I have killed three men today, thought Sean, and it was so easy.

Without emotion he watched Mbejane come across to his victim. Mbejane

stooped over him and the man made a small gasping sound then lay still.

Mbejane straightened up and looked at Sean. Now they cannot catch us

before dark. And only a night ape can see in the dark!

said Sean.

Remembering the joke, Mbejane smiled; the smile made his face younger.

He picked up a bunch of dry grass and wiped his hands on it.

The night came only just in time to save them. Sean had run all day and

at last his body was stiffening in protest; his breathing wheezed

painfully and he had no moisture left to sweat with. A little longer,

just a little longer.

Mbejane whispered encouragement beside him.

The pack was spread out, the stronger runners pressing a scant mile

behind them and the others dwindling back into the distance. The sun is

going; soon you can rest. Mbejane reached out and touched his shoulder,

strangely, Sean drew strength from that brief physical contact. His

legs steadied slightly and he stumbled less frequently as they went down

the next slope. Swollen and red, the sun lowered itself below the land

and the valleys were full of shadow. Soon now, very soon Mbejane's

Voice was almost crooning. He looked back. The figures of the nearest

Zulu were indistinct. Sean's ankle twisted under him and he fell

heavily; he felt the earth graze the skin from his cheek and he lay on

his chest with his head down. Get up, Mbejane's voice was desperate.

Sean vomited painfully, a cupful of bitter bile. Get up, Mbejane's

hands were on him, dragging him to his knees. Stand up or die here,

threatened Mbejane. He took a handful of Sean's hair and twisted it

mercilessly. Tears of pain ran down Sean's eyes and he swore and lashed

out at Mbejane.

Get up, goaded Mbejane and Sean heaved to his feet. Run, said Mbejane,

half-pushing him and he's legs began to move mechanically under him.

MbeJane looked back once more. The nearest Zulu was very close but

almost merged into the fading twilight. They ran on, Mbejane steadying

Sean when he staggered, Sean grunting in his throat with each step, his

mouth hanging open, sucking air across a swollen tongue.

Then quickly, in the sudden African transition from day to night, all

colour was gone from the land and the darkness shut down in a close

circle about them.

Mbejane's eyes flicked restlessly back and forth, picking up shapes in

the gloom, judging the intensity of the light.

Sean reeled unseeing beside him. We will try now, decided Mbejane

aloud. He checked Sean's run and turned him right at an acute angle on

their original track, now they were heading back towards the hunters at

a tangent that would take them close past them but out of sight in the

darkness.

They slowed to a walk, Mbejane holding Sean' s arm across his shoulders

to steady him, carrying his assegai ready in his other hand. Sean

walked dully, his head hanging.

They heard the leading pursuers passing fifty paces away in the darkness

and a voice called in Zulu, Can you see them? Albo! l Negative

answered another. Spread out, they, may try to turn in the dark.

Yeh-ho! l Affirmative.

Then the voices were passed and silence and night closed about them once

more. Mbejane made Sean keep walking. A little bit of moon came up and

gave them light and they kept going with Mbejane gradually working back

onto a course towards the southeast. They came to a stream at last with

trees along its bank. Sean drank with difficulty, for his throat was

swollen and sore. Afterwards they curled together for warmth on the

carpet of leaves beneath the trees and they slept.

They found Chelmsford's last camp on the following afternoon: the neat

lines of black camp fires and the flattened areas where the tents had

stood, the stakes which had held the horse pickets and the piles of

empty bully-beef tins and five-pound biscuit tins.

They left two days ago, said Mbejane.

Sean nodded, not doubting the correctness of this. Which way did they

go? Back towards the main camp at Isandhlwana.

Sean looked puzzled. I wonder why they did that. MbeJane shrugged.

They went in haste, the horsemen galloped ahead of the infantry. We'll

follow them, said Sean.

The spoor was a wide road for a thousand men had passed along it and the

wagons and gun carriages had left deep ruts.

They slept hungry and cold beside the spoor and the next morning there

was frost in the low places when they started out.

A little before noon they saw the granite dome of Isandhlwana standing

out against the sky and unconsciously they quickened their pace.

Isandhlwana, the Hill of the Little Hand. Sean was limping for his boot

had rubbed the skin from one heel. His hair was thick and matted with

sweat and his face was plastered with dust. Even army bully beef is

going to taste good, said Sean in English, and Mbejane did not answer

for he did not understand, but he was looking ahead with a vaguely

worried frown on his face.

INkosi, we have seen no one for two days, march. it comes to me that we

should have met patrols from the camp before now. We might have missed

them, said Sean without much interest, but Mbejane shook his head. In

silence they went on. The hill was closer now so they could make out

the detail of ledge and fissure that covered the dome in a lacework

pattern. No smoke from the camp, said Mbejane. He lifted his eyes and

started visibly.

What is it? Sean felt the first tingle of alarm. N'yoni, said MbeJane

softly and Sean saw them. A dark pall, turning like a wheel slowly,

high above the hill of Isandhlwana, still so far off that they could not

distinguish the individual birds: only a shadow, a thin dark shadow in

the sky. Watching it Sean was suddenly cold in the hot noonday sun. He

started to run.

There was movement below them on the plain. The torn canvas of an

overturned wagon flapped like a wounded bird, the scurry and scuffle of

the jackals and higher up the slope of the kopje the hunch-shouldered

trot of a hyena. Oh, my God! whispered Sean. Mbejane leaned on his

spear; his face was calm and withdrawn but his eyes moved slowly over

the field. Are they dead? Are they all dead? The question required no

answer. He could see the dead men in the grass, thick about the wagons

and then scattered more thinly back up the slope. They looked very small

and inconsequential. Mbejane stood quietly waiting. A big black kolbes