Against the Sorcerer

by Rod Hunsicker

Bumude of the Jungle  paused at the edge of the jungle. The village before him was deserted. His nostrils sucked in the stale odors of people living there several days ago. He saw no man, woman or child walking about and heard only the normal sounds of the jungle behind him. Wandering through its deserted walkways of the village, the jungle-man  confirmed that everyone was gone. He began to look for clues that might tell him what had happened to evacuate the village and in what direction the people might have gone.

 Not much information was gathered, however, before the wind brought the scent of new people. They were different from the villagers, not even of the Black Kingdoms, and some of them carried a scent similar to those of the Arabs in the time and place of Bumude's home. It sounded like many men were coming. Far from the cover of the jungle brush, the jungle-man stole away from the incoming party. It was his intention to take to the nearby trees where he could observe them from a safe, hidden position. These Arab like men were noisy, too concerned with their own affairs to notice the jungle-man, and Bumude reached the trees without being noticed. Scrambling like Mumu, the monkey, Bumude found a perch where he could observe the village without being detected.

 There were more than Arabs in the party that entered the abandoned village. Small black warriors armed with short bows and curved knives ran ahead of the main group to scout out possible danger or other complications. Behind these men came a group of Shamrite swordsmen, as these were the men who smelled like Arabs. These warriors walked in a circle around a tall robed figure who was definitely the master of the band. Despite the warm weather the Shamrites wore mail over their robes and skullcaps of metal under their flowing headgear. Behind these blueblack haired soldiers for hire were a collection of dangerous looking men who were also mercenaries. These men were of diverse racial background and alarmed and dangerous. The party was forty four strong, and the jungle-man was glad he had chosen the cautious path.

 It was not the hottest season in the jungle. The party's leader swept back his hood and stared hawklike around him; his cold green eyes missing nothing. His hair was a dull gray, his skull longer than normal, and there was an unnatural thinness to his body that was without weakness. At his command his soldiers scoured the village and returned to him with nothing to show.

The leader brought out a piece of jewelry from his robe and held it over his left eye. He scanned the village again through this odd eyepiece until something caught his attention. Holding the jeweled eyepiece in his left hand he walked over to one of the largest huts in the village, followed by a horde of his men. Several of the small black men squatted and scratched the dirt all around the hut until they picked up the trail of whoever had lived there. A hideous grin of delightful expectation split the leader's face as he waved these jungle hunters in pursuit of their prey.

 Suddenly the leader jerked upright. His left hand lifted swiftly to his eye and he turned about in a searching circle until the gem led him to whatever had alarmed him. Peering through the gem, the leader looked directly at Bumude, who squatted in a tree about a hundred yards away. The leader gestured to one of his men, and a monkey on a chain was brought to him He seized the monkey in a cruel grasp and spoke over it fiercely, and when finished, he threw the monkey in the air.

As it sailed through the air a beast of vicious appearance burst out of the monkey's form and landed on all fours in the direction of the jungle-man. The magic had forced it to grow into a misshapen, black-red caricature of what it once was. Its transformation resulted in a monster of pure destruction. With a roar, this magical creature raced across the village directly at the tree where Bumude was.
Bumude froze, unable to believe what he had just seen. Such a transformation was contrary to all his worldly experiences. The Shamrites and other mercenaries scattered away from the monster, holding their ears tightly to shut out its unearthly wailing. While the jungle-man  had never known fear, caution reared up powerfully and commanded him to flee. This was no natural creature who charged him. It was best that he learn more about it before fighting it.

 Bumude sped through the middle terraces of the jungle trees at top speed, wishing to place distance between himself and the monster. However, when he glanced back, he saw that, monkeylike, the monster had also taken to the trees and was accelerating toward him at a terrifying speed.

 Never had the jungle-man  hurled his body so swiftly through the trees. More like a gibbon than a mangani, he hardly seemed to touch a branch or trunk before leaping on. Despite all his efforts the monster was gaining on him. In his haste, Bumude was cut again and again by branches he callously swept aside as he hurdled his body through the trees. And still he was failing. The monster was nearly upon him. With little to gain from fleeing, the jungle-man  turned abruptly and yanked out his knife, intending to kill or be killed. There was a blur of red-black as the monster leaped upon him, a scent of burning flesh, and the breathless sensation of falling to the ground. Then there was nothing.

 "Kick that dog and you'll wake a lion. He'll recover soon enough," came the deep toned warning.

 Bumude recovered his senses slowly. He had fallen about twenty feet on to his back and was lucky not to have broken it. Immediately he looked around for the monster, thinking that he had been out for only a moment, and saw only a monkey lying nearby with an arrow through its breast. Then he heard a voice he knew.

 "Well, jungle-man, what a thicket of thorns you've fallen in."

 Standing several feet away was the barbarian who had stolen Jane, leaning on a great broadsword and grinning like Dunga,  the hyena. Surrounding the jungle-man  were a dozen of dangerous well armed men. Helpless, Bumude relaxed and leaned back on his elbows.

 Connar was impressed. Again. He and his men had watched the jungle-man flee the monster created by Varion. At times it had appeared as if he had been flying through the trees, and Connar wondered if this jungle-man might not be a wizard.

 "Don't worry about the sorcerer. You're at least a mile away from him and he's probably forgotten about you already. He'd hardly think his creature would fail to kill you," said Connar. He waved his men back to give Bumude room to get up.

 Bumude sat up. "What happened to that monster?"

 Connar laughed. "Hell, the priest says it just ran out of power. You won the race, jungle-man. Took it out of the spell's range. A simple arrow killed it."

 Bumude looked down at the knife still gripped by his right hand. He replaced it in its sheath and got to his feet slowly.

 "Now what?" he asked.

 "Looks like I got you, jungle-man," laughed the barbarian. "I don't think that little knife of yours can match my broadsword. But don't worry, I have other uses for a man like you."

 Bumude frowned. He straightened up and stretched his aching back.

The big Cymbrian watched the jungle man's muscles stretch like ropes under his sunbrowned skin. Steely blue eyes measured Bumude's fitness with a practiced eye. Connar decided that Bumude was just bruised and stunned by his fall. A lesser man would have been shattered.

 "We've been trailing that Hyperborean wizard for a month now, hoping to catch him before he completes his mission. After a few skirmishes with his horde, I've lost too many men and have only these dogs you see around you," grunted the barbarian.

 If Connar's men were insulted by being called dogs, they didn't show it. When Bumude studied them, they glared back at the jungle-man and waited for Connar's word with houndlike loyalty.

 "My wife said your name was Connar," said Bumude, "I am Bumude of the Apes."

 "Of the Apes," grunted the barbarian, "so I have heard. As you said, I'm Connar, a Cymbrian. Let's put the past behind us where it belongs. Come over here, jungle-man, and meet a member of my horde who isn't a dog."

 The man to whom Connar was referring was dressed in a priest's robes, although these black robes were shortened because of the jungle heat. From his year long stay in Akluononia, Bumude recognized the priest as being of Miter, the chief god of that city. This priest was well built and clear eyed as he smiled at the jungle-man.

 "And I am Lucian, a priest of Miter," said he. Most Hygorians introduced themselves with their name and country. Lucian didn't mention his. It was obvious that his vocation in life was more important than his home but Bumude recognized his accent as Akluononian as well as belonging to the upper class living in that country.

 "Can anyone explain to me what is happening here?" asked the jungle-man.

 "A great evil moves through this jungle," said Lucian gravely. "The Hyperborean wizard seeks power no man should have."

 Connar squinted at the priest. Briefly he wondered if it were only the gold that sent him on this mission. Looking at his men, he saw mostly woodsmen and bordermen. Men from Vossia and Westmouth with two Gontermen thrown in. All these men were hardened from action on Akluononia's savage frontier. These woodland fighters had been hired by the priests of Miter to hunt down the Hyperborean wizard and stop him from completing or using the mask of Kltentroup. All these men worshipped Miter, who was the chief god of Akluononia, Ofur and Nemmera. Connar wondered if some religions notion had sent them south to these black jungles as well as gold from fabulous Ofur.

 The barbarian transferred his thoughts on his own motivations. Usually there was not enough gold to pay him to directly confront a wizard. Oh, he might steal from one, or fight one in the business of thievery, but he rarely considered attacking one. While Connar feared no natural enemy, magic was something that sent a chill down his spine. Yet he was here. Perhaps it was the fact that Varion was a Hyperborean. As a race Cymbrians hated Hyperborean. This was only natural because those strange men from the murky north raided and enslaved the Cymbrians on a regular basis. Connar himself had once been a slave among them. His personal hatred for them was strong.

 Laughing at himself, Connar realized that gold was not the only reason he and his men were hunting the wizard.

 Bumude frowned as a thought suddenly disturbed him. "What will this wizard think when his monkey doesn't return to him. Would he expect it to do so?"

 "By Gom, you may be right," ejaculated the Cymbrian. He shouted orders to his hounds, hustling them into motion.

 "If the monkey was a familiar, or if returning was part of the spell," mused Lucian absentmindedly. "However, it is equally possible that he expected it to die when the spell ran out. That spell has a fatal debilitating effect on its host."

"Let's take no chances. He might send his Nin hunters out scouting for it. Little men, but dangerous in the jungle," said Connar. The Cymbrian has on a vest of light chainmail, but most of his men were without armor. "Let's get out of here."

 Bumude followed the fleeing human hounds. His back still hurt from his fall, and the scratches and gashes on his body had tightened up with dried blood. However, the jungle-man was hardened to pain and picked up speed as he went along. Unsure of his strength, he remained on the ground with the others, and was just as vulnerable to attack as they were.

 Connar chose a speedy retreat rather than a silent one. If anyone were following his band they would have no trouble tracking them, but the Nin, superb hunters that they were, would have found their trail anyway. If the Nin were hunting them by themselves the threat of these little, usually shy men, attacking was minimal, but not one the Cymbrian was willing to take considering how few of his own men he had left. Also, Connar's forces were deep in a foreign jungle, basically living off the land, and at a disadvantage to the Nin who were at home here. If the Nin were to extend their hunt over several days of pursuit, it would spell doom for the Cymbrian's already haggard forces.

 Connar drifted back to the Bumude who was near the rear of their column. The jungle-man was struggling a bit, obviously concentrating on keeping up with the group. The Cymbrian was surprised he was even walking after the fall he had taken.

 "You gonna make it?" Connar grunted.

 "Have to," gasped Bumude. The thought of Jane, unprotected in this savage land, spurred him on, and life was too good for him to give up without a fierce struggle.

 It was clear that the jungle-man was of little use at the moment. In the future perhaps, his jungle talents would aide Connar's group.

 "I'm going to drift back and see if we are being followed. One or two of my hounds are good enough to stay with me. Keep with my men and help them if you can," Connar growled. He called two of his men back with him. Bumude nodded, and limped along with Connar's fleeing forces.

As it were Connar almost missed their approach. He had been crouched in ambush for the better part of two hours. Although used to squatting, his left foot was slowly going asleep, so he moved slightly to open its blood supply. This caused several leaves to stir and was enough to alert the Nin, who were coming up the trail. Uncertain how many enemies lay in front of them, the blacks began to withdraw. Their mission was to gather long range information and return it to their master.

His barbarian hair rose close to his scalp, alerting Connar to the presence of the little black men, and he realized that they were aware of his presence so the ambush was off. Connar lifted his head, his blue eyes blazing in frustration and anger, to see if he could spot any of the enemy. A hand gesture alerted his Akluononian scouts, and they started to move in a widening circle in the direction of the small black hunters. Connar discarded his bow and pulled out his throwing hatchet. His scouts did the same.

 Several long minutes of cat and mouse moved Connar's group around the Nin hunters, until one of the Akluononians broke cover and hurled his hand axe at a dark target surrounded by green foliage. A thud broke red over the green leaves. The Nin hunter sat down on his naked butt and stared at the hatchet suddenly attached to his chest. The other black abandoned caution and ran off with an arrow notched in his short bow. Connar came at this fleeing man, who turned and shot a poisoned arrow at the charging Cymbrian, turned and ran off again. Connar cursed as the arrow hit his mailed shirt and bounced off. Propelled by his long legs, the barbarian crashed through the jungle foliage; his axe cut through the humid air and split the little hunter's skull. As Connar stood over the dead black, he smiled because he knew that except for his mail, the little man would have killed him first. With a savage wrench he pulled his throwing axe free.

 Connar watched the jungle-man as Bumude conversed in low tones with the priest of Miter. While the Cymbrian still had his barbaric accent, and always would, Bumude spoke Akluononian as if he were born to the language, though Connar knew this was not the case. Bumude was listening carefully to everything Lucian was saying.

 "Yes, sorcery is very real," said the priest in almost a whisper, "some men can bend the forces of nature to their will. We of Miter are sworn never to use magic. It is our faith in our god and his tenets that make us strong."

 "I have seen many strange things in the jungle. Some of them might have been magic. But I have never seen such a blatant display as back in the village when that monkey was transformed into a monster. Instinct told me to flee that dark beast, and it appears my instincts were right," said the jungle-man.

 "Hah," grunted the Cymbrian as he joined them. "Such monsters are seldom slain by natural weapons. Often sorcerers have beasts guarding their lairs or persons who can be slain by a blade or fist, but when a creature of pure magic is fought it is best to have a magical edge in your hand."

 "Do you have such an edge?" asked Bumude.

 Connar shook his shaggy head. "I carry no magic. Magic makes me nervous. I rely on my sword and a little bit of luck to deal with sorcerers. Of course it pays better wages just to avoid them if possible. I am hoping that this wizard is not immune to a blade through the heart.

 "Today, I nearly met Gom,  the gray god of my people, when that Nin arrow bounced off my mail. My hounds laugh at me behind my back for wearing it in this heat, but it saved my life today."

 "The Nin use poison," said Lucian gravely, "a deadly type with no known cure except to themselves."

 Bumude thought back to the days of his youth and the tribe of Mbonga. Memories of black women stirring pots of poison flashed through his mind as he listened to tales of the deadly Nin hunters. So many years had passed since that young ape boy had swung through the trees.

 "Will poison kill a wizard?" asked Bumude.   This talk of magic was slightly disturbing to the practical jungle-man.   All his life he had believed in the strength of his own two hands and had always disregarded words that were not backed up by physical endeavor.   In the world that he had come from there was no magical energy waiting to be bound by gestures or a spoken word.   This new reality was as much a blasphemy to Bumude  as was the Devil on the lips of a priest.

Now he was desperately searching for ways to meet a brand new challenge.   It would shake his world if poison would not kill the wizard, who he still thought of as a man.

 "Hell, who knows what will kill a wizard. Maybe poison will work on this one. I don't like fighting a man who won't fall under a good sword stroke," grunted Connar.

 "This wizard seeks knowledge. Eternal wisdom from the mask of Kltentroup. What he is doing now is assembling the mask by inserting magical gems in sockets placed along mathematical and sorcerers patterns on the face of the mask. He needs two more gems. One must be in the possession of someone in that village where he almost caught you, Bumude. Even now he must be hunting the possessor of that gem," explained Lucian in clear, calm tones.

 "That must be Ubanda, the witchman of the village. I know him. A strange man who claimed to know real magic. Perhaps he does. We were never friendly. Most witch doctors dislike me. It was my good friend Herango that I was visiting, and his family," said Bumude.

"The gems from the Kltentroup mask are less effective in producing magical effect as they are in providing knowledge of things beyond man's comprehension. It is likely that this Ubanda used the gem to know things other men of his village could not. Whether he helped his people or just furthered his own cause was his choice. The Hyperborean will definitely further his own cause. Kltentroup is a deity from beyond the pale of mortal light, and any knowledge taken through a completed mask would be monstrously evil.

 "It is something good men cannot ignore. We have to do something about it. If Varion brings the knowledge of Kltentroup to our world, how long before the monster itself comes," said the priest gravely.

 Connar grunted and laughed harshly. "Tomorrow we will try again."

"Gather your hunters and return to your home," warned the jungle-man. "You will die if you do not."

 Gasping for breath, the Nin stared at this creature with eyes bloated with fear. He had seen death too many times not to recognize the closeness of his own.

 "Hear me and be wise," cautioned the jungle-man, "I am Bumude of the Jungle.   It is I who rule the jungle, and no other. Take your friends and flee into the deep woods so Bumude will not find you after he kills the wizard you follow. I will not warn you again."

 The rope slipped from the Nin, and Bumude held him with one hand twenty feet above the ground. Wind rushed past the small hunter's face as the ape man leaped down to a branch below him, still holding the Nin, and then let his captive fall to the jungle floor below. When the Nin looked up, the jungle-man was gone.

 Unlike Ubanda, the wizard's trail was easy to find. His back was feeling much better so the jungle-man took to the trees moving quickly to catch up to the wizard's main party. Infected by the presence of magic, the jungle took on a new twisted life that the jungle-man had never noticed before. A new scent followed the wizard that made it easy to trail him. Birds were silent, and the insects too. And his skin crawled. Like that time he had laid down near a mound of ants. Or as if he had lice. And he knew he did not because Jane was adamant on cleanliness. The jungle-man shook himself several times as if these offensive things were water he could throw off his body. Bumude was experiencing nauseating sensations by perceiving the mere peripheral effects of magic. Whether it was the magic or the evil of the man or a combination of both, the jungle-man did not know. But he was offended. So much so that in the wizard he recognized an enemy.

 Caution was the way of the beast. Bumude stalked Varion's party along a wide perimeter. He toyed with his range as he tried to discover the limits to the wizard's magical senses. It was this cautious approach coupled with his late start that prevented Bumude from reaching Ubanda before the Hyperborean. When Bumude finally did find Ubanda, the Jutobi witch doctor had been turned inside out. The Hyperborean and his minions had long departed when Bumude squatted beside what was left of Ubanda. This was more evidence of an unnatural way of doing things. Ubanda's bones had been melted, and his insides were now outside, his skin turned inward. There was a rotten smell rising from the corpse that the jungle-man had never detected before. Even the insects, birds, and small scavengers kept away from this kill.

Whatever Ubanda had that the sorcerer had wanted was now in his possession. According to the priest of Miter that made Varion more dangerous. And this danger was not only to the men who lived in the jungle, but the jungle itself. Bumude understood the law of the tooth, claw and sharpened steel. These things were natural. To kill as the sorcerer did was unclean. The Jungle Lord resolved to see an end to such unnatural killings.

"Who speaks for the Nin?" he asked in an assertive voice.

 A man walked slowly up to the ape man, and behind him was another man with rope burns across his chest. The man who led carried no bow and was armed with only a long bush knife. He was decorated with feathers and tattoos and wore a headdress on his head while his fellow Nin were bareheaded. He raised a hand with the palm open toward Bumude.

 "I am chi tu ro, headman and shaman of the Nin. I speak for the Nin," he said in a slow voice that was equally as assertive as the ape man's.

"I am Bumude of the Apes," said the ape man. "Why do the Nin seek me?"

 chi tu ro half turned and pointed to the man with rope burns. Bumude recognized this man as the one he had hoisted into the trees on a hastily made vine-grass rope.

"This is gha re to. He has given us your message and told us your oath to kill the wizard. He agrees that he is an evil man and should be destroyed. But he is strong. Too strong for us," said the Nin shaman. "Perhaps too strong for you, Bumude of the Apes. We came silently upon you. And gha re to has seen you flee the white wizard's monster."

 "I waited for you to come to me so I could talk to you," said the ape man, "and the white wizard's monster failed to slay me. I will not fail to slay him."

 "This may be true," mused the shaman, "but the safety of our people depends on the death of the white wizard. He has sworn to destroy us if we do not serve him.

 "But we are not children to live in fear. We are warriors who wish to free ourselves from this menace. Perhaps we can help you."

 Bumude waited. The Nin leader offered a pouch to the ape man.

 "This is powerful spirit medicine. Great juju. The spirit of our warriors has been mixed with our most potent poison. We cannot use our weapon against this enemy. Several of our hunters have tried to shoot the wizard and their arrows have fallen short. To get too close is to fall victim to the wizard's magic. You carry the long bow. I have asked the spirit of the wind who can deliver death on his tail to this evil creature, and the spirit of the wind has chosen you."

 Many times Bumude had heard things spoken to him on these matters by other men who lived in the jungle. More often than not he simply ignored them, because he had long ago resolved his own quest for spirituality, and magic was a power he had no use for. Now he was in a different jungle that was permeated with a different power, and the methods he had used before would need to be changed for him to succeed. Yet in the end it would depend on his eye, skill and strength as it always had been. Bumude took the pouch from the Nin.

 "Show me how to use it." he said.

 "We tried to cut down their numbers. Thought I had a good ambush planned, but Varion's wizardry saw through it," he grunted. "Where were you?" His words were a sullen demand.

 Bumude stared at the Cymbrian through grey slits. A low growl vibrated in his throat. Then the man mastered the beast, and he smiled.

 "I was attending things in my own way. I was not idle. Perhaps you noticed that the Nin hunters have left Varion," he said.

 One of Connar's men stepped forward. "Yeah, we missed their poison arrows in the skirmish," he said sarcastically.

Bumude barely glanced toward the sarcastic mercenary. Instead, he walked over to the priest of Miter and squatted nearby. Lucian wore the mantle of a troubled soul. Waving his hand, he acknowledged Bumude's presence. The priest took some time to study the face of his visitor. Bumude was attentive, without strain, as he squatted loosely on the jungle floor. His grey eyes were clear and untroubled, and Lucian wondered if he realized the magnitude of the potential horror Varion might be capable of if he were to acquire the knowledge of the Mask of Kltentroup. The sun was dropping to its place of rest in the west. Shadows lengthened amid the jungle underbrush and accentuated the animal superstition that dwelled under the surface of every man's mind. Yet, in this place of fear and worry, Bumude was as natural as a stone or tree. When Lucian’s eyes lingered on the jungle-man he enjoyed a moment of relief from the emotional stress that was waxing his spirit. He smiled at the Lord of the Jungle.

 "What brings you to our land, Bumude?" he asked presently. Since meeting the ape man, Lucian was aware of a difference about him. Something deeper than the operation of his mind or spirit. There was something about the jungle man that urged the priest to consider him to be a visitor in this land. Surely at home in any jungle, but perhaps not born to this jungle. A stroke of clarity questioned Bumude's origin. Perhaps it was a premonition from Miter, or perhaps just a function of his own human insight.

 "The land I lived in was becoming too unnatural for me to continue to live in comfort," confided Bumude. "It became a matter of moving on with the hope of finding something closer to my needs."

 "You come from a land far from the Hygorians Lands?"

"Yes, very far away," admitted the ape man. Visions of the jungle of his birth flashed in his mind. He saw Kala and thought of home. So long ago.

 Lucian settled back and leaned against a tree. With the encroaching darkness it was becoming difficult to see Bumude clearly, so he shut his eyes and entertained his own visions of home. The mighty Temple of Miter in the city of Torontia. The beauty of its architecture, golden statues, peaceful gardens, and most of all the likeness of the mighty and wise Miter upon which he would meditate and seek guidance.

 "It is imperative that Varion not look through the eyes of the Mask of Kltentroup, Bumude. Men may only receive knowledge from the gods in small measures. More than that flushes them out of their body so a portion of the god may enter. If Kltentroup enters our world, my world, then evil will reign," said the priest.

 "This is something I cannot understand. I have found evil everywhere I go. It is a stranger no where. But this talk of gods is incomprehensible. I cannot follow the trail of your words. Perhaps it is because I do not believe in gods, and so words that describe them are without substance and leave no trail for me to follow," mused Bumude.

 "When I was young I learned that there was a God. Bulumumuna, I called him. A great male who created that which exists. A mighty force that forces men to do good things, even when doing these things might be fatal. There is no image of Bulumumuna. He is a force that moves over the world. An action more than a being.

 "Lucian, you speak as though Miter and the other gods worshipped by the Hygorians are real, humanlike creatures. Immensely powerful, but distinct entities that can be seen, heard and submitted to."

 "I assure you that gods do exist, Bumude. In this land they exist. Gods, demons, good and evil. It may not be so where you come from, but in the Hygorians Lands it is a reality," said Lucian.

 "I'll vouch for that, priest," growled the Cymbrian. Bored with the company of the Akluononian frontiersmen, he had strolled over to listen to their conversation. "I have even met one or two. Imagine a god with the head of an elephant and the body of a man. I have seen this god and spoke to it. And I have fought demons straight from some hellish pit who are almighty hard to kill. Take my word for it, jungle-man, the gods and demons are real."

 Bumude shrugged. "Perhaps you are right. It doesn't concern the matter at hand. Varion is no god. I will kill him as I would kill any man who is my enemy."

 Connar's brilliant blue eyes blazed across the darkening jungle to Bumude. "I hope it will be that simple, ape man."

 "Turta, find the woman who has the jewel. I want it now," barked the wizard. There was a rare impatience in his voice. When dealing with magic it was of utmost importance to keep a well ordered discipline in everything that one did. Especially one's thoughts because they contained the patterns by which the magic was controlled. But now, so close to the completion of his task and the culmination of his dream, the Hyperborean wizard was experiencing difficulty controlling his need to rush to the end. While waiting for his servant to execute his orders, Varion eased his impatience by meditating on an ancient rhyme in which was housed a tiny amount of magical energy. A warm glow entered his tense body and loosened his muscles with an arcane massage.

 Several of his mercenaries huddled around him. They fawned to obey the slightest command Varion might wish to make. Savage brutal men, they fawned before this tall, thin wizard because they had witnessed the insidious power of his sorcery.

 Turta returned, dragging a handsome black woman behind him. He threw her at his master's feet and looked up at the wizard with a grin. The woman lifted her head off the ground and also looked up at Varion, but her features were twisted in fear. Around her neck was a band of gold and a beautiful aquamarine jewel. It was on this stone that the Hyperborean fixed his terrible stare. The woman was less than nothing compared to the gem. He reached down and tore it from her neck.

 "Get rid of her. Do what you want. I can't stand to see the bitch who touched this piece of Kltentroup," he hissed and turned to walk away.

 The woman's screams faded behind him. Off by himself, Varion held the jewel over the hole in the mask where it was to be properly fitted. Yet, he could not fit it, for there was a rite to be performed. His long white fingers trembled in eagerness and his tension returned. With great difficulty he mastered himself and drew forth his next plan.

 "Turta, come here. And bring that slave, Mulano," he commanded sharply. As quickly as possible his command was obeyed. Mulano was a black hunter of one of the interior tribes. He was a quick witted fellow with a gift for languages and diplomacy. He was very well aquatinted with both the tribes of the region and the lay of the land. For this reason Varion found his advice invaluable.

 "I need a high place," Varion said quickly. "A place where nothing but the sky will be above me for 100 miles."

 "Yes, master, I know of such a place. A steep escarpment. Not far from here. Perhaps twenty miles or so. In the land of the Alongo."

 "Are these Alongo a fierce people?"

 "Yes, great master, they are. A mighty people. But the next nearest place is 200 miles to the south. A journey through the lands of other dangerous people. And a swamp where lives monsters from ancient times," explained Mulano.

 Varion mused on this information. "We will go to the escarpment nearby." That was all. Their master had spoken.

 Some of the men in their group who were familiar with the region guessed that Varion was heading toward the Alongo territory. Given a description of the territory Lucian agreed. He was aware of Varion's need for high ground. This new information gave the group hope. The Alongo were a numerous and strong people. Not easily overcome by force of arms or magic. In fact, it was likely that Varion would use stealth to get to the escarpment rather than cut his way through as he had done previously. Casually, Connar entertained the thought of attempting to enlist the aid of the Alongo. Bumude agreed that this was a good idea.

 As was often the case, Bumude was held back by the slower speed of the men he traveled with. Again he began to range further and further away, taking to the trees and moving with the agility of Muna the monkey. The jungle-man  found himself in the role of scout for the group. During these times he missed the company of his old friend Nkymi, a monkey who had fallen victim to death finally after many long years. But Bumude never missed the dead for long. To him death was a continual companion, so familiar to him that he never thought of it as fearful. All things die, and one day he would too.

 Thoughts of old Nkymi faded as quickly as they came when the jungle-man  found a fresh spoor of the blacks who lived in the area. Curious, he decided to investigate this tribe. He had heard of the Alongo, and all that he heard had been good.

Speeding through the trees, Bumude came to a place where Varion's group had met a small party of Alongos. The meeting had been disastrous for the natives. Men who had been out hunting were now dead at the hands of the Hyperborean mercenaries. The bodies had been carefully hidden in shallow graves, though Bumude had found them easily. Scouting the area, Bumude learned that there were still at least 30 men in Varion's group. Far to many for Connar's handful to challenge. The jungle-man  decided to search out the Alongos and determine if they might be of aid against his enemies. Intentional allies or not.

 He hurtled through the brush until leaping up to the lower branches of a mighty tree. The Alongo shouted at his sprint for freedom. Spears followed him, but none touched him. High in the upper terraces, the jungle-man  escaped the blacks, and a thought came to him. Perhaps the spirit of Nkymi was whispering in his ear as it had done so many times in life. Bumude smiled mischievously and taunting the Alongo, he forced them to follow him. He almost laughed at their angry shouts as he fairly flew amid the branches far above their heads. They carried no bows so the jungle-man  felt relatively safe. Their heavy war spears would never touch him. In the trees he was the master.

 The Alongo were a tall, muscular people. Their naked bodies were scarred from traditional rituals of manhood and painted in bright attractive colors. They preferred the war spear and long bush knife in matters of war and hunting. Since they only carried one spear, most of the warriors took time to retrieve the ones they had flung at Bumude. By then, the jungle-man was increasing the distance between himself and the warriors.

Bumude led them along the trail taken by Varion's group, hoping that the Alongo would join the war against the sorcerer. Truthfully, he knew they might have found the trail anyway and might have entered the fight, for there were good trackers among the Alongo, but this way he made certain of it. When he was far ahead of them, just inside their line of sight, he dropped to the ground and raced along the trail. Howling, they followed like painted and scarred hounds, baying in their lust for Bumude's blood. To them he was one of the murderers of their people.

Again Bumude smiled. Instead of their enemy he would prove their friend, though they might never know it. When he was certain they had the proper trail, he took to the trees again and disappeared into the jungle.

 Pinned nearly helpless against the tree, Connar squirmed viciously, slipping to one side, avoiding the second warrior's attack while bringing his sword down across the first warrior's thigh. A ray of sunlight streamed down through the jungle tree tops and caught the brightness of the first warrior's bloody wound. Connar pushed him away to parry a second thrust from the other black. He slid his blade down the spear and cut deeply into this man's left hand, turned and hit the first man in the neck with the sword. This man fell, as Connar continued to turn, forcing the second Alongo to back away. Less than a minute later he killed this man with a piece of polished steel in his heart.

 A spear head brushed against his mailed back, shoving him forward into the attack of another black warrior. Catlike, Connar avoided this man's weapon and side stepped away from both Alongos. He knew enough to keep in motion; never stand still and become a target. Connar ran behind a tree, took a deep breath, knowing they would be following at a wary speed, and sprang out on the same side with his sword ready to cut. Again, his mail saved him as a spear point barely penetrated, drew Cymbrian blood and was batted away by Connar's left arm. Connar bulled into this man knocking him down, while the other warrior circled and tried to find a clean opening. The Cymbrian was unable to bring the full effect of his sword skill against the Alongo, because of the close quarters of the jungle environment. He used his broadsword as a thrusting weapon, like the Alongo spear, and not as effectively. While the fallen warrior rolled to his feet, Connar backed away from the pricks of the other warrior's spear. Behind him, Connar heard the rushing feet of more warriors coming in for the kill. Again the Cymbrian broke away from the fight and dashed into the brush, hoping to find more room to fight. In fact, thoughts of just escaping were dancing wildly across his mind.

 As he ran, he freed his Akluononian hatchet from its place on his belt. Listening carefully to where his enemies were, he took a chance, whirled, spotted a target at a good distance, and let the hatchet fly. It thudded into the black's breast up near the shoulder and knocked him down as well. One of the Alongos hurled his spear at Connar, who barely got out of the way. Another leaped over a fallen tree trunk, screamed a ferocious war cry and thrust at the Cymbrian as he came down. Connar dropped to a half crouch, slid his long blade into this man's stomach and caught the weight of his body on his sword. With a tremendous surge, Connar straightened up and hurled the skewered black off his sword, into the air, and back at his fellow warriors.

 There were too many enemies. Escape was his only hope. He whirled and ran into the jungle, along the path his party had come by, with five screaming black warriors on his heels. There was scant comfort that only five had decided to pursue the Cymbrian, although a few seconds earlier he had been fighting a score or two. Five to one odds were a little better.

 Connar broke away from the path, plunging into some thickening brush, trusting his mail shirt and high boots to protect him from the briars and entangled branches. The Alongo warriors leaped into the brush with more care, still intent on catching their prey, but proceeding with a little more respect for the terrain. Connar wasn't sure where he was going. Some dim plan was forming in his mind as he fled the savages. Their taunts and cries behind him were intended to slow him down in fear, and they might have done so with a civilized man, but Connar was not civilized. His barbarous background responded to their savagery with a grunt of determination, and he pushed himself even harder.

 One of the savages, a long slender fellow, raced ahead of the pack and nearly planted his spear in Connar's back. Some animal instinct warned the Cymbrian that this man was close enough to attack, and Connar turned to face him. He had about ten seconds before the others arrived. Broadsword clashed with war spear, blood spurted, and the Alongo dropped to the ground. And Connar dashed away, scarcely five seconds ahead of his next pursuer.

 And five seconds were not nearly enough. They closed on him with whooping howls and stabbing spears. Connar turned on the black savages, intending to sell his life expensively, his broadsword held at guard. He set himself by a large tree and used it to turn away from his opponents, in an attempt to face one or two at a time. It was the last thought of strategy he could pass through his mind as the Alongos engaged him.

 His mighty broadsword sheered through wood and flesh, leaving a trail of blood and sweat, as seconds expanded into hours within moments. He slid around the tree frantically, keeping away from as many spears as possible while striking with his own sword. He was thankful that their spears where short shafted, so they had to get close to drive their blades into his mail shirt. Never had the wild Cymbrian been more alive than against these four opponents, and in the next ten seconds he had cut their number in half.

 Nicked and cut in a dozen places, though none of them serious, Connar watched his last two opponents back off. One was an average sized man, while the other was large and powerful. Connar took advantage of the break to rest while they discussed battle strategy in their own language. The barbarian's instincts told him that no more savages were racing to the fight, so these two might be the only obstacle to his escape.

 The smaller man grinned at the Cymbrian, pulled a knife from a sheath dangling from his side and threw it maliciously at Connar's head. The northern barbarian simply deflected it with a short movement of his broadsword and laughed.

 "Do better than that, you black dog," he grunted. "Come in and I'll cut you from head to belly."

 Connar feinted a charge and took off at a slant away from the two savages, turned sharply and tried to close on the smaller one to finish him off quickly so he could face the larger man squarely. His plans were changed when the bigger savage swung his spear with two hands from its end and hit Connar on one leg. The barbarian stumbled, almost fell, and the smaller Alongo rushed in with his spear low for a belly thrust. Connar parried the spear with his left arm and smashed the pommel of his sword into the savage's ribs. Pain staggered the black warrior, rendering him helpless while Connar sprang out of his crouch and pushed him into the other savage. The smaller man rolled on the jungle floor while the big one came at the Cymbrian.

 Connar laughed. These odds were much more to his liking. The big Alongo was a superb spear man, as adept with his short shafted weapon as any Connar had ever seen so the big barbarian spared no effort to end the fight as quickly as possible. In the back of his mind, Connar wondered why more of the Alongo party hadn't arrived. It was certain the few men of his party he had left behind were buzzard meat by now.

 They fought silently, brutally and quickly. The Alongo’s spear was too short against the Cymbrian's broadsword where they were fighting, a clearing Connar's fleeing had led him to. In the end Connar opened up his enemy's belly across the thong of his loincloth.

 The smaller man was rising to his feet when Connar leaped over and brained him with his blade. Silence heightened his senses. No sounds of running feet. No Alongo warriors rushing to kill him. Connar was puzzled. Then he heard a short laugh, deep in a man's voice, but something reminiscent of a monkey in it. Looking up from where the laugh came, Connar saw the jungle-man
crouching in a nearby tree. "How long have you been there?" the Cymbrian demanded to know.

Bumude smiled as he dropped to the ground. "Long enough to watch your battle. Very impressive."

 "I wasn't putting on a show, jungle-man. I was fighting for my life," grunted Connar.

 "Yes, I noticed. It was my point to notice. You see, I remember an old friend, Mulongo by name, being slain by a swordsman the day my wife was abducted. By the tracks I learned how that swordsman fought. I have always suspected that man was you. Now, watching your battle with a similar opponent, I am sure," explained Bumude coolly.

 Connar watched the Lord of the Jungle through eyes that blazed blue lightning through narrow slits. He kept a firm, sweaty grip on his broadsword.

 "So," he spit, "what of it?"

 Bumude laughed again. "Nothing! Death comes to all of us. Mulongo was a good man and he died well, but nothing is served by my taking revenge for his death. And we have a job to do."

 "A fine help you are. I could have used a little help back there," grunted Connar.

 Bumude frowned, then swept his arm behind him. Connar looked where he pointed and laughed hoarsely. He saw why no more Alongos had come up the trail to attack him. In his sight were several with arrows sticking out of their backs. The same covert fighting style that had killed most of his men on that unfortunate occasion when Connar had abducted Bumude's wife. The jungle-man  had not been idle.

 "I thought I was finished. The dogs almost had me," said Connar. "Did you see anyone else alive?"

 "They took the priest alive. The others were killed. You were very lucky to break away like you did," said Bumude.

 "Lucky," laughed Connar. "Luck and the edge of my blade. Let's get out of here before the whole tribe descends on us. Maybe we can do something about Lucian later. Right now we have to save our own necks."

 "He is a treasure of knowledge. He might be needed," said Connar. "And he is my companion." Connar felt remorse and a bit of guilt concerning Lucian's fate. The Cymbrian was irked at the necessity of fleeing for his life. The ambush had been executed with complete surprise, and he felt guilty over that as well. Yet, a man cannot do all things.

 "I don't think the war party has reached the main village yet. When they do, it will be much more difficult to steal the priest from them. If we are to do it, it must be tonight," advised the jungle-man. Bumude felt that there was a matter of urgency here. They were not far from the war party, and the main Alongo village was nearly two days away. Lucian had not been killed outright because he had not carried weapons, nor had he offered physical resistance. The Alongos had considered this very strange because the priest had not displayed any fear and certainly not any terror as a man might under conditions that probably would result in his death. Or perhaps it was some unknown clerical blessing that had prevented the savages from killing him outright. Whatever had spared him, he would not be alive for much longer. When the Alongos had time to play, they would begin venting their anger upon their captive.

 "The dog of a wizard will be reaching the escarpment soon, I think," said Connar, "so we must hurry if we are to do anything for Lucian. Tonight is the only time we can spare. Our first duty should be toward killing the wizard."

 "Agreed. We will invest tonight only," said the jungle-man.

 Lucian was roughly treated. By the time he was hurled against a tree and told to remain there, he was severely battered, bruised and exhausted. One of the savages had tied him tightly, and he feared the loss of circulation to his hands would ruin them. Occasionally one of the brutes would poke him with a spear or kick him when passing. Obviously they were blaming him for something terrible that had happened to them; something of which he was innocent. The priest considered the mute martyrdom of dying for his god in a jungle hundreds of miles from home.

 One of the savages, a man called Guno, who had been a brother to one of the men killed hideously by Varion earlier, was particularly cruel to the priest. This man sat nearby and stared at Lucian with eyes that promised a death by torture, or perhaps something worse. The war leader of the group had commanded that their captive be taken back to their main village where he could be properly tortured in view of the entire population of Alongos. Guno disagreed with this policy however, and wanted to inflict pain on Lucian immediately. He toyed with his knife within plain sight of the priest.

 Lucian tried to take some solace in his prayers. They helped a little, but failed to dispel the fear and hopelessness he was suffering. He was certain that he would die tomorrow, and he only hoped that he had not failed his god so much that Miter would not have mercy on him.

 If they had looked up into the trees they might have seen Connar. Aided by the jungle-man, Connar had easily escaped the tracking skills of the Alongo hunters who had never thought to look above where only birds and monkeys live. And now a slowly moving creature of the jungle moved through the trees, ignoring the warning of their campfire, until it was perched on a limb extending out over the camp.

 Bumude spent some time locating Lucian. Unfortunately the priest was surrounded by sleeping savages, in a position not very expedient for rescue. He would have to be rescued stealthily, for there were too many Alongos to fight. Nearby, in the jungle, the Cymbrian was waiting. Bumude had been pleased at Connar's woodcraft and stealth. Rarely had he seen a white man so adept at wilderness lore. Connar had laughed when he mentioned this and replied that he was a barbarian, not blind and dumb city scum.

 Bumude was an old hand at sneaking into an enemy's camp and stealing what he wanted while they slept. He waited until most of the men and even the guards were nearly asleep. One thing in his favor was that the Alongos felt secure in close proximity to their main village. They had not been attacked as a tribe in many years, chiefly because all the surrounding tribes feared and deferred to them. Perhaps their warriors were a little fatter and slept a little sounder in these good times.

 Still, it took great courage and skill to determine the exact moment when he might drop to the ground and steal the priest away. Not that Bumude was afraid, nor did he lack confidence. The jungle-man never considered failure in anything he did. Even without fear, there was a certain tension that made the jungle lord nervous since he was a man and subject to the same tensions of other men. It was in his reactions that Bumude differed. He accepted the tension as a necessary side effect of his strained concentration which was directed at finding the right time to go.

 In the bush, close to the camp, the Cymbrian waited with Bumude's bow in his capable hands. If there were trouble, Connar was to provide missile support while the jungle-man made his escape. The big barbarian was not optimistic toward their success. It was his plan to provide a diversion by starting a fire or something whereby they could rescue the priest in the confusion. Bumude had convinced him to let him try something first.

Dropping from the trees, Bumude landed lightly on the ground, making no more noise than a jungle cat. Slowly, silently, he made his way to where the priest was bound. It seemed an eternity before he cupped his callused hand over Lucian's mouth to silent his startled awakening. Holding up one finger he warned the priest against noise or commotion.

 Watching from the jungle perimeter, Connar was startled somewhat by what happened next. Bumude lifted the priest and tossed him over his shoulder. With no more effort than a boy would carry a cat, the jungle-man  weaved his way through the sleeping bodies until he came to a tree that was well connected to the rest of the jungle. With a mighty leap, the jungle lord carried the priest into the trees and made away with him. Again, he went slowly, but it was more for stealth than the weight he was carrying.

The barbarian had to admit to himself that Bumude had impressed him. Carrying a man on your shoulder at a run was simple enough, Connar had done it many times easily, but leaping into a tree, albeit one with a carefully chosen low branch, and scampering though the branches with hardly any sound was impressive.

 After Bumude had gone, the Cymbrian retreated from the camp perimeter and rejoined the jungle-man  at a preselected spot.

 Lucian was lying comfortably on a bed of grass and leaves. Bumude had given him a supply of fruits and water that should hold him for several days. Connar stood nearby with his hands on his sword. The big barbarian was eager to finish the job and take the wizard to task.

 Bumude was squatting next to the priest. Lucian looked up at him with a troubled stare. He grimaced and shook his head.

 "There is something I must tell you. I didn't tell you before because, to be truthful, I didn't know if I could trust you. Our world is a wild, brutal place where one man constantly seeks his own betterment at the cost of the next man's. It is hard to find men who will fight evil just because it has to be done. The Cymbrian is such a man though he denies it to himself. And you, Bumude, are also such a man. Or else why would you have braved all to save me from certain death." the priest pressed his face closer to the jungle-man's.

 "Varion has a weakness. A place where he can be slain. This is true of all men, be they wizards, warriors or nothing. For Varion the place is clearly marked by the tattoo of a wolf. It is his destiny to be slain by a wolf. This knowledge I have learned with a good amount of questions and coin. In this jungle there are no wolves to be found, but I know that the wizard had placed the tattoo of a wolf's head on his body in his youth before he became inclined to the path of sorcery. It is my conclusion that an attack through this tattoo, the mark of a wolf, will slay the wizard outright."

 "Where is the tattoo?" asked Bumude.

 "Ah, I don't know. He keeps it hidden, so I suspect it is under his garments. Or perhaps he had covered it with cosmetics. I don't know. But it is there. You must find it to kill him," whispered Lucian.

 "We'll kill him all right," growled Connar. "I've come too far to let the dog live now. Let's go before he summons his god."

 "You will be all right here, Lucian," said Bumude with a smile. "I made sure there is no trail to the place so the only way the Alongos can find you is by accident. If we do not return within a few days, a week at most, then we have probably failed and you should make your way back to civilization."

 "Do not fail," warned the priest of Miter.

 "I do not think we shall. Its just a thought if we do," replied the jungle-man  as he rose to his feet. He and the Cymbrian ran into the jungle.

 "I just hope they kill some of that foul wizard's cutthroats," Connar said with a smile. "Make our job that much easier."

 Bumude agreed.

 "Bah," grunted Connar, "this is no more than a hill compared to the cliffs I climbed as a boy back in Cymbria. You'll be lucky to keep up, jungle-man."

 Although Bumude had smiled at this boast, he soon learned that what Connar had said was true; at least as far as his ability to climb. The Cymbrian easily matched speed with the Jungle Lord, his great strength and agility possibly the best Bumude had ever seen in any man other than himself.

 Three hundred yards up a mishap occurred when a piece of rock broke under Bumude's hand and he fell backwards. There was a small tree growing a foot beyond his reach. Even the fastest reflexes fail when suddenly there is nothing there to hold on to. As Connar's hand caught his arm, the jungle-man  looked into the Cymbrian's eyes; there passed between these two men an understanding of the emergency of the moment for so slight was Connar's hold that he might fall as well when he caught Bumude's extra weight. Powerful fingers digging around stone kept his left hand secure, and Connar swung Bumude up to the small tree with his right arm until the jungle-man easily caught it with one hand.

 Bumude hung by one arm. His hand lovingly grasped the gnarled branch. A slight breeze cooled his body, and he was happy to be alive. Beside him and a little lower, Connar grunted. "Close one."

 Bumude reached out with his right and and clasped Connar's. "Nice catch," he said with a smile. Though he said nothing more, both men realized that their relationship had become more than an agreement to work together. A spark of friendship had been ignited.

 Then with lazy ease, Bumude drew himself up with his left arm and they continued to climb.

 Prowling like stalking lions, the two men inched their way towards the sounds of a commotion. Presently they raised their eyes above the grass and saw a gruesome sight. The brave Alongos had found Varion and his men. A great battle was ensuing. The wizard stood on a large flat rock, looking up at the blue sky, and was unhittable by any of the thrown spears cast by the black warriors. His mercenaries were not so protected. Many were already dead, skewered by Alongo steel, as were numerous black savages. The grass was painted red with blood.

 "Well, that's encouraging," commented Connar with a grunt.

 Realizing his force was shrinking steadily and would soon leave him unprotected, Varion decided to pause his preparations for the spell that would activate the mask, and take an active hand in the fray. Without asking their permission, the Hyperborean cast his monster spell on several of the men, turning them into sorcerous creatures not unlike the monkey that had chased Bumude. Transformed and released on the black warriors, these monsters ripped a ribbon of bloody flesh in their path of ravenous destruction.

 "That certainly isn't," remarked Bumude dryly

 Varion observed the murderous results of his sorcery for a while, then satisfied that the tide of battle was turning he returned to the Spell of the Mask. It was a complicated spell, requiring great concentration, and a lengthy one. Already he was protected from weapons cast at him by a previously cast spell, and now that the blacks were either dying or fleeing his magical killers, he was free to give the Spell of the Mask his full attention.

 In the grass, about 150 yards away, Connar and Bumude pondered their next move. The Cymbrian grunted.

 "Well, what's your plan?" he asked.

 "I've been trying to see his mark from here, but either its too far away or he has it hidden under his tunic. We sneak closer, to within 100 feet, and then you run up there and strip his clothes off. They seem to be of ordinary material and shouldn't present a problem to a man as strong as you," said Bumude.

 Connar stared at the jungle-man. Bumude had not even changed the tone of his voice when outlining a plan that placed all the danger upon him.

 "Are you joking? What will you be doing while I rush into death?" asked the barbarian sarcastically.

 Bumude showed Connar the juju arrow he had been given by the Nin. "I'm going to kill him with this arrow, shot into his Achilles heel. Let's get up there before those monsters turn from the blacks and return to defend their master."

 It was true that the magical killers were still pursuing the Alongos, or pausing to kill any black who had the courage to fight. The few of Varion's men who remained were demoralized and bleeding. A man of Connar's prowess might fight his way through them with minimal trouble.

 "Maybe I should stay back and fire the arrow," suggested Connar.

 "I am a better shot than you. I will not miss. And besides, you stand a better chance of cutting your way through those mercenaries with that big broad sword of yours. Don't you agree?" asked Bumude.

 Under the circumstances Connar's quick mind couldn't come up with a better plan. Anything they did would be extremely risky, probably mortal if things didn't go their way. Connar was not the type to pray to the gods, his personal god Gom would never bother to listen to the whining of mortal men, but in this case a quick request to Miter seemed appropriate. He voiced it under his breath so the jungle-man  couldn't hear, although the barbarian couldn't be certain of this. Bumude was closer to a wild animal than any man he ever met.

 They had no problem closing the gap. Coming in from behind, all the fighting was occurring on the other side of the rock Varion was standing on. In the manner of a stalking cat, both men glided smoothly through the tall grass. Something uncanny froze them in their tracks. Both men, tuned to the wildness of life, sensed the opening in the world at nearly the same time. For a moment Bumude thought the sky had parted and a great staring face of some humanoid being was forming as a dark cloud. But no, it was all over, a permeation of normal space by a mind that defied rational definition. A surge of insanity struck both men as they were touched by the unfathomable alienness of Kltentroup.

 "Gom, what is happening?" gasped the barbarian.

 Bumude growled. A low, ominous snarl that a stray dog might make when confronted by a man whose yard it had just trespassed upon. Not since he had been a baby had the jungle-man felt so small. So insignificant. It was not that Kltentroup was more powerful than he, for at other times Bumude had met agencies in the world that were stronger than himself. It was the unclean saturation of reality by an unholy mind of colossal alien intricacy. An alien that forced its way into a place it didn't fit or belong. This was what made the jungle-man  snarl, almost snapping with his teeth at thin air. A creature so disproportionately large that it had no place in a world populated by animals of ordinary size. Bumude was appalled at this invasion.

 "You feel that, jungle-man? We have to move quickly, before the god takes a toehold on this world. The Hyperborean doesn't realize what he's doing. He must be insane," said the Cymbrian.

 "Start your rush, Connar. You have to show me the target," hissed Bumude.

 For a moment, the big barbarian paled under his bronze skin and his face bore the expression of a man who had just had an attack of nausea. Connar was very uncomfortable with sorcery, as all barbarians were, and it required great personal courage for him to confront it. Again, he wondered why he was doing this, risking his life against a sorcerer and perhaps a demonic-god for little reward. True the priest of Miter had promised him a hefty purse for the deed, but that purse seemed very light now. However, Connar was not a man inclined to useless musing. He had agreed to the task and now it had to be done.

 Rising silently from the grass, the barbarian moved quickly toward the rock the sorcerer stood on. Like a force of nature, pure and deadly in his intent, Connar swept close to his foe, almost reaching the rock before he was noticed by the mercenaries posted around it. These men were jumpy and scared. Connar's sudden appearance startled them. One even screamed in fear. Then the Cymbrian was among them.

 Bumude dared not let loose an arrow or he might betray his position in the grass. It was up to the barbarian to cut his way through five men and reach the Hyperborean.

 When aroused and in danger, Connar was one of the deadliest men alive.. Two men dropped before they realized exactly who was attacking them. The next man reached him alone, because the other two had further to come to enter the battle. Connar struck at this man savagely with all his strength and broke the ruffian's sword. A reverse cut dropped the man.

 The last two men attacked together. They were used to fighting in tandem, and this made the fight much more dangerous for the Cymbrian. Again his mail turned a blade that had lightly slashed at his back. It took several minutes to deal with these two. When it was done, the mighty barbarian had been bloodied in the thigh and forearm. He turned and glared up at the sorcerer with blazing blue eyes.

 He needed no warning from Bumude to sense the charging approach of one of the sorcerous monsters. It would be soon upon the Cymbrian. Without guarding his back, Connar leaped up and seized Varion's tunic. The spell that protected him from missiles did not prevent the barbarian from literally tearing the long shirt from the sorcerer's back and buttocks. There was no time to congratulate himself for his success. A sorcery blackened body crashed into the Cymbrian and bowled him over the rock on to the grass beyond. Varion spared a moment, breaking his concentration, to curl up his thin lip at the Cymbrian and pass on to his vile monster a word of instruction.

 Bumude rose from hiding; the juju arrow was bent back. His sharp eyes examined the sorcerer's body for the mark. Perhaps Connar's prayer to Miter worked. Bumude had heard the barbarian whisper it earlier. In any case he saw the mark and fired upon it.

 Connar continued to roll on the ground with the monster upon him. Despite his unusual strength, the barbarian was handled with savage roughness. In close combat Connar's sword was nearly useless so he abandoned it. The blackened beast-man slapped a misshapen foot on Connar's face, pinning him to the ground with his other knee planted in the Cymbrian's iron muscled belly. Then it wailed like the howling wind and tore Connar's mail shirt from his body. The craven creature swiveled its elongated head toward Connar and opened his mouth until it was stretched wide enough to engulf his whole face and tear it from his head. Like a hawk dropping on a dove, the monster drove his jaws for the Cymbrian's face. Both Connar's muscular hands seized the monster's head in a hopeless effort to keep its fangs from his throat. But he could only delay it; all his strength was no more than a child resisting an adult. The creature's foul breath burned on the barbarian's face as its fangs dropped closer. Its saliva burned like acid when it dripped on to his skin.

 Varion stopped chanting. Something was wrong. The world had stopped. He looked down at his chest and saw an arrow sprouting from it. It was not necessary to look behind him to know it had entered his point of weakness and slew him.

 The Mask of Kltentroup dropped from his nerveless hands. It bounced on the rock and tumbled to the grassy ground. Could it be over so simply? So quickly? These were Varion's last thoughts as he fell and lay sprawled across the rock he had just been standing on.

 No wisdom had come to him. There had been not enough time. The god was gone from the sky. No power from beyond. Only death at the hands of a savage.

 In his hands, the monster returned to a man, and Connar broke his neck with a violent surge. Throwing the body from him, the Cymbrian lurched to his feet. Drawing air into his tortured lungs in huge gasps, Connar looked about him for danger. In that moment there was none. The wizard was dead.

 A bronze streak leaped onto the rock and picked up the mask. Bumude leaned close to the barbarian and smiled.

 "Let's get going. The Alongos may be back soon. We have what we came for," the jungle-man said.

 Connar was in total agreement. He staggered his first steps, but soon his barbarian vitality came to the fore and he was running strongly next to the jungle-man. They escaped over the edge of the cliff and climbed down to the jungle floor below.

 "I can't believe you did it. This is wonderful," exclaimed Lucian.

 "I can't believe it either. You weren't there, priest. You didn't have to wrestle with that blackened demon from hell," grunted Connar, slipping Bumude a glaring glance.

 The jungle-man  shrugged. "You had all the fun. I didn't get to pull the wizard's pants down. You humiliated him, I merely killed him."

 "You dog, I nearly got my face bit off!" exclaimed Connar.

 Lucian shook his head. "Men are not meant to have the knowledge of the gods, Bumude."

 Connar simply sneered at the jungle-man.

 Bumude laughed, a rare thing for him, and tossed the mask to Lucian. "I know all I need to know. The jungle, the beasts and my wife. I need nothing else."

 "Would that all men could be so easily satisfied," prayed the priest of Miter.

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