Mukoro the Life-Stealer
 
In the first ages of the world, before the birth of Time, ere the Sun fell from the sky or the all-eating Darkness came, the greatest beings of myth dwelled under the fiery gaze of Caladra’s Vent. In the lush lava-lit forests beneath the holy mountain, gods, men and beasts lived together in a primeval realm of violence and savagery; there was no law but that of the wild, where the strong prevailed and the weak perished unmourned. One day the volcano god grew tired of his callous effusions, and summoned his subjects together.
 
“You are all fierce,” he boomed, “But who out of my children is the greatest hunter?” For in Caladra’s realm there existed the greatest of predators, and the answer to such a question would provide wonderful sport. There were the fearsome Razorwings of Solung, who could dive and grasp a man or beast in their claws, to dash him grievously against the rocks below; the elves of the north, unmatched in archery or woodcraft; the cunning Howler Monkeys, unsurpassed in agility and trickery; or the ancient race of the forest-depths, silent and masters of sibilant malevolence. And then there was man, armed with his courage and focused will for violence, arrayed with his weapons of obsidian and bone.
 
They fought for the honour, one and all, and blood soaked the land as men and beast fell in their thousands to satisfy a god’s capriciousness and his subjects’ savage pride. Finally, when the inhabitants of the world had been hunted to near extinction, a winner emerged, and the tired bloodied remnants of the contesters affirmed his pre-eminence.
 
And so it was to the mantle of victory that Mukoro, sabre-toothed Prince of the Sakkars, came. Never has there been such a foe! His paws could rend rock, shattering the earth to release the violence of Lodril within, his powerful legs carried him in bounds a league long, and his tusk-like teeth could pierce the armour or hide of any beast or god. Caladra, sated by the bloodshed, was satisfied with the outcome and great fountains of fire burst into the sky as he cried:
 
“Mukoro, Prince of the Sakkars, you are my champion! Never has the world seen your like, and never shall your might as a hunter be surpassed!”
 
“Yet I can be better!” preened Mukoro, licking his paws with indolent menace.
 
Melodious thunder cracked the heavens. “Better?” laughed Caladra, amused by the sakkar’s display. “I hazard not, you are passing strong already… though mayhap I shall give you the chance to test your pride! You have won my contest, and I grant you three boons in reward. Use them wisely, Mukoro, for there shall be no more!”
 
Mukoro thought long and hard on his lord’s words. He was great, it was true, but his body was musky, and the stench of blood mired his breath; the wolves of the land could smell his approach, and scattered before he could reach them. “Lord, take away my scent, so that when I stalk my prey they shall smell me not!”
 
“Very well, Mukoro,” Caladra smiled. “Your scent shall be as the mountain air, neutral and unblemished!” At this Mukoro roared in exultation, and bounded into the forests, where he hunted with abandon. Through many realms he passed, and the powerful noses of his prey availed them not. Yet men and beasts still possessed eyes, and though Mukoro was fast, some were quicker than he, and when they saw him break cover they fled, away from his claws. This displeased Mukoro, and he ran back to his god.
 
“My lord Caladra, I ask my second boon!” roared Mukoro, eager to get back to the chase. “I am a greater shadower than any, though the wicked eyes of some spot me still. Let me be seen not, so that the prying glances of men and hawks pass over me unknowing in the forest or bush, and I may creep up on my foes unnoticed!”
 
Caladra pondered for a moment, then shook the land in agreement. “It is done, Mukoro!” he proclaimed with some sadness. “Henceforth none shall gaze on your luxurious coat, nor see your fearsome countenance! You are as the spirits of the world, unseen and unwatched.”
Mukoro roared again, exultant at his newfound mastery! Though his muscular form paced still, it was beyond the gaze of all, even the gods. Again, he passed into the realms of his prey, and whole tribes fell to his maws. But men proved a tricky opponent. They could not see their predator, but they discerned well enough the trails of blood and the screams of their children. They flung their spears in his direction, or set for him grievous traps, and more often than not the Prince of the Sakkars was hurt by their barbs. Angered, he returned to Caladra’s mountain. His paw prints could be seen in the bush, and a faint rustle in the grass marked his presence.
 
“Lord, grant me my last boon!” he rasped, for he had been stung by many wounds. “Though they cannot see me, they hear my violence, and their spears find me through ill-fortune. Make me as the Air, lord! Let me have neither flesh nor bone! No body to be caught and slowed by spears or arrows, no paws to tread upon errant twigs, no shoulders to rustle against the tall grass, no mouth to whisper an untimely shallow breath! By my magic alone I shall hunt and kill, and steal the life’s breath of their very souls!”
 
Caladra’s voice turned solemn. “Mukoro, this is your last boon. Do you ask this thing of me? For I can undo it not…”
 
“I do, my lord!” the king of the hunt roared in pride and expectation. “With your grace I shall become the greatest hunter there could ever be!”
 
And Caladra assented. Mukoro became as the still air, and departed. If he made a roar of joy Caladra heard it not, for no tongue nor lungs could again shape the sakkar’s words. To the hunt Mukoro again passed, and with no body to betray whispers of his approach, or be caught or stricken with wounds, thousands fell to his fury. Silently he sucked their breath from their bodies, and left the lifeless on the ground. But in his impetuosity, Mukoro had forgotten one thing.
 
In the past, the troublesome men and monkeys had learnt that none could avoid the fast sakkars on foot, and that their only hope lay in climbing into the mighty canopy of the rainforest. For though they clawed and rent at the trunks, no sakkar, not even Mukoro, could ascend the trees of the land. There the hunted would wait, until the sakkars sought easier prey, or the flesh of the fallen made them indolent and sleepy.
 
Though they could no longer hear, see or smell the Sakkar Prince, men new all too well when he was among them, for their people gasped and fell to his hidden menace. So they climbed the trees, or the buildings of their rude villages, and hoped for deliverance. And it came. For prideful Mukoro, great as he was, was still unable to climb! He slew many, yet roared in silent fury as more escaped his clutches. In desperation he charged back to the mountain. Caladra! Caladra! he cried, though no sound of his voice carried on the wind. Lord! One more boon, I beg of you! But his god heard him not.
 
And so Mukoro slunk back into the forests, raging unheard at his ill fortune. There he lives still, the greatest hunter of myth, a silent killer to challenge the mightiest of heroes, undying and alone. Occasionally he sneaks forth from his slumber and takes a village unawares, leaving the lifeless corpses littering the earth, devoid of any sign of violence. A lucky few notice his approach, and the wise or quick-witted remember the tales of the elders and climb beyond his reach, witnesses to the sudden, invisible death that follows.