The King th-3 Read online

  “Who is Mujiin?” asked the giant.

  “He who captured you,” said the Herul.

  “What is your people?” asked the Herul.

  “I have no people,” said the giant.

  “You are an Otung,” said the Herul.

  “I am chieftain of the Wolfungs,” said the giant.

  “I do not know that tribe,” said the Herul.

  “It is a tribe of the Vandal nation,” said the giant.

  “One knows the Vandals, of course,” said the Herul, “-the Otung Vandals, the Basung Vandals, and such.”

  “Its remnants were banished to a far world, Varna,” said the giant.

  “How is it that you are on Tangara?” asked the Herul.

  “I am commissioned captain in the imperial auxilia,” said the giant, “entitled to recruit comitates, comites, companions, a comitatus, a military company, for service under the imperial standard. I seek Otungs for this purpose.”

  “Strange,” said the Herul.

  “Why?” asked the giant.

  “Little love is lost between the empire and the Otungs,” said the Herul.

  “Nor,” said the giant, “between the empire and the Heruls.”

  “True,” said the Herul.

  “There were two men who were captured on the plains,” said the giant. “What was done with them?”

  “They drew you here, on a sledge,” said the Herul. “Then they were bound, and their throats were cut, and they were fed to the dogs.”

  The giant regarded him.

  “They had not fought,” said the Herul.

  The giant lay back on the rude, low couch.

  “To be sure,” said the Herul, “they crossed the Lothar, and that must have taken courage.

  “I can remember when Basungs fought,” said the Herul.

  “They were then Vandals, Basung Vandals,” said the giant.

  “Yes,” said the Herul.

  “What of the Otungs?” asked the giant.

  “We broke them, long ago, and have denied to their fugitive remnants horses, and the plains. They are not permitted to come forth from their forests, except at times to trade with us, honey, pelts, produce from their small plots, such things, for leather, hides, glue and horn, and excess trade goods, which we, by similar exchanges, have obtained from merchants of Ifeng.”

  “Venitzia?”

  “That is the Telnarian name for the place,” said the Herul. “There is a good spring there.”

  “Why do you not go into the forests and kill them?” asked the giant.

  “We are horsemen,” said the Herul. “In the forests it is very dangerous for us. We do raid in them, afoot, sometimes, for sport. It was in such a raid, two years ago, that we captured Yata, and others, while they were bathing.”

  “Yata?”

  “The slave,” said the Herul. “It was but a moment’s work to bind and gag them, wrap them securely in camouflaged blankets and tie them on narrow frameworks of poles, which frameworks we then drew after us, reaching, two days later, the edge of the forest. Once there, where our horses were waiting, we untied their ankle cords, put them in coffle, and marched them, under the knout, to the wagons. They marched quickly, and well.”

  “I do not doubt it,” said the giant.

  “We take others,” said the Herul, “as they fall to us; some are captured in raids, as were Yata and her maidens; some are caught outside the forests, herding pigs, gathering herbs, and such; some are given to us as tokens of good will; some are sold to us; some are received in trade, such things. But these are usually not high women, and many are only beautiful, unwanted daughters.”

  “You take only the beautiful ones?”

  “Of course,” said the Herul. “For we may have to dispose of them in Venitzia later. We reject the others. But we do not take all the beautiful ones, as we wish to leave them enough beauties to breed, that more beauties may be regularly produced.”

  “You seem interested in me,” said the giant.

  “I am curious about you,” said the Herul.

  “Why?”

  “You remind me of someone,” said the Herul, “someone I saw once, long ago, one to whom I once lifted my lance.”

  “An Otung?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who are you?”

  “It does not matter,” said the Herul.

  The Herul rose up. He approached the couch. He looked down upon the blond giant.

  “May I touch you?” asked the Herul.

  The giant did not move.

  The right tentacle of the Herul uncoiled itself and its tip rested on the right forearm of the giant. The giant detected a movement within the tentacle.

  “Ah!” said the Herul.

  The tentacle withdrew.

  The giant looked up at the Herul.

  “It is as I thought,” said the Herul.

  “What?” asked the giant.

  “Nothing,” said the Herul.

  “What?” asked the giant.

  “We have met before,” said the Herul.

  “No,” said the giant.

  “You are from the festung village of Sim Giadini,” said the Herul.

  “How could you know that?” asked the giant.

  “That is not important,” said the Herul.

  “We have met?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was very young?” said the giant.

  “Yes,” said the Herul, “you were very young.”

  “I do not think the Heruls keep male prisoners, or slaves,” said the giant.

  “You are right,” said the Herul.

  “What is to be done with me?”

  “You will see,” said the Herul. He then turned away, and went to the door of the broad, roomlike wagon. “I will have broth brought to you,” he said.

  “By Yata?” asked the giant.

  “Yes,” said the Herul.

  “She is to remove her garments while serving me,” said the giant.

  “Of course,” said the Herul.

  CHAPTER 21

  The giant plunged through the snow, naked, the baying of the dogs behind him.

  Five had been set upon him, the size of ponies.

  He had had the start of a full hour.

  That hour is best spent not in trying to cover as much distance as possible, for the difference of a few miles is immaterial in such matters, the dogs on the run, tireless, in the pack, but rather looking for a defensible place, an outcropping, a stand of trees, a hillock, such things. But the plain in this place, save for swirled drifts, seemed level and barren.

  But somewhere, somewhere in this snow, and desolation, concealed by gentle contours, perhaps those of some high drift, there must be stones, or irregularities, or faces of rock, or pools in which water might be trapped. In the summer animals were abundant here. There must be water for them, in pools, or streams now frozen, lost under the snow.

  But all seemed bleak.

  It was impossible not to leave tracks, and in the clear, cold, windless air his scent would follow him, almost as though it were a trail of heat, almost as though it were a wash of color, lingering, gentle in the disturbed snow, soft in the still air, marking, as though with paint and banners, his passage.

  He was breathing heavily.

  His feet were terribly cold.

  If he should stop moving he did not doubt but what they would be soon useless, and frozen.

  He could not double back to the wagons. Horsemen had followed him, with knouts, making that impossible.

  Then they had turned back.

  Then the dogs would have been released.

  It would not be dark for five hours, and the dogs were surely only minutes away.

  He scratched under the snow, searching for a stick, a rock, anything which might be used as a weapon. His fingernails were torn on the frozen soil.

  Drifts lay about.

  He moved on.

  He looked back. He could see five dots on the plain, in the snow, moving, hastenin
g in his direction.

  He had been brave. Mujiin, his captor, had thought so. He had been given thus this chance for life. Too, the dogs needed exercise. Bets were being taken at the wagons, on which animal would first return, which animal then would presumably have been the first to have had its fill, which animal then would, presumably, have been the first to reach the quarry.

  The sky was a winter sky, dark and overcast.

  There was not enough sun to melt snow, to make possible the building of a shelter, the building of a wall, of some sort of fortress, through the entrance of which only one animal at a time might enter.

  The snow was useless, like powder.

  It came to the thighs of the giant. He had to force his way through it.

  Such snow, if virginal, particularly where it had drifted, must form an impediment to the movement of the dogs, even as it did to himself, but, as of now, of course, his own body had broken a passage behind him, which facilitated the pursuit of the dogs. He had, in effect, broken the trail to his own body.

  His feet slipped, climbing a drift. He could not climb it, and then, feet bleeding, he came to the top of it. The dots were closer now, larger, leaping, plunging in his traces. He cried out, in fury, as he stumbled down the other side of the drift, rolling in the snow. There was a depression there. He stood upright in it. Then, angrily, struggling, he fought his way back to the top of the drift. It was high, and seemed as good as any other likely place. It was there he would make his stand. Too, the snow was soft behind, almost like a trap, slipping down to the depression. He did not think that dogs would have much better footing in it than he had had. In the summer water might have gathered there.

  He looked back at the dogs.

  They were much closer now.

  He took snow in his mouth, to melt it. As he could, then, with his hands, and the water from his mouth, mixing that water with soft snow, packing it carefully, shaping it, he formed a tubular, tapering, pointed trench, some eighteen inches in length, some four inches in diameter at its thick end, and like a needle at its narrow end.

  The gentle reader may be advised to skip the following pages, as he may find them offensive. I cannot, in conscience, however, omit the accounts as they have come down to us. That would betray my task, which is not, when all is said and done, to protect the feelings of the delicate, however laudable that aim, but to give an account of the times of troubles. Accordingly, I crave the reader’s indulgence, reminding him that we, herein, are dealing with times other than our own, times harsher and more primitive, darker times, ruder times, more savage times, times of transition, of change, the times of troubles.

  More water from his mouth, spread slick against the sides of that trench, froze almost instantly.

  Ice daggers may be formed variously. They may be formed, for example, from pieces of ice shaped, and sharpened, and edged by abrasion, chipping or warmth. They may also be formed, if there is time, from water, perhaps from snow melted in the mouth, and then poured into a snow mold to freeze.

  Too, of course, urine may be used.

  That is common with the Heruls.

  But much depends on the temperature. The riders with the knouts had followed him, driving him from the wagons, before turning back. Then there had been the search for the place to make a stand, for even a dagger is of little use against five hunters, which may tear at one from all sides. And then it takes time for water to freeze.

  To be sure, it was bitterly cold.

  At some temperatures water freezes almost instantaneously, for example, as when, in an arctic area, urine strikes the ground in brittle shafts. But at such temperatures an unprotected, warm-blooded animal would have already been incapacitated or dead.

  The urine in the trench would remain warm no more than a moment.

  He, in that moment, mixed in more snow, it melting but, almost instantly, cooling, it having, too, in that instant, further reduced the temperature of the bodily fluid, which was already crystallizing. He mixed in more snow, and spit into the trench, and took snow in his mouth, to heat it, and add it to the pale artifact.

  It did not seem likely that there would be time.

  He trampled down the snow at the height of the drift to give himself a better footing, certainly better than the dogs would have in their climb.

  He could now see the brown crests of the dogs clearly. The baying, the cries, of the animals were extremely clear, sharp in the icy air.

  He sensed their excitement.

  The dogs were some fifty yards away.

  He watched them coming, the leader first, the others plunging behind.

  He shuddered with cold, and crouched down in the snow.

  He touched the object before him.

  Two fingers slipped over its surface.

  He then put his two hands about it, prying up its thick end an inch from the mold, that the ice might melt away a little, from the warmth of his fingers, to leave impressions, to provide a grip. But then he pulled his hands away, and blew on his numbed, stiffened fingers. Could he even hold such an object? Could he even manage to retain it in his grasp, without dropping it in pain, without its slipping away from his half-frozen fingers?

  The dogs did not hesitate. They were ten yards away. If anything, his nearness, and his visible presence, energized them in their pursuit.

  He went to his knees.

  This was not in despair.

  It gave him greater stability in the drift.

  The leader was at the foot of the drift, rushing upward, furrowing snow, its scrambling hind legs, slipping, spattering it behind him, almost obscuring the second dog, so close behind.

  The giant reached down and wrenched the heavy weapon from the snow, and tore it upward, holding it over his head, mold and all.

  He saw the large head of the lead dog, the eyes, the hump, the manelike crest, the long tongue, livid and wet, the fangs, white, the curved, saberlike canines, some seven inches long, a foot away, and the beast slipped back in the loose snow, and pawed for its footing.

  And it was then that the giant lunged forward, bringing down, pointed, hammerlike, the stakelike, tapering cone of ice on the beast’s skull, which, point snapping, it penetrated, and the second animal, impeded by the footing, and the blockage of the lead animal, slipped back, but only to be pursued by the giant, half sliding down the hill, who struck it with the blunted, sharpened stake of ice, crashing in its head. With one foot he thrust it down the drift, into the way of the third animal, itself fighting for footing. Then, scratching with the icy stake at the drift, scrambling, the giant regained its summit. The third animal sped its way about the second, slipped sideways on the drift, went to its belly, and then, feet under it, began to inch its way upward, slavering. The fourth and fifth animal stood at the foot of the drift, baying. The first animal had slid down, and lay before them. The giant struck at the third animal but the ice, blunted now, and slick from the heat of his grip, missed the skull and only tore the snout on the right side. The giant tried to strike again but the stake slipped from his hand. It struck into the drift beside the third animal and it snapped at it, angrily, getting its teeth on it, and then, snarling, in pain, drew back, puzzled. The giant reached down and seized the animal by the manelike crest, and drew it, it frenziedly scratching and bending about, to rend him, to him, and then hurled it behind him, down to the soft snow in the depression, behind the drift. It rolled down the slope, caught its footing at the bottom, and stood up, shaking snow from its pelt. The giant then crawled a few feet down and seized the second animal, whose skull had been crashed in by the stake of ice, and pulled it, by its right hind foot to the summit of the drift. The giant, shuddering, clasped the body to him, rejoicing in the heat of the still hot carcass. Then he broke away the right canine tooth, that saberlike canine, some seven inches in length, and ripped open the belly of the beast, drenching the snow with blood. The viscera exposed, the carcass hot with spilled blood, the giant held it over his head and flung it down to the foot of the drift.
The fourth and fifth dogs, at that point, hesitated not at all, but began to tear the carcass to pieces, feeding. The remains of the first dog, the giant did not doubt, the hunger lust aroused, would soon follow. These animals were not far from wolves, whose packs will turn on a disabled member, even a leader, and utilize it for game.

  Breathing heavily the giant, picking up the canine tooth, torn from the animal’s jaw, turned about, and looked down on the far side of the drift, where the third animal was turning about, putting its paws up, here and there, trying to find footing. It looked up at the giant, and growled.

  Then the beast turned about, gathered its hind legs under it, leapt up, and, slipping, tried to scratch its way up, out of the depression.

  It slipped back.

  In a moment or two, of course, it would find, or would have packed, firmer snow, and might scratch, or even, in effect, have swum its way to freedom.

  Its frustration, its discomfiture, the giant did not doubt, would be alarmingly temporary.

  The giant, whose blood was now, despite the bitter cold, racing in his great body, measured the distance from the summit of the drift to the pit below, and to the center of the backbone, fifteen feet below, of the restless, moving animal.

  He leapt down, legs flexed, he caught by gravity, plummeting, hurtling, and struck the animal in the back, which produced a sudden, snapping sound, and a startled squeal of pain.

  In moments, using the canine tooth as a knife, the giant had opened the belly of the wild-eyed animal, and then, rejoicing, thrust, in turn, his feet and hands into the throbbing, blood-filled, heat-rich cavity. Then he embraced the carcass, pressing himself to it. He bathed in its blood and fluids. Then, crouching beside it in the snow, he drank blood, cupping it in his hands, and fed on the liver and heart. Then he began to cut its skin away.

  He could hear, on the other side of the drift, the feeding of the fourth and fifth dog.

  CHAPTER 22

  It was late at night on the plains. It was extremely dark. Neither the moon nor stars could be seen. The giant, crouching in the snow, clad in the skins of dogs, booted in their fur, cowled, helmeted even, in the head and neck of the leader, peering out through what had been its mouth, watched the tiny light of the lantern in the distance.