“We are taking a big chance, Rosso. These jungles are normally hazardous anyway, but with the reports out of Delucia, the idea of getting there safely eludes me,” one of the caravan drivers, Hansen, remarked to the leader. Rosso was a big, burly, bearded man who rode his horse back and forth among the six ox-drawn wagons, waving his whip, pretending to spur everyone on. Most of the drivers ignored or laughed at him and his unabashed sense of self-importance.
“The sooner we get there, the better then!” he barked. “You’re all slow as snails. This road just isn’t that bad and fairly dry for this time of year. Now get going! Increase the pace so we can get there before dark!”
Hansen spat and shook his head. “Idiot,” he muttered.
Rosso had hired only two guards for the group; two native Papuans, brothers, named Dunim and Derem, both well-trained with bow and sword. One posted himself at the head of the caravan and the other at the rear. Thus far in the journey they had seen some action; killing handily a few mongbats and giant serpents that had dared to approach with hostile intent. They were both on foot and barefoot, their natural preference. The grainy touch of earth beneath the soles of their feet, linking them to it, appealed to their spiritual nature. They claimed they could detect any approach thereby, and they proved it this day.
“Stop the line!” Derem yelled, holding his hand to the side of his mouth to increase the volume. “Something is coming! Take cover!”
As the drivers halted their wagons and dropped the reins of their charges to scoot inside the relative safety of the hide-covered bonnet protecting the merchandise from the elements, an ear-splitting roar sent their nape-hairs rising. Dunim and Derem, joining forces nearest where they heard the sound, were not so affected, though the roar was quite unlike any they could remember. Dunim drew his sword while Derem notched an arrow into his short bow. They stood together, Dunim in front in a defensive stance, while Derem knelt and drew back the bowstring slowly.
Out of the jungle brush lining the edge of the road sprang an enormous wolf, fangs slavering, glaring at the two men; the only ones he could see as Rosso had, for reasons known only to him, galloped away, down the road ahead. Derem’s arrow sank deeply into the fore chest of the beast. It howled and charged him recklessly, paying no heed to the bleeding wound. Dunim stepped forward, sword arm raised high above and swung downward, aiming to cleave the wolf’s skull in one blow, but the beast skidded to a stop and reared back its head. The blade struck the ground, and, as Dunim recovered to strike again, the wolf leaped upon him, savagely biting his face, deflecting the Papuan’s useless attempts to block him. He cried out in pain and fell back, striking his head on a wheel of a wagon to lie limply, bleeding, beside it. Seeing his brother fall, Derem threw down his bow and drew his dagger, lunging at the beast which was preparing to finish off its prey. He stabbed the beast three times, deep, penetrating wounds that would have felled any normal wolf, but this one refused to go down. It turned to attack, but then, its ears pricked up and, totally ignoring the confused and shocked warrior, simply ran away back into the jungle from whence it came. Derem, making sure it had truly departed the scene, sheathed the dagger and went to where his brother had fallen. Taking his head in his arms and stroking his forehead, he could see he was dead. Tears rolled from his dark eyes, down his face, and onto the corpse. He wept aloud and long, and it was only then that the drivers and their fearless leader appeared from their hiding places, to offer meager, vain, words of consolation.
“The sooner we get there, the better then!” he barked. “You’re all slow as snails. This road just isn’t that bad and fairly dry for this time of year. Now get going! Increase the pace so we can get there before dark!”
Hansen spat and shook his head. “Idiot,” he muttered.
Rosso had hired only two guards for the group; two native Papuans, brothers, named Dunim and Derem, both well-trained with bow and sword. One posted himself at the head of the caravan and the other at the rear. Thus far in the journey they had seen some action; killing handily a few mongbats and giant serpents that had dared to approach with hostile intent. They were both on foot and barefoot, their natural preference. The grainy touch of earth beneath the soles of their feet, linking them to it, appealed to their spiritual nature. They claimed they could detect any approach thereby, and they proved it this day.
“Stop the line!” Derem yelled, holding his hand to the side of his mouth to increase the volume. “Something is coming! Take cover!”
As the drivers halted their wagons and dropped the reins of their charges to scoot inside the relative safety of the hide-covered bonnet protecting the merchandise from the elements, an ear-splitting roar sent their nape-hairs rising. Dunim and Derem, joining forces nearest where they heard the sound, were not so affected, though the roar was quite unlike any they could remember. Dunim drew his sword while Derem notched an arrow into his short bow. They stood together, Dunim in front in a defensive stance, while Derem knelt and drew back the bowstring slowly.
Out of the jungle brush lining the edge of the road sprang an enormous wolf, fangs slavering, glaring at the two men; the only ones he could see as Rosso had, for reasons known only to him, galloped away, down the road ahead. Derem’s arrow sank deeply into the fore chest of the beast. It howled and charged him recklessly, paying no heed to the bleeding wound. Dunim stepped forward, sword arm raised high above and swung downward, aiming to cleave the wolf’s skull in one blow, but the beast skidded to a stop and reared back its head. The blade struck the ground, and, as Dunim recovered to strike again, the wolf leaped upon him, savagely biting his face, deflecting the Papuan’s useless attempts to block him. He cried out in pain and fell back, striking his head on a wheel of a wagon to lie limply, bleeding, beside it. Seeing his brother fall, Derem threw down his bow and drew his dagger, lunging at the beast which was preparing to finish off its prey. He stabbed the beast three times, deep, penetrating wounds that would have felled any normal wolf, but this one refused to go down. It turned to attack, but then, its ears pricked up and, totally ignoring the confused and shocked warrior, simply ran away back into the jungle from whence it came. Derem, making sure it had truly departed the scene, sheathed the dagger and went to where his brother had fallen. Taking his head in his arms and stroking his forehead, he could see he was dead. Tears rolled from his dark eyes, down his face, and onto the corpse. He wept aloud and long, and it was only then that the drivers and their fearless leader appeared from their hiding places, to offer meager, vain, words of consolation.