Robert Adams - Champion of the Last Battle

Standing almost atop his recumbent body was a huge black stallion. The glossy horse was the very’ spit and image of good old long-years-with-Wind Mahvros. There was a bridle buckled to the head of the horse; its reins dropped loosely over the pommel-knob of an old-fashioned warkak.

The horse lowered his head and nudged Bili once more, this time mindspeaking, “Will my brother then sleep all the day through? They are waiting for us, for you were overlong in coming and we have far to gallop.”

The mindspeak was unmistakable; there had never been another like it. “ Mahvros ... ? ” Bili beamed incredulously. “But. .. but you are long ago gone to Wind!”

“Of course I am, my brother,” Mahvros easily agreed. “And now my dear brother has joined me. Come, rise up and mount me. The others are waiting for us.”

“But ... but I cannot rise, my brother. A bear clawed and bit me badly, and. . . .”

“I’d have done worse than that, brother or no brother,” beamed Mahvros, stamping, “had your men shot me full of arrows and then you made to run a spear through me. And all because of a few silly sheep. Yes, I spoke with that poor bear a short time back.

“But come, brother, get up, they’re waiting.”

“Who’s waiting?” asked Bili dazedly, wondering when this strange dream would end and death would come.

Then a wide, rough, damp something scraped up his face, from chin to pate, while another, so-familiar mindspeak, said, “Me, for one, brother chief. Brainless twolegs right often slander us cats as being lazy. What then should be said of you?”

Slowly, gingerly, taking extreme care, Bili pushed down with his right hand, braced his right heel against the rather solid surface on which he lay and gradually came partially erect. A prairiecat sat on his left, tail curled about his big forepaws, tongue protruding slightly from between his fearsome fangs. The last three inches of that tail were white.

“Whitetip? Cat brother? Brother chief? Is it truly you?” Bili beamed hesitantly.

“No,” came a sarcastic answer, “I’m really only four gray foxes inside an old prairiecat hide. Of course it is me.”

Then Bili chanced to look down at his own limbs and body and could not believe his eyes. Although clad in shirt, trousers and boots, the body, the limbs, the hands, were not those of any old man of near a century in age. They were the strong, muscular body and limbs of a man in his prime. And when he experimentally flexed legs and arms, there was no slightest hint of pain. Still wondering, his mind whirling madly, he stood up ... easily, and looked at his surroundings.

He seemed to have been lying on the grassy sward of a near-circular depression, in the center of which burbled a tiny spring. Striding over to it, he sank onto a knee and scooped up a handful of the cold water, drank deeply, splashed a copious amount of the bracing liquid onto his face, then turned back to find the horse and the huge cat still there. . . . But not alone, now!

A slender, dark-haired and dark-eyed human female stood beside Mahvros. She was clad, like Bili, in low boots, tucked-in trousers and an embroidered shirt, the proud swell of her breasts pushing hard against the fabric. Close by her side stood a well-bred red-bay mare, saddled, like the black stallion.

“Rahksahnah ... ?” he croaked as he had on his deathbed. “No. It’s all ... none of this is possible! You all are dead, gone to Wind. You died in my arms, Rahksahnah. I lit your pyre with my own hand! I know you are dead.”

She smiled, that so-dear, never-forgotten smile, then said softly, “Yes, I am no longer alive on earth, but then neither are you, my Bili, my love. I, we, have been waiting for you. Now you are here.

“But come, love, let us mount and ride. It is far and we can talk on the journey.”

“Journey? What journey? Where must I ride?” asked Bili.

“Why, to the palace of the Silver Lady, of course, my Bili. She is desirous of knowing you. So come.”

When once Bili had swung up into the saddle of the tall horse, he could see beyond the limits of the depression. He could see a limitless expanse of billowing, silver-white grasses in every direction, yet so soft-appearing were they that they might have been clouds, tiny clouds scudding at ground level.

The red mare’s haunches tensed, and then she was on her way up the sloping side of the dip, Mahvros moving easily at her side, with the huge, tawny prairiecat racing out ahead of the two horses. Then suddenly there were two prairiecats, one but half the size of the other.

“Come,” beamed Stealth. “Come—She awaits you.”