Temple of the Burning Shadow

Author: Kirk Straughen

Synopsis: Jack McCabe receives a cryptic letter from his uncle bidding him to come to darkest Africa. Upon arrival McCabe is plunged into a tumultuous and unexpected series of terrifying ordeals where he must ultimately confront an unearthly power that threatens all humanity. Can he survive these unnatural terrors and save the world? Read the story if you think you've got the courage.

Footnote: Minor changes were made to this story on 19 June 2021.

Chapter 1: The Yellow Door

Jack McCabe crouched in the pooling shadows. The Englishman’s brawny frame was tense. His grey eyes scanned the narrow and filthy alley that bisected the old quarter of Memwis, decrepit capital of the Republic of Nyamba. The young man’s surroundings were a far cry from the cool and cleanliness of London - the heat, even in the dead of night, was stifling, and the retching stench of an open sewer by his feet - unbearable.

McCabe’s hand tightened upon the hilt of the native dagger he’d purchased earlier in the day from a dusky vendor in the city’s teeming market. Again, his narrowed eyes raked the darkness, searching for the hidden stalker. But only the blackness of night’s face, painted here and there by moonlight, stared back at him. He was alone, the quite of the sultry miasmatic air broken only by the distant barking of a mangy Nyamban cur.

What the hell am I doing here?, he thought for the umpteenth time.

Again, he recalled his uncle’s cryptic missive, bidding him come in all haste and secrecy to this remote corner of Africa. The old archaeologist was known for his eccentricity (senility, according to some of his harsher critics), so when the letter arrived McCabe hadn’t been unduly surprised at its strangeness.

The young man, being in his early twenties and somewhat restless, had seen this invitation as a marvelous opportunity to enliven what he felt was a rather staid existence. He had tried to invigorate himself with sports such as wrestling and pistol shooting, but found he was still dissatisfied with life; wanting more but not really knowing what it was. Naturally, McCabe jumped at the prospect for adventure, and within a week of the letter’s arrival had abandoned his boring job as a postal clerk for more exotic realms.

But now he regretted his hasty and naive decision. Ever since his arrival in the capital two days ago, McCabe had felt the pressure of hidden eyes upon him - of unseen watchers following his every move. Indeed, the entire city seemed on edge - a vast, restless mass of discontented humanity that was a potential breeding ground for violent revolution.

And to add to his unease his uncle, Raymond Lewis, had not been at the ramshackle hotel that was to be their meeting place. Instead, another cryptic note was presented to him by the wizened manager who oversaw that pile of crumbling colonial architecture - a note giving him directions to the lonely place where he now found himself.

McCabe grimaced. At night, the alleys of Memwis were no place for a white man, and no place for an African, either. Behind him, he was sure, someone malefic lurked. He crept crabwise, hugging the grimy wall, his heart racing with fear. To his right he discerned the yellow door through which he was about to step. Was his uncle within, or was it danger that awaited him? Either way, it was too late to turn back now.

He knocked softly. Tense moments passed. There was no answer. McCabe swallowed and wrestled with his mounting terror. He pushed against the door. It swung inwards, its rusty hinges groaning like some tortured soul.

The Englishman stepped within. It was something of an anticlimax - the derelict warehouse was deserted: haunted only by dust, and moonbeams slanting through gaping holes in the building’s dilapidated roof.

McCabe relaxed and laughed softly - he was overwrought. It was then that the snaring net fell upon him. The Englishman cursed. His dagger flashed. The keen blade sliced through shrouding cords as figures rushed him from the depths of shadow.

A wild tumult of leaping dusky forms fell upon him. One man screamed and fell away, blood spurting from a slash upon his limb. Another threw a brawny arm about the loan defender’s throat. More assailants grasped his arms. Another tore away the bloody knife. McCabe’s feet lashed out. His boots cracked shins. Savage howls, sharp with pain and fury, cut the night; curses in a foreign tongue fouled the air as the Englishman struck again with strength fuelled desperation.

But despite his valiant efforts the swearing, struggling victim was steadily forced by weight of numbers to the grimy concrete floor. Hard fists pounded his head in a rain of brutal blows - a relentless storm of rage that quickly obliterated consciousness.

**********

McCabe’s first sensation was of stabbing pain. His head felt as if a demented blacksmith had used it as an anvil. He swore and opened his eyes, squinting against the glare of an overhead lamp that imprisoned him within its circle of blazing light.

He was strapped to a heavy wooden chair. Its timber was disfigured by ominous stains, darkly sinister. Before him, on a long, narrow table were glittering implements of torture, cruelly sharp. Beyond was impenetrable darkness. McCabe thought he had been afraid before, but now he truly knew the meaning of the word.

Somewhere, a boot heel scraped in the darkness. McCabe’s head jerked up. He strained impotently against his bonds. A figure appeared at the edge of light - towering and massive, its face half in shadow. A voice spoke – deep, resonant, and cruelly mocking.

“Welcome to Nyamba, Mr. McCabe.”

Heart wildly thudding, the frightened Englishman peered intently at his gloom veiled tormentor. McCabe’s mind raced - had he been kidnapped for ransom? Who was this man? Was he going to die horribly? He didn’t know. Then cold and clammy sweat came upon his brow as he slowly recognized the towering figure.

Even in shadow there could be no mistaking that impressive face - huge portraits of it were upon every major government building in Memwis. It was the face of a black Caesar, dynamic with cruel ruthlessness.

“General Kemusu Uma … What … What do you want with me?”

McCabe stumbled over his rush of words, ashamed at the sound of his own fear laden voice. Then, rallying his courage, for if he were to die he felt he should do so with at least a facade of bravery, he spoke again more steadily.

“This is an outrage! I’m a British citizen. My government …”

The dictator’s harsh laugh, as sharp as a dagger, cut off his bluster.

“And who is going to tell them, McCabe? Do you think I will?” Again, Uma smirked, and then continued. “You’ve been lured here by forged letters, you fool. No one knows where you are. The police take their orders from me. I can make you disappear without a trace.”

McCabe cursed himself for an idiot. The unseen watchers had been no figment of his imagination. They knew he was alone and that he had not informed the British embassy in Memwis of his movements. Again, chill terror seized him, and he was hard pressed to maintain his mask of calm.

“What’s this all about anyway? My passport and visa are in order. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Uma gestured. Two soldiers dragged a figure, blindfolded and gagged, into the light. McCabe gasped - it was his uncle, disheveled but seemingly unharmed. The cloth was torn from his eyes and mouth. The aged professor blinked owlishly in the harsh light, then paled as his eyes came to rest upon McCabe.

“Oh God! … Jack … The fiend … “

“Uncle Raymond, are you OK? What the hell is going on?”

“Your uncle is working for me - a special archaeological project,” cut in Uma. “He became… uncooperative when he deciphered certain Nyamban hieroglyphics. I need those translations and can’t risk torture - he is old and frail, and could easily die. You, on the other hand, are expendable.”

“Let the lad go,” cried Lewis desperately as the general stepped to the table and eagerly seized an instrument of torture with his beefy hand. “For the love of God... This is inhuman…”

McCabe struggled wildly. Uma’s eyes were as cold and hard as the steel pincers he lovingly caressed. A cruel smile twitched the corners of his heavy mouth as he drew near the wide eyed Englishman. The general was clearly in his element.

McCabe struggled wildly. Lewis sobbed his pleas, more frantic now than ever. The dictator ignored him as did the hulking soldiers who stifled the savant’s frantic efforts to break free and aid his nephew. With growing horror, the professor saw Uma grab his victim’s hand and clamp the pincers upon one finger. McCabe, despite his resolution, screamed when the steel began to crush his flesh.

“It’s up to you, Lewis,” Uma shouted above the agonized cries of the writhing Englishman. “Cooperate or I’ll crush his fingers, one by one.”

The professor looked on, sick with naked fear, his mind a whirl of frantic thoughts. Should he yield to save his nephew from this ruthless devil? But to do so would place such power in Uma’s hands - a power that could destroy the world. An agonized scream, more terrible than those before, rent the air. Lewis sobbed. The tortured cry had broken his resolve.

“Stop!” he shouted. “For God’s sake, stop. I’ll give you what you want. Free Jack and bring him to my room. I‘ll work much better if I can see he is safe.”

Uma nodded and signaled to his bodyguards to release the barely conscious prisoner. “You’ve made a wise decision, Professor Lewis. I am not needlessly cruel, but your intransigence forced my hand.”

Lying devil, thought Lewis with a shudder as he watched the two soldiers who had been restraining him free McCabe, revive him further with brutal slaps and smelling salts from the table, and then haul the weakened man to his feet.

The professor flinched as Uma slipped an arm companionably about his shoulders, and smiled broadly as if nothing untoward had happened. “Let us retire to your room. You can complete the translation there. Oh, don’t worry about McCabe,” continued the general, who enjoyed playing with his victims. “His finger is badly bruised, that’s all.” Then he laughed. “Not much mettle to the man - he passed out before most prisoners do.”

Oh God, thought Lewis, despairingly. What a fool I’ve been. Poor Jack. If Only I hadn’t been blind to the iron fist that lurked beneath the general’s velvet glove.

McCabe, who had recovered something of his mental equilibrium as they left the torture chamber, trembled. But it was rage, not fear as his guards surmised, that made him shake. Never before had he felt such hatred for a human being. He would kill Uma, and slowly, or die in the attempt, but not just yet. No, he would bide his time. McCabe’s countenance took on such a diabolical aspect at that pleasing thought, that had he seen it thus in a saner moment, he would have barely recognized himself.

Up the narrow steps of the cellar passed the group, Uma and Lewis in the lead, McCabe and his guards at the rear, the Englishman being half carried, half dragged along by his silent and stony captors. They emerged within the deserted kitchens of the presidential palace - the antique residence of the former British governors of Nyamba.

Passing on through a stately dining room and formal lounge, the party then mounted a flight of steps to the upper level of the building, and stepped within a spacious and well appointed chamber at the end of the stairway’s corridor. Here, McCabe was dumped upon an overstuffed chair. His guards then stood behind him, while his uncle was ushered by Uma to a massive desk strewn with scholarly periodicals.

Lewis sat and stared at his journal, well aware the general was watching him with the keenness of a hawk. He opened the book, picked up his fountain pen, and then hesitated as he began to read his notes and the fearful things that his secret script contained.

The savant forced his pen to the paper. But the unwritten words shouted dire warnings at him and again he faltered. He couldn’t do it; he couldn’t endanger the world by placing such power in Uma’s hands. And yet he couldn’t allow his nephew to be cruelly tortured, either. A muffled groan escaped his pale lips, and he passed a trembling hand over his ashen countenance.

Never before had he been faced with such a terrible, agonizing decision. It seemed there was only one way to thwart the dictator’s plans - by denying him the knowledge that he, Lewis, possessed. The professor was no coward, but even so he quailed at what his conscious forced upon him.

A sickly expression on his face, Lewis looked up and met his nephew’s puzzled and anxious gaze. “I’m sorry Jack,” he cried in anguished tones. “Please forgive me, but there is more at stake here than your life, or my own.”

Then, before his startled audience could react, the professor seized an inkwell from his Victorian writing case, and downed its entire contents in a single gulp.

Uma cursed. He leapt upon Lewis like a pouncing lion and grabbed him by the collar. “What have you done?” he shrilly cried.

“Cyanide based ink,”* gasped the stricken man. Then, his eyes rolled in their sockets, and in but moments he was dead.

For a moment Uma clutched the lifeless body, speechless. Then he cursed, hurled it upon the floor and kicked it brutally. For a second McCabe stared, open mouthed in utter disbelief. Then the full import of events crashed upon him, and his pent up rage erupted like detonating dynamite. He leapt upon his feet and with a savage kick sent the heavy chair flying into the guards who stood behind him.

Uma spun about. He saw his cursing men tumbling to the floor and McCabe rushing at him, his twisted face a savage study in utter rage. The general’s hand darted for his Markalov**. McCabe’s fist slammed against his jaw. Uma reeled. He dropped the half-drawn pistol and crashed upon the floor.

McCabe flung himself on the man, hands clamping around his throat in a brutal stranglehold. Uma couldn’t breath. His eyes began to bulge as they stared into McCabe’s. The Englishman’s face was close to his. His grin was savage and his teeth were bared in an animal snarl that spoke of merciless revenge. With a wild swing born of utter panic the general knocked his foe aside. McCabe grunted. He hit the floor and rolled onto all fours. The Englishman dashed blood and sweat from his eyes and glimpsed Uma scrabbling for the pistol as his guards staggered up clawing for their weapons.

The general’s hand closed upon his Markalov. McCabe pounced upon him, cutting off his cry of triumph. Both men desperately wrestled for possession of the gun as the shouting guards, pistols drawn, rushed towards them.

*Footnote: Certain pigments used in inks, such as potash blue and soda blue, are based on ferro and ferric cyanides.

** Footnote: The Makarov PM was the standard military sidearm of the Soviet Union from 1951 to 1991. The Nyamban military source most of their weapons from Russian arms dealers who, like most of their kind, have no compunctions about selling disused ordnance to third world dictatorships.

Chapter 2: Danger in the Dark

Death’s jaws seemed about to close upon McCabe and snap the fragile thread of life, for the charging soldiers would be upon him in a moment. With a defiant cry he head butted Uma. The general screamed and dropped his gun. He rolled upon the floor clutching his broken nose. The Englishman darted for the pistol. His hand closed upon it.

McCabe rolled. Guns roared. Bullets from the soldier’s pistols gouged the floor where he had been. His own gun spewed screaming lead as he fired from the floor. The guards jerked. Uma spat curses as his men crashed lifeless to the boards. The general hurled himself at McCabe as the Englishman rose to a knee and aimed the pistol at him.

McCabe swore - Uma’s fist thudded against his wrist a split second before he squeezed the trigger. The deflected gun bucked, spitting lead. The bullet punched an ugly hole through the general’s shoulder muscle. He shrilly screamed as he clutched his bloody wound and staggered back.

Again McCabe, a mad grin deforming his face, squeezed the trigger. The gun jammed. With a curse he hurled the useless weapon at the general. It struck his head and laid an ugly cut across his scalp. Uma crashed to the floor. The Englishman was on him like a leopard and so focused was he upon this moment of sweet revenge, that he was blind to all but the look of utter terror upon his enemy’s face.

Bloodlust, more intoxicating than wine, surged through McCabe as his clawing hands locked about Uma’s throat in a lethal stranglehold. But at the height of triumph his thirst for vengeance was denied - a naked heel slammed against his kidney. The Englishman screamed a pain wracked cry. He collapsed and writhed in agony. Then strong hands hauled him off the shaken general and flung him brutally to the polished floor.

McCabe groaned as he fought against the torturing tide of pain. Above him loomed a young black woman, her shapely figure barely concealed by the skimpy, diaphanous night dress that she wore. Her beauty, though, was marred by the hardness of her eyes - as cold and steely as the Makarov she pointed steadily at the fallen Englishman.

“Are you badly hurt, father?” queried the girl in her native tongue as the four guards accompanying her rushed to the general’s aid, one using his beret as a pad to stem the heavy flow of blood from Uma’s wound. “Should I kill this foreign swine who tried to murder you?”

Despite his painful wounds the dictator rose, albeit unsteadily to his feet. He angrily brushed away the helping hands of his eager bodyguards. McCabe had seen him weak with fear. It wouldn’t do for his soldiers to see him so. His eyes narrowed to murderous slits as he looked upon the Englishman. The man had humiliated him through injury and by making him afraid. He’d kill this British dog, inch by bloody inch. But at the moment more important things took precedence.

“No, Yamina,” growled the general. “Lewis is dead. The bastard killed himself. This cur lying at your feet is his nephew, McCabe. He may be able to translate the professor’s notes.”

“He had better,” was the girl’s fierce reply. Then, with concern: “And you had better get yourself to Doctor Zawene before you bleed to death. I’ll deal with this fellow. “

The general nodded, then tottered from the study, still pridefully refusing all assistance as he shouted orders at his guards to remove the corpses from the room. McCabe was now alone with the girl. He considered trying to jump her, but the competence with which she held her pistol dissuaded him, and he wondered how in hell he was going to save himself. Suddenly, Yamina spoke to him, now in English. Her vibrant voice cut across the dark musings of his mind.

“You will find your uncle’s notes upon the desk. They are written in an indecipherable shorthand he invented – a script that we cannot understand. My father, General Uma, knows you acted as Lewis’ assistant on several other digs in England, and would have had to read his papers to be of any help. Now, get to work.”

McCabe slowly rose and sank tiredly upon the chair. The initial rush of rage and adrenalin that had fuelled him had burned out, leaving his mind and body one vast ache. He felt sick to the soul. The things he’d experienced, and had done weighed heavily upon him now that he was in a saner frame of mind.

The blood of men stained his hands. Evil men, no doubt, but they were human, and he wasn’t a killer under normal circumstances. And now his uncle was dead, and he felt certain he was soon to follow - from the way Uma had looked at him cooperation clearly wouldn‘t change his fate. No, come what may; let the general and his daughter go to hell!

These thoughts must have shown upon his face, for Yamina spoke again in an urgent, almost pleading voice.

“We know you have other relatives in England. Do not underestimate the reach of my father’s hand. Your sister, Elizabeth, for example…”

The Englishman was upon his feet, blind fury once again building in him. Yamina’s manner changed, as if some mental switch had been flicked by the Devil’s hand.

“Sit down,” she hissed. “Fool, you have no choice. Even if you commit suicide my father will see to it your sister suffers.”

McCabe cursed her as his wild rage gave way to fear for Elizabeth. Defeat was a bitter pill to swallow, and he slumped dejectedly back on the chair. “Very well,” he said, dully. “I’ll translate the notes. It will help, though, if I know what this bloody business is all about.”

“The kingdom of Nyamba was once a mighty nation,” proudly explained the girl. Then, with bitterness: “Until the white man fell upon us in a storm of guns and steel, and when the smoke of battle had cleared away our people were but slaves. My father wants to restore the greatness of our culture. He is a descendent of the priesthood of the Temple of the Burning Shadow, which contains… something that can fulfill his dream.

“The cult was a secretive one, and knowledge of the shrine’s location, among other things, was lost during the chaos caused by the imperialist invasion. But several months ago your uncle discovered three stone tablets whilst excavating the palace ruins of our ancestral kings - tablets he was able to translate, ones which revealed the location of this age old temple.”

McCabe gave the girl a look that was openly skeptical. He was certain this was no mere treasure hunt - his uncle had committed suicide rather than reveal what he knew. This, and his last words: “there is more at stake here than your life, or my own,” were impressed indelibly upon his mind.

Again, Yamina’s voice took on a pleading tone: “Surely, you understand - my father wishes to uplift our people, to restore their dignity.”

“Your father’s motives may be noble,” replied McCabe, managing to hide the deep cynicism he felt. “It’s his methods I find… questionable.”

Anger clouded Yamina’s face, her mood shifting as suddenly as the wind. “You’re all the same, you whites,” she sneered. “You’d see Africans powerless and oppressed - like your uncle who sought to deny us our rightful heritage. Now, pick up that pen and begin the translation or, by God, I’ll put a bullet in you like you did to my father.”

**********

McCabe lay in his tent, listening to the night-sounds of the surrounding bush. He was tired from the day’s long march up into the jungle choked highlands of the interior, but also restless, for his mind was churning over the tumultuous events in which he found himself ensnared.

The party had left early in the morning. McCabe had got only a few hours sleep after having worked most of the night translating his uncle’s journal, whose contents enabled him to pinpoint the temple‘s location on a map. He recalled vividly the four hour drive from the capital - a bone-jarring journey along rutted dirt roads of choking dust, with their ancient lorry struggling up the ever increasing gradient of the rising foothills, and the slow closing in upon them of the rampant jungle as they neared the end of the way, now an overgrown track that petered out against cliffs of impassable ruggedness.

Here, they left the vehicle and, hour upon exhausting hour, fought their way through the humid, tangled growth, slashing and hacking at the reeking jungle as it sought to smother them in its fecund embrace.

And for what purpose had Lewis died, for a superstition? It seemed beyond belief that his uncle - a well educated twenty first century man - had taken his own life rather than reveal a myth to a credulous dictator. Professor Lewis was eccentric, true, but insane? Perhaps his critics were right, perhaps he’d been in Africa too long, and had taken part in too many bizarre and primitive rituals that had at last unhinged his mind.

McCabe cursed his thoughts - they were like buzzing mosquitoes keeping him awake. Crawling from his tent, he stood and stretched. Perhaps a walk in the night air would calm his troubled mind. A sentry eyed him suspiciously - one of ten hard-faced men he was to guide to the temple, with General Uma following later when a camp at the ruins had been established.

The Englishman forced a smile, trying to ignore the AK-47 the soldier menacingly pointed at him. “Can’t sleep,” he explained. “I thought I’d take a stroll.”

“Be back here in ten minutes,” warned the surly fellow. “Don’t try and escape. You know the consequences.”

Yes, thought McCabe, grimly, as he wandered off. My sister will suffer for it.

Pushing carefully through the undergrowth, the Englishman came upon a small stream bathed in moonlight, which spilt through a rent in the jungle’s rampant canopy. He stood stock still and then slowly moved back within the verdure, the small sounds of his retreat covered by the bubbling brook. Thus, the naked girl was unaware of him.

Yamina sat upon a rock in the middle of the stream, laving her graceful figure with cool water that washed away the sweat and grime of their arduous trek. McCabe wasn’t normally a voyeur, but found himself captivated by the scene. Water, slivered by moonlight, traced its luminous fingers across her dusky skin - caressing shoulders, breasts, belly and loins with its silky wetness.

Her face was unmarred by anger, her chiseled countenance softened further by Night’s palette of light and shadow. Desire, mixed with anger, rose within him - for all her grace and beauty she was the right hand of her father, here to keep an eye on him and oversee the expedition.

McCabe was about to turn away when stealthy movement in the shadows of the further riverbank caught his eye. Suddenly, a figure burst from among the reeds and leapt violently upon the girl. Yamina tried to scream, but a meaty hand clamped swiftly upon her mouth and smothered her cry. Another grabbed her hand as it darted for the pistol upon the bolder.

The girl struggled wildly as her arm was twisted violently behind her back. She panicked further when the man threw her within the stream and forced her under. Violating fingers thrust themselves between Yamina’s thighs. She gasped, choked on water, and kicked wildly. Raw fear seized her - she was going to be simultaneously raped and drowned.

Unexpectedly, the pressure eased. Yamina thrust her head above the stream, coughing and gasping for air. Two figures struggled above the girl - McCabe and her assailant. A knife flashed. McCabe grunted as he caught the fellow’s wrist, and quickly slammed his fist against his foe’s rugged jaw. The man grunted and struck McCabe with equal force. They clinched, wrestled furiously, and then McCabe tripped upon a rock.

Locked together, both combatants tumbled within the stream. The men rolled about, each striving to force the other beneath its waters. One vice-like hand clamped with fearful suddenness upon the Englishman’s throat and began to throttle him and thrust him under. The African grinned. He felt McCabe’s grip upon his neck and knife-hand weaken.

Helplessly, Yamina watched. She lay sprawled upon the rock, fighting for breath, unable to cry for aid or intervene as the glittering blade drew near the Englishman’s hammering heart. McCabe, now utterly desperate, released his assailant’s throat. His hand fell in the water, closed about a stone and swung it up with all his fear-born strength.

The rock crashed against the African’s temple and sent him tumbling in the stream. McCabe, a demented look upon his face struggled up and laid a rain of frenzied blows upon his would-be killer’s head. Suddenly, his arm was seized. He turned with a feral snarl, ready to spring upon another foe and then stopped. The girl stood over him.

“I think he is dead,” was her level comment.

Sanity returned to the heavily breathing Englishman. He looked at the blood streaked rock. It slipped from his trembling fingers and splashed in the water. McCabe had killed before, true, but the brutality of his attack brought home to him the sickening realization of just how savage even he could be.

His eyes briefly touched the mutilated corpse. He looked away, shuddering.

“A dirty rebel,” replied Yamina, contemptuously as she reached for her underwear upon the bolder. “His armband marks him as a member of the Black Mambas - terrorists who seek to overthrow my father. Strange, they usually don‘t operate this far north.” Then she swore and struck her forehead with her palm. “We’ve been followed!”

McCabe started - as if in conformation of her suspicions, the staccato bark of machine gun fire suddenly ripped apart the silence of the night.

Chapter 3: Nightmare Jungle

McCabe jerked the girl down. A slew of lead streaked above her head and the surrounding greenery was shredded by the weaving burst of auto-fire. Then a mad confusion of screams pierced the night as a grenade exploded in the middle of the camp, its thunderous blast adding to the angry bark of rabid gunfire.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” urged McCabe as another grenade flared explosively in the darkness.

Yamina ignored the Englishman. Her keen eyes had discerned movement in the brush, dimly illuminated by the blast. She threw herself upon McCabe. Another fierce-eyed rebel burst upon the scene as both fell behind the bolder. The insurgent sprayed leaden death, his chattering fire bouncing angrily from the rock in whining ricochets.

The girl grabbed her pistol that still lay upon the bolder. Yamina swore as a chip of flying stone cut her hand. She fired at the charging foe. McCabe heard the rebel shrilly scream as he caught the bullet in his guts. Another grenade exploded. It drowned out the splashing body that tumbled at their feet, but couldn’t hide the sickening sight of blood swirling around the boulder.

McCabe started when Yamina grabbed his hand. The girl, in an urgent whisper, ordered him to follow her. Both sprinted for the jungle in a zigzag path. Two more rebels burst from the greenery and splashed noisily through the stream in mad pursuit.

Bullets whizzed angrily about the fleeing pair. Yamina snapped off a shot. A Black Mamba went down, screaming. Man and girl ducked behind a tree. Lead slammed into it. Bark exploded. The girl fired again and the second rebel spun lifeless into the undergrowth. The couple resumed their mad flight. The sound of piercing screams amid the blaze of heavy auto-fire spurred their retreat. They plunged into the night dark greenery, running a gauntlet of whipping branches and clawing twigs that tried to hinder them. The entire jungle seemed to be one vast enemy.

Onward they fled - a nightmare journey through crowding underbrush made sinister by Night’s mask of eerie shadow. At last, after what seemed an age of tormenting struggle, the girl stumbled to a halt, leaned breathlessly against a tree, and listened to the sound of muted gunfire and explosions in the distance.

“We’re safe for now,” observed Yamina when she’d caught her breath. “We can use these vines upon the tree to climb it, and hide amongst the leaves. In the morning it will be light enough to regroup with my men.”

If there is anyone left alive to regroup with, thought McCabe as he watched his companion test the lianas with her weight.

“I’m going first,” continued the girl. “If you’ve any sense you’ll follow me.”

McCabe knew he had no choice as he watched Yamina ascend with the pistol gripped between her teeth. She was completely nude, having lost her underwear during their mad flight through the jungle, and on any other occasion the sight would have no doubt aroused him, but at the moment he had too many other things on his mind. From what he’d seen, the Black Mambas were just as ruthless as his captors. But if so, then why had he risked his life to save the girl?

Was it some form of innate chivalry that had compelled him to risk his life for her? Things had happened so quickly that previously he hadn’t had time to think about his actions. McCabe shook his head. At the moment survival was more important than philosophizing, so he put aside the thought, gripped a vine and began his own ascent.

The climb - one hundred feet of exhausting struggle - was slow and agonizing, and taxed his waning strength to the utmost limit. Bone weary, he at last hauled himself upon the mighty branch from which the vines depended, and crawled along the limb to the tree’s expansive crotch.

Here Yamina waited for him, strangely still. Puzzled, McCabe softly called her name. There was no answer. The man went cold as he sensed something was amiss. He cautiously drew near, then stopped and stared in horror at what he saw.

Upon the girl’s belly was a spider the size of a bread plate, the bird eating monster having dropped upon her from above. Yamina was ridged with terror, the gun, clenched white knuckled, quite forgotten. She gazed into the arachnid’s glittering eyes, utterly paralyzed, as if looking upon the horror of Medusa’s face.

The thing crept slowly across her belly, up towards her naked breasts. Yamina’s skin gleamed with the sweat of terror. She trembled. The spider reared at the sudden movement. Its huge fangs gleamed wetly with deadly venom as it prepared to strike.

McCabe lunged in desperation. He knocked away the hairy horror with a sweeping hand and nearly lost his balance. He almost tumbled after it when the frightened girl flung herself upon him and began to weep hysterically. The Englishman, taken aback by this uncharacteristic display, could only hold her in his arms until at last she calmed.

“I’m terrified of spiders,” explained Yamina in a rush of trembling words. “When I was a child my father used to lock me in the broom closet as a punishment. It was full of spiders. I screamed and screamed, but he wouldn’t let me out.”

Yamina’s words ended in a sob and her arms tightened convulsively about McCabe as again horrid memories assailed her. The man looked grim as he held her close - General Uma had a lot to answer for.

“Twice you’ve saved me. Why?” queried the girl when she at last regained some semblance of composure.

“Well”, said McCabe, somewhat nonplussed by her question. “What kind of a man would I be if I’d done nothing?”

The girl, head resting on his shoulder, was silent. Darkness hid the thoughtful expression upon her face.

**********

Dawn light dimly illuminated Yamina’s sleeping form. McCabe had given her his shirt, which now concealed the girl’s body to just below her loins. The Englishman gazed upon his companion, now feeling he had a better understanding of why he had saved the girl.

Her defenses had been breached in that moment of terror the night before, and she had revealed something of herself to him, for they had talked for a time before she at last drifted off to sleep.

Yamina’s mother had died when she was only twelve. It had been a terrible loss, particularly to her father, who had become distant and cruel with the passing years, as if determined to expunge all sentiment that would make him vulnerable to further suffering. Although she hadn’t said it, McCabe sensed Uma sought to fill his emptiness with the intoxicating quest for power.

Despite her upbringing, there was still an innate goodness to Yamina that he had sensed, but one overshadowed by a cruel and domineering father who, through fear of him, was trying to make her the son he never had. But now that they were alone, perhaps he could reach her as he felt he had last night - to show her there was a better way of life and thus save both of them from the machinations of her sire.

Suddenly, a twig snapped in the undergrowth, and drew the gaze of the startled man. McCabe tensed - a figure stood beneath the tree. It was not a rebel, but one of Uma’s men who had followed them using his tracking skills. Even so, the Englishman did not relax, for he knew the fellow’s interfering presence would thwart his efforts to steer Yamina from the path her father had set her on. And so he remained deathly still, praying they would remain unseen.

It was a vain wish. The girl, a light sleeper, was awakened by the sound and in an instant her eyes had alighted upon the fellow. She was relieved, but it was not solely because one of her men had survived the ferocious fire-fight. Being alone with McCabe was disturbing - not because he posed any physical threat to her, but because their forced proximity made her see he didn’t fit her notions of how a white man should behave, and this challenged all her indoctrinated preconceptions of the race.

It was all very unsettling, especially when she had told him many things about herself that she never dreamed she’d reveal to anyone, let alone a hated foreigner. Yes, it was indeed disturbing that McCabe could have this effect upon her. The girl grew angry at herself and forced aside these troubling thoughts.

McCabe, who had been keenly observing the unconscious play of emotions across Yamina’s face, silently cursed as she softly hailed her countryman who, by sign language, bid they descend with utmost haste.

Yamina freed herself from the vines - an improvised safety harness that bound her to the tree - and quickly clambered down the lanais to the ground. McCabe, who could see he had no choice, followed suit. Shortly, he stood upon the loamy soil of the rainforest and barely repressed a grimace when he saw who the soldier was - Lieutenant Jenga, his face horribly scarred by a fall into a fire when he was young.

Of all the thugs to survive the ambush, thought McCabe, it had to be that ugly bastard. The Englishman angrily recalled his journey in the rattling lorry - the lieutenant had become bored, and amused himself and his men at McCabe’s expense. The Englishman’s arms had been gripped, a pistol jammed against his skull, then the soldiers had taken turns spitting at him, with wagers placed as to who could hit him in the eye.

Needless to say, McCabe was a mess, and in a towering rage by the time they left the vehicle, and again burning anger came upon him. But as before, he was in no position to take revenge. So he swallowed his bitter rage, and merely watched as the two Africans spoke in their own language, with the lieutenant then handing Yamina a satellite phone on which she conversed at greater length for a time. Finally, her conversation finished, the girl turned to the simmering Englishman and spoke to him in worried tones.

“I’ve been speaking to my father. The revolution I feared is upon us - the Black Mambas have attacked Memwis in force. There is fighting in the streets, and the Presidential Palace is under siege. It is imperative that we find the temple, for only the secret it contains can save us from defeat. If that wasn’t bad enough, Lieutenant Jenga is the only survivor among our men, although I’m pleased to say he has confirmed the Black Mambas who attacked us are all dead.”

Yamina’s eyes narrowed dangerously and her whole demeanor hardened. “I sense you’re pleased by the thought of my father’s end, McCabe. Remember that your life hangs in the balance. That’s why you’re here - so I can check the accuracy of your translation. If you’ve lied about the temple’s location then, by God, I’ll torture the truth from you myself.”

**********

They reached the temple at midday, guided by the map and notes Jenga had salvaged from the wreckage of their camp. The ruins lay at the top of a soaring pillar of basaltic rock - a mighty column that rose majestically from a deep gorge cut by the surging ochre waters of the Ebu River, upon whose verdant banks danced flocks of raucous waterfowl.

It was a sinister sight; this sky piercing shaft, and McCabe shivered slightly, for the apex of the towering pinnacle had been shaped by the elements to the crude semblance of a leering skull. Man, too, had left his mark upon the stone - rough and ancient stairs spiraled round the massive column, and upon these the surviving members of the expedition were soon to set their weary feet.

Yamina had called a rest in preparation for the climb ahead, and Jenga had gone to relieve himself in the privacy of the undergrowth; thus leaving McCabe and the girl alone.

The Englishman gazed at the girl. She was now dressed in a uniform scavenged from their camp, and was chewing upon a salvaged ration bar. A breach had opened up between them on the journey - the lieutenant’s unwelcome presence was having its effect, for at every opportunity the man heaped insults of the vilest kind on McCabe, which reinforced Yamina’s prejudices.

I’m a fool, thought the Englishman. I should be planning how to slit their throats, and yet I’m worrying about this girl’s opinion of me. Still, I can’t survive in this jungle on my own. I need Yamina as an ally.

“I’m sorry I showed pleasure at your father’s troubles,” spoke McCabe. “I know you love him dearly. It was wrong of me to be so churlish.”

Yamina looked up, startled by this unexpected apology. McCabe hid his smile, for he saw his gentle words had breached the aloofness of her reserve - the beginning of a bridge across the rift that lay between them, or so he hoped. The Englishman was about press his advantage when Jenga’s sardonic laugh grated upon his nerves in unpleasant interruption.

“So, the white dog seeks to lick his mistresses’ feet,” sneered the man as he strode towards McCabe, and toed him in the ribs with a muddy boot.

For the Englishman this act was the final straw in a very trying day. Incautious rage got the better of him. Grabbing Jenga by the ankle, McCabe leapt upon his feet and hoisted the African’s leg high above his head. The lieutenant crashed to earth and McCabe, in an instant, fell upon him in a fury of wild blows.

A battering ram of hard knuckles pounded Jenga’s face. Vainly, the fallen man sought to fend off the rain of crushing fists, but so fierce was McCabe’s assault that his pumping arms were like unstoppable pile drivers, and no doubt he would have killed his victim had not Yamina kicked him in the ribs and knocked him to the earth.

“Enough,” shouted the girl as she menaced both combatants with her gun. “Jenga, stop provoking McCabe, and you McCabe - keep a tighter rein on your temper. You’re lucky Jenga didn’t kill you. He still might if you don’t behave yourself.”

McCabe still had a touch of the devil in him despite his ordeals. He feigned surprise. “Kill me? Why, he ought to thank me. I believe I’ve actually improved his appearance.”

Yamina’s lips twitched in a suppressed smile. She was angry, true - not so much at McCabe for attacking Jenga (she secretly loathed the fellow), but at the fact their brawling jeopardized the mission. Despite this, the girl couldn’t help but admire the Englishman’s bravado in the face of everything.

“We’ll commence our ascent when Jenga’s up to it,” she simply said.

**********

The taxing climb up the towering rock was fraught with peril - the treads of crumbling stone, only a yard wide at the most, were made more treacherous by slippery moss. Up they went, step by tiring step. Yamina was in the lead. The trio were well above the tallest trees when the exhausted girl slipped upon the slimy stone.

Yamina shrilly screamed as she fell. Her clawing hands grabbed the edge. She hung swaying two hundred feet above the ground. Fear’s chill fingers danced up her spine as she gazed in wide eyed horror at the emptiness beneath her wildly kicking feet. Then the girl’s hands began to slip on crumbling stone and a surge of utter terror ran through her.

Lieutenant Jenga, in the rear, leapt forward. The African drove his shaking legs up the steps in a desperate effort to play the role of hero. But he stumbled from tiredness and fell heavily upon the treads. It was too late for him to be of any help.

Suddenly, McCabe’s hand clamped upon Yamina’s wrist as her fingers slid away. The Englishman grunted as his arm took the frightful strain. He heaved; face purpling, muscles bulging with the effort. The only thing that prevented him from also sliding over was the tenacious hold of his other hand upon a knob of rock.

Slowly, he hauled Yamina up, groaning with the effort. Then, to his horror, felt his sweat slick fingers begin to lose their hold upon the stone. The frightened girl saw the danger. With a whimpering cry she flung her other hand upon the edge. The strain eased a little. It was enough, and with a surge of final strength the exhausted Englishman hauled Yamina upon his panting form as Jenga stumbled to his aid, and helped pull her completely upon the stair.

All lay quietly for a time, recovering from their exertions. Jenga remained slumped on a lower tread, furious that the hated foreigner had once again proved himself the better man. As for Yamina - she rested upon McCabe, still too weak to risk moving upon the perilous treads. Again, he had saved her even though she had threatened to torture him. The girl felt ashamed. How different he was to her father, the only man she’d ever really known for his vicious reputation had frightened off all potential suitors.

Her father! She had been communicating with him regularly throughout the day. The situation in the capital was getting worse - several units of the army had defected to the rebels and half the city was ablaze from vicious street battles. Long years of conditioning reasserted - she must serve the general and put aside all feelings of weakening sentiment.

Yamina slowly rose. “We must continue on,” she firmly commanded.

They resumed their climb, and as they struggled up the steps McCabe’s worried eyes were upon the girl. She was once again the iron maiden, and he wondered how much progress he was making. Yes, there were chinks in the armor that she wore. All he had to do was find the vital one.

Jenga’s eyes, too, were upon Yamina, remembering how her shirt had caught upon the edge when she’d slid over, riding up to expose her shapely form, which he had seen in greater detail when he had helped haul her back to safety. His lascivious mind recalled her breasts - full and firm, her belly - flat, and her shapely buttocks when he‘d grabbed her leg and pulled her upon the stair. The sight had aroused within him desire that eclipsed all else, even loyalty to his covert cause.

The lieutenant looked daggers at the Englishman’s broad back. He touched his bruised and aching jaw, his split lip and the gap where several teeth were missing from the thrashing he had taken. It was bad enough being beaten by McCabe, but now he had to watch him hold the woman he desired in his arms. Still, the swine was expendable once they reached their goal. Jenga grinned at the thought - he’d surprise both man and girl with his little secret.

Both men’s thoughts, so different, were interrupted by the sight of the temple as they stepped upon the pillar‘s utmost height. It stood on the mesa’s shrub choked plane - a tapering, square-based granite tower that rose to a flat roofed apex one hundred feet above the ground. The entire structure was built from massive blocks of stone, and running up its glittering length, spaced ten feet from the other, were many friezes of stylized flames in bas relief.

Yamina, a look of exultation upon her face, was about to express her joy at their arrival when a thing lumbered forth from the surrounding brush thirty feet away. It resembled a gorilla in general form, but covered in bony plates like an armadillo. The beast’s jaws gaped, displaying gleaming tusks. Its massive hands, cruelly clawed, thumped its mighty chest as it roared its bestial challenge to the rash intruders.

The words died in Yamina’s throat and her continence became a mask of horror at the frightful sight - a mirror that reflected her companions’ terror. Then the thing leapt forward, its sudden movement breaking the spell upon the girl. She drew her pistol and unleashed a hail of well placed shots. Jenga, too, hosed the beast with a rattling stream of lead.

But the hammering slugs were stopped by the toughness of its horny integument, and the infernal creature rushed upon the girl in an undiminished charge. Yamina tripped upon a rock as she leapt away from the slavering monster. McCabe’s heart missed a beat as he saw her fall. The thing’s brutal claws reached for her. She screamed in wild terror.

Chapter 4: Shadow’s Spawn

Jenga frantically replaced his empty clip. McCabe scooped up earth and threw dirt into the creature’s eyes as it was about to grab the girl. The beast reared up. It howled in pain and fury as Yamina feverishly scrabbled out of reach.

“Its eyes,” yelled the Englishman as he pulled the girl away. “Aim for its eyes.”

A burst of autofire caught the thing across the face. It spun around and crashed to earth. Blood spurted in gory streams from its mutilated orbs. Jenga uttered a triumphant shout - a short lived victory, for no sooner had the war cry left his lips than six others of its vicious kind burst upon the scene.

“Grenade,” cried Jenga as he quickly hurled a percussion type among the slavering foe. McCabe threw himself upon the girl. The bomb exploded, spewing smoke and fire as it shook the mesa with its thunderous blast. Then the rolling echoes faded to deathly silence, broken here and there by the pattering rain of smoldering greenery.

Slowly, three figures climbed unsteadily to their feet, and looked upon the scene of devastation. The creatures, flattened by the blast, lay strewn in the shredded verdure like fallen skittles. Some twitched. One rose slightly, only to fall back upon the ground.

“The bloody things are merely stunned,” observed McCabe, incredulously.

“This formation isn’t big enough to maintain a large population of the creatures,” reasoned Yamina. “Jenga probably got most of them. We’ll make a dash for the temple. I’ve come too far and fought too hard to turn back now.”

The Englishman hesitated. Jenga grinned and prodded him nastily with the bayonet affixed to his machinegun. Frightened?” he sneered.

McCabe rounded on him, eyes dangerously narrow. The lieutenant’s trigger finger twitched in eagerness. Each saw murder in the other’s gaze. A bestial howl broke the spell. It reminded both of the presence of a greater danger. Sanity prevailed, and the Englishman gave Jenga one last hard look before racing after the sprinting girl.

As the trio rapidly forced their way through the thorny scrub, McCabe expected at any moment to be seized by rending claws and to feel the bite of those terrible fangs. His eyes darted here and there, and he started at the movement of every wind-stirred branch.

What manner of creatures had confronted them? McCabe didn’t know, couldn’t imagine. The fact his companions were equally ignorant and nervous was no comfort to him. He pushed aside useless speculation, and concentrated on the immediacy of survival.

Suddenly, more bestial roars sounded from behind, accompanied by the noise of massive bodies crashing through the brush - the creatures had recovered, and were now hot upon their trail. Jenga shouldered past McCabe in a maddened sprint. The Englishman staggered. He cursed as he nearly fell. The temple loomed, the beasts grew rapidly nearer.

Yamina sensed them closing in and was spurred to greater haste by their wild howls of rage. The girl burst through the clawing bushes and came upon the structure. A blank wall confronted her. She cursed silently and sprinted around the corner, praying the entrance would not be sealed - in her rash eagerness it was a possibility she hadn’t thought about.

On the other side she came upon the door. Jenga skidded to a halt beside her, McCabe upon his heels. All stared dejectedly at the mighty slab of stone that barred the way. Each heard the fear stirring tramp of their bestial pursuers, now but seconds away.

McCabe looked at the frightened girl and saw she was close to collapse. He knew they‘d have to stand and fight.

“Yamina,” he urged. “Give me your pistol. Try the door while Jenga and I hold them off.”

The girl thrust her weapon into his hand. Jenga was about to object, but the sight of the foe rounding the corner ended all debate. He raised his AK-47, and loosed a burst of chattering lead. One monster, its eyes destroyed by streaking lead, fell and bloodied the earth with its stinking gore. The others whirled, presenting armored backs to the deadly fusillade.

“Clever bastards,” observed Jenga, who had ceased to fire. “But at least they can’t come any closer.”

“Really?” replied McCabe, dryly, as the monsters slowly backed towards them. “Any luck, Yamina?”

“There is a handprint carved in the centre of the door,” replied the hopeful girl as she pressed her palm against it. “It might be a kind of mechanism.”

“Hurry,” rasped Jenga. “For God‘s sake, hurry. They‘ve boxed us in. They‘ll crush us against the door with their armored backs, and reach behind and tear us to pieces with their claws.”

Yamina threw her weight upon the carving. It gave a little, but not enough. The beasts drew ever nearer. The girl sobbed with fear and strain. McCabe placed his hand on her’s and threw his weight upon it. Their combined efforts were rewarded with the sound of grating stone as the image gave.

The door began to slowly rumble down within the earth. The monsters abandoned all caution at the sound. They turned and charged; brassy screams erupting from fang-filled maws. McCabe and Jenga fired. One beast fell and ploughed the ground with its twitching form. The rest came on in a wild rush.

Yamina saw the monsters would be upon them before the things could all be killed. She leapt for the descending door, now half open. Catching the edge, she hauled herself upon its yard wide thickness and then shouted above the sound of blazing guns: “Follow me.”

Both men turned, leapt. The beasts closed upon them, slashing wildly. Claws struck stone. The creatures howled in rage at having missed; then leapt at the defenders perched upon the descending door. Guns blazed furiously. Snarling faces were splattered with piercing lead.

One dying monster convulsively clawed Yamina’s shirt and trousers. She screamed and toppled forward as the dead creature dragged her down. McCabe grabbed the girl and jerked her free from the beast’s talons. Cloth tore, and she tumbled within the safety of his brawny arms as the door came level with the earth. The final monster lunged for him. He fired, and the thing collapsed lifeless at his feet.

The trio sat breathing heavily for a while, gazing dazedly at the slaughtered beasts that lay piled in a heap before them. They had barely escaped with their lives, and it took some time to recover from the harrowing ordeal. But at last Yamina stirred and became aware of her tattered apparel’s disarray.

She was facing McCabe, leaning upon him, his arm about the slimness of her waist. Her youthful breasts poked through the ragged remnants of her shirt, and she became aware of his hairy chest tickling the large, dark areolas of her nipples. Her awareness somehow communicated itself to the Englishman. Their eyes met, and a moment of silent embarrassment ensued before she hastily took her pistol back and pulled away.

“The beasts are dead,” observed Yamina as she stood, reloaded her weapon, and then went about the futile exercise of trying to conceal her nudity. “We’d best explore the temple and inform my father of our discoveries.”

They entered the structure and stopped in shocked amazement at what their startled eyes beheld. Even Jenga was astonished by what he saw, so much so that that his otherwise lustful gaze was focused on the weird phenomenon rather than Yamina’s youthful breasts.

In the middle of the temple was a fissure, not in the earth, as one might expect, but in the very air - as if space itself had been cracked wide by unknown cosmic forces. And from this strange crevice spilt forth shafts of pearly light and in that preternatural radiance danced a strange darkness - a living flame of ebon tongues, a burning shadow that whispered in a hissing fugue of weird dimensions beyond man’s understanding.

The Burning Shadow hovered ten feet above the ground, and before it was a flight of granite steps. McCabe felt the chill of the unknown envelop him as he gazed in disbelief upon the thing. It was as described in his uncle’s notes, and he shuddered in trepidation at the thought the other things contained therein were also true.

Yamina, too, was unsettled by what confronted her. Uma had been coy with his daughter, not explaining exactly what the temple would contain, for the secrets of the priesthood were not for womankind, and being respectful of tradition she had not read McCabe‘s translation of his uncle‘s notes. Never in her wildest dreams could she have guessed the startling truth. Nonetheless, the girl took a hold upon herself, and in hushed tones spoke to Jenga, albeit shakily. “Hand me the satellite phone. The general must be advised of our success.”

The girl spoke with her father for perhaps a minute. Then, pausing, turned to her companions, grim faced. “The capital is on the verge of falling to the Black Mambas and those traitors who sided with them. General Uma is on his way and will arrive here by helicopter in an hour. It seems we found the temple just in time.”

A light sweat of fear beaded the Englishman’s brow. Soon Uma would possess the Burning Shadow. Jenga, too, had similar thoughts passing through his mind as he gazed upon the wavering flame of darkness. The thing seemed to whisper to him in an unearthly voice only he could hear. It spoke seductively of power, the fulfillment of all desire.

Why should Uma possess the Shadow? The man had been nothing but a sergeant - instigator of the coup that ousted Esawae, the former president. Then, when in power, had proclaimed himself general and supreme dictator of the land. Why could not he, Jenga, do the same? Why not indeed, and to hell with all his comrades and their cause.

Again, his eyes drifted to the Burning Shadow. Emerald spirals of spinning fire, strangely mesmerizing, swirled within its ebon core, their weird whispering stirring up the black passions buried in his soul. Hideously scarred, Jenga had never been lucky with women. Even the local prostitutes had rejected his crude advances. But with the power of this darkness all would change.

The lieutenant’s eyes slid sideways to the girl who was again speaking to her father. Desire, a wild conflagration, leapt up as his roving gaze traced the sensuous curve of breast, belly and thigh that lay exposed through the shreds of her apparel. McCabe was lost in worried thought, the girl absorbed in conversation. Nothing could stop him now.

With a mad laugh he lunged at McCabe‘s unprotected back, bayonet thrusting in a vicious stab. The Englishman, however, was not as distracted as he appeared. Alerted by the cry, he swiftly leapt aside. Yamina turned and saw McCabe grapple with his enemy. Cursing, she drew her pistol and shouted for them to stop.

Jenga, screaming madly as he thrust against his foe and with wild strength flung the Englishman against Yamina. Both tumbled to the earth, the satellite phone smashing to pieces upon the ground. McCabe’s head struck the floor. He was rendered senseless by the blow. Yamina swung her pistol at the lieutenant. But he knocked the weapon aside and pounced upon her. The gun crashed. A slug splattered against the wall. Jenga dashed the weapon from Yamina’s hand, tripped the girl and pinned her to the floor with brutal strength.

“Traitor,” hissed Yamina as she writhed like a serpent to free herself.

“Exactly,” gloated Jenga. “I’m the spy in your midst. The Black Mambas hoped to capture you with my aid. But my fellow rebels were all killed.” Again, he uttered a savage laugh. “It was I who shot your surviving soldiers in the back, and let you live so I could discover what you were after!“

With a cry of utter rage Yamina thrust against her foe with wild strength and broke his grip upon her. She clawed at her assailant’s eyes. Jenga whipped his head aside. The girl’s nails raked bloody furrows down his cheek. The man swore, hot with burning lust and fury. He caught her by the hair, jerked savagely and punched the struggling girl in the belly. Yamina gasped. She collapsed in agony and moaned in fear as her tattered shirt and trousers were brutally ripped away.

McCabe groaned. He struggled to rise, to clear his befuddled senses. He saw Jenga, blinded by all-consuming lust, force the girl’s legs apart and slap her viciously when she resisted. A surge of boiling anger propelled the Englishman to his feet. Rage possessed, he literally hurled himself at the foe, all science of fighting quite forgotten.

Jenga turned, alerted by the snarling cry. Both men crashed together, each striving to lay a fatal hold upon the other’s throat. They rolled, wrestling, trying to gouge each other’s eyes. The lieutenant broke free. He staggered upon his feet as did McCabe. Then the fight was on in earnest - a brawl of flying fists and feet. The combatants surged about the weeping girl, grunting, cursing and hammering one another other with blows of utter fury.

And all the while the Burning Shadow leapt ever higher, drinking in the fighter’s dark emotion. By chance, a wasp flew within the temple. The insect buzzed the struggling men - a tiny speck of mindless anger - then sped towards the ebon flame and passed within its seething heart of darkness.

What emerged from this swirling blackness was not an insect, but some weird Shadow’s spawn (like the other beasts that had attacked them) - a deadly thing transformed by unknown forces. The creature’s eyes fell upon the brawlers. The thing darted at them. They were oblivious to the coming terror that was about to fall upon them from the rear.

Chapter 5: To be Ruler of the World

The angry whine of gigantic wings alerted McCabe as he clinched with his opponent, and from the edge of vision he caught the flash of speeding movement. Instinctively, he heaved and twisted the unbalanced lieutenant. Jenga screamed as he was thrust through by the ten inch sting that struck him in the back.

The impact of the creature’s body sent McCabe crashing to earth. The corpse was upon him and the monster upon the corpse. Their combined weight pinned him to the ground. Again, the thing stabbed its lethal barb. It barely missed the squirming, cursing Englishman.

Jesus, thought McCabe as he laid frantic but ineffectual blows upon the creature with his fists. Where the bloody hell did this monstrosity come from?

Yamina saw the thing. Her eyes widened in utter disbelief. Five feet of horror confronted her - the scaly olive body, wasp-like, was surmounted by something resembling a hairless human head. The monster’s face turned towards her. Crimson eyes stared. The thing leered. It gibbered madly, displaying rows of razor teeth.

It was all too much for the horrified girl. In a panic, Yamina staggered up and ran. The monster whirled upon the girl in a blur of humming wings, attracted by her sudden movement. McCabe saw the danger. He heaved aside Jenga’s corpse, grabbed his empty AK-47 and hurled it at the beast.

Yamina knew the creature was upon her. She screamed in expectation of the plunging sting. McCabe’s aim was true. The spinning weapon struck the monster’s wing. It spun end over end and smashed against the earth. The creature rolled onto its feet. Its mad eyes locked on the Englishman. It leapt into the air and came at him. A bloodcurdling scream burst from its drooling maw. Utterly desperate, McCabe snatched up Yamina’s pistol. The gun roared. It bucked like a living thing as he emptied its clip at the swooping horror. The monster struck. There was a brief instant of agony and then merciful darkness enfolded the falling man.

**********

McCabe slowly opened his eyes. His head, wrapped in bandages made from Yamina’s tattered shirt, ached abominably. He looked at the girl who sat beside him. She returned his gaze with eyes red from weeping, then sank upon his breast and cried with vast relief.

“I … I’m sorry,” she gasped between sobs. “I should have helped you. Oh God … I couldn’t help it … That thing. It was horrible …“

Her voice dissolved into further tears, and McCabe held her in his arms until at last she calmed. It was a pleasant interlude - the sensation of the girl’s nude body pressed against him: the warm softness of her; the delicate aroma of the perfume that she wore. McCabe sighed regretfully. Pressing worries were upon him, and now was not the time for romance.

“How long have I been Unconscious?”

“About an hour,” murmured the girl, contentedly.

McCabe stiffened. Uma would not be far away. Yamina, suddenly realizing what lay behind his question sat up and looked upon him with concern. The girl bit her lip in consternation. Clearly, she had feelings for McCabe; feelings that were most disturbing. What on earth was happening to her? She didn’t know. The only thing that was certain was that her emotions, whatever they were, were an unexpected complication.

The Englishman rose and placed his hand upon Yamina’s. His touch disturbed her introspection and broke it completely when he gazed at her in sober earnestness and spoke again.

“The Burning Shadow is evil. Can’t you feel it whispering seductively in your mind? I think it got to Jenga - being a debased character he was no doubt more susceptible to its influence. Now it’s trying to get to us as well.”

Yamina’s gaze shifted to the wavering darkness. She shuddered and drew close to him - as good an answer as any spoken word.

“Its all in my uncle’s notes”, continued McCabe, earnestly. “The ancient priests of your people were guardians, not of the Burning Shadow, but of the world. We can‘t let your father…“

“Can’t let me do what?” challenged a sardonic voice from behind.

The couple turned. Yamina gasped. McCabe swore beneath his breath. Uma stood before them. Both had been taken unawares, for the dictator‘s helicopter had landed in a clearing at the mesa‘s base. The thickness of the temple‘s walls had blocked out the sound of its approach. Two soldiers stood on either side of the general. Both bodyguards were heavily armed with Soviet AK-74s equipped with GP-25 40 mm under-barrel grenade launchers. The men, like their weapons, were extremely intimidating.

Hands on hips, the general gave McCabe a sneering, triumphant smile the Englishman would have dearly loved to wipe away with savage blows. The smile vanished, though, when he gazed upon his daughter.

“Are you a common whore to disport naked before our enemy?” he snarled. “Cover yourself, you shameless wretch.”

Yamina cringed. Her clothes were in utter ruin and completely useless for the purpose of modesty. She flung an arm across her breasts, and her other hand she swiftly placed upon her loins as Uma stepped aggressively towards her. McCabe tensed. The guards menaced him with their weapons. Fearing for the girl he spoke to distract her heartless father:

“Uma, the real enemy here is the Shadow …” The general turned towards him and cut him off with a derisive laugh.

“Don’t lecture me, McCabe,” replied the frowning dictator, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Remember, I’m a descendent of the ancient priesthood. Its secrets have been passed down to me. I know what I’m about.”

“Do you?” snapped McCabe, throwing caution to the wind and hoping that if Uma’s bodyguards knew the truth they would turn against him.

“The Shadow,” he rushed on, “is alive - an alien entity from another dimension, or so my uncle speculated. You must know it feeds on the dark passions of human nature, and wants to plunge the world into a chaos of depravity so it may gorge itself upon these raw emotions. No one will be safe. Men, women, even children will die by the millions in an orgy of violence that will engulf the world. The Earth will become one vast charnel house. God, surely you don‘t want that?”

Again, Uma laughed. It was a chilling sound – as twisted as the inhuman glee that distorted the lines of his rugged face. “The Shadow is a semi-intelligent being,” he acknowledged. “But not smart enough to accomplish its dire ends. That, and those pacifist priests, is what held it in check all these centuries. But I’m no coward. I’ll step within this dark flame, and become one with it - a merging of power and intellect that will rule the Earth for all eternity.”

McCabe, who had been carefully watching the guards, felt all hope fade to nothing. Their eyes were focused on the Shadow. They had become possessed by the swirling emerald fire in its heart - seduced, as was Uma, by its power. He decided to make a desperate lunge at the general, leap upon him and lay a fatal blow across his throat. It was virtual suicide, but there seemed no other way to save humanity.

The Englishman gathered his strength. He prepared to leap, but then bit back a curse - the girl had unknowingly interposed. Yamina, a shocked expression upon her face, had suddenly risen and approached the general, breasts and loins covered with her hands. She knew her father was ruthless, but couldn’t believe he’d be so evil as to sacrifice humanity.

“Father,” gasped the girl as she intently searched what now seemed a stranger’s face. “Tell me this isn’t true,” she begged. “The Shadow … I think it somehow spawned that creature over there, and those ape-like things you must have seen by the door. God, you’ll become a monster if it touches you!”

“It will be worth it,” replied Uma, coldly. “I will gladly sacrifice my humanity to be ruler of the world.”

Yamina shook her head. She stepped back in utter disbelief. The general slapped her. The girl reeled and crashed to the floor. McCabe was on his feet in an instant only to be frozen by Uma’s lightning draw.

“My own daughter has turned against me.” snarled the general as he waved the Englishman back down with his pistol. “No doubt you, McCabe, have had something to do with this.” Then, shaking his bodyguards out of their hypnotic trance: “Guard these traitors. I’ll deal with them after I…” and here he paused, laughing madly for a moment, “after I become a god!”

The thuggish soldiers positioned themselves behind McCabe as he comforted the weeping girl. The Englishman experienced rage, fear and helplessness in quick succession as he watched Uma mount the Burning Shadow’s staircase, and slowly begin his upward journey, savoring each moment as he walked towards his destiny.

An idea came to the Englishman, but how to tell the girl - the guards stared at them with hawkish eagerness. It seemed hopeless, then he had it - her military background might hold the key. He squeezed Yamina’s hand: one short squeeze, one long squeeze - Morse code via pressure.

McCabe began to sweat. Uma was half way up, and the girl was still unresponsive to his desperate message. Time was running out. Suddenly, she looked at him in dawning comprehension. Yamina knew she was at the crossroads of destiny. Whom would she side with? Would she side with McCabe – the symbol of white imperialism she had been taught to hate, or with her father? But how could she side with her father considering what he planned to do?

McCabe saw the struggle of inner turmoil played out across her face. He sweated in expectation of her answer, for without the girl’s aid he could not succeed. After what seemed an age of breathless silence she nodded slightly. The Englishman smiled his gratitude and squeezed her hand. Then, surreptitiously, both glanced at the guards and saw their eyes were glazing over - the Shadow’s mesmerism was again having its effect.

The Englishman nodded. Both leapt at the soldiers, striking at their throats with knife-hand blows. Yamina’s victim toppled. He died upon the floor, choking on his crushed larynx. The other guard, not so dazed, blocked McCabe’s attack with his AK-74. The Englishman cried in pain and fell as the weapon’s butt struck his arm a heavy blow.

Uma turned, attracted by the fracas. He saw the grinning soldier bring his gun to bear upon the girl. The general swore. He sprinted up the stairs towards the Shadow. For him- all that mattered was the fulfillment of his desire.

In desperation Yamina threw herself at the guard and knocked aside the gun barrel with her palm. His weapon discharged and sent a stream of chattering lead screaming narrowly past her ear. McCabe fought through agony. He lashed out, struck the fellow’s calf with his heels and sent him crashing to the floor. Yamina leapt like a tigress upon the fallen man. She savagely gouged his eyes. The guard screamed. McCabe snatched the gun away and drew a bead on Uma.

“Aim for his legs as you promised,” cried the girl as she hammered the writhing guard with lethal blows.

The gun blazed and shattered stone to chips at Uma’s heels. McCabe swore - his injured arm was interfering with his aim and the general, spurred on by whining slugs, had nearly reached his goal. He’d have to kill the man despite his promise to the girl.

Uma leapt. McCabe loosed a second burst. Too late - the man was in the Shadow, melding with it. For Uma it seemed as if his entire being was dissolving and spreading outward like ripples on the surface of a pond. The sensation was without parallel - an expansion as swift as thought itself, a flowering of sensation into a million subtle perceptions beyond all human limitations.

The general laughed a voiceless laugh of utter triumph - his godhood was now upon him. But this seeming victory was such a fleeting thing. Uma, an arrogant man blinded by his all consuming lust for power, had thought to master the entity with the strength of his domineering will. Too late he realized this fatal error when in another moment he felt the Shadow’s psychic energies slicing through his mind, dissecting it with blades of shearing power.

Uma struggled against the searing forces. It was hopeless, for his entire being was snared in a net of energy that closed about him like the web of a monster spider. His mind screamed a soundless scream of utter fear as he sensed his essence disintegrate into flying sparks of whirling light. And in the distance, or so it seemed to Uma’s fragmenting consciousness, were other glowing shapes - a vast, hollow sphere of strangely spinning geometric shapes which formed the very core of the Burning Shadow‘s being.

The general’s perspective shifted. Now he was in the centre of this sphere, his shrieking mind rushing out to meet its far periphery in expanding waves of thought. As if ripples breaking on a shore, they met, the essence of each meshing like vast gears of spinning light.

There was a flash of pain, terrible pain as these two dissimilar beings integrated. Then what was left of Uma’s humanity vanished into nothingness with a final howling cry of mindless terror. The Shadow trembled. It swirled and became a swelling sphere of darkness shot through with traceries of thrumming emerald fire.

McCabe and the girl stumbled back in growing horror as the nightmarish transformation accelerated. Eight vortices of shadow extended from the thing. These proto-limbs condensed to claw-armed tentacles of writhing darkness, and between these squirming members stalk-like eyes of blazing green appeared.

The thing, its metamorphosis now complete, looked down briefly upon the cowering couple, and then ignored them as a man might ignore an insect. The being’s intellect, vast, chill and utterly inhuman, now perceived and understood those cosmic forces that underpin our universe. Its claws blurred. They penetrated the microcosm of the subatomic and began manipulating the very fabric of reality.

Yamina screamed. She clutched McCabe. Outside, the sky all about the Earth began to burn with crimson fire that drenched the entire world in lurid, hellish light. Panic erupted on every continent. Mankind went insane with wild terror. Everywhere was a chaos of fear struck, surging crowds whose wild emotions the thing began to feed upon.

The entities mental emanations - sensations of indescribable foulness - crawled over McCabe and the girl, conveying to them the horror unfolding across the globe. In their mind’s eye they saw these fearful scenes - burning cities set alight by wild mobs, millions strong, bereft of sanity.

And in the crimson glare of the flaming heavens and blazing metropolises, their inner vision saw an orgy of atrocities, unspeakable. It was a scene of such terror as to numb the mind and caused both to fall upon their knees before this demon-god. But worst of all was the knowledge there was nothing they could do to save the world.

Chapter 6: Armageddon is Upon Us

McCabe, swamped by feelings of utter helplessness, gazed in horror at the towering, world-destroying entity. All seemed lost, but even so one small spark of hope burned within him still, for he saw the monster now appeared more material than before - perhaps the Shadow’s metamorphosis had given it a corporeity now vulnerable to human weapons. He quickly said as much to the girl and then continued pleadingly:

“Yamina, that thing… Whatever it is; it’s no longer your father. Armageddon is upon us and we must destroy it to save humanity. You see that, don’t you?”

The girl looked sick as she nodded. “Those AK-74s have grenade launchers. I’ll show you how…”

Suddenly, the creature sensed their plan. One limb swung at them in a swatting blow. Yamina screamed. McCabe jerked the girl aside. Wicked claws gouged the floor where they had been, showering both with flying shards of stone.

Yamina darted for the guns - there was no time to show McCabe how to operate them. She seized both weapons and triggered their launchers as more tentacles hovered over her in writhing masses - a nightmarish version of the Sword of Damocles.

The grenades arched upwards as McCabe reached the girl. What could he do to aid her? He didn’t know - it just seemed important they be together. Yamina wrapped her arms about the Englishman, at last realizing that despite their different hues, all blood is of one color.

“I love you,” she cried as the creature‘s tentacles, like striking cobras, fell upon them. McCabe hugged the girl. It seemed the end. Then twin explosions shook the temple with their thunderous blasts whose concussion knocked the couple to the floor.

Hammered by these detonations, the creature’s swinging limbs missed their mark and crashed with shaking force on either side of the frightened pair. Again, the temple shook as did the monster. The creature’s side was split by a glowing gash. Streamers of emerald force erupted from the wound and crashed about the walls in rolling waves of thunder.

Its tentacles convulsed, swung up and struck the ceiling, then slammed down again within inches of the pair. McCabe hauled the shaken girl to her feet. He propelled her towards the door as a rain of stone began to fall upon them. The air was full of crackling energy. Green lightening flared in jagged forks from the wounded demon-god, and struck all about the chamber in a hellish counterpoint to its madly whipping limbs.

By some miracle they made the door unscathed and staggered across the threshold. McCabe chanced a backward glance and saw the monster dive within the fissure. The man grinned with wild elation – the entity was retreating to the strange dimension that had spawned it. Ah, such short lived joy: Suddenly, there was a terrific explosion - a mighty flare of emerald flame leapt up from the crack in space and blew half the temple’s roof away.

The Englishman went cold with naked terror. The stupendous detonation had transformed the fissure to a raging vortex of crimson fire. Howling, cyclonic winds suddenly tore at McCabe and the girl. They stumbled, fell and were sucked back towards the temple along with choking dust and flying debris that stung their unprotected flesh. Yamina went cold with utter fear. It seemed the very mouth of hell - a disc of utter blackness surrounded by lurid, swirling flames - yawned behind her.

In a panic she clawed the earth in a desperate bid to stop her headlong plunge to certain doom. Despite her frantic efforts she slid along the ground leaving broken fingernails scattered in the dust. The flame rimmed maw loomed ever nearer. All seemed lost. She screamed. Then McCabe’s brawny arm slipped about her waist - the Englishman had caught the doorframe and was holding them in check. The demonic wind seemed howl in anger at this defiance, to grow in power. McCabe could feel his strength begin to wane. He knew he couldn’t maintain his hold much longer.

“Let go of me,” shouted Yamina, who saw his arm was beginning to tremble from the strain. “There is no point in both of us dying.”

“Whatever happens,” replied McCabe through gritted teeth as the temple’s collapse accelerated. “We’re… in this together. Now… shut up and hang on.”

The girl clung to him. She prayed. McCabe grabbed the doorframe with both hands and began to haul them slowly through it. A block of stone thumped to earth mere feet away - a spur to the straining man. Slowly, painfully, his aching, sweat streaked frame gained upon the clawing gale. He slowly inched himself and the clinging girl through the door and around the wall.

Free of the sucking wind, man and girl staggered up as the temple trembled like a fevered giant - each knew this was not the time to rest. Yamina looked aghast as the mighty walls, with a tortured cry of sundering stone, began to topple. The couple ran. The shadow of the collapsing structure fell upon them and uncountable tons of rock crashed to earth in a grinding roar, spewing swirling dust and rubble all about. The thunderous noise then faded to deathly quiet…

Slowly, McCabe and the girl rose and cautiously peered from behind the rocky outcrop that had sheltered them. What was left of the temple lay in ruins, and of the flame rimmed vortex there was no sign. Although he hadn’t seen it vanish, the Englishman correctly guessed it had collapsed in upon itself, thus sealing the dimension bridging portal to that unknown universe.

Beyond this scene of devastation, Yamina saw the sky was once again its accustomed azure hue, and she breathed a sigh of vast relief - with the entity’s demise the shaken world had returned to comforting normality. The human race had emerged from the unbelievable nightmare into which it had been plunged.

But would things ever really be the same again for anyone? She had loved her father, despite his faults, and now he was no more. This, and the sudden realization - for previously there hadn’t been time to contemplate the enormity of it - of the horror he had unleashed upon the Earth made her weep bitter tears of utter anguish.

McCabe silently held the sobbing girl in his arms, his touch more comforting than a thousand words could ever be. He understood something of what she felt, for similar thoughts were going through his mind - fear for the safety of his relatives. The Western nations had been struck the hardest by the entity‘s attack. But even so, Africa and Asia were not unscathed, and it seemed the world would be in chaos for quite some time.

Well, he thought, at least we have each other. It’s amazing how things can become so clear in the face of death. Rather ironic, really.

Still, when he ruminated on the facts, was it so surprising considering all they had been through together? Then again, perhaps he was being an utter fool - the girl wasn’t evil like her father, true, but even so there was certainly a touch of wildness to her.

McCabe sighed. Time to put aside such thoughts - more practical matters, like their own survival, must take precedence for now. The Englishman remembered Uma’s helicopter. He had spotted the Mi-8* in the grounds of the presidential palace on the morning of their departure, and had also glimpsed soldiers loading it with the base camp’s supplies. But now that they were the sole survivors, this food would keep them fed for at least a year - enough time, hopefully, for civilization to be restored to some degree of order.

With these thoughts in mind he turned to the girl. Yamina lay quietly in his arms. Her tears were spent for the moment, and she had recovered some semblance of composure. Encouraged by her calmness, McCabe began to outline his plans for their survival, only to be silenced as the girl pressed her finger to his lips.

She smiled at him and then spoke: “It’s nothing I haven’t already thought of. I can fly the Mi-8 to Yemdini, a neighboring country where we can gain asylum.” Then, more mischievously: “You’ve got a naked woman in your arms. Surely, talking isn‘t the only thing you can think of doing?”

Her suggestive words took the Englishman by surprise. He hesitated, not fully realizing she sought comfort in love’s expression - a balm to the trauma of her loss. Seeing his uncertainty, Yamina smiled, cupped her heavy breasts and lifted them towards him as encouragement.

McCabe swallowed, took the hint and drew Yamina to him. “You’re a devil of a woman,” he husked.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

He looked at her, amazed - not by her posturing, but by the sudden realization that she was absolutely right.

* Footnote: A Soviet twin-turbine transport helicopter that can also double as a gunship.

THE END

Addendum: The Lost History of the Temple of the Burning Shadow

Much knowledge was lost during the European invasion of Nyamba. Therefore, many things concerning the history of the Burning Shadow remain unknown, even to General Uma, a descendent of the ancient priesthood.

However, the eye of imagination can penetrate such mysteries with a clarity of vision unmatched by mundane senses. Therefore, for the delectation of my readers, I present the lost history of the Temple of the Burning Shadow, and if any disagree with my findings, then they are free to use their own inner light to elucidate the nature of this enigma.

Our universe is just one of many that exist, each separated from the other by the continuum of space and time. Visually, this is impossible to imagine. One could conceive of reality as a series of concentric spheres, each nestled within the other, but even this analogy is misleading. Only the minds of the most brilliant mathematicians can grasp something of the concept, and even they are like men groping in the dark.

For our purpose, however, it is sufficient to say that there are weak points, or flaws, at the boundaries where the various realities intersect, and that these flaws can be breached if forces capable of distorting space-time are applied to them in sufficient strength. This is what occurred in the universe from which the Burning Shadow came.

I will not attempt to describe this weird cosmos in detail - it is completely alien, incompressible to the human mind. Again, I must use analogies, imperfect though they are.

There are things in that dimension corresponding to stars - not spheres of blazing gas, but structures resembling vast tetrahedrons of crystallized radiance that grow out of the misty void in which they float. These objects, like the stars with which we are familiar, sometimes explode with the titanic force of a bursting supernova. It was such an explosion that breached the fabric of reality that separates our universe from that of the Burning Shadow.

The Burning Shadow, a quasi-intelligent entity (one of many that inhabit this alien cosmos) fed upon the psychic emanations of these tetrahedrons, which are themselves possessed of a strange and enigmatic life.

Attracted by the stupendous detonation of an aged tetrahedron, the Burning Shadow soon discovered the breach between its universe and our own. Motivated by a kind of curiosity, it passed within, attracted by the collective mental emanations of humanity on which it sought to feed.

Its plans were thwarted, for the being was not of our reality - it’s structure was truly strange, would not survive a complete transition. Therefore, it had to remain above the fissure, bathed in the pearly radiance that sustained the alien atoms that were the basis of its form.

Though limited in movement, it could call - an alien siren seeking to lure men to their doom with seductive promises of power, playing on their darkest fantasies. The first to sense its call was Oshasa, a gifted shaman of the village that once existed near the base of the Shadow’s mesa.

After making the perilous ascent to its abode, Oshasa studied the being, and thereby divined its malefic intentions towards the world. Fortunately for humanity, the shaman was a righteous man and resisted its temptations. But he knew others were not so virtuous, and no doubt would succumb to the Shadow’s nefarious lure should they sense its unholy beckoning.

Thus, Oshasa searched far and wide among his fellow shamans, gathering those of utmost moral character to form the priesthood of the Temple of the Burning Shadow - humanity’s unknown guardians. And so for many centuries the world was protected from this alien menace which endured the ages because its sense of time was very different from our own - to the Burning Shadow a hundred years was but a day.

But with the coming of the white invaders all was thrown into chaos. Seeing the low moral character of the Europeans, as evidenced by their atrocities, and fearing the temple would be discovered, Sawisi, High Priest of the Shadow ordered the mesa’s village be destroyed least it draw the attention of their savage conquers.

This being done, the final act was to seal the temple and leave fearsome guardians as its protector - gorillas transformed by the weird mutagenic life-energy of the Shadow. The priests then dispersed to the four corners of Africa, carrying with them knowledge of this being that was transmitted to other cults of the continent.

Thus ends the lost history of the Temple of the Burning Shadow and you, dear reader, may make of it what you will.