Their destination was the hospital block, the nearest wall of which formed part of the station’s western defenses. According to Mandlenkosi’s mystical intelligence, Rafferty had arrived at Rorke’s Drift dehydrated and ranting three days earlier, so it seemed reasonable that he would have been accommodated in the hospital. Fortunately for the Zulus, the volume of British fire from that quarter had lessened as they approached — most of the rifles had been withdrawn from the loopholes knocked into the building walls, and defenders were falling back to reinforce other parts of the barricade. Noting the behavior of the British, and the black smoke that was starting to rise from the hospital roof, Lwazi urged his men to quicken their pace.
“The hospital is ablaze!” he yelled over the gunfire. “If they evacuate that building, our quarry is lost!” The warriors redoubled their efforts, sprinting to the utmost of their capabilities. Lwazi was only a young man, much younger than those that followed him — some of whom even wore the umqhele headband woven into their hair to signify they had earned the right to take a wife — but still they followed the young giant without question. Not only did they hold the utmost respect for his remarkable martial prowess, they knew that when it came to the dark ways of the Sangoma, it was Lwazi that was the true veteran, given his history of serving the mysterious Mandlenkosi.
Lwazi was the first man to the barricade and he flew over the stacked mealie bags like a leaping springbok. The British had almost completed the retreat to their second line, but two red-coated white men still remained in the area behind the barrier, and both raised their rifles to their shoulders at the sight of the towering Zulu. One managed to discharge his weapon and the ball flew past Lwazi’s head, so close that he heard it sing as it sliced through the air. Phumlani, the second man to the barrier, was not so fortunate, and died instantly when the round took him squarely in the chest as he mounted the wall of burlap sacks.
Thanks to his lengthy stride, Lwazi covered the twenty yards to the shooter before the Englishman could consider reloading or employing his bayonet, and with a cry of “Usuthu!” the Zulu plunged his iklwa into the man’s chest. The second white man abandoned his attempts to clear the jammed round from his rifle breech and lunged forward with his bayonet. Lwazi grabbed the barrel of the rifle with one powerful hand and yanked the man off balance. The unfortunate soldier died swiftly from a single spear-thrust into his exposed throat. Lwazi felt no pleasure at killing the Englishmen — they may have been at war with his people, but they were not his true enemies. His real nemesis in this battle was altogether a far more complicated and dangerous foe than the military might of the British army.
The four remaining Zulus wasted no time in mourning their fallen companion but went directly into the building in which they hoped to find the man known as Rafferty. On entering the hospital they were met with thick clouds of black smoke.
“We must be quick,” called Lwazi. “Check each room — if he is here, we must find him.”
The first few rooms contained little but empty beds and burning sheets — the building looked completely abandoned. Lwazi offered a silent prayer to his ancestors that they had not arrived too late — if Rafferty had escaped them, the consequences would be unthinkable. But Lwazi’s prayer was answered when Sizwe, the oldest man among them, cried out that he had found something.
The other Zulus raced to Sizwe’s side. The room in which the gray-haired veteran stood was as yet untouched by the spreading fire, but black smoke still hung heavy in the air.
“There, Lwazi,” said Sizwe, pointing with his iklwa at a wooden linen cupboard in the corner of the room. “Something moved in that box — I heard it banging around.”
Lwazi threw the cupboard door open — huddled among the sheets and pillows was a small, thin white man with prematurely graying hair and the tanned skin of an Englishman who had spent a decent span in the African sun. The man was naked, and sat shivering and twitching in a tight ball, but Lwazi doubted he was cold or struck by the poison of the mosquito. More likely his ague was related to what he clutched to his chest.
The idol was only a small thing, less than a foot tall, and fashioned from a dark hardwood. The carving depicted a roughly humanoid shape, though it was difficult to tell if its indistinct outline was due to the skill of the craftsman or because the figure was intended to be appear swathed in heavy robes or a hooded cloak. The idol’s left arm was extended forward, and its outstretched hand held a small tube about two inches long, carved from some kind of bone, decorated with an intricate pattern of swirling lines carved into its surface. Upon seeing the effigy, Lwazi took an involuntary step backward — he had found the dread idol of H’aaztre, and the terrible stories that Mandlenkosi had told him of that foul object were more frightening than a whole regiment of British riflemen.
Lwazi quickly marshaled his courage and pointed his spear at the naked man.
“You are the man called Rafferty, yes?” he asked, using the English he had learned as a child from the missionaries. The shaking man did not answer, but his eyes flicked up to Lwazi, as if noticing him for the first time. Those eyes were wide and filled with terror. Sizwe stepped forward to seize the statue, but Lwazi halted him with a gesture.
“Careful, Sizwe… we don’t know what foul curses that thing has worked on him,” he said in Zulu. “If he feels threatened, he could react in unpredictable ways.” Switching to English, Lwazi turned back to Rafferty. “Give me the idol, friend. I have heard talk of you from the people of the kraals you visited over the years, and I know you are a good man who always dealt fairly with the Zulu. Our nations may be at war, but we need not be. Give it to me and we shall leave you in peace.”
“I only came looking for gold,” whimpered Rafferty in a faltering voice. “I was mining for metal, but the charges blasted into that cave… it spoke to me, you see… it made me take it…”
“Hand it to me and we shall take it away,” replied Lwazi. He tried to keep his tone friendly and calm, but he was all too aware of the battle that raged around them and the rapidly spreading fire that would soon consume the building. “Then you shall be free of it, yes?”
“Oh no… I can’t. It won’t let me, you see? It whispers to me all the time, and I can’t block it out… it has shown me such sights… I have seen the terrible emptiness, the black chasms between the uncaring stars… I have seen the great lake… it tells me the Byakhee are on their way to take me there… I shall see the city with my own eyes… ”
Rafferty trailed off and broke into fits of ragged, body-racking sobs. He screwed his eyes shut and tears flowed freely down his cheeks.
“The man’s mind is broken,” muttered Sizwe in Zulu, and Lwazi was inclined to agree. Deciding that no amount of cajoling would convince Rafferty to hand over the artifact, he cautiously reached out to take it from the Englishman’s trembling arms.
The instant Lwazi’s fingers brushed the idol, Rafferty wrenched it away, twisting his body to hide it from the Zulu’s grasp. His head snapped upright and his abject weeping abruptly halted. Moments earlier, Rafferty’s eyes had been pits of despair — now they were nothing even remotely human, transformed into two bright yellow orbs, like chunks of amber.