Assegai полностью

Then the leader blew a shrill command on his whistle and the troop began to sally forth from the cattle pen, retaining their single file. Evenly spaced, they formed a long, sinuous serpent, which wound away down the grassy slope, the sunlight reflecting in bright sparks off the steel of their assegais. They carried on their shoulders their long rawhide shields, each painted with a single large eye of black and ochre, the pupil glaring white.

‘Why do they have eyes on their shields, Otto?’ Eva asked.

‘Answer the question, Courtney.’

‘The morani say they will provoke the lions into charging. Come, we must not be left behind. When it happens, it will happen very fast.’ The riders followed the long, winding file of warriors.

‘How do they know where to find the quarry?’ Graf Otto asked.

‘They have scouts watching over the lions,’ Leon answered. ‘But the lions will not have gone far. They have killed six cattle, and they will not leave until they have finished all that meat.’

Manyoro was running at Leon’s stirrup. He said something and Leon stooped in the saddle to listen to him. When he straightened up he told Graf Otto, ‘Manyoro says the dead cattle are lying in a shallow basin over the next rise.’ He pointed ahead. ‘If we circle out to the right, and take up position on the high ground, we will have a grandstand view.’ He led them off the track and they cantered in a wide circle to get ahead of the file of morani, reaching the lookout point as the head of the long line of warriors breasted the ridge and started down into the basin.

Manyoro had given them good advice. When they reined in on the crest, they had a fine view over the grassy dale. The rotting carcasses of the cattle lay in full view, bellies ballooned with gas. Some had been partially devoured, but others seemed untouched.

Now the single file of warriors changed formation. As they reached a predetermined spot, each morani turned in the opposite direction to the man in front of him. Like a chorus line of well-choreographed dancers, the single file split into two. The twin lines opened to form a noose that would encircle the grassy hollow. Then, at a sharp blast on the whistle, the heads of the files of warriors began to converge. Swiftly the manoeuvre was completed. A wall of shields and spears ringed the basin.

‘I cannot see the lions,’ Eva said. ‘Are you sure they have not escaped?’

But before either man could answer her, a lion stood up in full view. He had been lying flat against the earth, his coat blending perfectly with the sun-scorched brown grass. Although he was young, he was big and rangy. His mane was short and sparse, a mere fuzz of red hair. He snarled at the morani, his lips peeling back from his long, bright fangs.

They returned his greeting: ‘We see you, evil one! We see you, killer of our cattle.’

The sound of fifty voices alarmed the other lions. They rose from their hiding places in the short grass, crouched low and glared, with eyes of topaz yellow, at the ring of shields. Their tails twitched nervously, they snarled and growled with fear and anger. They were young and this was beyond their experience.

The buckhorn whistle shrilled again and the morani began to chant the chorus of the Lion Song. Then, still singing, they moved forward in unison, shuffling and stamping. Slowly they closed in on the four lions as a python tightens its coils on its prey. One lion made a short mock-charge at the wall, and the morani shook their shields and called to him, ‘Come! Come! We are ready to welcome you!’

The lion broke off his charge, coming up short on stiff front legs. He glared at the men, then spun around and ran back to join his siblings. They circled and milled uneasily, growling, and erected their manes in a threatening display, making short rushes at the wall of shields, then breaking off and turning back.

‘The one with the ginger mane will be the first to charge home.’ Graf Otto made his judgement and, as he spoke, the largest of the four lions launched himself in a swift, determined charge, straight at the shields. The senior morani, with the black-mane headdress, blew a blast on his buckhorn whistle. Then, with his spear, he pointed out a man in the file who was directly in the line of the charge. He shouted the man’s name: ‘Katchikoi!’

The warrior who had been chosen sprang high in the air to acknowledge the honour, then broke out of the line and raced to meet the charging lion with long, bounding strides. His comrades egged him on with a savage, rising ululation. The lion saw him coming, and swerved towards him, grunting with each stride, a tawny streak snaking low against the ground, his black-tufted tail slashing against his flanks. His glittering yellow eyes were fastened on Katchikoi.