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"Fangs of the Hyena God"
Mar. 30th, 2023 10:28 am"Fangs of the Hyena God"
3/19/1983
I.
Somber thoughts weighed heavily on Kwali's mind that night as he raced along the narrow trail that wound through the Deep Woods. Such thoughts were likely to trouble any man who dared invade by night that lonely stretch of densely timbered country which the Danarakans call Forgotten. He was a big man, five inches over six feet tall and powerfully built but he ran with a steady, effortless pace he could maintain for hours without tiring.
His skintight stalking suit was of black cotton. Combined with his dark skin and close-cropped hair, that suit made him almost invisible in the gloom. Yet, when the full moon caught him just right, his eyes glinted with a lambent green gleam like a cat's. The ancient talisman he wore on a chain around his neck had quickly made him Cat's-Claw in truth as well as title. It had been less than a year since he had earned the right to wear the Claw of Wakimbe and its responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders.
All around him, the thick trunks of the Knob Thorn trees crowded each other, rising up fifteen feet to tangle their tops and form a canopy. Brushing against those needle-sharp knobs could shred the toughest leather jacket and Kwali had long since learned to avoid them.
Danarak's modern, thriving cities such as Honjabi were clustered along the coast. Once one got more than a hundred miles inland, the paved roads and railways were left behind. A few outposts had electricity and telephones, but most villages were content to live simply as they had for ages. Deeper into the interior was the passage to Inner Danarak, the adjacent realm kept secret from outsiders.
Ghosts might roam the Deep Woods with insatiable hunger as the locals maintained, but it was no ghost he feared. Kwali listened for the snap of a twig under a great bare foot, for any sound that would presage murder striking from the shadows. The being which he knew stalked Forgotten that night was more to be dreaded than any folklore phantom. Early that morning, the worst desperado in of that region of Danarak had broken free from custody, leaving a ghastly toll of dead behind him. Down along the river, bloodhounds were baying through the brush and hard-face men with rifles were beating up the thickets.
They were seeking Jengo Nyoto in the fastnesses near the scattered settlements, knowing that a fugitive seeks his own tribe in his extremity. But Kwali knew Jengo better than they did. He knew the killer deviated from the general type of his race. Jengo was unbelievably primitive, atavistic enough that he would plunge into uninhabited wilderness and live like a wild beast in solitude that would have daunted normal people. The man had never belonged in society.
So while the hunt moved away in another direction, Kwali abandoned his Jeep at the end of the passable trail and ran toward Fogotten alone. But it was not altogether to look for Jengo that he plunged into that isolated fastness. His mission was also one of warning, rather than search. Deep in the labyrinth of closely crowded trees, a white European and his servant lived in isolation, and it was Cat's-Claw's duty to warn them that a brutal killer might be skulking about their cabin.
Night overtook him on the path, and he had no intention of remaining until morning with the man he was going to warn, Etienne Guillot. He was a taciturn recluse. Guillot had been living in an old rebuilt cabin in the heart of Fogotten for about eight months.
Suddenly, as Kwali sprinted through the darkness, his speculations regarding the mysterious recluse were cut short and he stopped dead in his tracks. A sudden shriek had cut through the night, telling of agony and terror. It came from somewhere ahead of him. Again the scream was repeated, this time closer. Then he heard the pound of bare feet along the trail, and a form hurled itself at me out of the darkness. Kwali instinctively thrust his hands out to fend the creature off but he knew he was in no danger. Gasping, sobbing, the man fell limply into Kwali's arms.
"Help me, help me, oh Mercy of Wakimbe..!"
"Who are you?" Kwali demanded, "How are you hurt?"
"Oh, Kwali! Our champion, don't let him kill me! He's ripped me apart."
Kwali struck a match, and stood staring in amazement, while the match burned down to his fingers. A Danarakan groveled in the dust before him, his maulted face upturned. . He knew him well, one of the local farmers who lived in their tiny log huts along the fringe of Fogotten. He was splashed with blood, mortally wounded. Only abnormal energy rising from frenzied panic could have enabled him to run as far as he had. Blood jetted from torn veins and arteries in shoulder and neck, and the wounds were ghastly to see, great ragged tears that were never made by bullet or knife. One ear had been torn from his head, and hung loose, with a great piece of flesh from the angle of his jaw and neck, as if some gigantic beast had ripped it out with his fangs.
"What did this to you?" Kwali gasped as the match went out, and the wounded mam became merely an indistinct blob in the darkness. "A lion?" Even as I spoke I knew that no lion had been seen in Fogotten for thirty years.
"A stranger did it!" The thick, sobbing mumble welled up through the dark. "American or European. A white man that came by my cabin and ask me to guide him to Guillot's house. He wore a hat and scarf but they slipped and I saw his face... he killed me for seeing it."
"You mean he set dogs on you?" I demanded, for his wounds were such as I have seen on animals worried by vicious hounds.
"No, Kwali," whimpered the ebbing voice. "He did it himself...ahhh!"
The mumble faded as his head drooped and life left him. Kwali sensed something moving nearby. The enhanced night vision had barely begun to manifest yet. He strained his eyes into the darkness, and made out a vague shape a few yards away in the trail.
It was erect and tall as a man; it made no sound. I opened his mouth to challenge the unknown visitant, but no sound came. An indescribable chill flowed over me, freezing his tongue to his palate. It was fear, primitive and unreasoning, and even while I stood paralyzed I could not understand it, could not guess why that silent, motionless figure, sinister as it was, should rouse such instinctive dread.
Then suddenly the figure moved quickly toward me, and he found his voice. "Who goes there, friend or foe?"
No answer came but the dark form stalking in closer. As Kwali groped for a match, it was almost within reach. He struck the match with a thumbnail. With a ferocious snarl the figure hurled itself against him, the match was struck from his hand and extinguished, and Kwali felt a sharp pain dig into the side of his neck. The Cat's-Claw knotted his huge fists and swung blindly left and right. Even a glancing blow from him would have stunned a normal man and he felt sharp impact run up his arm.
Then with a crashing rush through the trees his assailant was gone, and he stood alone on the forest trail. Chest heaving in anger, Kwali dug in his pouch for another match. Blood was trickling down his shoulder, soaking through his cotton shirt. When he struck the match and investigated, another chill swept down his spine. The thin cotton shirt was torn and the flesh beneath slightly cut. The wound was little more than a scratch, but the thing that roused uneasiness in his mind was the fact that the wound was similar to those on poor old Yasid.
( the rest of the story )
3/19/1983
I.
Somber thoughts weighed heavily on Kwali's mind that night as he raced along the narrow trail that wound through the Deep Woods. Such thoughts were likely to trouble any man who dared invade by night that lonely stretch of densely timbered country which the Danarakans call Forgotten. He was a big man, five inches over six feet tall and powerfully built but he ran with a steady, effortless pace he could maintain for hours without tiring.
His skintight stalking suit was of black cotton. Combined with his dark skin and close-cropped hair, that suit made him almost invisible in the gloom. Yet, when the full moon caught him just right, his eyes glinted with a lambent green gleam like a cat's. The ancient talisman he wore on a chain around his neck had quickly made him Cat's-Claw in truth as well as title. It had been less than a year since he had earned the right to wear the Claw of Wakimbe and its responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders.
All around him, the thick trunks of the Knob Thorn trees crowded each other, rising up fifteen feet to tangle their tops and form a canopy. Brushing against those needle-sharp knobs could shred the toughest leather jacket and Kwali had long since learned to avoid them.
Danarak's modern, thriving cities such as Honjabi were clustered along the coast. Once one got more than a hundred miles inland, the paved roads and railways were left behind. A few outposts had electricity and telephones, but most villages were content to live simply as they had for ages. Deeper into the interior was the passage to Inner Danarak, the adjacent realm kept secret from outsiders.
Ghosts might roam the Deep Woods with insatiable hunger as the locals maintained, but it was no ghost he feared. Kwali listened for the snap of a twig under a great bare foot, for any sound that would presage murder striking from the shadows. The being which he knew stalked Forgotten that night was more to be dreaded than any folklore phantom. Early that morning, the worst desperado in of that region of Danarak had broken free from custody, leaving a ghastly toll of dead behind him. Down along the river, bloodhounds were baying through the brush and hard-face men with rifles were beating up the thickets.
They were seeking Jengo Nyoto in the fastnesses near the scattered settlements, knowing that a fugitive seeks his own tribe in his extremity. But Kwali knew Jengo better than they did. He knew the killer deviated from the general type of his race. Jengo was unbelievably primitive, atavistic enough that he would plunge into uninhabited wilderness and live like a wild beast in solitude that would have daunted normal people. The man had never belonged in society.
So while the hunt moved away in another direction, Kwali abandoned his Jeep at the end of the passable trail and ran toward Fogotten alone. But it was not altogether to look for Jengo that he plunged into that isolated fastness. His mission was also one of warning, rather than search. Deep in the labyrinth of closely crowded trees, a white European and his servant lived in isolation, and it was Cat's-Claw's duty to warn them that a brutal killer might be skulking about their cabin.
Night overtook him on the path, and he had no intention of remaining until morning with the man he was going to warn, Etienne Guillot. He was a taciturn recluse. Guillot had been living in an old rebuilt cabin in the heart of Fogotten for about eight months.
Suddenly, as Kwali sprinted through the darkness, his speculations regarding the mysterious recluse were cut short and he stopped dead in his tracks. A sudden shriek had cut through the night, telling of agony and terror. It came from somewhere ahead of him. Again the scream was repeated, this time closer. Then he heard the pound of bare feet along the trail, and a form hurled itself at me out of the darkness. Kwali instinctively thrust his hands out to fend the creature off but he knew he was in no danger. Gasping, sobbing, the man fell limply into Kwali's arms.
"Help me, help me, oh Mercy of Wakimbe..!"
"Who are you?" Kwali demanded, "How are you hurt?"
"Oh, Kwali! Our champion, don't let him kill me! He's ripped me apart."
Kwali struck a match, and stood staring in amazement, while the match burned down to his fingers. A Danarakan groveled in the dust before him, his maulted face upturned. . He knew him well, one of the local farmers who lived in their tiny log huts along the fringe of Fogotten. He was splashed with blood, mortally wounded. Only abnormal energy rising from frenzied panic could have enabled him to run as far as he had. Blood jetted from torn veins and arteries in shoulder and neck, and the wounds were ghastly to see, great ragged tears that were never made by bullet or knife. One ear had been torn from his head, and hung loose, with a great piece of flesh from the angle of his jaw and neck, as if some gigantic beast had ripped it out with his fangs.
"What did this to you?" Kwali gasped as the match went out, and the wounded mam became merely an indistinct blob in the darkness. "A lion?" Even as I spoke I knew that no lion had been seen in Fogotten for thirty years.
"A stranger did it!" The thick, sobbing mumble welled up through the dark. "American or European. A white man that came by my cabin and ask me to guide him to Guillot's house. He wore a hat and scarf but they slipped and I saw his face... he killed me for seeing it."
"You mean he set dogs on you?" I demanded, for his wounds were such as I have seen on animals worried by vicious hounds.
"No, Kwali," whimpered the ebbing voice. "He did it himself...ahhh!"
The mumble faded as his head drooped and life left him. Kwali sensed something moving nearby. The enhanced night vision had barely begun to manifest yet. He strained his eyes into the darkness, and made out a vague shape a few yards away in the trail.
It was erect and tall as a man; it made no sound. I opened his mouth to challenge the unknown visitant, but no sound came. An indescribable chill flowed over me, freezing his tongue to his palate. It was fear, primitive and unreasoning, and even while I stood paralyzed I could not understand it, could not guess why that silent, motionless figure, sinister as it was, should rouse such instinctive dread.
Then suddenly the figure moved quickly toward me, and he found his voice. "Who goes there, friend or foe?"
No answer came but the dark form stalking in closer. As Kwali groped for a match, it was almost within reach. He struck the match with a thumbnail. With a ferocious snarl the figure hurled itself against him, the match was struck from his hand and extinguished, and Kwali felt a sharp pain dig into the side of his neck. The Cat's-Claw knotted his huge fists and swung blindly left and right. Even a glancing blow from him would have stunned a normal man and he felt sharp impact run up his arm.
Then with a crashing rush through the trees his assailant was gone, and he stood alone on the forest trail. Chest heaving in anger, Kwali dug in his pouch for another match. Blood was trickling down his shoulder, soaking through his cotton shirt. When he struck the match and investigated, another chill swept down his spine. The thin cotton shirt was torn and the flesh beneath slightly cut. The wound was little more than a scratch, but the thing that roused uneasiness in his mind was the fact that the wound was similar to those on poor old Yasid.
( the rest of the story )
