It was the cold that woke him. Without opening his eyes he knew the sun was gone. His body shivered and he almost groaned at the pain. But a sixth sense warned him not to make a sound.

Carefully he surveyed his surroundings with slitted eyes. He was still on the hillside. Higher than before almost at the top. He was at the edge of a small fire guarded by one man as far as he could tell without turning his head. Below the Mutapa had taken over their camp.

Even in the dark he could see they were a large force. They filled the hillside like an army of ants. A thousand warriors or more. There was a large bonfire on the slope where music and merriment drifted up in the cold air. No doubt the Creator forsaken bastards were celebrating the death of his men.

Dzukwa saw movement close by. A pair of warriors swung a body between them before letting it fall over the hillside. It was the same place he’d stood with Itai a few hours ago.

His eyes misted but he squeezed them shut. The time for grief would come later. There was a tremble to his body that had nothing to do with the cold but he ignored it too. Forcing his eyes open again Dzukwa resumed his surveillance. Because come what may he would escape his enemy or die trying.

Not far from where he lay a heap of weapons and other valuables had been collected. Booty taken from the dead for later redistribution. He would need weapons. It was a good thing they were close at hand.

“That was the last of them,” One of the pair of Mutapa warriors who had disposed of the body said as he came to their fire while his companion continued on to the celebration.

“I don’t know why the king had to keep this one alive,” he rasped. “He’s probably going to die anyway.”

A sandaled foot landed on his shoulder forcing him onto his back. It was like throwing peppers in his shoulder wound. How he wished he could howl. Forcing his body to remain slack he didn’t allow a peep to escape his lips.

“The wound has stopped bleeding but look at the sweat covering his body. Fever is going to take him I tell you.”

“You’re not a healer, Ola,” his guard said. “If the king says he’ll live then he’s going to live.”

“I don’t need to be a healer to recognize a bad wound when I see one,” Ola grumbled.

His guard a robust man with jolly cheeks laughed, “Cheer up Ola. At least you get to enjoy the celebration tonight. I heard Oksar brought some girls from the village.”

“Is that right?” Ola asked. When his guard nodded he said, “I’d better get down there then before all the pretty ones are taken.”

“Can you bring up something for me to eat?”

“Get your own food, Olumi” Ola answered. “I’m not your messenger boy.”

“Have a heart. You know I can’t leave our prisoner,” Olumi pleaded.

Ola snorted already walking away, “That man is out cold. I doubt he’ll stir until morning.”

Dzukwa was tempted to attack once Ola left but he restrained himself. He had to wait. He would have to get through the whole Mutapa army if he was going to get to the forest and away. He had to be as quiet as possible.

Olumi paced watching the camp them glancing back at Dzukwa. Trying to decide if he would go or stay. Finally, he cursed and went downhill. His stomach had won the battle against sense.

Dzukwa released the breath he’d been holding. He moved slowly to the piled weapons and took a knife which he slipped behind his back.

He resumed his previous position and waited. A few minutes later Olumi was back carrying a plate and large gourd.

He took a seat and began to eat.

The fool didn’t even look in Dzukwa’s direction as he instead watched the celebration. He was sulking because he wouldn’t be participating.

Now that Dzukwa’s men were all dead there was nothing to threaten his guard. Obviously, he thought his unconscious prisoner would be no trouble.

He was about to teach Olumi the error of his ways.

Dzukwa gripped the knife in a sweaty fist. In one motion he was in a crouch stalking his oblivious prey. One hand clamped on Olumi’s mouth while the other slashed over his neck. Olumi’s body convulsed before finally slumping to the ground. Dzukwa dragged him out of the light.

Dzukwa took the plate and ate the stew then drank thirstily from the gourd spilling water onto his beard.

Now that he’d achieved his first goal he collected a few essential supplies. He didn’t take a shield or spear. They would attract attention. Creeping around would surely get him caught, he thought. He didn’t have the cheek markings of the Mutapa but he doubted if anyone would look at his face too closely. Going back to Olumi’s body Dzukwa exchanged his leopard hides for the Mutapa style cowhide. Unlike his flexible slitted hides the Mutapa wore two solid aprons to cover the front and back. He attached Olumi’s cream-colored cowtails to his upper arms and below his knees. Only the sandals were his own.

Once dressed he embarked on the second part of his plan.

Armed with a double-edged knife he began walking downhill. The further he walked the more Mutapa warriors he came across. He stayed in the shadows as much as possible. Any moment he expected one of the Mutapa to call out but they didn’t. That didn’t stop his heart from pounding in time with the throbbing drums. Some men would greet him but he kept on barely stopping to answer. He was so close he could see the leaves on the trees. Just a few yards and he’d be free.

Ahead of him a group led by the scarred warrior who had bested him emerged from the forest. At the center a dozen young women came into view. By their dress, Dzukwa knew they had to be from Manika.

At their appearance, the Mutapa warriors raised a raucous cheer. Dzukwa’s mouth dried. The group was walking directly towards him. His step slowed but he couldn’t go back not without looking suspicious. They were too close. The scarred warrior would surely recognize his face without a doubt.

The only thing that had stopped him from noticing Dzukwa so far was the conversation he was having with the Mutapa warrior next to him.

The scarred warrior raised his head and looked straight at Dzukwa. Dzukwa’s step sped up his knife in hand resting against his thigh.

At that moment one of the women cried out. She hit her captor and tried to run back into the forest.

Everyone looked at the unfolding scene including the scarred warrior. It was all the diversion Dzukwa needed.

Once he was in the forest Dzukwa didn’t look back. For a long time all he could hear were screams. He couldn’t help the women. He walked for what seemed a long time but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.

When he was a fair distance away he began to run.

A horn sounded behind him causing him to increase his speed. On his chest a warm trickle slid down to his waist.

The sound of pursuit had long since faded. For Dzukwa who had been running for days on end it was of little comfort. His long sure strides had dwindled to a shuffle. Bringing each foot in front of the other required a great deal of effort but he couldn’t give up. His brother had to be warned about the trouble coming to Uripo.

From the sky the sun beat down on his head mercilessly and from the cracked ground heat rose in shimmering waves. Caught in the middle Dzukwa was sapped of his strength. Not that he’d had much to begin with.

After the ambush in Manika, he’d woken up in the Mutapa camp under the guard of a one man. Night had fully fallen and most of the camp was celebrating their victory. The combination of his ghastly wound and general state of unconsciousness must have persuaded them that he would be a tame captive at least for the night. Whatever the reason for their oversight it had allowed him to escape into the night. By the grace of the Creator he’d run in a north-west direction.

He was closer to Zambezia now. The vegetation was thinner, the cracked brown earth dotted with thorny bushes. Had he been fit he would have arrived home in a day or two. As it was he didn’t know if he would survive the night.

His tongue felt too thick for his mouth. A thunderstorm had watered him a few days ago. If it wasn’t for the storm on that night he would have perished by now. He’d managed to get some precious water and also lost his pursuers in the rain.

His waterskin had run dry yesterday and now hung limply from his waist. If he didn’t find water soon he would die.

A dark shadow passed over his head and he looked up to see vultures gliding in the wind. His stomach sank down to his sandaled feet. They wouldn’t come down until he was too weak to chase them away. But their presence in the sky would attract bigger bolder predators.

His foot bumped into something solid and he wove drunkenly trying to keep his feet under him. If he went down he wouldn’t be able to stand back up again. Not bothering to inspect his throbbing toes he shuffled forward. Amid the pain Dzukwa found an oasis of calm inside himself. He would not die. His brother needed to be warned.

If he didn’t do it no one else would. No one else knew. He owed it to his men who had been slaughtered. They couldn’t just disappear without a trace. Thinking about the lost warriors brought a heaviness to his chest. His wound throbbed writhing beneath the skin. It was as if a worm had burrowed into his shoulder. Gasping with pain his hand clutched at the blood-encrusted wound. His vision hazed and he fell to his knees. He was being eaten alive from the inside.

Beyond his vision the yips of an animal broke the silence. The predators were coming.

***

The warriors knelt before him. Their gazes cast to the ground. King Mono’s burning gaze sliced through their rank until he faced his general.

“Oksar,” he said. He was satisfied when the big warrior jumped at his soft call.

“My king,” The man bowed at his feet and waited.

“Tell me how did an injured man walk out of this camp uncontested?”

“He killed his guard and took his clothes my king,” Oksar replied.

“You left one guard with the prince?” using his index finger King Mono raised Oksar’s face.

“He had no weapons and with his injuries, we never thought he stood a chance,” Oksar swallowed.

King Mono almost smiled. Oksar’s voice was firm but the flesh against Mono’s finger trembled. The man was brave at least.

As for the prince, King Mono already knew the details of the escape. He would only admit to himself that he had underestimated the Uripo princeling. He couldn’t afford to make silly mistakes when his goal was so close at hand. As for the Mutapa an example had to be made.

Unfortunately he still needed Oksar. He was still a good general despite his little lapse. King Mono had other less permanent ways to punish but those would require a period of recovery. Time was something he did not have. Alas he would have to punish someone else.

“And now the hunters you sent out have returned without him,” King Mono continued.

The trembling increased.

“The prince was important. I needed him. And you let him escape.” King Mono floated away from Oksar to the man kneeling beside him. He decided that he would do nicely.

“Obasi you led the hunt. You allowed the prince injured as he was to elude you.”

“He had the advantage of knowing the land but we ran him down. Had it not been for the rainstorm we would have caught him. By the time the rain stopped there was no trail to follow…”

“Excuses.” King Mono tsked.“You didn’t need a trail to follow. The only place he would go is Zambezia!”

King Mono raised his staff and brought it down. A bolt of lightning zipped from the sky and slammed into Obasi. The other warriors scattered like frightened children.

The scent of burned flesh permeated the air. The blaze of light disappeared. Where Obasi had stood a charred husk now stood. His anger had made him hasty giving the warrior a faster death than he deserved.

“My King we will hunt him down and bring him to you even if we have to die in the process,” groveled Ode, Obasi’s second in command. His forehead nearly collided with the ground as he bowed repeatedly.

“He is too far for you to catch now.” King Mono looked North as if he could see the prince in the distance.

The prince was alive. The link he’d made with Shato told him that much.

“Do not disappoint me again. You’ll not receive Obasi’s easy punishment,” He gave a meaningful look to both Ode and Oksar. Without waiting for a reply he addressed the other warriors. “We return to Manika now.”

The warriors departed quickly happy there would be no more punishment. His slaves arrived with his litter and he got on already making plans for the near future.

Prince Dzukwa may have escaped his warriors but Shato venom now ran in his veins. It would darken his soul. Eat the light until there was nothing left. If he lived Prince Dzukwa would become his creature. How long the process took depended on the inherent strength of the victim. No matter how long it took he would have a weapon at the very heart of Uripo.

His plans had been delayed but he was patient. He could wait. He’d waited for centuries. A few more years meant nothing.

King Mono shrugged off the lion pelt and observed the cracks that cut into his thin arms as if they were made of bark instead of skin.

He had inhabited this vessel for too long.