Life had hardened her for the mission, and the mission strengthened her the more, for what use were gentle feelings and luxury to a mother whose child was missing?
Losing Anim and watching the slow extinction of her tribe had hardened Harkon and prepared her for the oblivion she expected in death. Her people had been dying out for generations, and so the elders taught the young to embrace whatever small moments of joy might come, for the final death surely would.
Surviving alone in the jungle had only polished the granite that life had made her into and that abrasive refinement caused Harkon to admire strength above all other things.
The power that surged through the ape-man’s body had put her notions of strength to shame, for he was like a thing made of flexible stone. A stone that seemed to hold the level might of the jungle and earth, perhaps even the sun.
Gazda moved as no living man had ever moved, and his strength might have even surpassed that of the amazing apes. He had rushed east, tearing through the canopy like an unstoppable wind, only slowing at times to descend near the jungle floor to check the Bakwaniri trail.
With her breasts pressed against the sturdy bulwark of the ape-man’s back, Harkon could barely measure the beating of his heart or working of his lungs.
His travel through the constant green had appeared effortless. An excellent thing, too, for their quarry was enlivened beyond belief.
Harkon was impressed by the pace set by the Bakwaniri as they traveled and it seemed that the ape-man felt the same. He had even said as much with an easily translated sign of exasperation after judging the age of their tracks in the undergrowth.
But the huntress had studied her enemy while on the move, and knew their ways. She understood that they maintained their rapid pace in part through discipline but also by consuming a magic drink that she had seen them share. Once she had even recovered a small measure of the substance from her victims but found the bitter potion unpalatable.
The Bakwaniri also maintained their speed by keeping a fairly tight formation, and holding it as the leader set a vocal rhythm to his drumming feet with the group strung out behind him. She knew well the rhythmic chant that carried through the jungle like a rapid and endless version of a bullfrog’s call.
Additionally, the noise made by the masked men scared off all but the most determined predators...
...like Harkon.
She knew the Bakwaniri were mortal, and in time their merciless pace would take its toll, the weakest would slow and fall behind, easy targets for her spear or bow.
The leader of these raiders also had an instinct for finding the best trail to navigate, something any jungle dweller could learn to do when born of the forest.
Harkon knew that for many miles around their village the Bakwaniri had cleared the trails of vine and rock. As they had moved outward in the intervening years of her mission, they cut pathways ever deeper into the forest west of the river.
This made it possible for them to travel at speed closer to home or when crossing the jungle proper, often moving in groups over the wide lanes pounded flat by elephant herds.
A creature like Gazda had no need for such winding ways since he moved as straight as an arrow by throwing himself through the high trees. He had his splendid strength and speed to rely upon and so he liked to lie in wait on the trail ahead when hunting the Bakwaniri.
Harkon had a predator’s special knowledge of traveling the jungle vastness, and was often willing to sacrifice speed for surprise. In dealings with the Bakwaniri, she preferred attacking from the rear since it was the only way to succeed against greater numbers.
The large collection of hairy trophies affixed to her belt suggested her method of attack was superior to the ape-man’s.
So quickly had Gazda carried her through the trees that Harkon began to think it possible to reach the Bakwaniri village before nightfall. So she had been alarmed when he suddenly veered from the pursuit of their enemies, abandoning the trail below and hurtling to the south.
They had been flying through the canopy, Harkon riding Gazda like he was some magical beast from her grandmother’s stories.
Sitting astride the ape-man was exhilarating, even if the first miles were needed for Harkon to trust his incredible strength, and physical sturdiness.
She had quickly learned that she need not worry about hurting her mount as no grip that she had put upon the ape-man had done more than dent his ivory flesh. At one point as he scrambled straight up a vine, she had hung from his neck with a hold that would have strangled a normal man, but instead it had felt like her arms were wrapped around a solid tree branch.
That was why she had been shocked when just after leaving the Bakwaniri trail; a sudden lethargy came upon him. One moment, he’d been managing incredible feats of strength and agility, and the next, his entire body quivered with muscles growing slack and flesh going cold.
The ape-man had struggled on until he’d barely been able to explain what was happening, relying instead upon simple pantomime that showed he needed to sleep at that very moment, and there would be no debate about it.
So Gazda had started spying about the jungle heights as though he recognized the individual trees by sight, and soon he swung to a massive old iroko that had been struck by lightning. The top third of the jungle giant was dead, and many years of rain and weather had eroded the heights into a labyrinth of hollows and wooden caves.
There, he had quickly found a hole that offered a place for Harkon to camp upon a broad and heavy bow, and with barely a gesture more he had hidden himself within the trunk.
Harkon had made herself comfortable on the high branch, and slept as she could with the forest soaring all around her.
Then random thoughts of her dwindling tribe, and her missing son had added seething emotions to the mix of her dreams and brought her awake with tears upon her face, or roaring and slashing out with her weapons, searching for enemies to kill.
The torment usually followed her into waking moments and left her hopeless.
For even if Harkon could find her son and the others who had been taken, she knew their freedom would be short lived, for as long as the Bakwaniri existed in the jungle they would have their need for slaves, and taste for human flesh.
So long as they lived.
The only other thing Harkon and her people could do would be to leave the forest altogether, and find a new place in which to live. But the old tales also spoke of distant lands and other tribes that were as fierce and proud as her own people had been, and as protective of their territories, and there were stories of savages worse than the Bakwaniri.
So revenge and extinction might be the only thing left for Harkon and her people—and there had been days she wondered if some small moment of joy could ever find her spirit again.
Shifting on her rough seat, she pulled up the braided line of Bakwaniri hair that hung from her belt, and let it blow in the wind as she counted the dead.
Her fierce expression broke around a toothy grin. Revenge would have to do.
She was certainly in the right company for it.
Gazda had a fire in his eyes whenever the names “Bakwaniri” or “bone-face” passed his lips. He was a formidable man and powerful fighter with strength that Harkon could only compare to the tales of old—and it was clear that he hated the cannibals with all his heart.
But he was one man, and with her, only two warriors were on their way to fight an entire tribe. The Bakwaniri were degenerate and deserving the death she hoped to bring them, but against so many, there could be but one outcome.
She sighed, moving on her lofty perch to rub her aching knee.
Death then...
So long as a Bakwaniri died screaming by her hands as death came, then Harkon would be pleased. A strange legacy for the last survivors of a people who had once laughed, loved their children, and enjoyed good company.
A sudden quiet thump coming from within the hollow tree at her back told her that Gazda had awakened with t
he falling sun and soon would join her.
With night coming on, she expected that they would be forced to travel by land. She knew the ape-man passed through the treetops after dark, but she could not imagine it possible if he carried her as a burden.
Harkon hoped the river was not far. Of course, the huntress had no way of knowing the distance that they had traveled through the trees for she had never ridden an ape-man before.
CHAPTER 28 – Signum draconis
Mrs. Quarrie and Virginia knelt by Lilly’s bed as the sky darkened outside the small window. The governess had remained there since she’d returned, barely taking the time to change into fresh clothing.
She held a cool compress against the girl’s forehead while Mrs. Quarrie rubbed her heated wrists. Lilly’s comely features remained normal, even radiant, as her grandmother had observed, though there was nothing normal or healthy about her condition.
After a terrible chill, Lilly had grown increasingly warm to the touch. Her skin felt tight and dry, and it was clear that she would be consumed by fever if they could not find a way to stop it.
How could she endure? Her heart continued to race and slow at intervals, and her feeble breath wheezed as if she were drowning. She could not keep much water down—and her caretakers had abandoned their attempts to feed her, worried that vigorous retching might use up whatever strength remained to her.
The sudden turn had come so quickly after Van Resen’s departure an hour past that Mr. Quarrie was just now convincing Phillip Holmes to fetch the scientist. Quarrie had made a perfunctory search by calling for him from the raised platform outside the door, but Van Resen was nowhere to be seen.
The young Englishman had been dawdling, and as he delayed, Mr. Quarrie had grown apoplectic.
However Holmes could not be induced to hurry as he quibbled over such decisions as whether to take a kitchen knife or the Cossack sword for self-defense.
Mr. Quarrie fumed at the younger man’s indecisiveness, and would have thundered his contempt if they had not been so close to Lilly’s sickbed.
“Take either! Take both!” Mr. Quarrie finally snapped. “Take the damned forks and spoons while you’re at it. But go...”
“I can’t leave the cabin undefended,” Mr. Holmes countered, and Miss James smiled despite her worry. She had been right to think the man a coward.
Mrs. Quarrie sat at the bottom corner of the bed ignoring the argument as she reached out quickly to draw Virginia’s damp cloth away.
“Wait! She’s cold, and shivers now,” the old woman warned, gingerly touching the girl’s hand. “Oh, how can we help her?”
“If only the captain were here!” Virginia was upset that she did not get a chance to welcome the ranger back properly, though she had experienced a minor twinge of guilt at the relief she felt at his absence. Captain Seward had a way of seeing things, and her night with Gazda was not something she wanted to explain to him—at least until she had the opportunity to sort out her own emotions on the matter.
“What can that old walrus do?” Holmes hissed through the curtain.
“Plenty, boy!” Mr. Quarrie answered. “You don’t get to be an ‘old’ anything in the Texas Rangers unless you know how to think on your feet. I’m sure Captain Seward would know what to do about snake bite, venomous insects, and poisonous plants. And who knows how much Indian medicine he’s picked up.”
“Well, the sun is setting...and the only doctor we’ve got has abandoned us,” Holmes said indignantly. “I must have the lamp if I’m to go look for him!”
“Devil take you boy we can’t spare it!” Mr. Quarrie growled. “Give me that sword, and another old walrus will go find him blind!”
Virginia and Mrs. Quarrie drew more blankets over the shivering girl, but halted when the yurt door swung open and the final light of the day threw shadows against the curtain.
Mr. Quarrie’s squat form appeared on the left in conflict with Mr. Holmes’ tall, lithe silhouette on the right. Both men had a hand upon the curved sword that they held high between them, while beneath this arch stood the wiry shadow of Van Resen.
“Fascinating tableau, gentlemen,” the scientist’s sharp voice rang. “And well suited to the straits we find ourselves in. Though, the threat to Damocles would be nothing compared to the perilous knowledge I bear.”
“Doctor, please!” Mr. Quarrie cried. “It’s Lilly!”
“Take these, Mr. Holmes,” Van Resen said, and Virginia watched the scientist’s silhouette move to Holmes’. “Put them on the table for safekeeping.”
Both shapes disappeared as the door closed.
Then Dr. Van Resen whipped the curtain aside and stepped through with Mr. Quarrie crowding the space close behind.
“Ladies,” the scientist said in greeting. “How is she?”
Virginia noticed that Van Resen’s lively face was ashen and the skin around his eyes looked bruised. He gestured for the damp cloth she held.
“Lilly looks flushed,” he said, using the compress to wipe away the dark earth that stained his hands and arms to the elbows before reaching out to press the girl’s forehead with a palm. The governess saw that the man’s clothing was similarly soiled.
“Miss James,” he said quietly, leaning over the girl. “Some light please.”
Virginia took the lamp from the crate on which it rested and brought it to where Van Resen held the girl’s eyelids open.
“Her pupils are unresponsive,” he reported, moving his hand in and out of the space between Lilly and the lamp. “Now the test...”
He set his fingertips to the girl’s rosy lips and parted them to show her glossy white teeth against red gums.
Virginia gasped, and the Quarries clutched each other in disbelief.
“So I feared...” The scientist glanced at Virginia and back to Lilly’s teeth. They were of even space and height save for her upper canines that had somehow grown longer; the needle-sharp points overlapped her lower teeth by a quarter inch.
“Nosferatu,” Van Resen whispered quietly, lowering his head. “Is the cause...”
“But...what?” Virginia stammered, as she took up the girl’s hand. “Lord, her skin! Look at her cheeks—she burns.”
The governess reached for a fresh cloth to soak, but the scientist stayed her.
“Miss James there is no need,” he said, gesturing to Lilly’s mouth before he drew his hand away and the sweet lips closed over monstrous fangs.
“But, doctor?” Mr. Quarrie rumbled behind him, his heavy-knuckled hands clenching his wife’s rounded shoulders. “We must cool her fever!”
“Only if it comforts you,” Van Resen said. “She is beyond our help now.”
He turned to their disbelieving faces. “Bring the lamp. I will explain in the other room.”
“I entered the moringa wood,” Van Resen said, when all were settled. He had placed the lamp on the table behind him so its flickering light now cast him in silhouette. “That dark and sickly stand of trees that I told you to avoid.”
The castaways gasped, remembering the noisome stench that came from the wood on the ocean breeze.
“Most interesting that a plant known the world over for its beneficial qualities could have been so...perverted,” the scientist said, looking inward until he blanched. “The grove is rotten!”
Holmes made a disapproving noise, but did not speak.
“Perhaps the ground is spoiled there,” Mr. Quarrie said. “Such things happen. Salt or mineral deposits. Poor drainage... Perhaps even the animal dung that fertilizes the roots?”
Dr. Van Resen regarded the older man evenly, but offered no more
“What has this to do with Lilly?” Miss James finally blurted.
“Everything,” the scientist said, appraising each of the castaways, begging for patience with his eyes.
“I spoke before of how I felt there was a special connection between the abandoned journal, the Cossack sword, and the decoration and design of this unique ‘shelter’...” Van Resen ge
stured to indicate these elements as he spoke. “And I alluded to my suspicion that whoever arranged these things might have done so as an exile who was clearly enamored with his past and the place he was forced to leave.”
“Yes, doctor,” Mr. Quarrie said, as his wife pressed his ruddy hand to her cheek. “What of it?”
“I spoke of them also in connection with the wild man ‘Gazda’ who so bravely rescued Miss James from a terrible fate,” Van Resen continued. “I felt that he also had a history with this place. The medallion that he wore fanned the flames of my suspicion but now I have no doubt that he belongs here.”
Miss James had drawn her hands up and clasped them over her heart. Her bosom rose and fell deeply; her skin flushed dark red.
Mr. Quarrie glanced at the Cossack sword. “He’s Hungarian?”
“Someone was, yes. I think it was the unfortunate fellow whose remains we found here. But Gazda...” Van Resen said, rubbing his palms together. “On his pendant was a most unusual symbol that to me seemed at once familiar and alien—for in fact, I had seen it before.”
The castaways waited for him to continue.
“When I entered the moringa grove, I found a forest of trees that had been warped and sickened by some dark design or malady,” the scientist explained. “And I believed at first that some essence among the branches was to blame for the stench we have all smelled, and for the hallucinations I experienced the deeper I ventured into the wood.”
The others shifted uncomfortably. Mr. Quarrie repeated the word “hallucination.”
“I believed this odor to be some natural agent: a flower’s perfume, pollen, even pestilential vapors released by the remains of some dead creature—until I found within the grove something that I now wish had remained forever lost,” Van Resen said, standing between the others and the table. “Miss James, you remember the medallion that Gazda wore, and the mark etched upon it?”
“What of it?” Mr. Quarrie asked protectively as the governess nodded.
Mrs. Quarrie covered her face and Phillip Holmes stepped forward expectantly.
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