Queen of the Panther World

by Berkeley Lingston

  But still it was hack and chop. Loko, or rather Mita, had enough sword fodder to keep us busy. I had learned a lot about the use of a sword. I no longer swung it in wild circles, hoping to catch someone in the radii. Now I jabbed and chopped. My sword and I were covered with blood. Lovah, too, was finding revenge for the indignities she’d suffered.

  At last the corridor we had found ourselves in came to an end. We were on the parapet which encircled Loko’s pueblo palace. Our enemies were fleeing from us. For the first time I saw a means of escape which I hadn’t seen before. Ladders had been placed against the walls. Men streamed like firemen down these ladders.

  THE chase continued. But it was a little more even now. Now we were in the open where the archers had a chance at us. But they were not too proficient in the use of the bow. The arrows were indiscriminate in their choice of victims. And they found their friends as quickly as their enemies.

  We won through the hail of steel. And forced our way to the ladders. Soon, each ladder had its quota of Luria’s warriors in command. Nor did it take long before we were on the stretch of ground below and continuing the chase. It was only then that we learned Jimno’s genius.

  He had thought of everything. From above came a shrill imperious whistling. And from the great grassy plain surrounding Loko’s city came a horde of paavans.

  I don’t know how many there were or how Jimno had gone about calling them but come they did in an irresistible wave which swept away all who opposed them until they arrived within the precincts of the city itself. Here they were met by those trying to flee. Pandemonium is a mild way of saying what followed.

  But all this is what happened at the shrill calling of the paavans. What took place with us directly is as follows. We followed so close on the heels of our enemies they had no chance to cut the ladders from us. There were some who were able to but not many. Those who were on the ladders at the time, friend and foe alike, met a quick death below for the drop was all of seventy feet.

  We won our way to the bottom. At our head Jimno strode like an avenging angel. I suppose the memory of what happened to his wife and children was never to be forgotten; nor would the enemy ever forget the flashing sword which took a dozen lives for every one exacted of his. We followed close behind and chopped away after him. It seemed we were invincible. They fell as the leaves fall in the wake of a storm. They retreated until we backed them up against a rear wall of the palace pueblo itself.

  There were a hundred of them against perhaps fifty of us. The odds were even.

  We paused, all together, as though drawing the last breath and strength for the ensuing struggle for it was in each of our minds that it was to be to the death. Then, as though motivated by a single being, we leaped for each other. Whether by chance or intent Hank and I were opposed by the giant and Captain Mita. Mita was my opponent.

  All it took was a single stroke on my part to know that I was at the short end of a long ride. He parried my clumsy jab and had it not been for a stroke of sheer luck, the engagement would have ended then and there. His foot slid forward at the same time his sword did. But someone alongside kicked him in trying to get out of the way of a blow, and that tiny instant of break in the rhythm of his riposte, allowed his parry to slide past me, just under my shoulder.

  I leaped backward to safety.

  I knew then I had but a single chance. Slash and keep slashing with the utmost disregard for safety and depend on his being on the defensive all the time. Sooner or later by sheer strength I might wear him down. It sounded good in my brain. It even started off well.

  I whirled my sword so fast it was but a streak of light. And, as I had hoped, he kept on the retreat. But why was he grinning? Suddenly he stepped in—slid in would be a better way of describing the movement he made. He jabbed easily, somehow avoiding my clumsy blows. The sword tip pricked me and blood began to flow. Again and again he managed to evade my thrusts and slashes and every time he came in he departed with a little more of my blood leaking from various parts of my anatomy. He was toying with me.

  After a while I began to gasp a bit. Breath was becoming harder to catch. He motioned me forward, saying:

  “Come! You have only felt the tip thus far. The edge is keener, will make life depart the quicker. You have lived long enough. Soon your time will end . . .”

  TO HELL with it, I thought. A guy can live but once. And Lovah or not, if my time was now, that’s the way it would have to be. I dove forward again and by sheer force broke through his guard, made him retreat. I even managed to get in a couple of digs of my own, yet he always managed to evade the death thrust.

  Once more I had to stop to regain a spent breath. And saw for the first time, realized then what he had forced me into doing. He had retreated all right. But in the direction he wanted. And in so doing he had forced me to go along. Now his back was against the wall of the palace and I was in the sun. His sword danced merrily in front of my eyes and seemed to shoot sparks into them.

  “You have courage, my friend,” he said. “It is a pity that I have to kill you. But first I must kill that thing on your shoulder . . .”

  The bird, I thought suddenly. It was still perched on my shoulder. Its claws still dug into my flesh and for the first time I felt the bite of them. Softly to my ears came the last words of the bird, Luria’s father:

  “This time death will be final for me. Tell Luria this world is done for her. And say that the world she will go to has no need of women warriors . . .”

  They were the last utterance he made. In a movement that was but a play of light, too quick for my eyes to follow, Mita brought his sword forward with a gentle but lightning-like movement of his wrist. I did my best to leap out of its way. But the blade was not seeking me. It found its mark all right. A spatter of warm liquid struck against my cheeks and from the corner of my eye I saw the head of the Holy Groana Bird fall to the ground. Then I no longer felt its claws in my shoulder’s flesh. The mystery of it would never be solved now.

  “So be it,” Mita said. “The time has come my friend. Now!”

  He danced forward and his blade flickered toward me, now toward my throat and now toward my chest but always to return as I danced awkwardly aside. But he was no longer smiling at my movements. Suddenly he snaked forward, bent a little lower than usual and shot out one leg and arm in a simultaneous gesture. I made the mistake of following the direction of his leg . . . I don’t know about this business of a drowning man seeing his life flash backward before him as he goes down. But this I know.

  The dust of this place had a bitter taste—the sun was a blast furnace for death to enter—and the shadow—there was a voice calling to me, the voice of my beloved, and I had not the breath to answer—a pointed bit of steel was leaping to find a spot in me of the great destroyer crossed the face of the sun . . .

  My sword fell to the earth. My eyes were suddenly too tired to stay open, yet too horrified, too amazed to close.

  I knew who had cast the shadow. Mokar. As though he had been shot from the blue, he had come in a tremendous leap to land full on Mita. One snap of those terrible jaws and Mita’s life had escaped in a cascade of gore. Mita had spoken the truth. The time had come, His time.

  I turned wearily. Just in time to see the last of the great drama. Loko was pinned against the wall not far from me. Hank was just stepping away from the headless body of the giant, Luria and Jimno were facing Loko, and Lovah was running toward me with the grace and speed of a gazelle.

  I took her in my arms and she was limp for a second. Her fingers explored my wounds and her eyes lit up and her lips gave a sigh as she saw that I was only nicked.

  We moved, arm in arm, toward the frozen tableaux.

  Loko was pleading for his life, a broken stream of words which sounded oddly profane from lips which had caused so many to die. They were the sounds of a babbling idiot.

  Luria was a pale-faced ghost, now that the die was cast. She saw that the bird was missing from my shoulder and at the nod
ding of my head knew it was dead. Her lips thinned and determination made her jaws go square.

  “Throw him a sword,” she said.

  The blade lay at the old man’s feet. He didn’t even look at it. Begging words dripped from his mouth, brokenvoiced promises which had no meaning. Suddenly Jimno pushed the girl gently aside, saying:

  “It is not meet for a Queenly blade to be defiled. His flesh would rot the steel, tarnish its color. He is but carrion even in life. No better dead, surely . . .”

  Loko died more quickly than did most to whom he had ordered death . . .

  “LURIA,” Hank was saying. “There is nothing here for you anymore. Jimno has proven a right to rule. It’s better that way . . .”

  We were sitting about, the four of us, Lovah, Hank, the beautiful girl who had been the Queen, and I. Jimno was rounding up the last of Loko’s forces. Lovah found the hollow of my arms and was content there.

  “But my people,” she protested.

  “They will live and well, too,” Hank said. “Jimno is wise and great. He is a poet, remember. But also a warrior. He proved that. He won his right to a kingship. Let the days of a woman’s rule end.”

  She turned her face to his and he smiled and went on:

  “Except for the rule over me. You have always been my Queen. In my heart you will always reign. But in my land, how much greater and more enduring will it be.”

  “I have the power,” she said aloud. “Perhaps . . .”

  We became tense as she turned and gave us each a look of intense search. Then her lips framed a smile and she continued, “Close your eyes, all of you. And let us pray we return to that place from whence you came . . .”

  It was evening. We were in a large city. Skyscrapers were framed against the cloud-studded sky. We were not far from water. I could hear it slapping against a pier . . . Then I saw the white wonder of the Wrigley Building. We were home again.

  * * *

  LOVAH knows what it means to be a writer’s widow. A week has gone by since our return. She has wanted to go out every night. But every night I say:

  “Can’t honey. Got to finish this for Ray Palmer.”

  And always the same words from her:

  “I am beginning to think you married the wrong person. This Ray Palmer, whoever he is, is more a wife to you than I.”

  I grinned. Only in one way. I thought. He’d never be in any of the other ways you are. Her arms slid around my neck. She whispered something to me, and Ray, manuscript, work, were all forgotten. Nobody cooks hamburgers like my wife . . .

  THE END