The King th-3 Page 25

  It was carried by a rider.

  That could be told from its movement.

  The giant had known little of the location of the Otungs. He had been moving south in the plains of Barrionuevo when, caught in a new storm, freezing, starving, half-blinded in the snow, lost, he had had to slay the horse. It had been his intention to cross the Lothar, to seek the Basung Vandals, whom he recalled, from his days in the festung village of Sim Giadini, lived in the forests west of the Lothar. From them he had hoped to learn the whereabouts of the Otungs, if any survived. He now knew there were still Otungs, from the information he had obtained from the Herul in the wagon of Mujiin, who had been the leader of the men who had captured him. Indeed, he had even made rich and diverse use, in the same wagon, for several nights, of a lovely slave girl, a former Otung noblewoman, one who had been captured by Heruls only two years ago.

  At times it had seemed almost as though she had thought herself still free.

  Sometimes the older Herul, who had seemed to be his keeper, or warder, had removed one of his shackles, to put it more loosely, but unslippably, about her own ankle, that she would be chained with him, to the same couch, so that she could not run from him, but might be, when he wished, drawn to him.

  It seemed she might think of herself as free, but he had had her kick like a slave, the slave she was.

  “What is your name?” he would ask.

  “Hortense!” she said. “Do not stop, I beg you!”

  “What is your name?” he would inquire.

  “Yata!” she would cry. “Yata, the slave! Please do not stop, Master! Yata, only a slave, begs you not to stop! Please do not stop, Master!”

  But he did not know where he was, really, where the camp of the Heruls was, its relation to the Otungs, and such. He did not know how long the trip to the camp had taken. He did know he had been unconscious for four days in the camp. He had dim recollections of the trip itself, of being delirious, of being bound, of being in pain, of being forced awake, and fed, some sort of white clods, like watered cheese, and having snow jammed in his mouth for drink, and being beaten, and then again losing consciousness. Too, in the days he had been with the camp, the wagons, which were few in number, as is common with a winter camp of Heruls, had moved, apparently from one cache of fodder to another. When he had been unchained and brought forth from the wagon, to be stripped and run for the dogs, he had seen only some twenty wagons, perhaps some fifty or sixty horses, and a similar number of cattle. There had been a low, open-sided, snow-covered shed in the distance. Tracks led to it. He could see hay within it. There was straw about. There was a rich smell of manure. Such sheds are used for the storage of fodder, and the sheltering, at times, of beasts. The camp, this far north for the season, was presumably an outpost camp. Such commonly serve as bases for hunters, for scouts and outriders. In such a way, by such scattered camps, far from the winter pastures, which for the great herds are far to the south, and for many smaller ones nestled in sheltered mountain valleys, the Heruls keep themselves apprised of what occurs on the flats of Tung, on the plains of Barrionuevo. He had been chained. The wagon had been closed. He had been able to conjecture little, save, by the sunlight, bright in cracks about the door, and the single, shuttered window, that they had been moving north, and then northeast. He was probably much closer to Venitzia now than he had been when he had slain the horse.

  The giant watched the light coming closer.

  He knew it must be a Herul, for who else might be abroad at this time, in this place.

  The giant removed the stained canine tooth from its makeshift sheath at his skin belt.

  His bag of meat, which, in the cold might last for days, was in the snow, beside him.

  He had little doubt but what the rider was looking for him.

  The lantern cast an unsteady, flickering, moving pool of light, some four or five yards in diameter.

  The giant watched, patiently.

  He chewed a little meat from the bag.

  Something, too, the giant noted, might accompany the rider. It was hard to tell in the light.

  The giant finished the meat, and tied shut the bag. There seemed to be a small figure, heavily bundled, on the left side of the horse, trudging in the snow.

  The lantern was quite close now.

  Surely the rider must see him, as he crouched in the snow.

  The lantern lifted.

  The giant did not move.

  Suddenly there was a woman’s scream.

  He did not move.

  “It is a dog!” screamed a woman. “It is a dog!” She spun away from the stirrup, turning, frightened, to run, but, choking, weeping, in a moment, was held up short, by the tether on her neck.

  “Greetings,” said the rider.

  “Greetings,” said the giant, rising up.

  He stood then, like some unusual creature, bipedalian, but canine, in the light of the lamp.

  The rider, with one hand, not taking his eyes from the giant, slowly unlooped the tether, which had been wound some four or five times about the pommel of the saddle.

  He dropped it into the snow.

  The woman’s hands were not bound. She backed away, into the darkness, the tether on her neck.

  “Do not attack me,” said the rider.

  It was the older Herul, who had been his keeper, or warden, in the wagon of Mujiin.

  The giant did not move.

  “Two of the dogs returned,” said the Herul. “In the camp it is thought you are dead.”

  “But you did not think so?”

  “I did not know,” said the Herul.

  “It was clever of you,” said the Herul, “to let the dogs return.”

  The giant shrugged.

  It would have been possible, though dangerous, to kill them in their feeding frenzy.

  Too, he had been cold, and miserable.

  “How did you arm yourself?” asked the Herul.

  “With ice,” said the giant, “a weapon formed thereof, frozen, from snow, heated in my mouth, and a fluid of my body.”

  “It is an old Herul trick,” said the Herul, approvingly.

  “It is known in the festung village of Sim Giadini,” said the giant.

  “I had thought it might be,” said the Herul.

  “You have sought me,” said the giant.

  “Yes,” said the Herul.

  “Why?” asked the giant.

  “I mean you no harm,” said the Herul. “You have escaped the dogs.”

  “Why have you sought me?” asked the giant.

  “I have brought you your sword, the great blade, and a Herul knife, some food, and the pelt of the giant white vi-cat, which I have had prepared for you.”

  The Herul loosened from across his back the great blade, now in a fur sheath, and dropped it, with its belt, to the snow, to the right side of the horse. He put with it, one object after the other, a smaller object, doubtless the knife, a dark bag, which might contain food, and then, folded, what must be the pelt of the vi-cat.

  “Why are you doing this?” asked the giant.

  “The pelt,” said the Herul, “is that of the giant white vi-cat. Among the Vandals it is understood as the robe of a king.”

  “Perhaps that is why,” said the giant, “that the two Basungs crossed the Lothar, to obtain such a robe.”

  “Doubtless,” said the Herul.

  The two Basungs, those who had drawn the sledge to the Herul camp, had been killed.

  “Why do you give it to me?” asked the giant.

  “It was you who killed the beast,” said the Herul. “It is thus yours.”

  “Why do you return to me the sword, why give me these things?”

  “It does not matter,” said the Herul.

  “Why?” asked the giant.

  “The Heruls grow fat, and slack,” said the Herul. “They need splendid enemies.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “It does not matter,” said the Herul.

  “I thank you fo
r these gifts,” said the giant.

  “The woman whom I brought with me,” said the Herul, “will have fled by now.”

  “She was a slave?”

  “Yes.”

  “She may be easily followed in the snow,” said the giant, “thence to be recaptured, thence to be beaten, or to have her feet cut off, or be fed to dogs.”

  “I shall leave such decisions to you,” said the Herul.

  “I do not understand,” said the giant.

  “She thought herself brought with me, late at night, in the cold, to perform the services of the slave female, to cook, to lie at my feet, to warm them, to give pleasure with her body, her lips and tongue, and such. It is common on journeys to bring slaves, for such things.”

  “But you brought her here, to let her escape?”

  “Of course,” said the Herul.

  “When you freed her of the pommel, she doubtless thought it merely to free the horse of its impediment, to prepare for combat with me, taken as your quarry.”

  “That was my intention, that she should think so.”

  “But she is now fled.”

  “But should not be difficult to follow, in the snow.”

  “No,” said the giant.

  “Do you know where you are?” asked the Herul.

  “No,” said the giant.

  “You are within two days journey of the forests of the Otungs,” said the Herul. “It was at my request that Mujiin brought the wagons here.”

  “Does the slave know where she is?”

  “Certainly,” said the Herul.

  “I do not know the way to the Otungs,” said the giant.

  “She will know the way,” said the Herul.

  “Then I need only follow her,” said the giant.

  “That was my intention,” said the Herul.

  “Why have you shown me these kindnesses?’’ asked the giant.

  “I am old now,” said the Herul. “And I must be killed one day. I think I would like to be killed by you.”

  “I have no quarrel with you,” said the giant.

  “But we are enemies, the Heruls, and the Otungs.”

  “I am a peasant, from the festung village of Sim Giadini,” said the giant.

  “No,” said the Herul. “You are an Otung.”

  “I do not know that I am an Otung,” said the giant.

  “You are Otung,” said the Herul.

  “I do not know who I am,” said the giant.

  “That is true,” said the Herul. “You do not know who you are.”

  “What is the name of the slave?” asked the giant.

  “It is she whom you know,” said the Herul.

  “Yata?”

  “Yes.”

  “The night is clear,” said the giant. “I will follow her in the morning.”

  “Do not let her know she is being followed.”

  “No,” said the giant.

  “By the way,” said the Herul, “she is a camp slave. We thought that might be useful, she once the daughter of an Otung noble, to help her understand, particularly at the beginning, the nature of her new condition, that of slave.”

  “What is the nature of the camp slave?” asked the giant.

  “She is the common property of the camp,” said the Herul. “She must beg and give pleasure before she is fed. She may be disposed of, in any fashion, by anyone in the camp, such things.’’

  “I see,” said the giant.

  “I give her to you,” said the Herul.

  “A runaway slave?”

  “Yes.”

  “My thanks,” said the giant.

  “It is nothing,” said the Herul.

  “And, in any case,” said the giant, “she would be subject to claimancy.”

  “I see that you have thought on the matter,” said the Herul.

  “Yes,” said the giant.

  “When you apprehend her,” said the Herul, “do not forget that she is a runaway slave, that she has fled from her former masters.”

  “I will not,” said the giant.

  The Herul regarded him, from the high saddle.

  “It is a dangerous time to go among Otungs,” said the Herul, “for it is the Killing Time.”

  “I have heard that,” said the giant.

  “Be careful.”

  “I shall.”

  “Do not think the white pelt will protect you,” said the Herul. “There are men who will kill for such a pelt.”

  “It is of great value, and yet you have given it to me.”

  “It is yours,” said the Herul.

  “I do not want to kill you,” said the giant.

  “Do not the sons always kill the fathers?” asked the Herul.

  “You are not my father,” said the giant.

  “You are the nearest thing I have ever had to a son,” said the Herul.

  He then turned his mount, and began to move away.

  “Who are you?” called the giant, standing in the snow. “What is your name?”

  “Hunlaki,” said the figure, moving away.

  CHAPTER 23

  He heard the woman scream.

  He hastened forward, through the snow.

  The great blade was already unsheathed. He had unsheathed it several minutes ago, when he had first caught the smell of the animal.

  He had then followed her recent tracks, rather than paralleling them, from a distance, as was his wont, in case she might look back, or retrace her steps. He had seen, with her tracks, but fresher, those of the beast.

  Other than the scream and the sound of his hurried movements through the trees the forest was very quiet.

  The moon was out, and its light, and that of the stars, fell through the bare branches of the scattered trees, and thence, amidst the tracery of shadows, to the snow, brilliantly illuminating it, sparkling on its cold, bleak surface, silvery, and crystalline, like frozen fire, soft, cold fire.

  He came upon her in a small clearing. She was on her hands and knees in the snow, where she had, he supposed, been scratching for roots, or seeds, under the snow, even under the brittle layers of frozen leaves.

  The bear had risen up on its hind legs, its forepaws extended. It was some seven feet in height.

  We shall speak of the Tangaran forest wroth as a bear, first, in virtue of our common practice of using familiar expressions for resembling creatures tending to occupy and exploit similar ecological spheres in similar manners, and, second, because of its resemblance to the arn bear, originally indigenous to Kiros, but popular, because of its spirit and aggressiveness, in imperial arenas for generations.

  ‘’Ho!” called the giant, rushing forward.

  He did this not from any misplaced sense of fair play, and a man would unhesitantly have been cut down from the back, but to turn the animal, so that its two hearts, which are paired, and ventrally situated, like those of the arn bear, which he had learned to fight, would be turned toward him.

  The blade drove between the paws of the angered beast, driving through the right-side heart.

  The beast struck with its paw, to knock the blade away, and the paw, slashed, streamed blood in the moonlit snow.

  The woman screamed.

  She could not see clearly what was occurring, from the turned beast before her.

  She crawled backward in the snow.

  The giant withdrew the blade, jerking it free.

  The beast stood on its hind legs, regarding him, balefully, and put its paw in its mouth.

  The rearing to the hind legs increases the stature of the bear and tends to intimidate in intraspecific combat and to startle, overawe and immobilize many forms of prey in hunting.

  Too, of course, it considerably increases, as is common with an upright posture, the scanning range of the optical sensors. In the case of the bear there were two optical sensors, as is common in many species, given the advantages of binocular vision and paired organs.

  Such a posture, however, does expose the torso to hazards unlikely to be encountered i
n its natural habitat, blades of steel, cord-driven or gas-impelled projectiles, and such.

  Within its mighty frame valves were closing, and opening, sealing away the ruptured, spilling organ within its breast, rerouting pounding, rushing charges of blood, wreaking changes within its body, like the damming and rechanneling of rivers within some bulky, concealed domain.

  The bear went to all fours, protecting its other heart.

  It snarled and charged.

  The man braced himself, on one knee in the snow. The bear drove itself on the blade, six inches or more, and then, growling, backed off, snarling. It approached again but more cautiously. This time it was fended back. It struck at the blade, pushing its point to one side with the bleeding paw.

  The blade reached out, again, and blood sprang from the snout of the bear.

  The bear then backed away, a yard or two, in the snow. Then it turned, and began to move away. The arn bear can behave similarly. The woman had disappeared.

  But the giant was not now concerned for her, nor for her safety.

  It was not she who was now in danger.

  The giant, breathing heavily, rose up from one knee, from the snow.

  He took a step forward, considering that he might pursue the beast, but slipped. He caught his balance, bracing himself with the blade.

  Then the beast had seemed to slip away, amidst the trunks of the trees, the tracery of the wickedly dark shadows, so black against the cold, moonlit snow.

  The giant uttered an angry noise.

  But surely the bear had withdrawn from the fray, having had enough. Surely it had abandoned this territory, the infringement on which may have motivated its initial behavior. Surely it, surly, its fur matted, and stinking, perhaps aroused from its den, where it might have slept until late winter or early spring, would simply abandon its country.

  The giant kicked about in the snow, working his boots down to the frozen leaves, the thick, crackling matting carpeting the forest’s icy floor.

  In this fashion he would have solid footing.

  But the beast was gone, and the danger past.

  It is few men who would pursue such a beast at such a time. One tends to be too grateful, simply that one is still alive. Too, it is difficult to administer a blow with lethal effect to a retreating four-legged animal. It is almost necessary to be at least abreast of it, or nearly so. Too, one does not know, really, what it is doing. Indeed even beasts within the same species differ in such matters.