagger. The knife flew out of his nerveless fingers, and Le Riche spun back to face Koots. He was still smiling. 'Why don't you teach your dog a new trick, Koots? I have seen that one too many times before, and it's becoming boring.'
Oudeman was swearing and clutching his injured hand, and Koots was clearly disconcerted by Le Riche's unexpected ploy. He glanced at his accomplice, and as his eyes left Le Riche's face, Le Riche attacked en fleche, the attack of the arrow: he went straight for Koots's throat. Koots stumbled back, and lost his footing. He went down on one knee, and Le Riche pressed home to end it. At the last moment he saw the flare of triumph in Koots's pale eyes and tried to turn aside, but his right foot was leading and Koots went in low, cutting under his guard. The razor steel sliced through the back of Le Riche's boot, and there was an audible pop as it severed his Achilles tendon. Koots was on his feet again in the same instant, and sprang back outside even Le Riche's long reach.
'There is a new trick for you, Corporal, and how do you like it?' he asked. 'Now, pray tell me, who has fucked whom?'
Blood was spurting from the gash in the back of Le Riche's boot, and he hopped back on his good leg, dragging his crippled foot behind him. His expression was desperate as Koots came in again fast, cutting and thrusting at his face. On one leg Le Riche could not hope to hold him off and he toppled over backwards. As he sprawled, Koots made the next cut with the precision of a surgeon. He slashed through the back of Le Riche's left boot and his other tendon parted cleanly. Koots ran his sabre back into its scabbard and walked away from him contemptuously. Le Riche sat up and, with shaking hands and pale sweating face,
drew off his boots one at a time. He stared silently at the terrible crippling injuries. Then he tore the hem off his shirt and tried to bind up the wounds, but the blood soaked swiftly through the grubby cloth.
'Break camp, Sergeant,' Koots called to Oudeman. 'Everyone mounted and ready to leave in five minutes. The Bushman is taking us to this sacred place of his.'
The troop rode out of the camp in single file following Xhia. Oudeman was leading Le Riche's horse, and his musket, water bottle and all his other equipment were tied to the empty saddle.
Le Riche crawled after them. 'Wait! You can't leave me here.' He tried to stand, but he had no control of his feet, and he toppled over again. 'Please, Captain Koots, have mercy. In the name of Jesus, at least leave me my musket and water bottle.'
Koots turned his horse back and looked down at Le Riche from the saddle. 'Why should I waste valuable equipment? Soon you will have no further use for it.' Le Riche crawled towards him on his hands and knees, his crippled feet flopping and dragging behind him like stranded fish. Koots backed his horse away, keeping just out of his reach.
'I can't walk, and you have taken my horse,' he pleaded.
'It's not your horse, Corporal. It belongs to the VOC,' Koots pointed out. 'But I have left you your boots and your testicles. That is enough generosity for one day.' He turned his horse's head and rode after the rest of his troop.
'Please!' Le Riche screamed after him. 'If you leave me here I will die.'
'Yes,' Koots agreed over his shoulder, 'but probably not until the vultures and the hyenas find you.' He rode away. The sound of the horses' hoofs faded, and the silence of the mountains pressed down upon Le Riche with such weight that he felt the last shreds of his courage and resolve crushed beneath it.
It did not take long before the first vulture planed overhead on widespread wings. It twisted its head on the long naked red neck and peered down at Le Riche. Then, satisfied that he was crippled and moribund, and unable to protect himself, it circled in for a landing on the rocky pinnacle above him. It flared its massive wings and stretched out its talons to find purchase on the rock. Then it settled, humpbacked, folded away the long wings, and watched him impassively. It was an enormous bird, black and lappet-faced.
Le Riche crawled to the nearest tree, and leaned against the trunk. He gathered every stone within reach, but they made a pathetically small pile. He hurled one at the crouching vulture, but the range was
long, and from a sitting position his throw lacked power. The great bird blinked its eyes but made no other movement. A dead branch had fallen from the tree and lay just within Le Riche's reach. It was too heavy and too awkwardly shaped to wield effectively, nevertheless he placed it across his lap. It was his weapon of last resort, but when he studied the great bird, he knew just how puny it was.
They watched each other for the rest of that day. Once the vulture ruffled out its feathers, then preened them carefully and settled into immobility again. By nightfall Le Riche was thirsty, and the pain in his feet was almost unbearable. The brooding silhouette of the bird was satanic black against the background of stars. Le Riche thought about creeping up upon it as it slept and strangling it with his bare hands, but when he tried to move the pain in his feet held him as effectively as leg irons.
The midnight cold drained his vital force, and he sank into a delirious sleep. The faint warmth of the sun on his face and the dazzle of it in his eyes roused him. For many seconds he did not know where he was, but when he tried to move, the pain in his feet held him fast and brought back the horrors of his predicament in full force.
He groaned and turned his head, then screamed wildly with shock. The vulture had come down from its perch on the rocky pinnacle.
