Read Online The Angels Weep by Wilbur Smith - Free Book Online

He
glanced up the cliff at where the last smoke wisps were blending
into the darkening sky as the sun touched the tops of the western
forest. ‘I was smoking a hive when I saw you
coming.’
    ‘Ah!’ Ralph nodded. ‘It was that smoke that
led us to you.’
    ‘Then it was fortunate smoke, my brother
Henshaw.’
    ‘You still call me brother?’ Ralph marvelled
gently. ‘When it might have been I who fired the
bullets—’ He did not complete the sentence, but
glanced down at Bazo’s chest.
    ‘No man can be held to account for what he does in the
madness of battle,’ Bazo answered. ‘If I had reached
the wagons that day,’ he shrugged, ‘you might be the
one who carried the scars.’
    ‘Bazo,’ Ralph gestured to Harry to ride forward,
‘this is Harry Mellow, he is a man who understands the
mystery of the earth, who can find the gold and the iron which we
seek.’
    ‘Nkosi, I see you.’ Bazo greeted Harry gravely,
calling him ‘Lord’ and not allowing his deep
resentment to show for an instant. His king had died and his
nation had been destroyed by the weird passion of the white men
for that accursed yellow metal.
    ‘Bazo and I grew up together on the Kimberley diamond
fields. I have never had a dearer friend,’ Ralph explained
quickly, and then turned impetuously back to Bazo. ‘We have
a little food, you will share it with us, Bazo.’ This time
Ralph caught the shift in Bazo’s gaze, and he insisted.
‘Camp with us here. There is much to talk about.’
    ‘I have my woman and my son with me,’ Bazo
answered. ‘They are in the hills.’
    ‘Bring them,’ Ralph told him. ‘Go quickly,
before darkness falls, and bring them down into camp.’
    B azo alerted
his men with the dusk call of the francolin, and one of them
stepped out of the ambush onto the path.
    ‘I will hold the white men at the foot of the hills for
tonight,’ Bazo told him quietly. ‘Perhaps I can send
them away satisfied, without trying to find the valley. However,
warn the ironsmiths that the kilns must be quenched by dawn
tomorrow, there must be no shred of smoke.’
    Bazo went on giving his orders, the finished weapons and
freshly smelted metal to be hidden and the paths swept clear of
spoor, the ironsmiths to retreat along the secret path deeper
into the hills, the Matabele guards to cover their retreat.
‘I will follow you when the white men have gone. Wait for
me at the peak of the Blind Ape.’
    ‘Nkosi.’ They saluted him, and slipped away,
silent as the night-prowling leopard, into the failing light.
Bazo took the fork in the path, and when he reached the rocky
spur on the prow of the hill, there was no need for him to call.
Tanase was waiting for him with the boy carried on her hip, the
roll of sleeping-mats upon her head and the leather grain-bag
slung on her back.
    ‘It is Henshaw,’ he told her, and heard the
serpentine hiss of her breath. Though he could not see her
expression, he knew what it must be.
    ‘He is the spawn of the white dog who violated the
sacred places—’
    ‘He is my friend,’ Bazo said.
    ‘You have taken the oath,’ she reminded him
fiercely. ‘How can any white man still be your
friend?’
    ‘He was my friend, then.’
    ‘Do you remember the vision that came to me, before the
powers of divination were torn from me by this man’s
father?’
    ‘Tanase,’ Bazo ignored the question, ‘we
must go down to him. If he sees my wife and my son are with me,
then there will be no suspicions. He will believe that we are
indeed hunting the honey of wild bees. Follow me.’ He
turned back down the trail, and she followed him closely, and her
voice sank to a whisper, of which he could clearly hear every
word. He did not look back at her, but he listened.
    ‘Do you remember my vision, Bazo? On the first day that
I met this man whom you call the Hawk, I warned you. Before the
birth of your son, when the veil of my virginity was still