Warrior

A cowherd, or a guard returning? 'Hlala! Stay!' he whispered.

He inched towards the nearest hut to spy from the cover of its walls.

Pampata inched after him. Hervey tried to stop her, but she struggled with his restraining hand, and with a strength that took him aback.

'What is it you see?' she demanded, beneath her breath.

He gave up the struggle, rising to his knees to get a clearer look across the enclosure.

Pampata leaned on his shoulders to see. 'Mbopa!' she gasped. 'The hyena returns!'

Hervey's blood ran cold. He watched, trying to slow his rapid breathing as Mbopa and his henchmen picked over the blossomstrewn ground.

'He wears red!' hissed Pampata, angrily gripping his shoulders.

Mbopa was a hundred yards off, but the red-lory feather at his neck was plain to see.

Pampata was now beside herself. 'He declares himself a chief, though he is nothing but a common dog – and a murderer!'

Hervey tried to calm her – subdue her – fearing she would run at Mbopa and decry him in front of the guards. He struggled to explain: 'We must . . . watch what he does. If he looked for Shaka's body and . . . could not find it, he . . . might think it is . . . concealed here.'

But her eyes burned. She made to rise.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, made her look at him, stared hard into her eyes to impress his meaning.

She gave up struggling. She understood. There was even something in her look which spoke of relief to be yielding. Here was someone she might trust, whereas all her own people had done was wail in despair.

He motioned for her to inch back.

But Mbopa's men were now hastening towards the isigodlo.

He pushed her to the ground again and flattened himself beside her.

They heard the warriors going in by the far opening in the hedge, not thirty yards from them – the bravado of those entering a forbidden place. He nodded to her; they crawled inside the hut.

But their line of escape was cut. They could only pray.

XVIII

PURSUITMinutes later

The Zulu ran in like hunting lions – from nowhere, with bewildering speed, pouncing, bringing down.

Brereton's right marker fell to a spear he did not even see, though a seasoned lance-corporal.

The dragoons, sitting at ease, smoking, exchanging the crack, were suddenly fumbling for sabre or carbine, too late to do other than desperately fend off the iklwa.

Zulu dashed in low, spears ripping open the bellies of the horses, demounting the wretched dragoons to be finished off by others that followed.

Private Hanks, enlisted but a year, fell under his trooper's dead weight and fought like the devil as two warriors taunted him with the iklwa point and feinted with their shields, before disembowelling him alive.

Corporal Connell, Brereton's coverman, spurred forward to the aid of his captain, managing to get between his charger on the offside and the taller of two spearmen. He drove his blade down hard – Cut Two – but the toughened cowhide shield took the edge. The Zulu sidestepped and thrust his iklwa into Connell's thigh. The corporal's sword arm swung full circle, and the sabre came down again to an exposed head. The Zulu fell instantly to his knees, blood bubbling from the cleft in his skull like water from a spring. Connell was only a length in front of Brereton as he reined hard left to deal with the other warrior – but too late, for Brereton had taken a spear in his left side, deep. The Zulu, in his surprise at bettering so braided an adversary, stepped back instead of turning to meet the coverman. Connell, sabre lofted again, made his third cut in as many seconds more, and sent the man to his maker. Dropping his reins, he grabbed Brereton to hold him in the saddle, but a third Zulu sprang from nowhere to drive his iklwa through Connell's spleen.

Cornet Petrie, new out of Eton and the only other officer, by sheer agility held off three jabbing spears for a quarter of a minute, until he too fell to their combined points.

Two dragoons, old hands, stood back-to-back as their horses thrashed on the ground, entrails spilling out like offal on a butcher's block. It took a full minute for four times their number to cut both men down.

One by one the rest of the dragoons fell. Not a shot was fired – for there was not a carbine primed. Private Johnson, astride a Cape pony, holding Hervey's charger and his bat-horse twenty yards off, turned to make away, but a Zulu running like a gazelle caught them and lunged with his spear before he could get them into a gallop.

Johnson kicked out blindly, deflecting the point, which pierced his pony's flank instead. The startled mare and bat-horse bolted, but the charger stopped, the reins, looped round Johnson's wrist, jerking him clean from the saddle.

The Zulu pulled him to his knees roughly, raising his spear for the thrust to the heart. Suddenly the charger squealed, sprang forward and took off after the pony, dragging Johnson a hundred yards before both horses stopped. He scrambled to his feet, half stunned, swearing foully. He hauled Hervey's rifle from the saddle sleeve, checked there was a percussion cap in place, then dropped to one knee to take unsteady aim at the pursuing warrior.

The shot was ear-splitting. The bullet found its mark, a perfect mark, in the Zulu's breast.

'Bastard kaffirs!' spat Johnson. 'Bastard, bastard, bastards!'