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 gunpowder. That was
overwhelming. How did the white man discover 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…