The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the arid landscape at the border between the Kingdom of Zambesi and Votswana. The air was tense, filled with the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional rustle of dry grass. The Zambesian military outpost, a modest structure made of timber and stone, stood as the last line of defense between the two nations.
Soldiers in worn uniforms patrolled the perimeter, their muskets slung over their shoulders, their eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of trouble.
Inside the outpost, Captain Ndlovu reviewed a map spread across a wooden table, his brow furrowed in concentration. The reports of Matalebe's activity in the area had been increasing, but he hadn't expected anything significant today. As far as he knew, the Matalebe Tribe had mostly kept to themselves, their grievances with the central government simmering but not boiling over.
Suddenly, a shout rang out from the watchtower. "Captain! Movement to the west!"
Captain Ndlovu snapped his head up, his hand instinctively reaching for the musket leaning against the table. He rushed outside, squinting into the distance. A cloud of dust was rising on the horizon, and within it, the unmistakable figures of mounted Matalebe warriors became visible, their war cries piercing the stillness.
"Sound the alarm! Man your positions!" Captain Ndlovu barked as the soldiers scrambled into action. The outpost burst into life, men rushing to the walls, loading their muskets, and taking aim at the approaching horde.
The Matalebe warriors, adorned with tribal paint and feathers, charged forward with fierce determination. Their numbers were far greater than the Zambesian soldiers had anticipated. As they drew closer, the warriors raised their spears and muskets.
"Hold... hold..." Captain Ndlovu commanded, waiting until the enemy was within range. The ground beneath their feet trembled as the Matalebe force drew nearer, their shouts growing louder with each passing second.
"Fire!" Captain Ndlovu finally ordered.
With a final, determined effort, Captain Ndlovu gathered the remaining soldiers and made a desperate push towards the gates of the outpost. "Fall back! Fall back to the gates!" he shouted, trying to maintain some semblance of order amidst the chaos. But it was too late. The Matalebe warriors, sensing their victory, surged forward with renewed intensity, cutting off any hope of retreat.
Captain Ndlovu, surrounded and outnumbered, fought to the last, refusing to give in to the overwhelming odds. He managed to take down several attackers before a spear struck him in the side, the force of the blow driving him to his knees. Blood poured from the wound, and his vision began to blur. But even as his strength ebbed away, he continued to fight, refusing to surrender.
Finally, as the world around him faded to darkness, Captain Ndlovu fell to the ground, his hand still gripping the hilt of his bayonet. The last thing he saw was a lone Matalebe warrior raising his machete above his head and then powerfully
bringing it down in a final, brutal strike. The blade met its mark with a sickening thud, and Captain Ndlovu's grip loosened on his bayonet as life left his body. The Matalebe warrior stood over the fallen captain, his chest heaving with exertion, before turning his gaze to the rest of the outpost.
The outpost was now a scene of complete devastation. Bodies of Zambesian soldiers lay scattered across the ground, their blood soaking into the dry earth. The few remaining defenders were quickly overwhelmed, cut down without mercy by the Matalebe warriors.
The fires that had started earlier were now raging out of control, consuming the wooden structures and sending thick plumes of smoke into the sky.
As the last of the resistance was crushed, the Matalebe warriors began to systematically dismantle what was left of the outpost. They tore down the Zambesian flag that had once flown proudly above the walls and trampled it into the dirt.
The few supplies that the outpost had stored were either looted or destroyed, ensuring that nothing of value remained for any reinforcements that might arrive too late.
The leader of the Matalebe warriors, a tall man with a scar running down the side of his face, surveyed the scene with a cold gaze, and then at the horizon, he noticed something that made his expression harden. A new dust cloud was forming in the distance, similar to the one that had heralded their own approach, but this time it was accompanied by the unmistakable glint of steel in the sunlight.
The leader narrowed his eyes, focusing on the approaching figures. These were not Zambesian reinforcements; the disciplined formation, the uniformed soldiers, and the fluttering banners made it clear—this was the Colonial Army of Votswana.