FIC: Maltose [Khayman] Part 1/?
This story was inspired by Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, so don’t be surprised if you see some interesting similarities here.
Disclaimer: I'm simply borrowing these characters for fun. No profit is made from this stuff, trust me!
Title: Maltose
Author: lenaf007
Pairing: None
Rating: PG - For adult themes and mild violence.
Introduction:
The blade singed across the whetting stone in a single swipe. Its twin tucked away in the hilt on his back, these daggers had been created by Maltose nearly a decade ago, and since then they had been put to good use. To the untrained eye, they might have seemed ordinary and rather unornamented, hardly worth the pride and care their owner gave them. But these daggers were far from ordinary. Archaic incantations were etched down the flat edges of the blades in tiny script, small enough to seem like casual scratches and cuts. The handles were a stained white, a pearl almost that glinted and shone even when only the moon rose to her perch. That religious serpent, ivory, was their creation, and it was for this reason that he would sharpen them only in the deadest of night. Were one of his guides to see even a hint of their hilts, Maltose would surely be killed for them, so high was the price for the ‘white gold’. But he had not forged them for the purpose of price, but rather their use. His prey at the moment was far from ordinary.
“’I looked around, and I don’t know why, but I assure you that never, never before, did this land, this river, this jungle, the very arch of this blazing sky, appear to me so hopeless and so dark, so impenetrable to human thought, so pitiless to human weakness.”
Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness
Part I:
The first rays of light had just peaked over the horizons and the forest became alit with noise. Birds of every shape and sound used that moment to blurt out their loudest greeting of the sun while the chimps leaped through the branches in a seemingly eternal irritation. Maltose rose from his crouched position, securing the blades in their sheaths before venturing over to the two guides that sat asleep against the boulders near their river, even in sleep they kept their guns close at hand. Maltose smiled to himself, it was clear he would need to be extra cautious. They had been traveling inland, following the Congo River as it wound its way through the dense foliage and rocky paths. A few days ago, they had come across the city of Manyamba, and Maltose knew that they were close. Since they had left the city and headed southeast along the Kwilu River, Maltose had regularly sharpened his blades in anticipation. It wouldn’t be long now.
One of the guides, Kumalo, rose slowly as a particularly insistent ray of sunlight struck him across the eyes. He was a very tall man, standing at least at 6’8”, of dark African descent. Having lived in and around the Congo all of his life, Kumalo seemed hardened in appearance. His high cheekbones stood out against the large orbs of his eyes, which were as dark and cold as coal. He stared at Maltose distrustingly, rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand and holding his rifle at the ready with the other. With a grunt of annoyance, he elbowed his younger brother, Malow, a short young man who looked far older for his age, with stripes of gray gracing the temples; it was very odd to think of him as being the younger of the two. Kumalo knew the land inside and out, from the customs of the people to the paths to take, to the types of food to be found. He was well known to be a swindler of sorts, cheating the unsuspecting out of money every chance he could get. His brother, on the other hand, had specialties elsewhere. Although Maltose himself was a superb hunter and was renowned worldwide for his expertise in the skill, he was not such a fool as to enter the Congo without some knowledge of the dangers the forest had in waiting. Malow was an expert in the wildlife, the climate, as well as in tracking and pillaging. If the rumors were true, Malow was as much an expert in thieving as he was in tracking, another reason Maltose kept his daggers from sight as often as possible. They were the best guides to be found, and they better have been for the money Maltose had paid out. He stood and smiled, knowing the worst of their fears to be gone with the rising of the sun. They would not be hunted now. He turned to face the two men, who were clamoring reluctantly to their feet.
“Well, now the fun begins. We’re near the camp, which means we’ll need to keep our eyes on the ground.” He looked toward Malow as he finished his statement. The man kept his gaze before sighing in frustration.
“So, Maltose,” his voice was laced with annoyance, as he cocked an eyebrow at the taller Englishman. “You say that this daemon we are searching for hides underground during the day. If this is indeed a daemon, and it does not wish to be found, why do you think even I would be able to find it?” Maltose knew little of the keen African, yet ever since he had taken the job, Malow seemed uneasy. He jumped at every movement in the woods and kept his eyes alert at all times. To look at him you’d think he was the prey of this safari. But before Maltose could respond, Kumalo lit his cigarette and ran a shaky hand through his oily, shoulder-length hair.
“I have heard rumors about this daemon, Maltose,” his voice was deep and grave as his large eyes flickered back and forth through the dense foliage surrounding him, keeping his bwaka knife poised in his hand opposite the gun. “It seems that this village we seek has been ravaged by him, and yet, no other village suffers. Some say it is a curse for their actions, others say it does not exist, but these people are… superstitious.” He took another draught on the cigarette before continuing, the tiny tendrils of smoke linking chains around his hair and face. “They say this daemon moves faster than any beast you could find in these woods. He moves with the darkness, carrying the evil with him as though it flows from him. They say that whenever he appears, the drums of hell follow. And the bodies, Ai!” He ran a shaky hand over his greasy face, “They say the bodies barely have anything left to them! Usually they only find piles of ash, but once, once they found only the husk of a man! Only a husk!” Maltose leaned forward then, fixing his eyes on the tall, lanky man.
“Tell me. Does the daemon ever give his name?” At first Kumalo stared at him as though he was mad, then he swallowed hard.
“They say he calls himself Benjamin the Devil!”
Disclaimer: I'm simply borrowing these characters for fun. No profit is made from this stuff, trust me!
Title: Maltose
Author: lenaf007
Pairing: None
Rating: PG - For adult themes and mild violence.
Introduction:
The blade singed across the whetting stone in a single swipe. Its twin tucked away in the hilt on his back, these daggers had been created by Maltose nearly a decade ago, and since then they had been put to good use. To the untrained eye, they might have seemed ordinary and rather unornamented, hardly worth the pride and care their owner gave them. But these daggers were far from ordinary. Archaic incantations were etched down the flat edges of the blades in tiny script, small enough to seem like casual scratches and cuts. The handles were a stained white, a pearl almost that glinted and shone even when only the moon rose to her perch. That religious serpent, ivory, was their creation, and it was for this reason that he would sharpen them only in the deadest of night. Were one of his guides to see even a hint of their hilts, Maltose would surely be killed for them, so high was the price for the ‘white gold’. But he had not forged them for the purpose of price, but rather their use. His prey at the moment was far from ordinary.
“’I looked around, and I don’t know why, but I assure you that never, never before, did this land, this river, this jungle, the very arch of this blazing sky, appear to me so hopeless and so dark, so impenetrable to human thought, so pitiless to human weakness.”
Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness
Part I:
The first rays of light had just peaked over the horizons and the forest became alit with noise. Birds of every shape and sound used that moment to blurt out their loudest greeting of the sun while the chimps leaped through the branches in a seemingly eternal irritation. Maltose rose from his crouched position, securing the blades in their sheaths before venturing over to the two guides that sat asleep against the boulders near their river, even in sleep they kept their guns close at hand. Maltose smiled to himself, it was clear he would need to be extra cautious. They had been traveling inland, following the Congo River as it wound its way through the dense foliage and rocky paths. A few days ago, they had come across the city of Manyamba, and Maltose knew that they were close. Since they had left the city and headed southeast along the Kwilu River, Maltose had regularly sharpened his blades in anticipation. It wouldn’t be long now.
One of the guides, Kumalo, rose slowly as a particularly insistent ray of sunlight struck him across the eyes. He was a very tall man, standing at least at 6’8”, of dark African descent. Having lived in and around the Congo all of his life, Kumalo seemed hardened in appearance. His high cheekbones stood out against the large orbs of his eyes, which were as dark and cold as coal. He stared at Maltose distrustingly, rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand and holding his rifle at the ready with the other. With a grunt of annoyance, he elbowed his younger brother, Malow, a short young man who looked far older for his age, with stripes of gray gracing the temples; it was very odd to think of him as being the younger of the two. Kumalo knew the land inside and out, from the customs of the people to the paths to take, to the types of food to be found. He was well known to be a swindler of sorts, cheating the unsuspecting out of money every chance he could get. His brother, on the other hand, had specialties elsewhere. Although Maltose himself was a superb hunter and was renowned worldwide for his expertise in the skill, he was not such a fool as to enter the Congo without some knowledge of the dangers the forest had in waiting. Malow was an expert in the wildlife, the climate, as well as in tracking and pillaging. If the rumors were true, Malow was as much an expert in thieving as he was in tracking, another reason Maltose kept his daggers from sight as often as possible. They were the best guides to be found, and they better have been for the money Maltose had paid out. He stood and smiled, knowing the worst of their fears to be gone with the rising of the sun. They would not be hunted now. He turned to face the two men, who were clamoring reluctantly to their feet.
“Well, now the fun begins. We’re near the camp, which means we’ll need to keep our eyes on the ground.” He looked toward Malow as he finished his statement. The man kept his gaze before sighing in frustration.
“So, Maltose,” his voice was laced with annoyance, as he cocked an eyebrow at the taller Englishman. “You say that this daemon we are searching for hides underground during the day. If this is indeed a daemon, and it does not wish to be found, why do you think even I would be able to find it?” Maltose knew little of the keen African, yet ever since he had taken the job, Malow seemed uneasy. He jumped at every movement in the woods and kept his eyes alert at all times. To look at him you’d think he was the prey of this safari. But before Maltose could respond, Kumalo lit his cigarette and ran a shaky hand through his oily, shoulder-length hair.
“I have heard rumors about this daemon, Maltose,” his voice was deep and grave as his large eyes flickered back and forth through the dense foliage surrounding him, keeping his bwaka knife poised in his hand opposite the gun. “It seems that this village we seek has been ravaged by him, and yet, no other village suffers. Some say it is a curse for their actions, others say it does not exist, but these people are… superstitious.” He took another draught on the cigarette before continuing, the tiny tendrils of smoke linking chains around his hair and face. “They say this daemon moves faster than any beast you could find in these woods. He moves with the darkness, carrying the evil with him as though it flows from him. They say that whenever he appears, the drums of hell follow. And the bodies, Ai!” He ran a shaky hand over his greasy face, “They say the bodies barely have anything left to them! Usually they only find piles of ash, but once, once they found only the husk of a man! Only a husk!” Maltose leaned forward then, fixing his eyes on the tall, lanky man.
“Tell me. Does the daemon ever give his name?” At first Kumalo stared at him as though he was mad, then he swallowed hard.
“They say he calls himself Benjamin the Devil!”