Lady Loala
Chuck Lafferty sniffed, "Ruler, eh? Well, a ruler's only got twelve
inches, mister--and I got eighteen inches of good steel right here in
my fist. If you'd like to--"
"Wait, Chuck!" crisped Steve. Things were beginning to size up a
little better now. He stared at the self-styled "ruler of Nedlunplaza"
thoughtfully. He said, "Ruler by right of your power, is that it,
Rodrik? Then you are strongest of all here?"
"I am the strongest of arm," proclaimed Rodrik, "the fiercest of heart,
most skilled with sword and lance, wisest and most cunning--"
"Bashfulest, too, maybe?" suggested Lafferty.
"A shrinking violet," grinned Steve. "Only don't forget to cross the
't' in 'shrinking'." And to Rodrik--"I too am a ruler in my native
territory, Rodrik. Therefore I challenge you to pit your strength
against mine, here and now, for the prize of these Women who are my
own."
"It is not meet," said the ruler disdainfully, "that I should soil my
hands against one so puny. I, Rodrik, who alone and unaided have slain
the fierce jungle wolf, snared the sharp-fanged boar with bare hands,
shattered the ranks of a warrior Clan--"
"Child's play!" taunted Steve. "In my youth, Rodrik, _I_ met and bested
the horrible Intercollegiate Fisticuffs Champion, fighting against
staggering odds under the sacred and dreadful Marquis of Queensbury
rules! Can you say as much?"
The priestess Beth, who until this moment had seemed fearful not so
much for her own safety as for that of the man she was pledged to
protect, now turned to Chuck dubiously.
"Is--is this really so, O Chuck?" she murmured. "He _did_ destroy the
terrible _intakul_--_intrical_--?"
"Sister," chuckled Lafferty, "he _moidered_ him! Left-jabbed him silly,
then crossed a kayo to the solar plexus. If Rodrik of Mish-kin gets
sucked into this deal, he's gonna get tagged on the whiskers--but
plenty!"
"The language of the gods," whispered the girl in awe, "is strange to
my humble ears. But I am reassured. What can I do to help?"
"Just say," grinned Chuck, "the magic words: 'Sock him, Steve!' That
oughta help."
The priestess made a swift, pious movement. "Your suggestion, O Chuck,
is my command."
Meanwhile, Rodrik of Mish-kin had pressed forward to confront Steve.
Ranged face to face, there was a startling similarity between the two
men. Both were over six feet tall, both were blond of hair, fair of
skin, blue of eye. But there the likeness ended. Steve's brow was
smooth, unfurrowed; his lips were drawn in an amused, almost hopeful,
half smile. The other man's eyes were sultry, his lips drawn thin with
anger at having his authority thus challenged.
For a long moment he glared at Steve, as if the very ferocity of his
looks might cow his antagonist. But finally it was he, not Steve, who
dropped his eyes. He turned to his followers.
"Enough of this!" he snarled. "The stranger lies. Destroy him and his
fellow males. The Women are ours."
* * * * *
And again the hands of the eight adventurers tightened upon their
hilts. But strangely the blood-lust of the prison band seemed to have
cooled. One who had pressed most ardently now voiced the doubt of his
fellows.
"That we cannot do now, O Rodrik," he demurred. "He has put the
question--challenged you, the ruler of our band, to private combat. The
challenge must be met. It is the Law."
Rodrik's fair cheeks flamed with sudden anger.
"Fool! Can you not see he is a braggart and a liar? At him--"
"It is the Law!" repeated the other man stubbornly.
"Very well, then!" cried Rodrik, goaded out of patience. "See how I
meet and destroy this interloper--"
And in one blurring motion he whirled, lashed his sword from his belt,
and hurled himself upon Steve.
But Duane's smile had not masked carelessness. Fast as Rodrik moved,
he moved even more swiftly. His blade met that of the other in midair
with a chilling _zzzwiing_! Shock numbed his opponent's fingers, a
twist sent the sword flying across the room. Rodrik cried aloud, a cry
of dismay mingled with fear. His hand darted to his harness, withdrew,
flashed--and winged death sang past Steve's ear as he left his feet in
a diving tackle.
His shoulder smashed his foeman's knees. Rodrik staggered backward,
arms flailing, and Steve pressed his advantage. With a lunge, he was on
his feet again, closing in on Rodrik, battering him with sledgehammer
lefts and rights. The ruler of Nedlunplaza's prisoners moaned and spat
blood. Powerful man that he was, this type of onslaught, performed
under the "sacred and dreadful" Marquis of Queensbury rules, was beyond
his ken.
Realizing this, Steve relented. Face close to that of his antagonist,
Duane offered, "Enough? Are you satisfied now, Rodrik? Do you yield?"
The reply was half-choked, gasping.
"I ... yield ... stranger."
"Good!" said Steve. "Then--_aaagh_!" His proffer of peace and amity
ended in a retching groan. For as his fists fell to his sides, Rodrik
moved with devilish treachery. His booted foot found Duane's groin,
driving Steve to his knees, twisting and nauseated, lips working to
hold back the sickly bile churning within him.
Chuck Lafferty's outraged scream ripped the darkness which threatened
to engulf him.
"The damned, sneaking scoundrel! Steve--are you all right? Out of the
way! Let me at--"
In that moment, while Steve was helpless and Chuck still too far
away to be of any assistance, Rodrik of Mish-kin could have won his
battle--had he dared. But he had learned a wholesome respect for his
opponent, and it was his way to end the fight with cold steel, not with
the vigor of his own fists. He whirled, eyes darting about the room,
found what he was looking for, and raced toward his sword.
But rage, cold and deadly, flooded Stephen Duane like an icy cascade.
From somewhere deep within him came strength he had not known he
possessed. He lurched to his feet, threw himself after his enemy.
They met again before Rodrik's hand could clutch the sword--and their
meeting was the downfall of Rodrik of Mish-kin.
For no peace offer was granted him now. With deadly fury Steve went
to work on his opponent. His blows cut like the bite of an axe in
heartwood: right and left to the body until Rodrik's mouth gaped like
an angry wound, his knees sagged beneath him, his guard pawed futilely
at the battering rams which bent him double ... then lefts and rights
to the unprotected face, hard knuckles raising great welts on his fair
cheeks, welts which tore and bled....
Then:
"This one," rasped Steve, "is on the house!" And he let it go. A
hay-maker from the floor that caught Rodrik on his way down to meet it.
Rodrik sighed once, wearily--then his eyes rolled back in his head. His
legs seemed to melt beneath him; he sprawled on the floor like a flayed
carcass.
Steve Duane bent over him, not again trustful.
"Had ... enough ... sweetheart?" he puffed.
Rodrik answered nothing. He had had quite enough. Too much. He was deep
in the arms of Morpheus....
* * * * *
It was then Beth the priestess broke from her place beside Chuck to
throw herself on her knees before Steve. Her dust-gold hair tumbled to
the floor; beneath its shimmering veil she took one bruised hand and
touched it tenderly, reverently, to her lips.
"Now canst Thou no longer deny Thy godhood, O Mighty Dwain!" she
cried raptly. "For surely none but a living god could wage so fierce a
battle!"
At another time, Steve might have laughed. But this fight had done
something to him, too. It had filled him with an impatient fire which
swept him free of all inhibitions.
With a swift, half-angry, and most ungodlike abruptness he raised the
girl, yanked her into the circle of his arms, lowered his face to hers.
"All right, then!" he yelled. "I'm tired of arguing with you. I'm a
god, then, if that's the way you want it!"
And spurred by impulse, by a hunger whose depth even he had not
realized, his lips found hers bruisingly, crushingly ... warmed
themselves at the swift-fanning blaze which wakened beneath them. For
a moment in which Time itself ceased to exist he felt the oneness of
their pulses pounding like myriad hammers of flame. Then he released
her, spun to confront those about him.
"Is there any other," he demanded, "who would like to take Rodrik's
place?"
His question brought neither defiance nor avowal, but something more
astonishing. It brought--surprise! The eyes of Rodrik's erstwhile
lieutenant lifted, and his voice echoed bewilderment.
"But, no, my lord," he said for all. "Who would lift a hand against you
now? You are our ruler."
Steve stared at him in amazement.
"Come again? I'm your--?"
"Our new ruler. But, of course, my lord. You have bested Rodrik of
Mish-kin in the trial by combat. Henceforth we follow your commands. It
is the Law."
Chuck chortled delightedly.
"Now, that," he said, "is what I call a pretty good law! Hyah, Your
Majesty! Whateth is nexteth on ye program?"
"Nuts," said Steve, "to you!" He frowned at his new lieutenant. "We
have but just come here. There is much we need to know--er--"
"My name is Jak," supplied the other. "Jak of Norlinz, men call me.
I shall try to explain anything you would know. But first--" He
jerked his head contemptuously toward the prostrate figure between
them--"shall we dispose of this?"
"Yes," said Steve unthinkingly. "Snap him out of it and--Hey! What are
you doing!"
* * * * *
For at his word, two men had stepped forward, lifted the body of
Rodrik and carried it to the nearest window. In another instant the
vanquished chieftain would have been flying on his way two hundred feet
to the stone courtyard below. They paused uncertainly. One said, "But,
surely--Oh! Pardon, my lord! You would put him to the sword yourself?"
"Release him!" snapped Steve. "Give him water, and tend his hurts!"
"But--but the Law!"
For the second time since his arrival in this strange, semi-civilized
world, Stephen Duane invoked a defiant phrase. This time he did it
with more assurance. His eyes hardened, tiny white knots gathered at
the corners of his jaw. "I _am_ the Law!" he said. "Release him! It is
folly to waste good manpower in such--Ah! You've come to, Rodrik?"
The deposed ruler, released, had somehow managed to stay on his feet.
He cringed at the tone of Steve's voice.
"Mercy, O Stranger!" he cried. "Be merciful--"
Von Rath said thickly, "This is not wisdom, Stephen Duane. I have
warned you, never is it safe to allow an enemy to live--"
"I'm handling this," interrupted Duane. "Rodrik, do you pledge yourself
to keep the peace from now on, acknowledge me your master?"
"M-master?" The Mish-kinite's pallid eyes were less clouded now; they
fastened on Steve as if seeing him for the first time. They roved from
the top of his ash-blond head to the tips of his doeskin sandals. A
strange, new light which might have been awe ... or understanding ...
or a curious sort of _fellowship_ ... dawned in his eyes. Aloud he
said, "Yes! I do so yield and acknowledge, O Master!" But this was
solely for the ears of their audience. He moved to Duane's side, and as
he bent his head in token of submission he whispered softly, "Forgive
me, brother! I did not understand. I should have known when I looked
upon you--"
"Eh?" exclaimed Steve, startled. "What's that?"
"Hush, brother! Let not the others hear. Later you and I shall
discuss ... the Plans. But now--" And he raised his voice again--"Let
me show you about the prison, O strong new leader. None is more
qualified than I to explain."
And _that_ much, at any rate, was true. So, stifling his curiosity
for the time being, Steve permitted the former leader to show the way
through the tower-gaol of Nedlunplaza. But still wary, still grimly
watchful, Jain's body-guard of Women ranged themselves between him and
the other prisoners. And to his arm clung the priestess Beth.
Steve laughed at her for this. "You cling to me, O priestess," he
taunted her in mock outrage. "You dare place warm hands upon my flesh!
Is this how a mere mortal approaches a god?"
But the dust-gold head lifted; the girl's eyes met his levelly, softly,
thoughtfully. And the voice of Beth was alive with a strange new
vibrancy as she said:
"Aye, even so, my lord; perhaps I am presumptuous. But there was magic
in the touching-of-mouths you just taught me. Mad magic. I know not
why--but for the first time it sings in my heart that perhaps you have
spoken the truth. My mind acknowledges you a god, but here--" And she
touched her breast--"I feel you are in truth--a Man!"
* * * * *
Considerably later, after they had been led through the labyrinthine
series of connecting chambers and corridors which comprised this
prison--this whole floor--of Nedlunplaza, Steve dismissed all his new
followers save Jak of Norlinz. To this young stalwart he had taken a
liking. Of him he asked the question which had perplexed him ever since
entering the citadel.
"Jak, you are no weakling male like those utilized for breeders by
Beth's clan. Nor are you like the Wild Ones. You are a man like myself.
How is this?"
Jak looked puzzled.
"I do not understand, Steve. How else should it be?"
The priestess Beth broke in fiercely, "You know full well how it should
be, Jak of Norlinz! The Women rule Tizathy everywhere! And guard your
tongue, male upstart! The sacred name of 'Steve' is not yours to use--"
"That will do, Beth," ordered Steve. "I asked him to call me that. And
it is obvious that the Women do _not_ rule everywhere. Not in Jak's New
Orleans, nor in Rodrik's Michigan."
"But it is written in the holy books," argued Beth, "that the Men and
Women fought, and the Women were victors--"
Jak nodded. "I begin to understand, Steve. We, too, have a legend of
the days when the sexes warred. But where I came from the Men subdued
the rebels. In my territory Men and Women mate ... they work together
hand in hand, and enjoy such happiness as the Daans' harsh rule
permits. Thus it is, also, in many territories I know. In Zoni and
Mexco ... in Bama and Sippi."
"But," frowned Chuck, "how about this here now place Beth just
mentioned: Tizathy? Where's that?"
"Why, that is _all_ places," explained Jak laboriously. "All
territories are but part of Tizathy. It is the Land of the Ancients,
over which ruled Jarg and Taamuz, Ibrim and--"
"I see," said Steve softly. "I understand now. It is the whole,
one-time American nation. Don't you see, Chuck? '_My country_ ...
_Tizathy_....'"
Jak said, "Yes. You know the Song, Steve?"
"I know it." Duane's forehead creased. "But how is it you languish in a
Sinnaty prison, Jak?"
Jak shrugged. "I was restless. I wandered in search of--well, I know
not what. Perhaps a territory where there were no Daans. I was captured
here, questioned. I could not account for myself, so--here I am. Thus
it was with many of the prisoners. Rodrik ... Pawl ... Alan of Washtun."
"But were you free to return to your homeland, Jak, could you rouse
others like yourself to come northward?"
"Perhaps. But why?"
"For the purpose of--" began Steve.
* * * * *
He did not finish his sentence. For at that moment came a frightened
messenger from the outer chamber. "It is the Daans, O ruler!" he told
Steve fearfully. "They are come to take you for the Questioning."
Chuck stirred fretfully.
"What does that mean, Steve? The third degree? Say, we've got an
organization now. What say we spunk up and give them toads a dose of--"
"No," said Steve, rising swiftly. "That would only tip our hand. And
besides, they don't want to see us any more than _we_ want to see
_them_. That's what we came here for. Let's go!"
Thus it was that, a few minutes later, the recently captured band of
Tuckians and time-exiles, surrounded by armed Daans, ascended in the
elevator to the topmost stage of Carew Tower. They debouched from their
lift into a place which had once upon a time been a swank nightclub, a
glass-encased roof garden wherein beneath the light of the stars gay
humans had wined and dined and danced.
Age had shattered the glass panes here as elsewhere throughout
Nedlunplaza, but in this place the windows had not gone unrepaired.
They were filled with that odd, transparent plastic of which the
Sinnaty bridge had been made. The whole chamber was a gigantic
council-hall, at the head of which sat in opulent splendor the Venusian
vice-regents.
A fanfare greeted their entrance into the hall, and a guard, with the
haft of his knout, prodded Steve roughly to his knees. Then a voice,
curiously gentle and mellow, issued a command ... and from somewhere
roused the strident cry of an equerry:
"Let the prisoners rise! Bring them forward, that they may be seen by
the Overlord Loala!"
Again the whip dug Steve's back. Stifling an urge to turn and let his
captor have one, Steve rose, took a step forward, lifted his eyes
and--almost gasped aloud in utter amazement.
For the central figure of those enthroned before him was--though not
altogether Earthly--unmistakably feminine. _The Overlord Loala was a
woman!_