Cover

Praise for the novels of Wilbur Smith

Praise for the novels of

‘Read on, adventure fans.’

THE NEW YORK TIMES

‘A rich, compelling look back in time [to] when history and myth intermingled.’

SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE

‘Only a handful of 20th century writers tantalize our senses as well as Smith. A rare author who wields a razor-sharp sword of craftsmanship.’

TULSA WORLD

‘He paces his tale as swiftly as he can with swordplay aplenty and killing strokes that come like lightning out of a sunny blue sky.’

KIRKUS REVIEWS

‘Best Historical Novelist — I say Wilbur Smith, with his swashbuckling novels of Africa. The bodices rip and the blood flows. You can get lost in Wilbur Smith and misplace all of August.’

STEPHEN KING

‘Action is the name of Wilbur Smith’s game and he is the master.’

WASHINGTON POST

‘Smith manages to serve up adventure, history and melodrama in one thrilling package that will be eagerly devoured by series fans.’

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

‘This well-crafted novel is full of adventure, tension, and intrigue.’

LIBRARY JOURNAL

‘Life-threatening dangers loom around every turn, leaving the reader breathless . . . An incredibly exciting and satisfying read.’

CHATTANOOGA FREE PRESS

‘When it comes to writing the adventure novel, Wilbur Smith is the master; a 21st century H. Rider Haggard.’

VANITY FAIR

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my wife, Niso.

From the day we first met she has been a constant and powerful inspiration to me, urging me on when I falter and cheering me when I succeed. I truly do not know what I would do if she were not by my side. I hope and pray that day never comes. I love and adore you, my best girl, words cannot express how much.

Kenya, June 1951

KENYA, JUNE 1951

In the flickering, smoky light cast by torches of burning brushwood, Kungu Kabaya looked past the slaughtered goat lying in the middle of the abandoned missionary chapel towards the men, women and children watching in fearful expectancy.

There were around sixty of them, members of the Kikuyu tribe and ‘squatters’, as the white farmers called their black labourers. For no matter how hard a squatter worked; no matter how long he, or his father, or even grandfather had lived on the farm; no matter how skilfully he had built the hut in which he and his family lived: he only stayed on the farm with the farmer’s blessing and could be expelled at any moment, with no right of appeal.