War Cry. Wilbur Smith

her head felt like it was splitting in two. Mustn’t trouble Leon, she thought to herself, feeling slightly dizzy, as if she’d had too much to drink, though she’d not touched anything stronger than a cup of tea with lemon all day. A couple of aspirin should make me feel better.

      Eva smiled weakly at a passing waitress. ‘Do you think you could possibly get me a glass of soda water, please?’

      ‘Of course, Madam,’ the waitress replied.

      ‘Thank you so much,’ Eva replied, and slumped, exhausted, back into her chair.

      Hennie van Doorn possessed the bitter, unyielding toughness of a man born to pioneering Afrikaaner stock. For generations his family had struggled to take, hold and cultivate their land on the high veldt. They fought the land itself, the elements around them and the other peoples who coveted that territory for themselves, be they Zulus who considered it theirs to begin with, or British fired by an insatiable greed for more land and a greater Empire. They prayed to a God who was as hard and unforgiving as they were themselves, a God who taught them to hold grudges, seek retribution and left the turning of other cheeks to weaker, more gullible folk than them.

      Simel could feel the menace emanating from this very different breed of white man, as it did from a growling lion or an angry snake. This was not a man whose limbs would betray him as Birchinall’s had done. Everything about him told the world that Hennie van Doorn was going to win. No other outcome was possible. Every time Simel looked back, van Doorn was just a little bit closer to him.

      The sun was rising now and the growing heat was making more and more people seek out shade wherever they could, be that within the clubhouse, in the shade of a tree or beneath an umbrella or parasol. But still the runners kept going. For Leon, the very fact that van Doorn was drawing out the kill over such a long period made it all the more horribly fascinating. It was like watching a spider taking hours to weave its web, knowing that the insects that were its prey would inevitably be caught and die when the task was complete. And Simel was finally starting to weaken.

      Leon and Manyoro were now playing a much more active part in the race. Every time Simel passed their position, they marched to the side of the track, shadowed by Saffron trotting along beside them, and while the little girl cheered her hero on and Leon clapped and called out his encouragement, Manyoro provided instructions in Masai, urging Simel on and advising him how best to conserve his strength. At first, Leon understood everything that Manyoro said, for he had himself been fluent in Masai for more than twenty years. But then a time came when Manyoro’s words sounded foreign to him. He had slipped into some kind of slang or dialect that even Leon could not follow.

      ‘What were you saying to him, just then?’ Leon asked.

      The big man shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was nothing, M’Bogo.’

      Leon was about to pursue the matter, but suddenly he noticed that Simel’s metronomic stride had started to shorten. With his hunter’s instinct for a weakening prey, van Doorn was looking stronger and picking up pace. The gap between them was narrowing much more quickly.

      Leon sighed and looked up to the heavens, as if seeking some kind of divine intervention. Something caught his eye. Far in the distance, beyond the furthest hills, a great mass of storm clouds had appeared over the western horizon and was now marching across the sky towards the polo fields. Leon could see lightning flashes many miles away.

      Rain stops play, thought Leon. That might be our only hope.

      Simel’s head was rolling from side to side and his stride had lost its spring. He could feel van Doorn getting closer. His looks back down the track were becoming ever more frequent and wide-eyed. The South African was actually grinning at him now, relishing his impending triumph, picking up his pace all the time.

      They were running across the field, about to turn into the back straight. Van Dorn was no more than thirty paces behind him and gaining all the time. Simel saw Manyoro, Bwana Courtney and his little daughter waiting by the side of the track up ahead. He had almost reached the three of them, and the gap between him and van Doorn had halved once again when he saw his chief give a fractional nod of the head. That was the signal they had agreed over the previous circuits and Simel understood precisely what it meant.

      Like a man waking from a prolonged slumber, Simel came alive again. His body lost its heavy, lifeless torpor, his head lifted and his stride lengthened. Within a dozen strides he was moving at something close to his full speed. The Kenyans massed along the back straight burst back into life as they saw that Simel’s apparent exhaustion had been a ruse to draw his opponent on. They hooted with delight at the Masai’s cleverness and the white man’s foolishness and for every one of them shouting for Simel, there was another loudly mocking van Doorn.

      The Afrikaaner paid them no attention whatever. His entire being was focused on the business of running. His smile was replaced by a grimace as he forced himself to match Simel. But matching him wasn’t good enough. He had to go faster. Van Doorn had come too close to snatching an outright victory to be content with anything less now.

      Simel had never known such pain. His whole body was on fire, every muscle burning, every breath a desperate, rasping inhalation, sucking air into lungs that still felt starved and a heart whose beating was like an army of drummers, pounding their sticks against his ribs.

      He had been running for so, so long. And provided that he kept his pace steady, measured, moderate, he could have kept going for even longer still. But this was different. This was running like the cheetah. And the cheetah did not run for long.

      Simel started to slow, and this time he was not pretending.

      Eva’s headache had become unbearable. She tried to call for a waitress to get her some more water, but when she tried to speak, she could not hear herself speak over the shouting, cheering, stamping crowd. There was a roaring sound in her ears, like surf crashing on the shore, and she was blinded by a flashing, flickering sensation as if someone was shining a light right in her eye.

      She gave a cry of, ‘Help!’ but the sound that emerged from her mouth was a feeble, incoherent moan.

      A moment later a waitress passed by her chair, and the scream of horror she gave was enough to cut through the hubbub around her. A dozen or so of the people crammed onto the veranda turned and looked in horror at the sight of a woman jerking helplessly, unconsciously, like a marionette in the hands of a mad puppeteer while a dark crimson stain spread across the front of her skirt.

      ‘Doctor!’ a man’s voice shouted. ‘For God’s sake someone get a doctor!’

      Van Doorn was at the very limits of his physical resources. But he saw the little man tying up and understood that if he could only keep going, just for a very short while, he could yet have his victory.

      But could he keep going? He was suffering badly from the sun and heat and lack of water. His mouth was parched and a crust of desiccated white foam had formed at the corners of his lips. He felt light-headed, his vision was starting to blur around the edges and there was a rushing sound in his ears as if he were on the verge of fainting.

      No! van Doorn told himself. I will not give in. Only the weak let pain or discomfort affect them. I will beat this verdoem kaffer yet!

      He drove himself into one last effort and forced his shattered body to keep going, denying its pleas to slow down.

      The gap was closing once again.

      Well, it was a good try,’ Leon said.

      ‘Simel’s not beaten yet, Daddy!’ Saffron insisted, defiant to the last.

      ‘I’m afraid your father is right,’ Manyoro said, in a voice heavy with disappointment. ‘Simel fought with the heart and courage of a lion. He saw off two hunters, but he could not defeat the third. There is no disgrace in that.’

      ‘I don’t care what you say,’ Saffron insisted, folding her arms in front of her chest and glaring up at the two men, ‘I think he’ll win.’

      Leon gave a rueful sigh. He was about to