Omag bellowed, showering Gazda with reddish mucous as he brought the axe down, the broken shaft stabbing at the night ape’s breast.
But Gazda was prepared for the move, and had seen the poor grip that Omag had upon the blade, so as the spike of wood speared down at his heart, the night ape wrenched his head, chest and shoulders upward.
The broken handle speared through Gazda’s muscular shoulder blinding him with fiery pain, but still he smelled Omag’s rancid flesh so near and striking upward like a snake, he sank his fangs into the crippled ape’s throat.
Ooso’s killer. Usurper! Murderer!
Omag’s massive body tensed as Gazda’s sharp teeth tore at the diseased flesh under his jaw and he raged as the blood pumped out. The crippled ape ripped his weapon out of Gazda and turned its bloody grip in his hand.
Omag growled as he pressed the blade to the back of Gazda’s neck.
But as the crippled ape’s blood flowed out, so did much of Gazda’s strength return as the coursing liquid gushed down his throat and invigorated his body. The night ape’s muscles swelled and surged with new strength; his flesh throbbed and itched as his wounds began to heal.
Seeing this, Sip-sip panicked, pushing away from Gazda—compelled by this growing fear to run, but the night ape’s fangs were set, and his freed hands slipped around to grip the back of Omag’s hideous head.
With this new purchase, the night ape savaged and ripped at the flesh and sinews beneath Sip-sip’s dripping jaws.
The crippled ape tried to swing the axe at Gazda’s head, but already his hands were growing numb with the loss of blood, and the slippery blade turned in his grip, and dropped to the ground just as Omag fell back on his knees, dragging the night ape upright.
As Sip-sip’s head grew light and his vision blurred, Gazda pulled his bloody face away from the gory ruin of his old enemy’s throat.
“Gazda is King of the Apes,” he grinned with a beard of blood drooling over his powerful chest. “Sip-sip is dead!”
Setting his hands to either side of the bull ape’s heavy skull, Gazda’s swelling muscles rippled as Omag’s torn and sundered throat gave away and his head pulled free of his body.
The crippled ape’s piggish eye glared a moment longer, hatred pouring out as blood showered from his ruined mouth.
Gazda kicked the ape’s corpse onto its back and set the severed head on its chest where he placed his foot beside it.
He threw his own regal head back, his black mane cascading over broad shoulders, and with arching spine and straining muscles he beat upon his mighty breast.
And let loose the victory cry of the bull ape.
For miles and miles, the very jungle trembled at the release of such power and passion, and brooding predators called short their hunts to run for cover with their prey.
Gazda was King of the Apes, and none remained to challenge him.
Moving then to Sip-sip’s captive, the night ape saw from the splayed position of her limbs that she had awakened during the battle before fainting again.
The female’s eyelids fluttered as he crept close and a blossom of red colored each cheek.
Gazda smiled and panted as he crouched over her full white bosom to watch it rise and fall. Hypnotic was the motion. The night ape hovered close in study while rubbing his enemy’s drying blood from his face, arms and chest.
He watched and his eyes soon grew dull as his breathing matched the female’s. The night ape found his wits slowing as exhaustion came upon him.
It was the day-weakness that afflicted him, amplified now as his battle wounds healed. He had also taken his fill of Sip-sip’s blood, and lethargy crept through his veins.
Casting around in the undergrowth, he knew he could not rest in such a place.
His enemy’s body would attract scavengers, and as the night ape studied the female’s soft features, he knew that she needed to rest and restore herself after the abduction and chase.
Gazda climbed slowly to his feet, crushing the sleep out of his eyes with his sinewy fists as he went to reclaim his knife from where it fell.
Then he returned to lift the female in his powerful arms.
Summoning what strength the sun had left him, he ran toward the nearest tree and clambered up the branches as though the female weighed no more than an infant.
Virginia’s eyes fluttered open and her mind was brought from dark dreams by the motion of her body, and the action of warm wind blowing across her face.
She was flying! But that notion quickly fell away as she felt the acute proximity of another body, this one naked, and she shuttered her eyes lest she give away her waking state.
A man was carrying her, so with eyes narrowed she looked up from where he held her to his muscular breast to gaze upon a creature of truly heroic proportion and line.
She saw the straight nose and high cheekbones of an aquiline face, perfectly set upon a rounded skull beset with long curling black locks and mounted on a neck formed from columns of dense muscle and covered with a fine white skin that resembled an elastic film of marble or ivory.
Like a statue, for so he looked, yes. This man was like statuary come to life, flexible but of stone or sterner stuff—he should have adorned some Roman temple or coliseum—that was it, a gladiatorial ring of combat.
This man brimmed with wild passion colored by the feral gleam in his almond-shaped eyes, and was hinted at through the splendid arch of thick black brows. A dark red scar gleamed at his precipitous hairline, echoing the fierce smile on his full lips.
Something about this marvelous man suited the vaulted nature that spread out around them like a living work of art, in manifold levels arching over them cathedral-like, and sweeping in all directions of the compass—a great, savage altar upon which this man fit uncompromisingly, set in its green filigree like a sculpted shaft of ivory.
A wild man, born of a wild place. And was he more than that?
She had seen him fight. Just a glimpse was all her psyche could accept of the primordial battle before she fainted. But she had seen this splendid man in combat with a demonic beast of hideous intelligence that had no place in nature or recorded time.
Just a glimpse as the pair had fought, before this man had locked his powerful white teeth on the monster’s throat!
She had swooned, only to awaken in his flexing arms as he moved with her through the canopy. From branch to vine and back again he leapt, carrying her like a babe in his long, strong arms.
Flying they were, almost—flying through his green heaven.
But such power in a living being, she realized could only be the work of God—so different was it from the ugly, leering potency she’d felt and seen radiating from her monstrous captor.
The wretched demon had leapt out of the shadows when she was running from the amorous Phillip Holmes’ ill-conceived intentions.
As that beast had scrambled animal like, tearing through the trees like a murderous hurricane; this man swept and hurtled from perch to perch so ably that she half-expected to see angel’s wings upon his broad back.
Virginia’s position in the man’s protective embrace allowed her little more than to look upon his noble face, so she could only guess at the height from the jungle floor that they traveled. Even if she allowed herself such speculation, she could feel no fear, cradled there in arms of stone, pressed against a swelling breast.
Instead, she allowed the gentle swinging motion and the blur of the passing green jungle, to serve as backdrop to this magnificent creature’s transit.
All the while she prayed he’d look into her eyes—though she feared it; for what mortal woman could meet his gaze and not fall instantly in love?
In such a way did she give in to the weariness brought on by her many torments, and in the forest angel’s arms she fell asleep.
CHAPTER 19 – Huntress and Savior
Harkon had managed to whittle the force of Bakwaniri hunters down by two more, though this smaller group had quickly noticed the disappe
arance of their fellows. With the terrifying jungle arching all around, it was easy for them to attribute the losses to the many beasts that inhabited the green shadows, that stalked and killed whatever moved along the paths.
This resulted in them tightening their formation and picking up their pace, which made hunting and tracking them a more difficult and challenging task. They were on their guard now, and had grown watchful.
While that made the task of killing them one by one more difficult, it also added some pleasure to it. Harkon had slain plenty of them in the years of her quest, so any change was welcome, and for those who had stolen her son to feel something of his fear...only a mother could spread such terror with a smile.
Her nerves thrummed with anticipation that they might spy her, and set a trap on the trail ahead. It was excitement of a sort that the huntress in her relished, though even she had begun to tire and her body to ache from the strain. So she was relieved when the night became too dark to proceed, and the Bakwaniri stopped to camp and rest.
Harkon had done the same, finding a place for herself in the trees where she could sleep, and keep one eye upon their distant cook fire. So it was that she had been ready, breakfasted and waiting by the time they arose to restart their trek before dawn.
They ran for most of the morning, breaking frequently to walk and share their waterskins, though the loss of their comrades had weighed heavily on them during the night, and the wary watch they kept in all directions forced Harkon to fall back in her pursuit.
Their discipline was seriously challenged near noon when they came upon something in a clearing among giant trees. Lurking in the distant green, Harkon watched as they surrounded something on the ground that was hidden from her view by the underbrush.
She longed to know what it was that had sent the hunters screaming and scrambling onto the buttressed roots of trees where they clung to what hanging vines and branches they could reach, while others better situated or more courageous sent arrows flying down at whatever was hidden by the brush.
This was a curiosity that drove Harkon up into an ironwood tree, not to hide, but to gain a vantage point that allowed her to peer down at the trampled place where she saw a great ape lay dead.
Its head had been severed and the ground around it was stained dark with its blood.
Of course, the corpse was soon filled with many arrows, and it was only when it bristled with spent missiles that the Bakwaniri clambered down to approach it with great caution.
These hunters rained punishing blows upon the body and nearby severed head using stout wooden clubs, and they did not let up until the corpse was torn asunder.
Then one of the Bakwaniri whom Harkon thought to be the leader lifted the ape’s head over his shoulders before marching around the corpse with the trophy as if he’d slain the beast himself.
The others were greatly encouraged by this, and Harkon watched them parade around their leader and his grisly prize, performing a peculiar hopping dance of celebration. With fists on their hips and elbows akimbo, the masked hunters lifted one leg after the next bent at the knee, while the flailing ankle flicked back and forth as they twirled.
Twice during their short celebration, did Harkon have their leader sighted along an arrow, but both times she withheld. The jungle shadows were dark because the sun was directly overhead, but the open space around the giant trees offered little camouflage, and the surviving Bakwaniri might notice her position in the ironwood.
Also, the long chase had been hard on her, and during the morning’s pursuit her right leg had begun aching from overuse, and she would not risk escaping the Bakwaniri on foot.
The hunters continued to amuse themselves in this way until they hunkered down and removed their masks to eat their meager rations. They drank from their waterskins and jabbered in bragging voices as they gestured at the corpse that lay near.
Harkon was growing bored as their boastful swagger continued, and she was about to string an arrow and damn the consequences, when men walked into the clearing.
Both of them were large, though the white man had a bigger and broader frame. His companion was black, and could have been of Harkon’s own tribe if not for his dark clothing which like the white man’s was of cloth and unsuited to the jungle with its many hot layers and delicate weave.
These men halted when they set eye upon the Bakwaniri. The white man drew a weapon that he pointed as the hunters donned their masks. The black man hefted an axe warily, and said something to the white that Harkon could not hear.
It did not matter, for the Bakwaniri leapt to their feet and with clubs raised, rushed toward the strangers.
The Bakwaniri hunters now numbered 12 in all, but they moved quickly through the brush toward the men. A great roar rocked the jungle and a plume of smoke leapt out as the white man gestured with his weapon and one of the Bakwaniri fell down dead.
But the others were close upon him, and inspired perhaps by their exchange with the dead ape, they ran at these strangers with abandon. Thunder rocked the jungle again, and another masked man dropped dead before the white man’s smoking weapon...
...but too late, for the others fell upon the interloper with their clubs.
His companion swung his axe inexpertly as three Bakwaniri avoided its blade to close and swarm at all sides.
In moments he was down, while the big white man swung his fists. One after another of the masked men dropped, but the Bakwaniri, despite their degenerate nature and health, were ferocious in their fighting, and soon the white man collapsed beneath clubs that rose and fell and would not stop.
Once, the white man fought his way back up onto his feet and with a Bakwaniri held before him like a battering ram, he smashed his way out of the surrounding fighters and ran to the ironwood tree.
To Harkon’s dismay, the big man looked up into the branches, and a change came upon the bloody face that told her he had seen her. She shrank back against the trunk of the tree as far as she could but knew that if any of his assailants looked up, they could not fail to see her.
But the white man fell unconscious beneath the Bakwaniri clubs before he could respond or draw attention to the huntress in the tree.
The Bakwaniri dragged him back to the others where they tended to their injured and stripped their dead, before tying the white and black strangers to poles cut from surrounding saplings so they could be carried.
The Bakwaniri then collected the ape’s head and hung it from the pole to which they’d tied the black man.
Harkon watched them head back to the east, wondering why the men had been taken captive, but understanding they would likely die struggling in the Bakwaniri cooking pits.
She considered going north then, to hunt down the other group of her enemies, but decided to follow these masked men and their captives. Harkon was not sure whether she should assist the strangers, since every story about white men she had heard ended with black people dying—and despite their slightly darker and mottled skin, did not the Bakwaniri have faces like white men too?
She had heard stories of noisy weapons like the white man’s but she did not think she would like such a thing—efficient though it seemed. It had not the style or grace of her spear, or even the Bakwaniri bow and arrows she had pillaged from her victims.
And she could never hunt in stealth with such a thing.
Still, this white man had been in the company of a black man, so perhaps he could be trusted. Now that both were enemies of the Bakwaniri, Harkon thought freeing them might gain their aid in releasing her own people—and her son.
Northeast of the huntress, Virginia came out of a light doze to see the mid-afternoon sun had pierced the canopy at an angle that illuminated her verdant surroundings. She lay on a broad, moss-covered branch over which another stout limb grew to form a sheltering roof a few feet above her head. Ivy trailed down from this to either side and formed leafy drapes that allowed only the gentlest of breezes through to her while colorful orchids festooning the green cascade
added their fragrance.
The shelter was six feet across and followed the angle of the upper limb for about 15 feet. With the thick tree trunk at her back, Virginia could look out of this triangular opening to where the branches continued dividing and narrowing down to myriad slender leafy limbs that waved in gaping space.
Her forest angel had deposited her in this nest, and gone away for a time as Virginia napped on her bed of moss, reveling in the nature that abounded, and as the day progressed she slipped in and out of dreams.
She had been surprised to find those dreams comforting, filled with thoughts of her new friend, and not nightmares of the beast that abducted her, and she attributed this to the wild man’s potent presence.
It was impossible for her to feel fear around him, and the look he’d given her before he left had promised she would be safe in this arboreal shelter.
In fact, his concern for her had seemed to blaze in those piercing eyes.
“Wild man” was how she had come to think of him, and if it had been God’s hand that imbued him with his superior powers, then they had been shaped by the Lord’s green nature that swept away in all directions from her perch.
She could not determine her wild man’s age, so profoundly virile was his form and masculine his features, but she thought it between mid-20s to early 30s.
He wore a black, fur loincloth, leathery belt and knife. Upon his ankles and over each bicep were crude metal bands or bracelets decorated with primitive depictions of skulls and bones. His long hair was tied up with a band, but much of it fell over his face.
The wild man’s cheeks were defined by thick, black sideburns that grew down to follow his jaw line, and around his neck a medallion hung on a metal chain. It was decorated by some inscription, but was impossible to decipher where it nested in the shadowy space between hairy pectoral muscles.
All of his adornments spoke of some level of humanity and civilization. He was not utterly savage. So Virginia understood that he was not a forest angel, or an ape, but he behaved enough like one to have earned the appellation “ape-man,” though she would never have called him that without blushing.
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