Kutnar, Son of Pic. George Langford
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George Langford
Kutnar, Son of Pic
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066230739
Table of Contents
I
Totan, hetman of the northern Spanish cave-folk, sat upon the threshold of Castillo, watching a party of men coming toward him up the mountainside. His people, to the number of eighty or more, were behind him gathered about a roaring fire. All were clad in the skins of beasts and armed with wooden clubs and javelins. They stared down at the newcomers with hungry wolfish eyes.
Those approaching from below were short, thick-set men with hairy bodies and bent limbs—gaunt, hollow-cheeked and beast-like, and yet men. They clambered up to the cavern threshold where Totan and his band awaited them.
In the van strode Gonch the Muskman. All greeted him in sullen silence, for it was plain to be seen that neither he nor his companions brought food of any kind. Totan rose to his feet livid with rage. He was a giant in strength, a grotesque and misshapen Hercules, bandy-legged and short-armed. His head was apparently without neck, so closely did it set upon his brawny shoulders. His low forehead sloped to a pair of heavily bone-ribbed eyes and thick aquiline nose. His big bull-teeth gleamed from his protruding muzzle. His bushy brows were drawn down in a terrible scowl.
“No food!” he roared. “Again our hunters return empty-handed. We must eat. Who shall it be?” He glared fiercely from one man to another. All cringed before him like beaten curs. He was about to vent his wrath upon Gonch, the leader of the party, when his eyes lifted with astonishment at sight of something in the Muskman’s right hand.
“Where—where did you get that?” he stammered.
A look of triumph came over Gonch’s face. He opened his hand and held it palm upward so that all could see. There lay a superb flint-blade; large, well-formed and keen-edged. It was the finest stone weapon that the Castillans had ever seen.
“A marvelous flint,” said Gonch. “It was made by the Mammoth Man.”
Totan emitted an astonished grunt. His head may have been as dense as his muscles, but he could tell a fine blade when he saw one. Speech was a laborious process at best and now he could find no words to say.
“It was in the low country,” Gonch said, pointing eastward to the rock-strewn plains bordering the River Pas. “We found a man.”
He paused impressively. Not a sound broke the stillness. All held their breaths and waited in suspense for his next words.
“He was a strange man,” Gonch continued. “He lay upon his back. The flesh was wasted from his bones. He gave me this flint hoping thereby to escape death. I questioned him to learn how it came into his possession. He said that it was the work of the Mammoth Man.”
Totan began to find the use of his tongue.
“The Mammoth Man? Who is he?”
“Hetman of a far-off tribe,” Gonch replied. “Leader of skilled hunters who have prospered mightily because of him. He makes flints like this one and supplies them to his men.”
Totan sneered incredulously. “Their leader a flint-worker? That is hard to believe.”
“The man said so,” Gonch maintained stoutly; “and I believe he told the truth as to the flints. He also told lies. Because of them I killed him.”
“Good food gone to waste,” Totan growled. “You should have brought his carcass here.”
Gonch rubbed his stomach with one open hand all the time grinning like a hyena. Gone to waste? Hardly. Gonch was never guilty of such carelessness as that. He was a prince of cannibals and his body so reeked with the stench of his man-feasting that he smelled like a flesh-eating beast. For that reason men called him the Muskman.
“The stranger lied about the Mammoth Man; a giant mightier than the Hairy Elephant; one who has made the beasts his slaves;