Power of the Sword

by Wilbur Smith

  She started the Daimler and the great seven-litre engine rumbled softly. She flipped off the handbrake, switched on the headlights and gunned the Daimler out through the open doors and across the yard, going up through the gears in a deft series of racing changes.

  She aimed the mascot on the bonnet between the white markers, roared through the gap in the fence at forty miles an hour, and felt a loose strand of barbed wire scrape down the side of the coachwork. Then she tramped down on the brake and spun the wheel, steering the front wheels onto the dusty lane, meeting the skid and then going flat on the accelerator pedal again. She shot down the lane with the Daimler roaring at full power.

  Above the engine she heard faint shouts and saw the dark indistinct figures of a mob of strikers racing down the fence from the main gate to try and intercept her at the corner of the lane. She picked up the shotgun and thrust the double muzzles through the window beside her. In the headlights the faces of the running men were ugly with rage, their mouths dark pits as they shouted at her.

  Two of them were swifter than their mates, and they reached the corner of the lane just as the Daimler came level. One of the strikers flung his pick handle and it cartwheeled through the beam of the headlights and clanged off the bonnet.

  Centaine depressed the shotgun, aiming for their legs, and fired both barrels, with long spurts of orange flame and blurts of sound. Birdshot lashed their legs and the strikers howled with shock and pain and leapt off the road as Centaine roared past them and turned onto the main road down the slope and out into the desert.

  For Pettifogger. Urgent and Imperative. Juno unaccompanied departed this end 3 am instant carrying goods. Stop. Immediately despatch armed escort to intercept her en route. Ends. Vingt.

  Lothar De La Rey stared at the message he had copied onto his pad by the guttering flame of the candle.

  ‘Unaccompanied,’ he whispered. ‘Juno unaccompained. Carrying goods. By Christ Almighty, she’s coming through alone – with the diamonds.’ He calculated swiftly. ‘She left the mine at three am. She’ll be here an hour or so after noon.’

  He left the dugout and climbed the bank. He found a place to sit and lit one of his precious cheroots. He looked at the sky, watching the crescent moon sink into the desert. When the dawn turned the eastern horizon into a peacock’s tail of colour, he went down to the camp and blew flame from last night’s ashes.

  Swart Hendrick came out of the dugout and went to urinate noisily in the sand. He came back to the fire buttoning his breeches, yawning widely and sniffing the coffee in the billy.

  ‘We are changing the plan,’ Lothar told him, and Hendrick blinked and became warily attentive.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The woman is bringing the diamonds through alone. She won’t give in easily. I don’t want her hurt in any way.’

  ‘I wouldn’t—’

  ‘The hell you wouldn’t. When you get excited, you shoot,’ Lothar cut him off brusquely. ‘But that’s not the only reason.’ He ticked off the others on his fingers. ‘First: one woman alone requires only one man. I have time enough to re-rig the ropes to bring down the boulders into the cutting from my position. Two: the woman knows you, it doubles the risk of having us recognized. Three,’ he paused, the true reason was that he wanted to be alone with Centaine again. It would be the last time. He would never be coming back this way again. ‘Lastly, we will do it this way because I say we will. You will stay here with Manfred and the horses, ready to ride as soon as I have done the job.’

  Hendrick shrugged. ‘I will help you rig the ropes,’ he grunted.

  Centaine stopped the Daimler at the head of the cutting and left the engine running as she jumped out onto the running-board and surveyed the crossing.

  Her own outward tracks were still clear and sharp and untouched in the soft lemon-coloured dust. There had been no other traffic through the drift since she had passed the night before last. She unhooked the water bag and drank three mouthfuls, and then corked it again and hung it on the spare wheel bracket, climbed back into the cab, slammed the door and let off the handbrake.

  She let the Daimler trundle down the incline, swiftly gathering speed, when suddenly there was a rush of earth and rock, a swirling cloud of dust obscured the cutting directly ahead of her and she hit the brake hard.

  The bank had collapsed on one side, and had almost filled the cutting with rock and loose earth.

  ‘Merde!’ she swore. It would mean a delay while she cleared the rubble or found another place to cross. She snapped the Daimler into reverse and twisted in her seat looking back through the missing rear window that the striker had knocked out, preparing to back up the incline – and she felt the first flutter of alarm against her ribs.

  The bank had collapsed behind the Daimler also, sliding down in a soft churned ramp. She was trapped in the cutting, and she leaned out of the open window and looked about her anxiously, coughing in the dust that still billowed around her vehicle.

  As it cleared she saw that the road ahead was only partially blocked. On the opposite side to the landslide there was still a narrow gap, not sufficient for the wide track of the Daimler to get through, but there was a spade strapped to the roofrack. A few hours’ work in the burning sun should clear the way enough for her to work the Daimler through, but the setback galled her. She reached for the door handle, then a premonition of danger stopped her hand and she looked up the bank beside her.

  There was a man standing at the top of the rise, looking down at her. His boots at the level of her eyes were scuffed and white with dust. There were dark sweat patches on his blue shirt. He was a tall man, but he had the lean hard look of a soldier or a hunter. However, it was the rifle that he carried across his hip, pointing down into her face and the mask he wore that terrified her.

  The mask was a white flour bag. She could read the red and blue lettering on it: ‘Premier Milling Co. Ltd’, an innocuous kitchen article endowed with infinite menace by the two eye-holes that had been cut into the cloth. The mask and the rifle told her exactly what to expect.

  A whole series of thoughts flashed through her mind as she sat frozen at the wheel staring up at him.

  The diamonds are not insured. That was the thought at the forefront of her mind. The next staging post is forty miles ahead, was the next thought, and then: I forgot to reload the shotgun – spent shells in both barrels.

  The man above her spoke, his voice muffled by the mask and obviously disguised.

  ‘Switch off the engine!’ He gestured with the rifle to enforce the order. ‘Get out!’

  She got out and looked around her desperately, her terror gone now, burned away by the need to think and act. Her eyes fastened directly ahead on the narrow gap left between the soft ramp of raw earth where the landslide had poured down in front of her and the steep firm bank on the other side.

  ‘I can get through,’ she thought, ‘or at least I can try.’ And she ducked back into the cab.

  ‘Stop!’ The man above her yelled, but she slammed the Daimler into low gear.

  The rear wheels spun in the fine yellow dust, throwing it back in twin fountains. The Daimler lurched forward, the tail swaying and skidding, but it gathered speed sharply and Centaine aimed the bonnet at the narrow gap between the bank and the slide of earth and rock.

  She heard the man above her shout again, and then a warning rifle shot cracked over the top of the cab but she ignored it and concentrated on taking the Daimler out of the trap.

  She rode her offside wheels high up the incline of the bank, and the Daimler reared over on its side almost to the point of capsizing, but its speed was still building up. Centaine was heavily shaken and tossed about so that she had only her grip on the steering wheel to keep her in her seat as the big car canted even further over.

  Still the gap was too narrow; her nearside wheels smashed into the piled earth and rock. The Daimler bucked wildly, throwing its nose high, flying up and forward like a hunter at a fence. Centaine was hurled towards the
windshield, but she flung up a hand to brace herself and clung to the wheel with the other.

  The Daimler came down again with a rending crash, jerking Centaine back against the padded leather seat. She felt unyielding rock slam up into the Daimler’s belly like a boxer taking a heavy body blow, and the back wheels crabbed over the pile of broken earth, the rubber tyres screeching as they sought purchase on the tumbled boulders. Then they caught and flung the Daimler forward again.

  It dropped down the far side of the obstacle, and hit hard. Centaine heard something break, the clanging rupture of one of the steering rods and the wheel spun without resistance in her hands. The Daimler had fought its way over the barrier, but it was mortally wounded and out of control. The steering gone and the throttle linkage jammed wide open.

  Centaine screamed and clung to the walnut dashboard as it roared down the cutting towards the riverbed, slamming into one bank and then hurling across and crashing into the other, the coachwork banging and ripping and buckling at each impact.

  She tried desperately to reach the ignition switch, but the speedometer needle was flicking at the 30 mph notch and she was thrown across the passenger seat. The steel corner of the diamond case gouged her ribs, then she was thrown back the other way.

  The door beside her burst open just as the Daimler roared out of the cutting into the riverbed and Centaine was hurled out through it. Instinctively she doubled herself into a ball, as though she were taking a fall from a galloping horse, and she rolled in the soft white sand, head over heels, coming up at last on her knees.

  The Daimler was slewing wildly across the riverbed, the engine still roaring, and one of the front wheels, damaged by the rocks of the barrier, flew off, bounding and leaping like a wild creature until it struck the far bank.

  The front end of the Daimler dropped and the nose dug into the sand. The engine was still roaring and the huge vehicle somersaulted end over end and came down on its back. The three remaining wheels pointed at the sky, spinning in a blur, the glass in the windows crackling and splintering into diamond chips, the cab buckling and sagging, hot oil pouring out of the slats in the bonnet and soaking into the sand.

  Centaine pushed herself up and was running as she regained her feet. The sand clung to her ankles. It was like running in a bath of treacle, and terror had heightened her senses so that time seemed to stand still. It was like one of those terrible dreams in which all her movements were reduced to slow motion.

  She dared not look behind her. That menacing masked figure must surely be close. She tensed for the grip of the hand that would seize her at any instant or the slam of a bullet into her back, but she reached the Daimler and dropped on her knees in the sand beside it.

  The driver’s door had been torn off and she crawled half-way into the aperture. The shotgun was wedged against the steering control but she dragged it clear and ripped open the small door of the glove compartment. The cardboard box of shotgun shells was scarlet with black lettering:

  ELEY KYNOCH

  12 GAUGE

  25 × SSG

  It broke open under her frantic fingers and the red brass-tipped shells spilled into the sand around her knees.

  She pushed across the breech lock of the shotgun with her thumb and broke open the gun. The two empty birdshot cartridges flew out with a crisp click-click of the ejectors – and the gun was snatched out of her hands.

  The masked man stood over her. He must have moved like a hunting leopard to come down the bank and across the riverbed so quickly. He flung the empty shotgun out across the sand. It landed fifty feet away, but the impetus of the throw had swung him off balance. Centaine launched herself at him, coming off her knees and driving her whole weight into his chest, just below the raised left arm that he had used to throw the shotgun.

  It was unexpected, and he was balanced on one foot. They went over together in the sand. For an instant Centaine was on top of him, and then she wriggled away, came to her feet and floundered back towards the Daimler. The engine was still racing, blue smoke pouring from the engine as the oil drained away from the sump and it overheated.

  The pistol! Centaine seized the handle of the rear door and threw her weight against it. Through the window she could see the leather holster and the chequered butt of Twentyman-Jones’ service revolver protruding from the seat pocket, but the door was jammed.

  She ducked back to the gaping front door and tried to reach it over the back of the driver’s seat, but bone-hard fingers dug into her shoulders and she was dragged bodily out of the doorway. Instantly she spun in his grip, and his face was very close to hers. The thin white cotton bag covered his entire head, like the head of a KuKlux Klansman. The eye-holes were dark as the hollow sockets in a skull, but there was a glint of human eyes deep in the shadow and she went for them with her fingernails.

  He jerked his head away but her forefinger hooked in the thin cloth and ripped it down to his chin. He seized her wrists and instead of pulling away she hurled herself against him and drove her right knee up into his groin. He twisted violently and caught her knee on the side of his upper thigh. She felt the shock of the blow drive into the rubbery muscle of his leg, but his grip on her wrists tightened as though she had been caught in the jaws of a steel gin trap.

  She ducked her head and fastened her teeth into his wrist like a ferret, at the same time kicking and kneeing him in the lower body and shins, raining blows at him, most of them slogging into his hard flesh or bouncing off bone.

  He was grunting and trying to control her. Obviously he hadn’t expected this type of wild resistance, and the pain in his wrist must have been excruciating. Already the hinges of her jaws were cramping with the force of her bite. She could feel tissue and flesh splitting and tearing between her teeth and his blood welled into her mouth, hot and coppery and salt-tasting.

  With his free hand the masked man seized a handful of her thick curly hair and tried to pull her head back. She was breathing through her nose, snuffling like a bulldog and gritting her teeth in with all her strength, and she reached the bone. It grated under her teeth, and the man was tugging and jerking at her head, giving small agonized cries and grunts.

  She closed her eyes, expecting him at any moment to slam his fist into the side of her head and break the grip of her teeth, but he was strangely gentle and considerate in his reaction, not attempting to inflict injury or pain, merely trying to pull her off.

  She felt something burst in her mouth. She had bitten through an artery in his wrist. Blood pumped against the roof of her palate with hot spurts that threatened to choke and drown her. She let it pour from the corners of her mouth without relaxing her bite. It sprayed from her lips and splattered them both as he jerked her head from side to side. He was moaning with agony now, and at last he used punitive force.

  He dug thumb and forefinger into the hinges of her jaw. His fingers were like iron spikes. Pain shot down into her locked jaws and up behind her eyes, and she opened her mouth and flung herself backwards, again taking him by surprise, breaking out of his grip and darting away back towards the Daimler.

  This time she thrust her arm over the back of the driver’s seat and reached up to the butt of the revolver. It slipped from the greased holster, and while she fumbled with a shaking hand to get a hold on it, the masked man seized her hair from behind and jerked her backwards. The heavy pistol fell through her fingers and clattered against the steel of the inverted cab.

  She rounded on him again, snapping at his face with teeth that were still stained pink with his blood. The torn mask flapped over his face, blinding him for an instant and he stumbled and fell holding her in his arms. She was kicking and scratching and slashing at him as he rolled on top of her and pinned her with his full weight, holding her arms spread like a crucifix – and suddenly she stopped struggling and stared up at him.

  The flap of his mask hung open and she could see his eyes. Those strange pale topaz-coloured eyes with the long dark lashes, and she gasped.

  �
�Lothar!’

  He stiffened with the shock of his name, and they lay, locked like lovers, legs entangled, their lower bodies pressed together, both panting wildly and smeared with his blood, staring at each other wordlessly.

  Abruptly he released her and stood up. He pulled the mask off his head and his tousled golden locks fell about his ears and tumbled down his forehead into his eyes as he wrapped the mask tightly around his mutilated wrist. He realized that it was seriously injured, the tendons and bone were exposed and the flesh was mangled and tattered where she had chewed it. Bright scarlet arterial blood soaked through the white cloth immediately and dripped into the sand.

  Centaine pulled herself into a sitting position and watched him. The engine of the Daimler had stalled, and there was silence except for their breathing.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she whispered.

  ‘You know why.’ He knotted the cloth with his teeth, and suddenly she flung herself sideways and reached desperately into the cab, her fingers scrabbling again for the pistol. She touched it, but could not get her fingers around the butt before he pulled her away and pushed her over backwards in the sand.

  He picked up the pistol and unclipped the lanyard. He would the lanyard around his forearm as a tourniquet and grunted with satisfaction as the seep of blood shrivelled.

  ‘Where are they?’ He looked down at her where she lay.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  He stooped and looked into the cab of the Daimler, then pulled out the black japanned despatch box.

  ‘Keys?’ he asked.

  She stared back at him defiantly and he squatted and placed the box firmly in the sand, then stepped back a pace. He cocked the pistol and fired a single shot. The report was stunning in the desert silence, and Centaine’s ear drums buzzed with the memory. The bullet had torn the lock of the despatch box away and a circle of the black paint flaked from the lid leaving the metal beneath shiny and bright.