Dark Intent by Brian Reeve

again. ‘We’re being followed. Keep to the path.’ Casually he ambled off, winding down to where the track disappeared.
    When they passed the bend the guerillas went from the trail into the grass among the rocks. For a while no one appeared, then with infinite care a figure emerged, a black youth, barefooted and clad in a dirty shirt and shorts to his knees. In his hand he held a stick and a thin bush knife poked from his belt, the blade crudely fashioned out of a piece of mild steel, ground so it was cardboard thin.
    For a while the youth concentrated ahead then he turned his attention to the immediate trail, combing for tracks. Unsure, he slid out the knife, the movements of his head sharp and truncated, apprehensive.
    Ngubane came from the grass, a black spider , and the youth pivoted pathetically, waving the blade like a twig. But he was too late and the guerilla deflected the metal, jerking the youth round and embracing his neck, forcing his arm against his windpipe until he choked.
    ‘Who’ re you from?’ said Ngubane. He reduced the grip and waited, then again took up the slack, unsheathing his blade and resting the edge on the scrawny neck.
    ‘I was told to follow you.’ The youth spat onto the track, scowling as Nofomela and Ngwenya came from the rocks. He was a Zulu and though unnerved by the blade on his jugular he reminded himself that Xhosas, especially men of the ANC, were beneath contempt. He stretched his neck to ease some of the pressure caused by the guerilla’s arm but Ngubane drew him closer, the first drops of blood smearing the steel. ‘Who’s your master?’ he said.
    The youth spluttered, gritting his teeth and arching his swollen lips over his gums. ‘He’ll kill me,’ he gurgled, watching the others advance.
    ‘Then you must leave the area,’ chipped in Nofomela, his pupils like cannon holes. ‘It’s your master or us.’
    The youth considered his options. I f he refused he was convinced he’d be destroyed. ‘I work for Moses Shozi,’ he said faintly. ‘He told me to follow you, find out where you go.’
    ‘How long have you been tailing us?’ Ngubane altered the position of the knife.
    ‘Since yesterday morning in Malakazi,’ said the youth.
    Ngubane thought over the previous day. Most had been spent in Dhlamini’s room. The youth couldn’t have learned anything but he would have seen the mayor. Dropping his arm he shunted the knife to his other hand, clasping it cleanly and switching the blade back to the neck.
    The youth jumped vigorously against the weak hold, pulling strongly as the tip of the knife nicked him below the ear. Like a hare running for its life he dodged to the side of Nofomela and into the grass, his knees pumping high, hurdling rocks in his path.
    Dispelling amazement at the youth’s boldness Ngubane chased after him, cursing loudly at his carelessness and jostling his comrades to make way. He held the knife like a sword, pointing it ahead, the curved Bowie blade glinting as it reflected rays from the rising sun. In several giant strides he had caught up and he lunged repeatedly, feeling a thrill as the tip drew blots of blood that were absorbed by the youth’s shirt. The Zulu shook each time the steel punctured his skin, his spent breath a shrill whistle and he leaned his body over as he ran, trying to evade the incisions that were slowly bringing him down.
    Metres from the track Ngubane came abreast, finding his victim’s collar with his long fing ers. The youth cried as Ngubane yanked him to a stop, rotating the weapon and slipping it under his neck. With a rising jerk Ngubane sliced it in, navigating the tempered steel through arteries and thin muscle, noting how the young arms flailed insipidly as the blood spurted out in a jet.
    Ngubane held him as he di ed then dropped him onto the hill. Flaring his mouth he turned victoriously as his colleagues came up. ‘Hide the corpse,’ he said, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘He chose the wrong