The King th-3 Read online

  “It is foolish to fight for an empty throne,” said the giant.

  “One supposes so,” he said.

  “What has the hero’s portion to do with this?”

  “It is divisive,” said Ulrich. “There is no king to bestow it, either to the satisfaction or dissatisfaction of the nobles, the lords. It is, in effect, thrown amongst us, that the strongest, the fiercest, may claim it for himself.”

  “The strongest, the fiercest, of the lineages, of the clans?” said the giant.

  “That is much the way it is,” said Ulrich. “What Otung lineage would grant itself less than any other?”

  “You are denied then not only a king, not only continuity of leadership, of policy and action,” said the giant, “but must war with one another.”

  “There has always been conflict among the Otungs, among the families,” said Ulrich.

  “You need a king,” said the giant.

  “Yes,” said Ulrich. “That is true.”

  “Where will you find one?”

  “Perhaps one day,” said Ulrich, “someone will bring into the forest the pelt of the giant white vi-cat.”

  The giant looked at him.

  “Why else do you think I brought you to the hall?” asked Ulrich.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Your slave is awakening,” called Urta, from the dais.

  Otto rose from the bench where he had been sitting with Ulrich, and walked behind the tables, toward the front of the hall. It was his habit to sit with his back to the wall. The high seats on the dais are similarly arranged.

  Some other men, and some women, too, hearing Urta’s words, went to gather about the uneasily stirring slave. Among the men was Citherix. Ulrich accompanied Otto.

  “She is well curved, indeed,” said a man to Citherix.

  “She is a beauty,” said a man.

  “I had not expected so much,” said Citherix.

  The girl lay in the dirt before the dais, between the long table on which the hero’s portion was to be cut and the dais.

  She rolled about, a little.

  She was as naked as any item of livestock.

  She seemed puzzled, a little, that she could not separate her wrists. They were bound before her body, tightly, with leather thongs, with a strand, a yard or so in length, free. She made a tiny puzzled, protestive noise.

  At the fire pit, behind one of the iron supports, more toward the stairs leading down into the hall, a man, with heavy gloves, lifted an iron from the coals. It was a slaving iron, and its termination, with its small, delicate design, perpendicular to the shaft, and the shaft itself, for some six inches upward from the design, glowed fiercely, whitely. He thrust it back into the coals.

  “She will awaken momentarily,” said a man.

  “Bring a whip,” said Urta.

  A man brought the implement, and he stood near the girl.

  “Oh, oh,” moaned the slave, twisting in the dirt.

  She was then on her right side, her head rather toward the dais. She opened her eyes.

  “Where am I?” she said.

  “In the hall of the Otungs,” said a man.

  “They tend to be disoriented, at first,” said a man. “It is the lingering effects of the drink.”

  “It passes almost immediately,” said another.

  The girl, from her side, looked about, as she could, but could see little but the floor, the boots of men, the shoes, the hems of some of the skirts, of free women.

  It seemed she was trying to interpret what she saw, to make sense of what was about her.

  She then gently touched her thigh, and her left breast, with her bound hands.

  She tried, a little, to separate her hands.

  She then went to her stomach, and extended her arms, her head between them, her eyes again closed, and put the right side of her head, turned, on her upper right arm.

  The man with the whip lifted it, but, at a small gesture from Otto, he lowered it.

  “What has happened?” she said. “What has come about? It is all so strange. I do not understand. I do not understand.”

  A man laughed.

  “I am dreaming,” she said. “That is it,” she said. “I am dreaming. I am dreaming that I am a slave girl, and am naked and bound.”

  Several of the men laughed.

  She rolled to her right side, again, her hands lowered.

  She seemed unwilling to awaken.

  “That is it,” she said. “I am dreaming that I am a slave girl, and am naked and bound.”

  There was more laughter, from several of the men about.

  She opened her eyes, suddenly, startled.

  “Where am I?” she asked, again.

  “You are in the hall of the Otungs,” said the man, again.

  Her eyes were now opened widely, disbelievingly.

  She squirmed, suddenly, wildly, in the dirt.

  “Why am I naked and bound!” she cried.

  She tried to scramble to her feet but a man’s hand would permit her to rise no farther than to her knees.

  She lifted her bound wrists to Urta. “Why am I naked and bound!” she demanded.

  Urta regarded her, but did not reply, his face revealing no emotion.

  “I am Hortense, daughter of Thuron, noble of the Otungs!” she cried. “I am of noble birth. Release me, instantly! I am a noblewoman, a noblewoman!”

  “Did you not dream you were a slave girl, naked and bound?” asked a man.

  “Perhaps,” she said, frightened.

  “Perhaps the dream has come true,” said the man.

  “No!” she cried.

  “Surely you have had such dreams before,” said another man.

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  “Perhaps, now,” said a man, “they have all come true.”

  “No,” she cried. “No! No!” She looked about, wildly. “Surely it is now that I am dreaming!”

  “No,” said a man. “It is now that you are fully awake. It is now that you find yourself to be precisely what you are, and all you are, a slave.”

  “I do not understand,” she said. “How can it be?”

  “In any event it is your reality,” said a man.

  “And its appropriateness has been revealed by the drink of truth,” said another.

  She looked about, wildly, and then, unable to control herself, sank down, to the floor of the hall.

  The giant softly kicked her, with the side of his boot. “Kneel,” said he gently, “Yata, slave girl.”

  She struggled to her knees and knelt, trembling, amongst the men and women.

  “Put your head down,” said the giant.

  The slave lowered her head.

  “She is a lying slave, and a runaway slave,” said Urta.

  “True,” said the giant.

  Urta took the whip from the fellow with the whip, and handed it to the giant.

  “She is to be lashed well,” said Citherix.

  “Look up,” said the giant.

  The slave looked up, quickly.

  The giant held the whip, coiled, before the slave, and she hastily pressed her lips to it, kissing it.

  “Slave!” snarled one woman. Soft cries of pleasure escaped several of the others.

  “I will give you ten sheep for her,” said Citherix.

  “Do not sell me to him, Master!” cried the slave. “His birth is below mine!”

  There was laughter amongst the free persons.

  “Or was once below mine!” she said.

  “That is better,” said the giant.

  “He has wanted me for years!” she said. “But I am, or was, Master, too good for him. I stood off his suits for years. I treated him with much condescension. I treated him with haughtiness. I demeaned him. I ridiculed him publicly. I loathe him! I cannot stand him! He makes my flesh crawl! I beg you, Master, do not let him aspire to me!”

  “Aspire, to a slave girl?” said the giant.

  “Forgive me, Master!” she said. “But do not sell me
to him, beg you!”

  “I will give you eleven sheep for her,” said Citherix.

  “Surely you would not want a lying, runaway slave,” said the giant.

  “Lash her well,” said Citherix, “and she will soon be brought into line.”

  “Do not sell me to him, Master!” wept the girl.

  “Twelve sheep,” said Citherix.

  “You must admit,” said the giant to the slave, “that that is a fine price for a slave girl.”

  “But she is well curved,” said a man.

  “Please do not sell me to him, Master!” begged the girl.

  “Fifteen sheep,” said Citherix.

  “I think she is not now for sale,” said the giant.

  The girl gasped with relief.

  “You hold the whip,” said Citherix to the giant, angrily. “She is at your feet. She is your slave. She is a lying slave, and a runaway slave. Punish her!”

  The giant looked at Citherix.

  “Or are you weak?” asked Citherix.

  Men drew back a little, from about them.

  The giant then held out the whip to Citherix. “Perhaps,” he said, “you would care to whip her yourself?”

  Citherix drew back, angrily. “I am not a whip thrall,” he said.

  “Bend down, Yata,” said the giant.

  Trembling, she bent forward, putting her head to the dirt.

  “Do not think, in virtue of what I now do,” said the giant to the slave, “that I am either a gentle or an indulgent master. You will find, if I keep you, that my standards are high and that I am not a patient man.”

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened.

  “Behold,” said the giant to Citherix, “one blow is for her thousand lies, and her thousand faults, as yet uncorrected, and the second is for having run away.”

  Men gasped.

  For he had barely touched, twice, not even tapping it, the back of the frightened, kneeling, bent slave, having merely, in effect, rested the whip, gently, twice, upon her back.

  Citherix seemed too puzzled to comment, too puzzled to express even contempt, or derision.

  In such a way did the giant prove to the hall that the slave was his, his to do with as he might wish, according to his own will, as his own will would have it, not as others might wish, or will, the matter. Also the slave understood, and at the moment to her relief and gratification, and only later to her chagrin and terror, that her master was not subject to the pressures of society or convention with respect to her treatment, but would decide such matters in his own way and according to his own views, and inclinations. In this sense she would soon come to understand that her fate was fully in his hands, and that she belonged to him completely, and in every way. This was a lesson, of course, which each of his slaves, each in her own time, and in her own way, learned.

  From her knees the girl lifted her head, and looked up, slyly, at Citherix, her lovely face suffused with triumph, and smiled.

  She had little to fear.

  And well, thought she, her beauty had conquered her master.

  “Leave, Citherix,” she said.

  With a cry of rage the giant seized her hair in his left hand and pulled her upright, straightened on her knees, and then bent her head back, that she must look up at him, and she did, her eyes wide, in pain and terror. “Contemptible, displeasing slave!” he cried.

  “No, Master!” she begged.

  He then hurled her on her belly before him, her bound hands stretched outright, the stand of free leather flung before them, and lashed her, twice, with the whip, and then, angrily, he put the whip in his teeth and dragged her to one of the wooden columns, to the base of which he fastened her, head down, on her knees, by her long blond tresses, they encircling the column, and knotted behind it. He then lashed her, as befitted her crime, her impudence and foolishness.

  “Strike well,” said a man.

  “Let her learn what she is,” said another.

  The slave cried out in misery, her tears dampening the dirt and rushes at the base of the post.

  “She is a sexual creature, a slave!” said a woman, angrily. “Let her be punished!”

  “Punish the slave, the shameless hussy!” cried a woman.

  “Hit her harder!” cried a woman.

  “Yes!” cried a young woman, her voice trembling with excitement.

  “Yes!” cried another, thrilled.

  “The boldness of the liar, pretending to be a free woman!” said another woman.

  “She is an insult to all free women!” said another.

  “Punish her!” cried a free woman.

  “Yes!” cried another.

  “She is sexual,” cried another. “Let her be a slave!”

  “She is a slave! Treat her as a slave!” said another.

  “You will learn your place, slut!” cried another woman.

  “Oh!” cried the slave.

  “You are a slave, being whipped by your master!” hissed a free woman.

  “Yes, Mistress!” sobbed the slave. “Oh!”

  “Say it!” demanded the free woman.

  “Oh!”

  “Say it!” demanded the free woman.

  “I am a slave being whipped by my master!” cried the slave.

  “You are hopelessly sexual,” said a free woman. “That was seen under the drink of truth.”

  “Yes, Mistress!” cried the slave.

  “Thus you should be a slave!”

  “Yes, Mistress!” said the slave.

  “Thus you belong to men!” said a free woman, angrily.

  “Yes, Mistress!” cried the slave.

  “Say it!” cried the free woman.

  “It is true!” wept the slave. “I am a slave. I belong to men!”

  “She belongs to men!” cried a young woman, in awe.

  “Yes!” said another, thrilled.

  “And see!” said a young woman, turning to another. “She is being whipped by her master!”

  “And so, too, might you be, were you a slave,” said the woman addressed.

  “And you, too!” responded the first.

  “Yes, yes!” agreed the second.

  “What are you?” inquired a free woman, bending down to the slave.

  “A slave!” gasped Yata. “Oh! A slave, a slave!”

  “What else?” demanded the woman.

  “Oh!” cried Yata. “A slave! Only that! Oh! Nothing more, only a slave, only that!”

  The barbarian lowered the whip.

  “Have you learned your lesson?” inquired a free woman of the slave.

  “Yes, yes, Mistress!” sobbed the slave.

  The barbarian threw aside the whip, and, with the Herul knife, cut the tresses of the slave, freeing her from the column.

  “To him!” ordered the barbarian, indicating Citherix.

  The slave, sobbing, and beaten, her face stained with tears, her blond hair jagged about her head and face, where it had been cut, releasing her from the column, on her knees, crawled quickly, clumsily, unsteadily, lurching, supporting herself partly on her left palm, her right wrist bound to, and over, her left wrist, to the feet of Citherix, where she bellied before him, and pressed her lips fervently to his boots, kissing them, again and again. “Forgive me, Master!” she begged. “A contrite, errant slave, one now well apprised of her faults, begs forgiveness of a master!”

  “See how she is before him!” whispered a young woman.

  “She is so sexual!” said another.

  “She is a slave,” said another.

  Citherix looked up from the abject, penitent slave at his feet.

  “A thousand sheep,” said he to the barbarian giant.

  “Shall I sell you?” the giant inquired of the beaten, prostrate slave.

  “It will be done with me as my master wishes,” she whispered.

  “The answer is fitting,” said Otto.

  He then lifted her with great gentleness in his arms and carried her to the side of the fire pit, where he placed
her on her right side, her legs drawn up, near the waiting iron, it plunged a foot into the fire. The smith, or worker with iron, at a sign from Otto, relinquished the heavy gloves. Otto then himself removed the iron from the fire. Yata looked up at him, he who owned her, who was her master.

  “Hold her,” said the giant.

  The slave was seized by three strong men.

  She could not move.

  The iron was white-hot.

  It met with the barbarian’s approval.

  Its mark would be that of the tiny, tasteful, stylized slave rose, a mark which would be recognized throughout galaxies.

  Yata was then branded.

  CHAPTER 28

  “On your back, on the table, Filene,” said Ronisius, the severe officer.

  Corelius, the young, blond officer, stood to one side.

  The blonde rose quickly to her feet, from where she had been kneeling in her place in line, with the other girls, and took her place on the table, as ordered.

  She glanced once at Corelius.

  She wondered if he would be jealous at how swiftly she obeyed Ronisius.

  It pleased her, of late, she had discovered, to obey, and promptly, at least men such as Ronisius. Too, stricter masters tend to be better obeyed. Too, she did not wish to feel his quirt. Her form of livestock, after all, assuming that he might regard her in that fashion, was not that of the horse, but of the woman. To be sure, in her case, as in that of others, assuming he viewed her as a domestic animal, as the others, he would permit no doubt, nor had she any, in his case, as to who was master. It pleased her to sense that Corelius envied Ronisius her obedience. She knew vaguely, deeply within her, despite what she would have preferred to tell herself, that she despised Corelius for his weakness.

  “Put your head back,” said Ronisius, “over the back of the table.”

  She obeyed.

  Corelius, standing to one side, seemed angry.

  Perhaps, she thought to herself, he is polite, he is gentle, he is kindly, he is tender, he is understanding, he is sensitive, because he knows that I am free, and he is my contact, the agent who must supply me with the dagger?

  Else, if he thinks me a slave, why does he not treat me as a slave?

  Is he so weak, she wondered.

  She felt a light chain, in a leather sleeve, jerked about her neck, rudely, closely, and then snapped shut, locked.