The dread in Bjorn Svenssen’s chest weighed heavier than the hammer of Thor himself. Holding his spear and shield with sweaty hands, the young chieftain led his band of Daenish warriors marching over hills that glowed bright gold in the face of Sol’s eastern ascent. Far to their left rose a high plateau that curved inward like a giant arena overlooking the scene. Truthfully, it was almost as beautiful a sight as Bjorn’s sweet dear Nobuhle.
It was better to think of her than the impending battle. So many balmy nights had the pair spent in each other’s company, with nobody watching but the silver circle of Mani high in the star-dotted sky. At least that had been so until one of her father’s high-ranking induna warriors had caught them in the heat of lovemaking. So furious was the Inkosi of KwaXhulu that he had wanted Bjorn and the entirety of his “unruly” countrymen put to death, never mind all the years the Daenes had aided the Inkosi’s impi armies on the battlefield.
So what if they had a problem swigging themselves mindless on the local pombe beer? Were not sellswords like themselves prone to such indulgences the world over?
It must have been a merciful twist in how the Norns wove fate that, after much heated argument, the Inkosi had instead accepted Bjorn’s offer to settle the matter through a trial of combat. The terms had been clear. If the Daenes won, Bjorn could claim Nobuhle’s hand in matrimony. If the Daenes lost, they would all lose their lives as well.
Assuming, of course, that the Xhulu did not massacre them to the last man in the thick of the battle itself. In which case, not even the glories of Valhalla could cure the loneliness Bjorn would feel in the afterlife.
The higher Sol rode in her flaming chariot, the hotter the day grew. Nonetheless, Bjorn did not regret the mail shirt he wore over his tunic. If anything, it gave him comfort him against the chill that shivered his limbs from within. He and his warband would need all the protection they could afford.
No, he could not bother himself with those thoughts. Better to think of embracing Nobuhle’s lithe, gold- and copper-bedecked figure and savoring the kiss of her moist lips. It would all be worth fighting her father’s warriors in the end.
A herd of zebra galloped away with frightened brays when the Daenes arrived at the flat field they had agreed to fight on. The Xhulu were nowhere to be seen. Not on the field, nor anywhere on the surrounding hills that Bjorn could see. It did not make sense. He had never known the proud Xhulu to shirk battle. Nor were they prone to running late, even in a country as rugged and treacherous as this far southern land.
“Where are you Xhulu dogs?” Bjorn cried out. “Show yourself!”
All he could hear was the bounding of his own voice between the hills.
Bjorn squinted at a copse of stunted trees at the field’s far end. The Xhulu could have been hiding there, plotting some sort of ambush. Again, that would be out of character for them, and it would dishonor their terms of agreement. It would still be prudent to flush them out just in case.
Across the field the Daenes stalked until they penetrated the shade of the trees. On Bjorn’s order, they dispersed to comb through the woodland, looking up and down every tree and overturning every log they could find. Still no sign of the enemy, not even tracks.
Again, Bjorn yelled to the sky for the Xhulu to come out. Other than the squawking of spooked birds, nothing.
He slammed the butt of his spear into the ground and growled a curse. “I should’ve known they were cowards!”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” one of his warriors said. “They must be planning something.”
“Or maybe we should simply wait a few moments,” another Daene said. “We might’ve arrived earlier than they expected.”
Bjorn sighed. “Fair enough. Let’s set up camp out in the field until they come.”
The moment the dejected Daenes walked out of the woods, a wall of ovular cowhide shields bristling with iron iklwa greeted them. It swept across the field with the speed of a storm-tossed wave, bending into a concave formation like a bull’s horns around the warband. As the Xhulu impi closed in, they chanted their traditional war cry. “Usuthu! Usuthu!”
