Chapter One

Sikonyeli shook his muscular shoulders. Standing at over six foot

six inches, he was one of the chosen induna’s of the royal guard.

Sikonyeli was proud. He had reason to be, considering his strong

proven battle record. A formidable warrior with considerable

respect, which he’d earned in battle. And he carried the scars and

memories with him.

He adjusted his feathered headdress and turned around to

look over his men. They’d follow him anywhere. He trusted their

loyalty totally, could feel it. The disciplines he’d imposed on them

over the years had paid off. His leadership was unchallenged.

They moved as one body and it all came with experience. This was

something the young Induna’s still had to learn.

At his neck hung the most prized Zulu award, the ‘iziqu’

necklace. Awarded only by the King to exceptional warriors for

bravery. Made from small blocks cut from willow sticks and then

threaded into a necklace. On his right arm he also wore the

coveted ‘ingxotha’ bronze armband, also awarded to him by the

King for his loyalty and high standing.

His weapon of choice was the ‘Ikwa’ long blade stabbing

spear. More commonly known as the ‘assegai’. A hideous blade of

some eighteen inches in length and roughly two and a half inches

wide, set into a robust wooden shaft, two feet six inches long.

Designed originally by the legendary King Shaka for close quarter

combat, which culminated in the deadly under arm stab.

Sikonyeli had mastered the art and continually instructed his

regiments with ruthless proficiency. Parry and thrust, parry and

thrust. On and on it went until every warrior under his command

was an efficient and disciplined killing machine.

Only skilled Smiths, selected by the King himself, were

entrusted with the manufacture of stabbing spears. Iron ore was

carefully collected from surface deposits and smelted in clay

forges with the aid of skin bellows. The blades were then skilfully

hammered into shape, tempered with fat and razor sharpened on

special flat stones before being set into the wooden shafts.

Each shaft was then glued with strong vegetable glues and

bound with wet cane fibres. A tube of hide, usually cut from a

calf’s tail was rolled over the join and allowed to shrink.

Sikonyeli had personally supervised the manufacture of his

spear with the King’s permission. Normally only the King

reserved the right to distribute spears. Warriors had to earn them.

Sikonyeli also carried an assortment of ‘iWisa’ knobkerries

tucked into the rawhide thong around his waist. He used them as

throwing weapons and they were also excellent for defence.

Sikonyeli could down a rabbit at fifty paces or smash in a man’s

skull. He seldom missed.

The knobkerries were highly polished strong sticks with

wicked, heavy bulbous heads. He carried his main knobkerrie in

his left hand with his shield. Used primarily as a back-up weapon

in case he should ever lose his spear.

The most visible part of his armoury was his cowhide

‘umbumbulozo’ shield, which was three feet six inches long and at

least two feet wide. The shield was strengthened with a single

stick secured to the back by a double row of hide strips, threaded

through slits carefully cut in the actual shield and held by a small

handle.

Sikonyeli knew from experience that if he soaked the shield

in water and then inclined the shield at an angle he could deflect a

rifle bullet at a distance of over two hundred metres away. The

effectiveness of the shield against traditional throwing spears was

equally as good.

Sikonyeli’s shield was almost white in colour. The majority

of his regiment had a combination of red shields and red and

white shields, as they were all married men. Sikonyeli was proud

of his shield. It had taken a long time for him to earn a white

shield, a colour that was traditionally only reserved for Kings and

generals or exceptional, proven warriors on the battlefield.

It was already quite light. Soon the intense African sun

would flood the valley, making it humid and uncomfortable. Was

time to move. Sikonyeli was already impatient. What was keeping

the General from leading them down the hill?

There were already stirrings in the village, which was

centred at the base of the valley.

The bird life was unusually quiet, almost aware of what was

about to happen. The vibrant mass of near naked bodies trembling

in the early morning light, filled with anticipation of the coming

battle had to have an effect on the energy of the surrounding

environment.

The King had warned these people once before not to raid

his cattle. Now they would pay the price. They would feel his rage,

taste his steel.

Disputes had always been settled this way.

Sikonyeli knew of these people. They were the Tongas from

Tongaland. Ruled by ‘Zambili’ the Tonga queen. A mixed tribe,

mostly outcasts who had at one time or another been part of the

great Karanga tribes further up North but had now mixed their

blood with several other tribes, including the Zulus.

Sikonyeli was aware these smaller tribes survived

throughout Africa. He knew the majority of them usually kept to

themselves, hunting only in their areas. It was very seldom that

they wandered across the valleys and down into Zululand to raid

the rich Zulu livestock. They were either very brave or very

stupid.

What had made this insignificant tribe want to raid Zulu

cattle? Sikonyeli kept asking himself. This was daring for so small

a tribe. It must have been a huge temptation, an impulsive

decision. The raiding party obviously came upon the livestock and

noted there were only children as shepherds. The prize was too big

to let go.

But then a woman led them. What could you expect?

A Queen who was reputed to be able to foresee into the

future. People claimed she had magical powers; she could com-

municate with the dead.

Now these same people would shortly be facing the might of

the Zulu regiments in battle. The most powerful and largest black

tribe throughout Africa. Sikonyeli was indeed proud. The Zulus

were renowned for their militant leadership. Undefeated in tribal

battle.

Sikonyeli thought about the Tonga people and realised that

he actually knew a bit about them, had heard about their skills in

working with copper, iron, wood and basket weaving for which

they were famous. They also had the knowledge and skills to

make narrow canoes out of hollowed out trees. With these canoes

they fished on the bays and the surrounding estuaries on the

upper North Coast towards Mozambique.

Sikonyeli laughed. And as for their women, ah yes, the

women. He knew of the women. They made cloth from the fibrous

bark of the wild fig trees. They mixed it with wild cotton and then

dyed the fabric in bright colours. They were well known for their

colourful attire and were admired by all the tribes for their beauty.

Many other tribes had now copied them though and produced

fabric of their own.

The Tongas also made an extremely toxic wine from the lala

palm mixed with fermented marula berries. It was very popular.

Sikonyeli knew well of this drink. He had been wasted by its

power on a few occasions. He smiled as he thought back on the

times.

The more he pondered on the subject the more it concerned

him. The Tongas traded well and were usually a happy people.

They did not need to cross paths with the Zulus. They should have

known better. Why would the Queen have sent a raiding party

into Zululand? Maybe it was done without the Queen’s

knowledge? Maybe it was a renegade group? Yes, he sighed. That

was probably it. He’d done it before in his younger years but he’d

never been caught.

Sikonyeli felt suddenly annoyed at the Tonga’s arrogance.

They were simple people. Unimportant people. No tribe, except

maybe the Xhosa’s or the Matabele would dare take cattle from the

Zulu’s. And now these Tonga people would pay. Pay with their

lives.

His thoughts turned to his own situation. He already had

one wife and a child. If he did well in this battle maybe the King

would allow him a second wife. This would be a huge honour and

earn him more respect. Maybe he could seize a few of the beautiful

Tonga maidens. Yes, that would be good.

He suddenly realised how badly he needed this battle.

Needed to prove to the King yet again that the great Sikonyeli was

unstoppable. His legendary conquests would continue to grow...

And he knew respect was everything. Throughout Zululand

if you had respect as a great warrior you walked tall. People ran to

see you. Young brave men wanted to join your regiment and the

ladies were always available.

Sikonyeli cursed. He needed that second wife desperately.

He loved Wendiki, his current wife, more than anything but she’d

had trouble giving birth to Bongeni, his only son. Both children

born after Bongeni were stillborn.

He could still remember the day when the Sangoma

explained to him that Wendiki would not be able to have any more

children. He was so disappointed. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

Why had it happened to him? He kept asking himself. He needed

children to continue not only his name but also his bloodline.

Sikonyeli peered down the valley at the village below. He

knew the Tonga warriors would have guns. He was aware of the

white man’s tools of war. His father had fought in wars against the

British and the Boers.

Sikonyeli was proud of his father. He was a famous warrior.

Had earned his respect in Cetshwayo’s war against the British

army led by Lord Chelmsford in the famous battle of Sandlwana

where the Zulus defeated the pride of the British Empire, killing

over a thousand British soldiers and capturing over eight hundred

rifles and in excess of four hundred thousand rounds of

ammunition.

It was a great victory. His father had fought alongside

General Dabulamanzi in the final battle. Many Zulu warriors were

lost that day but it was worth it. The spoils and the pride earned

for the regiments made it worthwhile and the arrogant British had

finally been taught a humiliating lesson.

Sikonyeli knew his father had also proved himself in battle

against the renegade Swazi prince Mbilini in the battle of the flat

hill that overlooked the Ntombi River. In this battle he’d fought

under the renowned General Ntshingwayo.

Even though no side really won, with heavy casualties on

both sides, Sikonyeli could still remember how King Cetshwayo

had rewarded his father for his bravery that day. The King gave

him a bigger kraal, the choice of weapons, more cattle. He gained

loads of self-esteem and a new prestigious regiment to lead. It had

all been good.

Sikonyeli clearly recalled the captured rifles that used to lie

around his father’s kraal. As a young warrior he often fired the

white man’s ‘Henry Martini’ single shot rifle. His father kept an

assortment of white men’s weapons. They fascinated him but he

didn’t trust them as a weapon, even though they had definite

qualities like their raw power and the distance with which they

were still able to effectively kill.

He particularly liked the rich smell of gun oil though and the

intricate carvings and creative work with iron and wood all

fashioned into a deadly weapon. And he liked the heavy feel of a

rifle. He often worked his hands around the smooth contours and

played with the action, marvelling at the precision workmanship.

The intricate craftsmanship constantly amazed him. And gun-

powder. That was overwhelming. How did the white man dis-

cover this powder? Where did it come from?

He never really became a good marksman. The gun jumped

too much when fired which annoyed him and the single shot

action meant that the weapon was only good for one shot. Good

for long range but he preferred the battle when it was up close.

You had to see your enemies’ eyes. Feel his breath, smell his fear,

before you killed him.

He knew the Tonga’s got their weapons from the Portuguese

further up north in Lourenco Marques. They traded guns for

ivory. With guns they’d almost exterminated the bulk of the

elephant population in the area. This gave them access to more

ivory, which they could then trade for more guns until there were

no more elephants left. Then they started on the rhinos.

Sikonyeli shook his head in annoyance. The guns were very

old bulky muzzle-loading guns. Devastating at close range. They

exploded with a thunderous clap, emitting a massive black cloud

of smoke that completely hid the shooter for a few seconds.

Sikonyeli knew they also carried a few modern rifles like the

Henry Martini, as well as handguns.

It always amazed him that these small tribes used the white

man’s weapons of war and weren’t interested in the traditional

spear and shield; the favourite Zulu weapons.

He came back to reality with a jolt. It had started. A low

chant at first, almost a hum like thousands of bees milling around

a massive beehive. The noise slowly grew with intensity into a

loud blood curdling, ululating wail followed by the raucous

beating of thousands of assegais thudding against rawhide shields

in unison. And then came the cacophonous staccato stomping of

bare feet on mother earth.

Sikonyeli felt the adrenalin coursing through him.

Unstoppable now. He could face the majestic lion or even the

mighty elephant. Invincible. He looked from left to right at his

warriors and soaked up their power and energy. This was his day.

Life was for the strong. A male Zulu warrior ruled supreme.

The King of the Zulu’s only recognized strength and bravery in

battle and he knew this was his chance to shine. Victory would be

swift with no mercy given. The King had demanded justice and he

would have it.

The village resting deep in the valley rapidly came to life like

an ant nest suddenly disturbed. Women and children screamed

and ran across the fields away from the mass of chanting warriors.

Dogs barked and howled in the distance.

Sikonyeli had witnessed it so many times before. Just prior to

every attack, panic and fear eclipsed the defending people.

In one movement the impi surged forward as the leading

General leapt into the air and screamed the attack.

“Bayete! Bayete!”

The command reverberated across the valley, the war charge

echoing down the length of the warriors’ lines. In unity, every

Induna screamed the charge and urged their warriors forward.

With a wave of his shield, Sikonyeli signalled his men to

follow him. He didn’t need to. It was instinct and discipline that

drove them. The hyped adrenaline drove everyone. With incred-

ible speed the mass of warriors descended down the valley

trampling the long grass and sparse bush underneath them.

Sikonyeli ran as fast as he could, brandishing his shield and

spear. There was no time for thoughts now. He knew he had the

privilege of being one of the esteemed front regiments, which

represented the thrusting power of the pincer movement. His

regiment must reach the enemy before the others. Must take first

blood.

On either side of the village, the battalion’s left and right

flanks, which created the famous Zulu pincer movement, would

enclose the village cutting off any escape.

Sikonyeli screamed. It was up to him and the forward regi-

ments to strike the first blow. Create maximum damage. Hit the

enemy hard before they could recover and send them running into

the jaws of the pincer. It worked every time.

As Sikonyeli reached the top of the field enemy warriors

rushed out to meet him, some armed with rifles.

Sikonyeli cleared a ditch with a bounding leap, his regiment

following up behind. In front, the enemy formed into a loose

formation preparing to meet them head on.

Almost in a blur he noted with disdain the forward puffs of

smoke from rifles and vividly heard the zing of shot whistling by

as enemy snipers picked out targets. Men staggered and fell

around him as they closed the distance between them.

He hit the first man low. Hard in the stomach, thrusting in

his broad blade spear, twisting wickedly and then savagely

wrenching it out in one fluid movement, extracting half the man’s

insides. He’d done it so many times before. It was so easy.

With a shove he pushed the doubled-up man away and

turned to meet his next aggressor. Sikonyeli raised his shield to

fend off a glancing blow from an axe which he thrust aside as he

dug his spear deep into the man’s chest and twisted the shaft.

A quick release and he moved forward as more of the

enemy formed up to meet them. Like marauding ants his warriors

swarmed across on either side of him. They closed tightly in battle,

no quarter given or taken.

Sikonyeli screamed triumphantly. The taste of blood escala-

ted the adrenalin that raced through him. This is what he lived for.

Thrived on. The height of battle. He didn’t hate the enemy, didn’t

want to kill them. This is just the way it was. A man was measured

in battle.

Sikonyeli saw a gap in the enemy ranks and surged forward

urging his men to follow. With his shield he smashed aside a spear

that had been wildly thrown and ran across the opening towards

the first hut.

From the side of the hut an enemy warrior emerged, armed

with an ugly twin-barrelled muzzle-loading rifle. He let off one

barrel as Sikonyeli got within stabbing distance. The grapeshot

pellets struck Sikonyeli’s shield at a pronounced angle across the

front, wrenching the shield out of his grip.

The loud crack of the shot was so close it was deafening and

dazed him. Some of the pellets penetrated through the shield and

caught him in the collarbone and shoulder. He didn’t feel the pain

but was aware of the blood that flowed and the acrid stench of

burnt gunpowder that stung his nostrils.

His aggressor then fired the second barrel as Sikonyeli

abruptly turned and swung a massive blow with his spear to the

side of the man’s head that sent him tumbling to the ground,

splitting his head open.

The force of the second barrel caught Sikonyeli full in the

stomach. He flew back, lifting off the ground and fell in a twisted

heap against his brothers. He felt no pain.

Looking up he could clearly see the face of Wendiki, gazing

down at him. She was smiling, that beautiful smile that she always

reserved only for him. The noise of the battle faded around him.

Then a bright white light glowed and encompassed Wendiki in an

Aura.

She was calling to him but he couldn’t hear what she was

saying. He tried in vain to touch her outstretched hand but

couldn’t reach it. In her hand she held a huge tooth. It had been

broken in half. He could clearly see the split in the tooth running

across the centre.

For an instant the light was blinding and then he couldn’t

see her anymore. Slowly the light faded into abstract darkness…

‚If you’d like to read the remainder of this book

Contact me on: robinmorris@truewan.co.za