In the vast tapestry of historical fiction, few authors have the ability to transport readers into the heart of ancient battles and intricate political intrigues quite like Wilbur Smith. Known for his masterful storytelling and vivid depiction of bygone eras, Smith’s latest novel, Warrior King, is no exception. As a continuation of his legacy of powerful narratives, Warrior King takes readers on an epic journey through the fierce world of South Africa. We offer a sneak peek into this thrilling saga with an exclusive excerpt, allowing you to immerse yourself in the gripping adventures of heroes and kings who shaped the course of history:
“ALGOA BAY, SOUTH AFRICA. APRIL, 1820
The continent was hidden. A thick sea mist rolled in off the bay, obscuring the ships at anchor and the canvas city that had risen on the shore two days earlier. It deadened every sound. Only the sea remained – the hush of waves breaking in the humid air. To Ann Waite, standing on the sandy beach, it was as if she had fallen off the edge of the world.
Ann needed to be alone. She hugged her arms against her chest, feeling the breasts that were swollen with milk to feed the baby that did not exist. And remembered the nightmare of the birth at sea: spread-eagled on a table; seamen going about their work just inches away; the old naval surgeon with his knives and rusty saws jangling on the wall behind him. She recalled the claustrophobia of the tiny compartment, deep in the ship, below the waterline. It had taken eighteen hours of labour for the baby to arrive, a girl whom Ann had named Susannah.
A day later, Susannah was dead. They buried her in the ocean in a canvas shroud, with a ballast stone to weigh her down.
The grief was so painful that Ann wanted to scream. Her daughter should have heralded the new life that Ann and her husband Frank had come from England to make in Africa. Instead, the voyage that began in hope had ended in death and despair.
Out in the fog, she heard the wailing of a baby. She must be imagining it. It was the sound that haunted her nightmares: a soul adrift, abandoned to danger, that she could not comfort or embrace.
Ann had never expected to find herself in Africa. Growing up in a small village in the Pennine hills of England, the continent had been no more real to her than the lands in fairy tales. Then the war that had begun before she was born had ended. Napoleon was beaten, but it did not feel like victory to the men who returned from the battlefields of Europe. Tens of thousands of men who had known no profession except soldiering suddenly found themselves surplus to the requirements of the crown they had served so loyally. Ann’s husband, Frank, had been one of them. He had found work as a hand-loom weaver, but wages had halved since the peace and he could not earn enough to provide for the baby growing inside Ann’s belly.
Then, one morning, Frank had seen a notice posted in the bow window of the general dealer. Free land – good, fertile land, the notice promised – being given away by the government, with tools, seeds and equipment for farming to be provided at cost. It was in Cape Colony, at the southern tip of Africa.
Pulling his cap down, Frank had hurried home, a look of determination on his face.
Ann was hesitant, but Frank had fought at the capture of Cape Town in 1806 and seen a little of the country. The land was ripe, he promised her, a Garden of Eden where if you spat out a grape pip, a vine would grow in front of your eyes. ‘This is a godsend,’ he told Ann, falling to his knees. ‘The answer to our prayers.
A place to make a home and raise our future family.’
Ann had yet to see the paradise she had been promised. Four thousand settlers had answered the notice and taken passage on the ships the government provided. They had been set ashore in this bay of desolate sandhills and salt marshes, billeted in tents among scrub and rocks while they waited for wagons to take them to the grants the government had assigned them. Her husband still clung to the hope that the country inland would live up to its promise. Ann had lost faith. She had seen nothing for six weeks but the dank inside of the ship and now this cursed beach where the sun blistered their skin and the wind screamed at them as if wanting to drive them back into the endless, devouring sea.
She heard the cry again – the baby. The sound cut straight to her heart; dark horrors invaded her thoughts. Was she going mad? Many of the settlers had brought their children along with them, and not all the babies born on the voyage had suffered
Susannah’s fate. Though the sound seemed to be coming from a different direction – out in the bay. The fog was so thick that Ann had lost her bearings, only the sand beneath her feet seemed real.
The wailing grew louder – the infant crying at the top of its lungs, calling for help. As if its life depended on it.
Surely no parent could ignore that cry for long. Someone would find it soon and soothe the poor, scared soul.
The crying became more anguished. It was almost unbearable, but Ann was sure now that it was coming from out in the bay.
She ran to the water’s edge. The fog was thicker here, but she could see a dark shape emerging and then disappearing in the spectral grey. She heard the mournful creak and grind of wood scraping rock.
‘The baby must be on a boat,’ she murmured to herself. But the ships had unloaded all their passengers and anchored far out in the bay. And if it was a boat, there should be other sounds: the screech of rowlocks and the grunt of sailors working the oars; the shouts of the coxswain, and perhaps the soothing voice of the child’s mother. She heard none of those.
She had never encountered the sea before she left Lancashire.
Its fathomless depths terrified her; she had spent the whole voyage in a state of muted panic. But now she was determined. Whether the baby was real or not, she was compelled towards the source of the crying.
Hoisting her skirts, Ann waded into the freezing water. The folds of her dress welling up; the incoming sea lifting her off her feet. The current was so strong that she lost her balance and found herself half-sitting in the water. A wave washed over her head as she tried to pull herself upwards, filling her throat as she called out in alarm.
‘Help! God, please help!’ Ann shouted, choking as another wave drowned her voice and the current took hold of her skirts, sucking her out to sea.
In the dunes above the beach, not even two hundred yards away, four thousand souls were starting the day – getting dressed, queuing for their breakfasts at the field kitchens, discussing the peculiarities of this new land. Yet they would not be able to hear her.
Desolate, terrified, half-drowning, Ann flung out her hands as the sea took her, desperate for any kind of purchase in the icy water. Sand and broken pieces of kelp billowed around her as the ocean’s relentless power pulled her further from the shore.
Then she saw it – the prow of a boat.”
Wilbur Smith’s Warrior King is a testament to his unparalleled skill in blending historical accuracy with captivating fiction. As you’ve seen from the excerpt, this novel is more than just a story—it’s an immersive experience that brings the ancient world to life, with its complex characters, intense drama, and breathtaking action. Whether you’re a long-time fan of Smith’s work or a newcomer to his epic tales, Warrior King promises to be a compelling read that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Don’t miss the chance to delve deeper into this extraordinary saga and witness the rise of a true warrior king.
Featured image via Clay Banks on Unsplash
