The Greatest Works of Otis Adelbert Kline - 18 Books in One Edition. Otis Adelbert Kline
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and with the fingers of my left hand entwined in the wiry hair of his chest and my legs gripping his waist, I buried my flint knife again and again in his brawny neck. Blood spurted from his pulsing jugular as he endeavored to shake me off, to reach me with his sharp fangs, and to gore me with his single remaining tusk. But his mighty strength was spent —his lifeblood draining.
A quiver shook the giant frame and like some tall tree of the forest felled by the woodman’s axe, he toppled backward, crashing to the ground.
Leaping quickly to my feet, I seized the club of the fallen ape-monarch and, brandishing it aloft, said, “Rorg is dead, and Zinlo is king. Who will fight Zinlo? Who will be next to die?”
From the throats of several of the ape-warriors in the semicircle from which Urg had come, came low growls, but none advanced, and the growls subsided as I singled out in turn with my gaze each of the truculent ones who had voiced them.
Far below me, the mob of apes was clamoring, “Meat! We want our meat!”
I knew that, spent as I was, the enormous body of Rorg was more than I could raise aloft and hurl to the mob below, so I had recourse to an old wrestling trick. Seizing the limp right arm of the fallen king-ape, I dragged the body to the edge of the cliff. Then, bringing the arm over my shoulder in an application of the principle of the lever, I heaved the remains of Borg over my head.
A moment later the milling beasts below were tearing the carcass to pieces, snarling and snapping over their feast. This custom, I afterward learned, had been established in consequence of the belief that the flesh of a strong, brave individual would confer strength and bravery on the one who devoured it.
Again I brandished my club aloft, shouting, “Who will fight Zinlo for his kingdom? Speak now, or keep silence for another endir.”
This time I heard not even a single growl from the warriors on the cone top.
An old warrior who had lost both tusks, an ear, and several of his fingers, stepped from the ranks and advanced to the cliff edge. “Rorg is dead,” he announced. “Farewell to Rorg.”
Following his words, a peculiar, quavering cry went up from the throats of the thousands of apes congregated in the crater, as well as from those on the plateau. So weird and mournful did it sound that I shivered involuntarily.
As the last plaintive notes died away, the old warrior shouted, “Zinlo is king. Hail, Zinlo!”
A deafening din followed as the ape-horde, brandishing knives and clubs aloft and clattering them together, cried, “Hail, Zinlo!”
I turned in triumph toward the spot where Taliboz and Loralie had been seated, intending to assure the princess that it would not be necessary now for her to marry the king of the cave-apes. To my surprise, I saw that both of them had disappeared. The two huge females who had been guarding them sat, side by side, slumped against a large boulder, their chins sunk forward on their hairy chests.
Bounding forward I seized one of the she-apes by the shoulder and shook her, shouting, “Where are your prisoners?”
Her limp body sagged forward, falling on the ground. The second female, when shaken, showed some signs of returning consciousness.
“What happened?” I asked. “Where are your prisoners?”
Weakly she pointed to a needlelike glass sliver embedded in her arm. Extracting it, I instantly recognized it for a tork projectile of the type which temporarily paralyzes its victim. In the arm of the other, a similar projectile was embedded.
Although he had been disarmed by the apes, it was evident that Taliboz had managed to keep his ammunition belt, and that during the excitement of my fight with Rorg, he had found the opportunity to paralyze the two female guards and slip away with the princess.
That she had gone with him willingly I could not doubt, for she had made no outcry, and her previous treatment of me had led me to believe that she would sooner have accepted Rorg for a mate than me.
I turned away, the sweetness of victory grown bitter in my mouth. I was about to enter the runway which led to the cave below, when a small, glittering object attracted my attention. Stooping, I picked it up and examined it minutely for a moment. Then a great light dawned on me.
Chapter 7
Hurrying down the runway into the great cave below, I was about to rush out into the daylight to examine the small object I had found, when a long, muscular arm suddenly went about my shoulders, my head was crushed against a soft, furry breast, and a pair of pendulous lips caressed my cheek.
With the heel of my hand I pushed the face of a she-ape from mine and broke her embrace. Surprised, I recognized Chixa. She advanced toward me again, arms outstretched, but I motioned her off.
“Stand back,” I warned her. “What do you mean by this familiarity?”
“But I am your mate,” replied Chixa. “You have slain Borg and the other she has run away. Rorg chose me for his mate before the food-woman came.”
“Rorg chose his own mates, and I’ll choose mine,” I retorted. “What’s this you say about the other she running away?”
The food-man and she came down the runway together. I let them escape. I did not want the food-woman to take my place.”
“But how could they escape when the place is surrounded?”
“The food-man knew of the inner passageway,” replied Chixa. “I showed him where it was…Am I not as comely as the other shes of my people?”
“No doubt you are the most comely, Chixa, but I will never mate with a cave-ape. You say this she went willingly with the food-man?”
“She did. I think they will be mates.”
“Chixa,” I said, walking to the entrance and examining the small glittering object that I had picked up, “you have lied to me.”
“I lied,” admitted Chixa, not one whit abashed, “but how do you know? You must be a sorcerer, as Graak said.”
“I know by this small, broken glass needle, one end of which is stained with blood,” I replied. “Call it magic, if you like, but this needle tells me that the she was carried away by the food-man.”
“It is even as you say,” conceded Chixa. “She was unconscious from the magic of the food-man, and her arm was bleeding.”
“Show me the entrance to the inner passageway,” I commanded.
Chixa sulked, and crouched in a corner.
“Show me the entrance,” I said again, “or I will kill you by magic and feed you to the crowd outside.”
Evidently the threat to kill her by magic—the fear of the unknown —was more potent than any ordinary death threat could possibly have been, for she rose, and, walking to the back of the cave, heaved a great slab of rock to one side, disclosing the dark mouth of a runway.
“It was this way they went,” she said, “but you will never find them. By this time they will have taken trails where none but our greatest trackers could scent them out.
“Who is your best tracker?”
“Graak is the greatest of them all.”
“Go instantly,” I commanded, “and bring Graak to me. See that my command is carried out at once, or my magic will follow and slay you.”
“I go,” she responded fearfully, and hurried from the cave.
I fidgeted impatiently until she returned with Graak, who unhesitatingly offered to obey his new Rogo. Stooping, he entered the passageway. I hurried after him with my hands outstretched in the inky blackness in front of me to prevent dashing myself against the curving walls.