Power of the Sword c-10

by Wilbur Smith

  Go! he ordered, and Manfred sobbed and flung himself at his father.

  I want to stay with you, he cried.

  Lothar caught his wrist and held him at arm's length.

  Do you want me to be ashamed? he snarled. Is that how you want me to remember you, snivelling like a girl? Pa, don't send me away, please. Let me stay. Lothar drew back, released his grip on Manfred's wrist and immediately whipped his open palm across his face and then swung back with his knuckles. The double slap knocked Manfred onto his haunches, leaving livid red blotches on his pale cheeks, and a tiny serpent of bright blood crawled from his nostril down over his upper lip. He stared at Lothar with shocked and incredulous eyes.

  Get out of here, Lothar hissed at him, summoning all his courage and resolve to make his voice scornful and his expression savage. I won't have a blubbering little ninny hanging around my neck. Get out of here before I take the strap to you! Manfred scrambled to his feet and backed away, still staring with horrified disbelief at his father.

  Go on! Get away! Lothar's expression never wavered, and his voice was angry and disdainful and unrelenting. Get out of here! Manfred turned and stumbled to the edge of the cliff.

  There he turned once more and held out his hands. Pa!

  Please don't, Go, damn you. Go! The boy scrambled over the edge, and the sounds of his clumsy descent dwindled into silence.

  only then Lothar let his shoulders droop, and he sobbed once, then suddenly he was weeping silently, his whole body shaking.

  It's the fever, he told himself. The fever has weakened me. But the image of his son's face, golden and beautiful and destroyed with grief, still filled his mind and he felt something tearing in his chest, an unbearable physical pain.

  Forgive me, my son, he whispered through his tears. There was no other way to save you. Forgive me, I beg you. Lothar must have relapsed into unconsciousness, for he awoke with a start and could not remember where he was or how he had got there. Then the smell of his arm, sick and disgusting, brought it back to him, and he crawled to the edge of the cliff and looked out towards the south. He saw his pursuers then for the first time, and even at the distance of a mile or more he recognized the two wraith-like little figures that danced ahead of the column of horsemen.

  Bushmen, he whispered. Now he understood how they had come so swiftly. She has put her tame Bushmen onto me. He realized then that there had never been any chance of throwing them off the spoor; all that time Lothar had used in covering their sign and in anti-tracking subterfuges had been wasted. The Bushmen had followed them with barely a check over the worst going and most treacherous tracking terrain.

  Then he looked beyond the trackers an counted the number of men coming against him. Seven, he whispered, and his eyes narrowed as he tried to pick out a smaller feminine figure amongst them, but they were dismounted leading their horses and the intervening mopani obscured his vision.

  He transferred all his attention from the approaching horsemen to his own preparations. His only concern now was to delay the pursuit as long as possible, and to convince the pursuers that all of his band were still together here upon the summit. Every hour he could win for them would give Hendrick and Manie just that much more chance of escape.

  It was slow and awkward working with one hand, but he jammed Klein Boy's rifle into a niche of the granite with the muzzle pointing down towards the plain. He looped a strap from one of the water bottles over the trigger and led the other end to his chosen shooting stance in the shadows, protected by a flare of the granite ledge.

  He had to pause for a minute to rest, for his vision was starring and breaking up into patches of blackness, and his legs felt too weak to support his weight. He peeped over the edge and the horsemen were much closer, on the point of emerging from the mopani forest into the open ground. Now he recognized Centaine, slim and boyish in her riding-breeches, and he could even make out the bright yellow speck of the scarf around her throat.

  Despite the fever heat and the darkness in his head, despite his desperate circumstances, he still found a bitter-sweet admiration for her. By God, she never gives up, he muttered. She'll follow me over the other side to the frontiers of hell. He crawled to the pile of discarded water bottles and dragging them after him, arranged them in three separate piles along the lip of the ledge, and he knotted the leather straps together so that he could agitate all the piles simultaneously with a single twitch of the strap in his hand.

  Nothing else I can do, he whispered, except shoot straight. But his head was throbbing and his vision danced with the hot mirage of his fever. Thirst was an agony in his throat and his body was a furnace.

  He unscrewed the stopper on the water bottle and drank, carefully controlling himself, sipping and holding it in his mouth before swallowing. Immediately he felt better, and his vision firmed. He closed the water bottle and placed it beside him with the spare ammunition clips. Then he folded his jacket into a cushion on the lip of granite in front of him and laid the Mauser on top of it. The pursuers had reached the foot of the kopje and were clustered about his abandoned horse.

  Lothar held up his good hand in front of his eyes with fingers extended. There was no tremor, it was steady as the rock on which he lay and he cuddled the butt of the Mauser in under his chin.

  The horses, he reminded himself. They can't follow Manie without horses, and he drew a long breath, held it, and shot Blaine Malcomess chestnut mare in the centre of the white blaze.

  As the echoes of the shot still bounced from the cliffs of the surrounding hills, Lothar flicked the bolt of the Mauser and fired again, but this time he jerked the strap attached to the other rifle and the report of the two shots overlapped.

  The double report would deceive even an experienced soldier into believing there was more than one man on the summit.

  Strangely, in this moment of deadly endeavour, the fever had receded. Lothar's vision was bright and clear, the sights of the Mauser starkly outlined against each target and his gun hand steady and precise as he swung the rifle from one horse to the next and sent each one crashing to earth with a head shot. Now they were all down except one: Centaine's mount.

  He picked Centaine up in the field of his gunsight. She was galloping back towards the mopani, lying flat over her horse's neck, her elbows pumping, a man hanging from her stirrup, and Lothar lifted his forefinger from the curve of the trigger. It was an instinctive reaction; he could not bring himself to send a bullet anywhere near her.

  Instead he swung the barrel away from her. The riders of the downed horses, all four of them, were straggling away towards the mopani. Their thin cries of panic carried to the summit. They were easy marks; he could have knocked them down with a single bullet for each, but instead he made it a game to see how close he could come without touching one of them. They ducked and cavorted as the Mauser fire whipped around them. It was comical, hilarious.

  He was laughing as he worked the bolt, and suddenly he heard the wild hysterical quality of his laughter ringing hollowly in his own skull and he bit it off. I'm losing my head, he thought. Got to last it out. The last of the running men disappeared into the forest and he found himself shaking and sweating with reaction.

  Got to be ready, he encouraged himself. Got to think.

  Can't stop now. Can't let go. He crawled to the second rifle and reloaded it, then rolled back to his shooting stance in the shadow of the summit boulders.

  Now they are going to try and mark me, he guessed.

  They'll draw fire and watch for- He saw the helmet being offered invitingly above the lip of the ravine at the edge of the forest and grinned. That was a hoary old trick; even the red-necked pommy soldiers had learned not to fall for it as far back as the opening years of the Boer War. It was almost insulting that they should try to entice him with it now.

  All right then! he taunted them. We'll see who foxes who? He fired both rifles simultaneously, and a moment later jerked the straps attached to the piles of empty water bottles.

&nb
sp; At that range the movement of the round felt-covered bottles would show against the skyline just like the heads of hidden riflemen.

  Now they will send men to circle the hill, he guessed, and watched for movement amongst the trees on his flanks, the Mauser ready, blinking his eyes rapidly to clear them.

  Five hours until dark, he told himself. Hendrick and Manie will be at the river by dawn tomorrow. Got to hold them until then. He saw a flash of movement out on the right flank: men crouching and running forward in short bursts, outflanking the kopje, and he aimed for the trunks over their heads.

  Mauser fire whiplashed and bark exploded from the mopani, leaving wet white wounds on the standing timber.

  Keep your heads down, myne heeren! Lothar was laughing again, hysterical, delirious cackles.

  He forced himself to stop it, and immediately the image of Manie's face appeared before him, the beautiful topaz eyes swimming with tears and the flash of blood on his upper lip.

  My son, he lamented. Oh God, how will I live without you! Even then be would not accept that be was dying, but blackness filled his skull and his head dropped forward onto the filthy pus-stained bandage that swaddled his arm. The stench of his own decaying flesh became part of the delirious nightmares which continued to torment him even in unconsciousness.

  He came back to reality gradually, and he was aware that the sunlight had mellowed and the terrible heat had passed.

  There was a tiny breeze fanning the hilltop and he panted for the cooler air, sucking it gratefully into his lungs. Then he became aware of his thirst and his hand shook as he reached for the water bottle; it required an enormous effort to remove the stopper and lift it to his lips. One gulp and the bottle slipped from his grip and precious water splashed the front of his shirt and glugged from the bottle, pooling on the rock, evaporating almost immediately. He had lost fully a pint before he could retrieve the bottle and the loss made him want to weep.

  Carefully he screwed the stopper closed, then lifted his head and listened.

  There were men on the hill. He heard the distinct crunch of a steel-shod boot biting into a granite foothold and he reached for one of the potato masher grenades. With the Mauser over his shoulder he crawled back from the edge and used the rock to pull himself to his feet. He could not stand unassisted, and he had to lean his way around the boulder.

  He crept forward cautiously with the grenade ready.

  The summit was clear; they must still be climbing the cliff. He held his breath and listened with all his being. He heard it again, close at hand, the scrape and slide of cloth against granite and a sharp involuntary inhalation of breath, a gasp of effort as somebody missed and then retrieved a foothold just below the summit.

  They are coming up from behind, he told himself as though explaining to a backward child. Every thought required an effort. 'Seven-second delay on the fuse of the grenade. He stared down at the clumsy weapon that he held by its wooden handle. Too long. They are very close. He lifted the grenade and tried to pull the firing-pin. It had corroded and was firmly stuck. He grunted and heaved at it and the pin came away. He heard the primer click and he began to count.

  A thousand and one, a thousand and two, And at the fifth second he stooped and rolled the grenade over the edge.

  Out of sight, but close by, someone shouted an urgent warning.

  Christ! It's a grenade! And Lothar laughed wildly.

  Eat it, you jackals of the English! He heard them sliding and slipping as they tried to escape and he braced himself for the explosion, but instead he heard only the clatter and rattle of the grenade as it bounced and dropped down the slope.

  Misfire! He stopped laughing. job damn it to hell. Then abruptly, but belatedly, the grenade exploded, far down the cliff. A crash of sound followed by the rattle and whine of shrapnel on the rock, and a man cried out.

  Lothar fell to his knees and crawled to the edge. He looked over.

  There were three khaki-uniformed men on the cliff, sliding and scrambling downwards. He propped the Mauser on the lip and fired rapidly. His bullets left lead smears on the rock close beside the terrified troopers. They dropped the last few feet and started back towards the trees. One of them was hurt, hit by shrapnel; his companions supported him on each side and dragged him away.

  Lothar lay exhausted by the effort for almost an hour before he could drag himself back to the south side of the summit. He looked down at the dead horses lying in the sun.

  Already their bellies were swelling, but the water bottles were still strapped to their saddles. The water is the magnet, he whispered. By now they will be really thirsty.

  They will come for the water next. At first he thought the darkness was only in his mind again, but when he rolled his head and looked into the west he saw the last orange flash of the sunset in the sky. Before his eyes it faded and the sudden African night was upon them.

  He lay and listened for them to try to reach the water, and he wondered as he had so often before at the mystic sounds of the African night, the gentle muted orchestra of insect and bird, the piping of the hunting bats flitting around the dome of rock and out on the plain the plaintive yip of jackal and the occasional outlandish grunting bark of the nocturnal honey badger. Lothar had to try to discount these distractions and listen for manmade sounds in the darkness directly below the cliff.

  It was only the clink of a stirrup iron that alerted him, and he tossed the grenade with a full swing of his arm out over the abyss. The heavy crump of the explosion blew a puff of air into his face, and by the sudden flare of flame he saw far below the dark figures standing over the dead horse.

  He made out two of them, though he could not be certain there were not others, and he tossed the second grenade.

  In the brief burst of orange light he saw them racing back towards the trees; they ran so lightly that they could not have been burdened by water bottles.

  Sweat it out, he taunted them, but he had only the one remaining grenade. He held it to his chest as though it were some rare treasure.

  Must be ready when they come again.

  Can't let them get the water. He was talking aloud, and he knew it was a sign of his delirium. Every time he felt the swimming dizziness he lifted his head and tried to focus on the stars.

  Got to hold out, he told himself seriously. If I can only keep them here until noon tomorrow. He tried to make the calculations of time and distance but it was too much for him. Must be eight hours since Hendrick and Manie left.

  They will keep going all night. They haven't got me to hold them back. They can make the river before dawn. If only I can hold them another eight hours they will get clear away But the weariness and the fever overwhelmed him and he cradled his forehead in the curve of his elbow.

  Lothar! It was his imagination, he knew that, but then his name was called again. Lothar! And he lifted his head and shivered with the cold of the night and the memories that her voice summoned up.

  He opened his mouth and then closed it. He would not reply, would give nothing away. But he listened avidly for Centaine Courtney to call again.

  Lothar, we have a wounded man. He judged that she was at the edge of the forest. He could imagine her, determined and brave, that small firm chin lifted, those dark eyes.

  Why do I still love you? he whispered.

  We must have water for him. Strange how clearly her voice carried. He could pick out the inflection of her French accent and somehow he found that touching. It brought tears to his eyes.

  Lothar! I am coming out to fetch the water., Her voice was closer, stronger, clearly she had left the shelter of the trees.

  I'm alone, Lothar. She must be halfway across the open ground.

  Go back! He tried to shout, but it was a mumble. I warned you.

  I have to do it. He fumbled for the grenade.

  Can't let you take the water, for Manie's sake. I have to do it. He hooked his finger through the firing ring of the grenade.

  I have reached the first horse, she
called. I am taking the bottle. just one bottle, Lothar., She was in his power. She was standing at the foot of the cliff. It wouldn't need a long throw. All he had to do was roll the grenade over the edge and it would fly out like a toboggan along the curve of the cliff and land at her feet.

  He imagined the flash of the explosion, that sweet flesh that had cradled his, and harboured his son, torn and rent by razor-edged shrapnel. He thought how much he hated her, and realized that he loved her as much, and the tears in his eyes blinded him.

  I'm going back now, Lothar. I have one bottle, she called, and he heard in her voice gratitude and an acknowledgement of the bond between them that no deed, no passage of time could sever. She spoke again, dropping her voice so it reached him as a faint whisper.

  May God forgive you, Lothar De La Rey. And then no more.

  Those gentle words wounded him as deeply as any he had ever heard from her. There was a finality to them that he found unbearable, and he dropped his head onto his arm to smother the cry of despair which rose in his throat, and the darkness rustled in his head like the wings of a black vulture as he felt himself falling, falling, falling.

  This one is dead, Blaine Malcomess said quietly, standing over the prostrate figure. They had climbed the cliff at two places in the darkness; then in the dawn they had carried the summit in a concerted rush only to find it undefended.

  Where are the others? Sergeant Hansmeyer hurried out of the shadowy cluster of boulders. There is no one else on the hill, sir. They must have got clean away. Blaine! Centaine called urgently. 'Where are you? What is happening? He had insisted that she remain at the foot of the kopje until they had captured the summit. He had not yet signalled her to come up, but here she was, only a minute behind their attack.

  Over here, he snapped. And then, as she ran towards him, You disobeyed an order, madam. She ignored the accusation. Where are they? She broke off as she saw the body. Oh God, it's Lothar. She went down beside him.