The Darkness Among The Trees
By Max Birbaum
The sun was setting in the land of Darfar.
Shadows crept slowly across the vast cliffs of the coastline. They lingered and danced between the enormous trees and voluptuous plants, grew taller by the hour and threatened away the remnants of the fading day. A man stood among the trees watching the waves crash against the shore through a clearing in the thick undergrowth. Even the foam of the waves seemed to have lost all of its colour and structure. The man made a noise of disapproval. He wore the remnants of what might have been a uniform of some kind. His breeches seemed to have been of a clear white once but had faded into something that looked like tainted ivory. A curved knife was hidden within each of the almost knee-high boots he wore. The long rapier at his side seemed out of place in such primordial and untamed surroundings, civilization being hundreds of miles away. Yet the figure seemed lithe like a panther and emanated a natural confidence. Those tender hands with its long fingers suited those of a poet, but they could also weave death. The vulture-like nose gave the man something savage in his appearance, but there were wrinkles around his eyes too, which came from laughter. A blood-red bandana was wrapped across his forehead. He rarely went without it.
The person was Sir William Archibald, but men mostly knew him by a different name. “My, how I hate this place!” he remarked as the sun sank into the waters on the horizon.
William Archibald resumed his march through the jungle of Darfar without haste. As he had travelled far and wide in his life and known many rough places, he trusted his instincts and abilities to survive in such a hostile environment. Just when he was about to call it a day and find a place to rest, he smelled something in the air. His body went erect and finally he quickened his pace. There was smoke in the air coming from a fire, accompanied by screams and other sounds of pillage and murder. The Englishman started to run.
After a short time he reached a wide clearing filled with crude huts of timber and mud, the roofs being made from the leaves of some bizarre plant of the jungle. The village was burning and blood-smeared corpses littered the ground. The dead seemed to be natives, as the ebon skin of the mutilated and torn bodies indicated. “Blast it, there is evil afoot here!” said Archibald as he tore the rapier from its sheath. Carefully he advanced to the center of the burning village, all senses alert. Before him lay a huge pit surrounded by a circle of huts. The pit was obviously intended to be used for cooking, but now it was filled with bodies. From one of them emanated a quiet moan. Archibald hurried to the pit and found a boy of maybe twelve years. He could see with an expert gaze that the child was dying. The boy started to speak slowly in a slightly altered dialect of one of the river-tribes of West Africa. Archibald had learned it during his past negotiations with this peaceful folk to establish trade with the Empire.
“Are they gone?” whispered the boy. “The If’truul, the shadows of the grasslands! My eyes seem to fool me, I can’t seem to see or hear them anymore, but they were everywhere! Are you too a devil then?”
“I won’t do you any harm,” said the Englishman. “Who did this to you and your people?”
“The devil priest Yarguu and his followers, the If’truul, did this! They worship the gorilla-god of Gullah and have killed my people and stolen away our beloved priestess Itlinaa. Mercy! Oh, the shadows among the trees…!”
The boy closed his eyes and died. Archibald held his hand for some time before he stood up and gazed into the dim jungle before him. “Heads will roll for this!”
“Now look at this, camaradas! What have we here, a white man lost in this wasteland, eh?”
William Archibald turned towards the speaker. A group of eleven men bearing torches had arrived from the near jungle. They were white like himself. Their faces, grimly lit by the fire, looked cruel and worn. Gems and golden rings glittered in pierced ears. All of them wore heavy cutlasses or scimitars.
Archibald knew exactly with whom he dealt here. “And what are Spanish buccaneers doing in this part of Darfar?” he asked.
The leader of the pack, the one who had first addressed him, gave a sneer. He was a strongly muscled brute whose long arms looked more like those of a primate. In one hairy paw he gripped an axe, in the other, a curved blade. “You shut up!” he said. “I ask questions here! You kill those tribesmen? We see fire, come through jungle.” He looked around the burned village and its dead inhabitants. “No looting here, unfortunately. And you? We got attacked while being in jungle, many of me men were killed by some strange beasts, only these few remain! Maybe you sent those monsters, eh? Maybe we just kill you too, did not have much fun lately, no!”
The Englishman didn’t move, yet a sly smile reached his lips. “You try that, pirate, and you meet your maker!”
The brute instantly raised his weapons, froth on his lips. “Wait, Galvez!” suddenly cried one of the buccaneers. “I think I know who this is! The rapier! The red bandana! We are dealing with William Archibald, who is also called ‘Sans Pitié’!” An excited mumble went through the group of pirates. Obviously the name was known. Only their leader Galvez didn’t seem to be aware that he was in danger.
“Sans Pitié?” he pronounced with some difficulties. “Ho ho, so a damned Frenchman this is?”
“I am surely not a Frenchman, rover! I am but a blade of the Empire and a torch in the hand of the house of Tudor! Yet I gained my battle-name in the finest duelling courts of Malnéant and Orléans!”
Galvez started to laugh mockingly. “What are duels of a Frenchman to Sergio Galvez? But be sure I will kill you, you English mongrel, and send your carcass back to your wretched queen!”
Archibald started moving slowly towards Galvez, the hand that held his rapier folded behind his back. Suddenly, too fast for the eye to see, he broke into a small sprint. Like a snake hidden in the grass, his blade licked forth and pierced the heart of Sergio Galvez, who died in an instant and dropped to the earth. There had been no time for him to raise his weapons. His comrades drew their swords now, but hesitated.
“Ha, another heart pierced by vanity!” exclaimed Archibald loudly as he wiped his blade clean. “If you wish to insult me, fine! A duel might be adequate then, for no revilement should ever remain unpunished! But if you insult the Empire or the house of Tudor, I warn you! You shall sail the rivers of Hell then and deal with the Devil only! But well, no more of that!” He looked up. “What are Spanish rovers doing in Darfar? I don’t like to repeat my questions too often, gentlemen!”
A giant negro stepped forth slowly, scimitar in hand. “I am Song. We are indeed buccaneers, paid by the Spanish crown. We were sent here to convince the local tribes to trade with the Spaniards and no one else. We might have burned a few villages while negotiating, but things like this happen, you know.”
“Certainly!” Archibald wasn’t smiling. “I can imagine your way of negotiating quite well. And what about the attacks in the jungle your former leader was talking about? He sounded like the sun of Darfar had taken its toll on his head!”
Song looked uneasy. “Galvez might have been a fool, yet he spoke truth here! We went through the jungle, thirty-two men, fully armed! Then the jungle came alive! Something was hiding in the trees! Something that tore, scratched and bit! We managed to fight those shadows off, yet many of us were killed in battle! We surviving few started to run, I don’t know for how long. We then saw smoke drifting through the branches and came here!” Song looked at William Archibald curiously. “And what is Sans Pitié doing in the African jungle? I have heard tales about you, how you fought the harpies and its queen in the Pyrenees. The fire that devastated Izmir, said to have been caused by a genie and its curse. How you wanted to charge the walls of besieged Lissabon with a sabre only and five men had to hold you back! What brings you here?”
“Ask your Spanish lords, for a start! They sank my ship! I was harrying one of their galleons that fled when they sighted my banner. Unfortunately two more of their war-ships appeared on the ho
rizon, but alas, I don’t like to give up a merry chase like this so easily! I might have misjudged the coming battle a little then, I must admit. My ship was destroyed, masts and rigging were broken, and my crew sank to the bottom of this cursed ocean! I swam to the shore, the lone survivor. Blast those Spanish cowards! They are becoming quite impertinent since we sank their Armada!” He scratched his cheek absently. “And it was not a genie that burned Izmir, but an Ifrit. A spirit of fire, summoned by the local grand vizier. They always do things like this, blast grand viziers too!” Then Archibald was smiling again. “So, what now, gentlemen? As I see it, we are hereditary enemies and I have sworn to avenge those villagers and save their priestess, which was abducted by some madman! You can choose to fight me and fewer of you will return to their homes. You are also free to leave and try the jungle again on your own—yet I would not advise to do so.”
“The Spanish crown doesn’t mean anything to us!” rumbled Song. “We are but its ugly and ferocious dogs that do the dirty work, but we would more likely meet the gallows in Cádiz than receive the gold owed us! We are not frightened of the Spaniards. It’s this jungle that haunts us!”
“Then join me!” said the Englishman. “I’ve got a feeling that there is a connection between the evil priest Yuurga and those things that attacked you. We rest here for the night. Keep a fire burning and post guards!”
The night remained silent and uneventful for several hours, until Song called Archibald to see him. “After I finished my watch, I sought out a hut to rest in,” said Song. “Look at what I found inside.”
Archibald entered the ruined hut and examined the small carving which lay on the floor. It portrayed a beast of some kind with furry hair and huge eyes, jaws agape and threatening. “Where did you find this?” he asked. “Looks like a spiritual idol or totem to me!”
Song shook his head. “It was placed here. Left by someone. Or something!” He made an obscure gesture with his right hand. “I was born on this coast. I know what this is! This is the gorilla-god of Gullah! I have only seen it once in my life, far away from here, in another land. I had thought this cult extinct in these latitudes!”
The Englishman raised his brows. “Let me assure you that the real gorilla-gods reside in Westminster. Yet I sense something here. ’Tis a thing of evil, I think. I have seen several totems and idols like this in the past, indeed, I have known ancient gods and witnessed foul magic! Yes, I can sense something. This idol is old. Very old!”
Song refused to touch the idol in any way, so Archibald picked it up and hurled it into the center of the burning campfire, where the coals were scorching hot. Black smoke engulfed the carving, then vanished. “Dawn is near,” said Archibald.
The band of warriors left the burned village at the first light of day. William Archibald and Song, both skilled pathfinders, were able to follow the tracks of the mysterious attackers. Yet even an amateur would have been able to do so in most places, for the abductors had left a trail of destruction in the undergrowth. Branches had been cut and broken, plants were ripped from the earth with bad intent and left to die. There were marks of huge claws in the trunk of a palm tree. Archibald placed his hand on the trunk beside the scratchings. “Looks like a panther claimed its territory here, only it must have been a panther of twice the normal size,” he mumbled, more to himself than to one of the bystanders. Then he remembered something and turned to Song. “Do you know what an If’truul is? One of the villagers mentioned them. I have never heard the name before.”
Song watched the palm tree bend its shape in the light wind before he answered. “The If’truul are said to be the servants of the gorilla-god of Gullah,” he said slowly. “They are the hunters of the grasslands. It is said amongst my people that long ago they were men who defied Father Leopard. This Father Leopard was worshipped by all tribes in the riverlands and they offered him water and meat. In return Father Leopard kept his brethren, the lions, from entering the jungle and scared away the lesser beasts. The gorilla-god, who felt jealousy and envy toward Father Leopard, wanted to be worshipped too; worshipped and feared. One day he approached a tribe of the lower deltas and talked them into betraying Father Leopard. The men refused to offer their sacrifices to Father Leopard any longer, and in return the gorilla-god sent them his little servants, baboons, bonobos and mandrills. The inhabitants of the village became lazy and vile. When Father Leopard visited them to eat their food and drink their water, the villagers laughed at him and told him to disappear. The monkeys screamed and yelled and laughed. Father Leopard then became very angry and let out a mighty roar, which made all monkeys immediately flee to the treetops. Since that day monkeys fear the leopard most of all other beasts. Then Father Leopard wove a mighty magic and said to the villagers: ‘You have betrayed me and are therefore exiled to the grasslands, where you shall dwell forever with the lone winds and the darkness! Thy image shall resemble that of the false god you fell for and his madness shall be yours!’ Since that day, no one ever saw those villagers again. Yet warriors spoke in fear of the grasslands shortly after this.”
After two days of steady marching the band of rogues reached the edge of the jungle. Before them lay the grasslands that stretched across their entire field of vision. “If only we had a map!” said Song angrily. “We have to be careful that we do not lose their trail here!”
Archibald looked more confident. “If a map of this place existed, it would probably say ‘Hic sunt leones’ only.” He gave a short laugh. “And this time it would be true!”
Song and Archibald were able to track down the abductors’ trail even through the high grass, where no other paths of any kind existed. At night there were indeed roars of lions around their provisory camp, but the great predators left them alone and did not attack. None of the buccaneers slept well that night. Even Archibald had to admit, to himself at least, that he felt a little concerned.
On the third day Archibald and the band of rogues could finally see a mountain that seemed to tower in the sea of grass surrounding them. Sharp rocks pointed to the sky like skeletal fingers, burning in bright red and copper.
“All the tracks lead there!” said the Englishman. “Let’s hurry. I don’t like the thought of a priestess locked up in such a place!”
Eventually they reached the foothills and started to climb under the merciless and fierce sun. A path led up the crimson mountain toward a ridge. From time to time during the ascent the rovers passed ruins of broken walls and towers that breathed antiquity. When they finally reached the summit, they found that the top of the mountain was a flat, circular plateau surrounded by crumbling walls. The buccaneers hid behind a group of rocks, for what they saw made them hold their breaths.
In the middle of the plateau was a crude altar, made from the same copper stone as the rest of the mountain, though Archibald wasn’t sure if there was dried blood involved too. Bound on the altar lay a young girl, lithe and beautiful, that struggled against the ropes that held her. This could only be Itlinaa. In front of her stood a massive figure with pointed teeth and opal-like skin. He wore the skull of a wildebeest on his head and carried a huge axe made of flint. Yuurga was chanting, speaking an old and forgotten language, his voice rising and falling like the tides of the Nile in ancient Egypt. He spoke words of evil and dread. But even stranger than this man were the creatures that danced around the altar in seemingly maddened ecstasy. They indeed resembled gorillas, yet smaller and with a shaggy, grey fur. From their faces protruded tusks like those of the mighty elephant or the wild boar of the steppes. Talons glittered in the sun, yellow fangs dripped saliva and blood.
“Iftruul!” murmured Song. He grasped his scimitar tighter until his knuckles stood out white.
One of the pirates was hiding a little apart from the others, crouching behind a splintered piece of wall. The man was nervous. Riding the waves and scaring villagers was one thing. Hunting primordial beasts and rushing after black magicians was something far different.
The pirate detected move
ment to his left. He raised his short spear, its blade sporting cruel hooks. He saw nothing, but felt wind. Gravel dropped onto him from above. Suddenly the pirate understood. He looked up. On top of the wall it sat. It sprang. The pirate screamed.
William Archibald rushed to the luckless buccaneer as soon as he heard the scream. The Iftruul that had slain the man made a barking noise and menacingly rushed towards the Englishman. Archibald evaded his clumsy attacker with a slight shift of his hip. He gracefully whirled around his rapier and pierced the heart of the grey beast. The other Iftruul and Yuurga were alarmed by the noise. The priest of evil shouted orders. Archibald charged toward the altar and Song and the buccaneers followed close behind. The black magician Yuurga laughed and raised his mighty axe, trying to behead the bound priestess before anyone could reach them. With a swift motion Archibald drew a dagger from one of his boots and threw it. It pierced the right hand of Yuurga, causing him to drop his axe. The dark one stared at the blade stuck in his hand. Laughing with his unhuman, deep-booming voice, he withdrew the dagger and let it fall to the ground carelessly. Then he raised his hands and started to chant. The ground shivered and from a hole in the rocks emerged a giant, yellow-scaled serpent.
“U’rasha!” yelled Song, who was fighting right next to Archibald. “Sans Pitié, it’s U’rasha, the strangler of the river! Free the priestess! We will fight off the enemies!”
Archibald slowly backed away from the two Iftruuls he was duelling at once. “Serpents! It’s always serpents that belong to the wielders of black magic! Yet keep in mind, magicians and their minions both share the same weaknesses. They both die if you cut off their heads!” Song laughed at this and swung his bloody scimitar.
Archibald evaded three attacking Iftruuls and cut down two others before he reached the altar. As fast as possible he cut the cords holding down Itlinaa. She stared at the white man in bewilderment, yet thanked him in the river-dialect.
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