The Complete Hok the Mighty Read online

“Then I challenge him now.” With no wait for further ceremony, Soko put out one lean, knowing hand and borrowed a weapon from the woven girdle of a neighbor. It was a sort of pick, a heavy, sharp piece of bone lashed crosswise in the cleft of a long, springy rod. He approached Krol’s position.

  “Come and be killed,” Soko bade his chief, in a sort of chant. “Come and be killed. Come and—”

  Krol came, for he was evidently not too afraid of anything like an even battle. Hok, a giant and a stranger, had terrified him. The repudiation of the whole tribe had unmanned him. But if Soko was alone a challenger, Krol intended to take care of his end.

  There was still pith in his pudgy old arm as he swung the ivory axe at Soko. The younger warrior parried the blow within a span’s distance of his face, missed a return stroke with the pick. A moment later they were fencing furiously and quite skillfully, skipping to and fro on the shaky footing. Hok, who had a fighting man’s appreciation of duelling tactics, watched with interest.

  “Well battled!” he voiced his applause. “Strike lower, Soko, his guard is high I Protect your head! Don’t stumble or—Hai! Now he is yours!”

  INDEED, it seemed so. Krol had feinted Soko into a downward sweep with the pick, and had slipped away from the danger. With Soko momentarily off balance, Krol struck with his axe; but a quick upward jerk of Soko’s weapon-butt struck his wrist, numbing It. The axe fell among the trampled leaf-mold on the branchy mat. Krol was left unarmed before Soko.

  Now despair made the challenged chief truly dangerous. Krol sprang before Soko could land a last and fatal stroke. He threw his arms around Soko’s body, and sank his sharp fangs into Soko’s flesh at juncture of neck and shoulder. The two scrambled, fell, and rolled over and over, perilously close to a terrible fall. The chattering onlookers danced and gesticulated in pleased excitement.

  Hok, whose own teeth were far too even for use as weapons, was about to remark that biting seemed grossly unfair, when the issue was decided. Soko tore loose from the grip of Krol’s jaws and turned the old man underneath. Krol doubled a leg and strove to rip Soko’s abdomen open with the nails of his strong, flexible toes, but a moment later Soko had hooked his own thumbs into Krol’s mouth corners. He forced his enemy’s head back and back, until the neck was on the point of breaking. With a coughing whine, Krol let go all holds, jerked himself free, and next moment ran for his life.

  At once the spectators gave a fierce shout, and joined the chase. Hok, following over the swaying mass of boughs, could hear a hundred execrations being hurled at once. Apparently every man and woman, and most of the children, among the tree-folk had a heavy score to settle with the fierce old fraud who had ruled them. Soko, leading the pack, almost caught up with Krol. But Krol avoided his grasp, and disappeared into something.

  Hok came up, pushing in among the yelling tree-men. He saw a new curiosity—Krol’s fortress.

  It was made like the nest of a mud-wasp, a great egg-shaped structure of clay among the heavier branches of a tall tree. Apparently Krol had spent considerable time and thought on his refuge, against just such an emergency as this. Hok judged that within was a baskety plaiting of chosen branches, with the clay built and worked on the outside thickly and smoothly. The whole rondure was twice Krol’s height from top to bottom, and almost the same distance through. It was strongly lodged among several stout forks, and had but one orifice. This was a dark doorway, just large enough for Krol to slip through and perhaps a thought too narrow for shoulders the width of Soko’s.

  “Krol’s nest is well made,” Hok pronounced, with frank admiration. “My own tribesmen sometimes make their huts like this, of branches with an outer layer of earth. Why are not all your homes so built?”

  THE yelling had died down. Soko, his big eyes watching the doorway to the mud-nest, made reply: “Only Krol could fetch clay. We dare not go to the valley’s floor after it.”

  “No,” rejoined a grumble from inside. “Nor do you dare go after—water!”

  That reminder plainly frightened every hearer. They drew back from the den of Krol, looked at each other and at Soko.

  “What does he mean?” demanded Hok. “Water does he say? When it comes to that, where do you get water?” Soko pointed to the opening. “He gets it. Krol.” Soko’s throat, still torn and chewed from the battle, worked and gulped. “We should have thought of that. Without Krol, we can get nothing to drink.”

  One or two of his hearers made moaning sounds and licked their mouths, as if already dry and thirsty. Hok questioned Soko further. It developed that the tree-folk had big dry gourd-vessels, fashioned from the fruit of lofty vines, and these they let down on cords of fiber. Krol, the single individual who would venture to the ground level, scooped up water from a stream there, and the others would draw it up for their own use. Hok nodded, praising in his heart the wisdom of Krol.

  “It is yet another way in which he kept his rule over you,” he commented. “Yet Krol must die some day. How would you drink then?”

  “When I die, you all die,” pronounced Krol from his fastness. “I declare you all in danger. Without me to guide your gourds into that stream, thirst will claim you one by one.” Silence. Then a wretched little man attempted a different question:

  “What is your will, mighty Krol?” Krol kept majestic silence for a moment. Finally:

  “You will all swear to obey my rules and my thoughts, even unspoken wishes. You will range far to pluck all the fruits I like, and bring them to me. You will yield Soko up as a victim—”

  “Wait, you tree people!” burst out Hok in disgust. “I see you wavering! Do you truly mean to let that murderer destroy Soko, who is the best man among you?”

  Nobody answered. Hok saw them stare sickly. Krol went on:

  “I have not finished. Soko as a victim, I say. And also this troublesome stranger, Hok. Their blood will increase my walls.”

  CHAPTER IX

  The Hot Hunger Obliges

  FOR a moment Hok had an overpowering sense of having guessed wrong.

  He had spoken the truth when he announced that the killing of Krol was the tree-men’s responsibility, not his. Violent death was no novelty in his life, and he had inflicted enough of it on large, strong foes to be hesitant about attacking weak, unworthy ones. Too, he had no wish to take on the rule of Krol’s people as an additional chore. If Soko, who seemed a fair chieftainly type, did the killing, then Soko would confirm himself as leader. Hok could depart from this Ancient Land with a clear conscience.

  But just now his half-languid forbearance was shunting him into another nasty situation. Three or four of the men were murmuring together, and there was a stealthy movement of the clan’s whole fighting strength in the direction of Soko. At once Hok pushed forward at and among them. Quick flicks of his open hands scattered them like shavings in the wind.

  “Fools!” he scolded them. “Weak of wit! You deserve no better than a life roosting in these trees. Soko and I have brought you to the edge of freedom, and you cannot take advantage!”

  “That is good talk,” seconded Soko, with considerable stoutness. “Krol has fled before me. Since he will not fight, I am chief. Let any one man among you come and strive with me if he thinks otherwise.”

  The half-formed uprising was quelled. One or two men fidgeted.

  Said one: “But who will fetch us water?”

  “Who but Krol?” chimed in the old rascal from behind his mud walls. “I make no more offers until you come to me with thirsty throats, begging.”

  The speaker glanced sidelong at Hok. He half-whispered: “Krol wants the blood of Soko and the stranger—”

  “He shall have blood enough and to spare, if you even think of fighting,” Hok cut him off roughly. “Krol spoke of using it. For the thickness of his walls. What did he mean?”

  Soko pointed to the den. “He mixes earth with blood, and it turns into stone.”

  Hok came toward the big egg of clay, and saw that Soko spoke truth. The texture of that fortress was more
than simple dried mud. Hok prodded it with his finger, then a dagger-point, finally swung his axe against it. He made no more than a dint. Even his strength and weapons could not strip that husk from Krol.[19]

  “Hai, the old coward has built strongly,” he granted. “Well, the front door is open. Shall I fetch him out?” Soko nodded eagerly, and Hok cut a long straight shoot from a nearby branch. This he poked in through the entrance hole. It encountered softness, and Hok grinned at the howl that came back. Then the end of the stick was seized inside, and he grinned more widely.

  “Do you think to match pulls with Hok?” he queried. “A single twitch, and you come out among us.”

  PUTTING action to word, he gave his end a sharp tug. Krol let go, and Hok almost fell over backward as the stick came into view.

  But upon it was something that made the tree-folk scream with one voice of horror, while Hok himself felt a cold chill of dismay.

  Krol had clung to the end of the stick only long enough to attach a peculiar and unpleasant weapon of his own—a small, frantic snake banded in black and orange. This creature came spiralling along the pole toward Hok, plainly angry and looking for trouble. Hok dropped the pole, grabbing for his bow. Fallen upon the woven floor, the snake turned from him to Soko, who was nearest at the moment. Soko scrambled away, bellowing in fear.

  But then Hok had sent an arrow at it, and spiked it to a lichen-covered stub of bough that thrust into view from the platform. The ugly little creature lashed to and fro like a worm on a fish-hook. Its flat head, heavily jowled with poison sacs, struck again and again at the shaft that pierced it.

  “Wagh!” cried Hok, and spat in disgust. “The touch of that fang is death. Does Krol live with such friends?”

  “Snakes do not bite Krol,” volunteered Soko, returning shakily.

  “I do not blame them,” rejoined Hok. “Well, he seems prepared for any assault. Siege is the alternative.”

  “I am thirsty,” piped up a child from behind its watching mother. Hok ordered a search for milk-nuts, and half the tribe went swinging away through the boughs to bring them. Soko lingered at Hok’s elbow.

  “Hok! Only the death of Krol will save us. There are some in the tribe who will slay us if we sleep, if we relax watch even—”

  “And your blood will plaster my walls afresh,” promised Krol, overhearing.

  Hok made another close inspection of Krol’s defenses, keeping sharp lookout lest Krol turn more snakes upon him. He hacked experimentally at several of the branches that supported the structure, but they were tough and thick, would take days to sever. After a moment, inspiration came to him. He began to prune at nearby twigs and sticks, paying especial attention to dry, dead wood. Soon he had cleared most of the small branches from around the den, and stacked his cuttings carefully to one side.

  “What will you do to force him out?” asked Soko.

  “It is not I who will force him out,” replied Hok cryptically. “It is my friend, the Hot Hunger.”

  “The Hot Hunger!” repeated Krol and his voice sounded hollow.

  AS THE nut-gatherers returned, Hok gave them another errand, the collection of small faggots of dry branches. They obeyed readily, for Krol voiced no more threats, and Soko was acting the part of a chief. As the little stores of fuel came in, Hok began to peg and tie them to the outside of the clay den. Finally, while all watched in roundeyed wonder, he fished forth his firemaking apparatus.

  Upon a thick carpet of green leaves he kindled the smallest of fires. All but Soko, who had seen fire-building once before, whimpered and drew away. Hok was all the more glad, for he wanted no crowding and bough-shaking to set the tree tops ablaze. Having found and kindled a torch to his liking, he stamped out the rest of the fire with his moccasin heel and returned to the fuel-festooned den of Krol.

  He ignited the broken, splintery end of a twig. It flared up, and other pieces of wood likewise. Hok nodded approval of his work.

  “See, it will soon be night,” he announced. “Will someone bring me a little food? I shall watch here.”

  “Watch what?” asked one of the tree folk.

  “Krol’s embarrassment. Where are some of those milk-nuts?”

  Twilight was coming on, with dusk to follow. Most of the tree-men led their families to distant nests, peering back in worried wonder. Soko remained with Hok.

  “You are going to burn Krol,” guessed Soko, but Hok shook his head in the firelight, and pegged more sticks to the blood-mingled clay.

  “Help me to spread thick, moist leaves to catch any fire that falls, Soko. No, Krol will not wait long enough to be burned. Eventually he will come forth to face us.”

  From within the den came a strong sound, half wheeze and half snarl.

  “You are a devil, Hok,” Krol was mumbling. “It grows hot in here.”

  Soko was encouraged. “Come and be killed,” he set up his chant of challenge. “Come and be killed. Come and be killed.”

  Krol wheeze-snarled again, and fell silent. Hok fed his fire judiciously. The blood-clay cement was scorching hot to his fingertips. Dusk swiftly became night.

  “Hok, listen,” ventured Krol after a time. “You and I are reasonable men. Perhaps I was wrong to make an enemy of you. You are wrong to remain an enemy of mine. I have it in mind that you and I could do great things. Your strength, with my wits—”

  “This talk is not for bargaining, but to throw us off guard,” Hok remarked sagely to Soko.

  SOKO peered into the dark opening of the den. “Come and be killed,” he invited Krol.

  Krol wheezed again, this time with a sort of sob as obligato.

  “Your hearts are as hard as ivory,” he accused shakily. “I am old and feeble. The things I did may have been mistakes, but I was trying to help my people. Now I must die horribly, of the Hot Hunger, because a big yellow-haired stranger has no mercy.”

  Hok lashed a handful of fresh fuel together with a green vine and tied it to a peg he had worked into the clay, setting this new wood afire.

  “I judge that Krol is at his most dangerous now,” be told Soko. “Beware of those who seek to make you sorrow for them. Tears bedim the eyes.”

  “Come and be killed,” repeated Soko.

  He had come quite close to the opening, and Krol made his last bid for victory and safety.

  He dived forth, swift and deadly as the little coral snake he had attempted to use against Hok. The impact of his pudgy old body was enough to bowl over the unready Soko.

  Winding his legs and one arm around the body of his younger rival, he plied with his free hand a long bone dagger.

  Hok, on the other side of the fiery den, hurried around just in time to see two grappled bodies roll over, and then fall through a gap in the broad mat. Two yells beat up through the night—Soko’s voice raised in startled pain, Krol’s in fierce triumph. Then, as Hok reached the gap, there was only one voice:

  “There, Soko, hang like a beetle on a thorn! You shall have time to think of my power before you die! I, Krol, depart for Rmanths, my only friend, whom I shall feed fat with the corpses of my rebellious people!”

  CHAPTER X

  Hok Accepts a Challenge

  IN THE complete darkness, climbing might have been a dire danger; but the fire that still burned around the abandoned fortress of Krol shed light below. Hok was able to find footing among the branches, and to descend with something of speed.

  At a distance of some twenty paces below the matted mid-floor of the jungle, he found Soko. His friend seemed to dangle half across a swaying branch-tip, struggling vaguely with ineffectual flaps of arms and legs. Of Krol there was no glimpse or sound.

  “Soko, you still live!” cried Hok. “Come with me, we will hunt for Krol together!”

  “But I cannot come,” wheezed Soko, pain in his voice.

  A sudden up-blazing of the fire overhead gave them more light, and Hok saw the plight that Soko was in.

  Evidently Krol and Soko had fallen upon the branch, Soko underneath. As earl
ier in the day with Hok and the Stymph, so in this case the lower figure in the impact had been momentarily stunned. Krol, above, had taken that moment to strike downward with the big bone dagger, pouring all his strength into the effort.

  That dagger had pierced Soko’s body on the left side, coming out beyond and driving deep into the wood of the branch. As Krol himself had put it, Soko was like a beetle on a thorn. “I cannot come,” he moaned again, making shift to cling to the branch with both hands, to ease the drag on his wound.

  Hok balanced himself on the bough, and began to work his way out toward the unhappy tree-man. There was no nearby branch by which to hold on or to share Hok’s weight. The single outward shoot swayed and crackled beneath him. He drew back to safer footing.

  “I must find another way to him,” muttered Hok, tugging his golden beard. Then, he thought of such a way, and began to climb upward again.

  “Don’t leave me,” pleaded Soko wretchedly.

  “Courage,” Hok replied, and searched among branches for what he needed. He found it almost at once—a clumsy mass of vines, strong and pliable as leather thongs. Quickly he cut several of the sturdiest strands, knotting them together. Then he located a stronger branch which extended above the one where Soko was imprisoned. He slid out alone it, and made fast one end of his improvised line.

  “I am in pain,” Soko gasped, his voice weak and trembling.

  “Courage!” Hok exhorted him again. He hung axe, bow, quiver and pouch on a stout stub of the base branch. Then he swung down by the knotted vines, descending hand under hand toward Soko.

  He came to a point level with the unfortunate prisoner of the wedged dagger, and almost within reach. By shifting his weight he made the cord swing, and was able to hook a knee over the lower bough. Then, holding on by a hand just above a knot in the vines, he put out his other hand to the knife that transfixed Soko.

  Even as he touched it, Soko gave a shudder and went limp. He had fainted.

  Hok was more glad than otherwise, and forthwith tugged on the tight-stuck weapon with all his strength. It left its lodgment in the wood, and came easily out of Soko’s flesh. With nothing to hold him to his lodgment, Soko dropped into emptiness.