The King th-3 Page 32

“We are safe now,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “No,” said Julian. “These fellows may have inadvertently accomplished their purpose.”

  “How so, milord?”

  “The light, the flashes, the concussions in the air, the burned flesh, the scent of blood,” said Julian, “may attract animals, vi-cats, wolves, such things. In the winter they might sense such things, for miles about.”

  “We have ammunition,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “It is limited,” said Julian.

  In a few minutes they had returned to the sled.

  Nika, of course, was waiting for them, in the harness. She was a highly intelligent young woman, and would have remained where she was, of course, knowing herself a captive of the sled, and well fastened to it, even had Tuvo Ausonius not, in that brief moment before he had addressed himself to the backtrail, assured himself of it, locking her in slave hobbles.

  “Let us be on our way,” said Julian.

  Tuvo Ausonius removed the slave hobbles from the girl, the flat, fixed ankle bands, joined by the short, stout, inflexible metal bar, four inches in length, and put them on the sled. “Move,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, struggling, thrusting her small body against the straps of the harness.

  There was a grating on the crusted snow and the sled moved. There was little sound then save that marked by the sliding passage of the two runners, and the pressing of the snowshoes into the snow, other than, after a time, in the far distance, the baying of wolves.

  CHAPTER 32

  “Who will stand for king?” called Urta, the King Namer.

  The carcass of the roast boar, hot, basted, steaming, glistening, now lay, lengthwise, on the heavy, stained planks, laid over four trestles, before the dais on which stood, alone, the simple, wooden empty throne, the dais at the end of the hall, away from the entrance, down its flat, stone steps.

  “Rolof, of the lineage of Ondax,” said a man, rising from behind one of the long tables, to the side of the hall.

  “The Gri!” said a man.

  There were cries of anger, murmurs of discontent.

  Rolof looked about himself, with contempt. Men near him, retainers, rose, their hands on the hilts of blades. “Yes,” said Rolof, “Rolof, of the lineage of Ondax, of clan Gri.”

  “Valdemar!” cried a stout fellow from the opposite side of the room, rising to his feet, he, too, flanked by armed men. “Valdemar, of the lineage of Alberich, of the clan Tiri!”

  This entry, too, was met with a menacing roll of anger, like thunder, far off.

  “Better Gundar!” cried a man.

  “Yes!” cried another.

  “Clan Oni!”

  “No!” cried other voices.

  Eyes turned toward a blond fellow, with braided hair. He rose to his feet.

  “Gundar,” said he, “of the lineage of Asa, of the Oni.”

  “No!” said another man, rising. “I, Hartnar, son of Tasach, son of Sala, scion of clan Reni!”

  “Gelerich,” said another man, rising, a lean man, “of the line of Pertinax, clan Orti.”

  “Astarax,” said another, rising, “of the line of Fendash, clan Eni.”

  “Each of you,” asked Urta, “have champions?”

  Assent was nodded to this. At the right hand of each was a sullen, stalwart fellow, a helmet cradled in his arm. Some were of the clans in question, others mercenaries.

  “Six clans are contestants, and claimants,” said Urta. “What of the other clans?”

  None others spoke, or rose from behind the tables.

  “They are coward clans,” said a man.

  “No!” cried men.

  “Be silent!” commanded Urta.

  “Is there no champion on behalf of Lord Ulrich, son of Emmerich?”

  “None,” said Ulrich.

  “Clan Elbi, Lord Ulrich, first of the clans of the Otungs, first tribe of the Vandal peoples, proposes no champion?” asked Urta.

  “The Elbi propose no champion,” said Ulrich.

  There was a murmur of disappointment about the tables.

  “What has become of the Elbi?” asked a man.

  “What has become of the clan of Genserix?” asked another.

  “Propose a champion,” pressed a man.

  “No,” said Ulrich.

  “They are cowards,” said a man.

  “Say no words which may be washed away only with blood,” said Ulrich.

  “Forgive me, milord,” said the man who had spoken.

  “I do not think I heard such words,” said Ulrich.

  “They were not spoken,” said the man.

  “It is only his concern for the Elbi, and the Otungs, that prompted his speech, milord,” said a scarred man.

  “What speech?” asked Ulrich.

  “That which was not spoken,” said the scarred man.

  “The matter is done,” said Ulrich.

  “There are six claimant clans,” said Urta. He then looked about. “Will no clan yield place to another?”

  “No,” said each of those who had spoken, in turn.

  “I implore you to yield place, or to let the lots decide the matter, letting chance choose from amongst you,” said Urta.

  “No,” said Rolof, looking about.

  “None yields to any,” snarled Gelerich.

  “If there is to be gambling, let it be that of blades,” said Valdemar.

  “Yes!” said men.

  “We shall laugh with steel,” said a man.

  “Yes,” agreed the others.

  A woman wept.

  “Let it be understood that none but claimants or their champions may participate,” said Urta.

  Men looked angrily about.

  “It is understood,” said Valdemar.

  The others, the claimants, murmured assent to this.

  Grumbling came from retainers, and dark, suspicious looks were cast about.

  “I shall prepare the lots, to determine the composition and order of the matches,” said Urta.

  “Proceed,” said Rolof.

  “Proceed,” said Valdemar.

  “There is yet time to withdraw,” said Urta.

  “Proceed!” said Gundar.

  “Each of you claims the hero’s portion?” said Urta. He looked from one to the other, in turn.

  “Yes,” said Rolof.

  “Yes,” said Valdemar.

  “Yes,” said Gundar.

  “Yes,” said Hartnar.

  “Yes,” said Gelerich.

  “Yes,” said Astarax.

  “Behold,” cried Ulrich, suddenly, elatedly, rising, pointing, “you are too late! It is already claimed!”

  There were cries of rage, and of astonishment, throughout the hall.

  On the table itself, towering there, legs spread, stood the blond giant. The great blade, five feet in length, was thrust into the body of the boar. He had held with two hands the hilt of the great blade, above his head, the point downward, and then plunged it downward. The point of the blade could be seen beneath the table where it had emerged, splintering the plank.

  “Kill him!” cried men.

  “Sacrilege!” cried others.

  “Blasphemy!” cried others.

  “How dare you do what you have done?’’ cried Urta, aghast.

  “I am hungry,” said the giant.

  “Kill him!” screamed men.

  The giant loosened the blade, and, lifting it, with three blows, hacked away the right, rear thigh of the massive boar.

  He then, with the blade, sliced away a slab of hot meat, running with blood and juice.

  He bit into this, deliberately, looking about himself, the blood and juice running at the side of his mouth.

  “Kill him!” cried men.

  “Surely others are hungry as well,” he said.

  He cut another piece of meat, and held it out to Urta, who drew back.

  The giant then turned about.

  “Untie the slave,” he called.

&nbs
p; One of the men at Ulrich’s table crouched down behind the table and freed Yata’s wrists and ankles. He wrapped the leather several times about her left ankle, and knotted it there, rather in the nature of a slave anklet. The slave may not undo such a knot without permission. It can be death to do so. Too, in this fashion, carrying the leather with her, she may be conveniently, instantly, bound, leashed or tethered, that at one’s discretion.

  The giant motioned that she should approach, and she did so, hesitantly, self-consciously, the eyes of all upon her.

  She knelt below the table on which he stood, waiting, and he threw her the piece of meat which Urta had refused, and pointed back, toward Ulrich.

  She rose and carried the meat to Ulrich, placed it before him, on the bare table, and then knelt near the table, facing the giant, her master.

  “What is wrong?” asked the giant, calling to the tables. “Have you never seen a naked slave serve at a feast before?”

  Ulrich did not touch the meat, but, eyes glistening, kept his eyes on the giant.

  “Women of the empire,” said the giant, “serve such feasts well.”

  He recalled perhaps a small feast at which, on Vellmer, three women of the empire had so served, and well, Flora, Renata and Sesella. Another had served, too, and well, Gerune, but she had not been of the empire. She had been once a Drisriak, and then an Ortung, and then but livestock, a slave.

  “On behalf of whom do you claim this meat?” asked Urta.

  “On my own behalf,” said the giant.

  “By what right?”

  “By the right of my hunger,” said the giant.

  “That is not enough,” said Urta.

  “By the right of my pleasure then,” said the giant.

  “That is not enough,” said Urta.

  “By the right of my will then,” said the giant.

  “That is not enough,” said Urta.

  “Then by the right of my sword,” said the giant.

  “Whose champion are you?” asked Urta.

  “I am my own champion,” said the giant.

  “You cannot claim this meat,” protested Urta.

  “Dispute it with me who will,” said the giant, cutting another piece of meat.

  He then, piece by piece, cut meat, throwing the meat to the slave, who carried it to one warrior or another, as indicated by the giant. He read the warriors, and in reading them, seeing who seemed young, and virile, and dangerous, and perhaps fit to be a companion, accordingly made his selections. None touched the meat put before them, but the eyes of many shone, and the hands of more than one inched toward the steaming, juicy provender.

  “He gives meat!” cried a retainer of Rolof.

  “He is a giver of meat,” said a man, in awe.

  “You are not a lord, to provide for companions, for a retinue!” said Urta.

  “I have seen one who looked much like him, once before, long ago!” said a man.

  “Where is Fuldan, the Old?” asked another.

  “He has been sent for,” said another.

  “He is a stranger,” said Hartnar, angrily.

  “He has brought to the hall the pelt of a white vi-cat,” said Ulrich. “It is the first time in a generation such a pelt has been in this place, not since Genserix.”

  “It means nothing!” cried a man.

  “Such was the mantle of Genserix,” said Ulrich.

  The man was silent.

  “Who are you, stranger?” demanded a man.

  “A peasant, a fighter, one who was lifted upon the shields of Wolfungs, a Vandal people, as are the Otungs, a captain in the auxilia of Telnaria, come simply to recruit a company,” said the giant.

  “What is your people?” asked a man.

  “I do not know,” said the giant.

  “I think you are Otung,” said a man, in awe.

  “Then,” said the giant, “I am come home, and would be welcomed.”

  “Think, think!” cried Ulrich. “The Heruls put upon us year kings, insult kings, kings to divide us, kings to be replaced, kings who are to us as prisons and fetters, kings we despise and ignore, kings who are nothing, a kind of kings created by our enemies, kings who have but a compromised, meretricious, bestowed prestige, and one bought dearly with our own blood. The Heruls defeated us once, in battle, now they defeat us each year, by guile. Why do you think the Elbi propose no king, no champion? We will not play the game of the Heruls. I say, make no king, or make a true king!”

  “The Heruls will not permit a true king,” said Urta.

  “Then make no king!” said Ulrich.

  “The Heruls will be displeased,” said Urta.

  “Let them be displeased,” said Ulrich.

  “Yes,” said men, softly.

  “We cannot meet them, unmounted, on the plains,” said Urta.

  “And I do not think they will much care to seek us out in the darkness of the forest, in the shadows, in the growth and underbrush,” said Ulrich. “Long ago, Telnaria lost armies in such endeavors.”

  “No more false kings,” said a man.

  “No king unless it be a true king!” said a man.

  There were cries of approval from about the tables.

  “It will mean war,” said Urta.

  “Lift me upon the shields,” said Rolof. “I will be true king.”

  “No!” cried Valdemar.

  “No!” cried other claimants.

  “There would then be but one slaughter,” said Rolof.

  “We will not risk a king of clan Gri,” said Astarax.

  “Then year kings again it must be,” said Valdemar.

  “It is madness!” cried Ulrich. “Why must the clans and houses, the families, the lineages, war with one another? Are we not all Otung?”

  “I yield to no one,” said Gelerich.

  “Nor I!” said Astarax.

  “I would not hide all my days in the forest,” said Ulrich. “I would one day come forth from the forest, bravely, with oxen and wagons, with songs, and arms, marching. We have hidden here long enough, imprisoned not by Heruls but by our own vanities and rivalries.’’

  “We are not yet strong enough,” said Urta.

  “Let us take the first step, the first step on our march,” said Ulrich. “If we must have a king, and cannot have a true king, then let us make a year king, but one who has no party, one who is not of the table of a given house, one who has taken rings from no man, one by means of whom to satisfy, and yet reprove and mystify, Heruls.”

  “Only a stranger could be such,” said a man.

  “Yes,” said Ulrich.

  Eyes turned toward the giant.

  “No!” cried Rolof.

  “He has brought to the hall the pelt of the white vi-cat,” said Ulrich.

  “Such was the mantle of Genserix,” said a man.

  “It is the medallion and chain which are important,” said a man.

  “The medallion and chain were lost,” said a man.

  “It fell to the lot of Heruls,” said a man.

  “There can be no true king without the medallion and chain,” said a man.

  “It was that, allegiance to it, sworn by the fathers of the clans, that united the people,” said a man.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “So there can be no true king,” said a man.

  “I do not come amongst you to be king,” said the giant. “I come amongst you to recruit comitates, comites, fellows, companions, swordsmen, fighters.”

  “He is a spy for Telnaria!” said a man.

  “He is a Herul spy. See the Herul knife!” said another.

  The giant cut more meat, indeed, with the Herul knife, which, by means of Yata, he distributed, indicating likely recipients.

  Then he rose up, from where he had crouched, cutting meat, and stood again on the table.

  “Begone, stranger,” said Rolof.

  The giant freed the great blade of the meat, into which he had thrust it.

  “Make the stranger year king,” said U
lrich. “In that way no clan, and no house, takes precedence over another. Why should you, Rolof, or you, Valdemar, or Gundar, or Hartnar, or Gelerich or Astarax, or any other Otung of noble blood, stain his honor by accepting the post of year king? It is dishonor to accept it, not honor. To accept such a kingship is not glory, but shame. It is to serve not Otungs, but Heruls.”

  “In yielding to the stranger,” said a man, “you lose nothing in honor, for no rival takes precedence over you.”

  “And you show contempt for Heruls,” said another.

  “No!” said Rolof.

  “I would be king, even if for a year!”

  “I!” said Valdemar.

  “No!” cried the others. “I! I!”

  “Alas,” said Ulrich. “All is lost.”

  “No,” said the giant.

  “How so?” asked Ulrich.

  “For the hero’s portion has been claimed,” said the giant.

  “That is true, milords,” said Urta. “One stands between you and the kingship.”

  Retainers rose to their feet.

  But more than a dozen young men before whom meat had been placed rose, too, to their feet.

  “Hold!” cried Urta.

  “My company,” said the giant, “is open to all clans, to all Otungs, and to others, as well.”

  “And in such a company,” said a man, “to whom is allegiance owed-to Telnaria, our hated foe, to whom we owe our exile on Tangara?”

  “No,” said the giant, “not to Telnaria.”

  “Then to whom?” asked the man.

  “To me,” said the giant.

  There was silence in the hall.

  “Kill him,” said Rolof, gesturing toward the giant. Six men hurried toward the table.

  “No!” cried others.

  It was a mistake, of course, that the noble, Rolof, had given the order he had.

  It was not in accord with the customs of the Otungs. Too, he did not understand the nature of the giant. But then, at that time, few did. His mistake was then twofold, on the one hand, a breach of civility, on the other, as it turned out, an error of judgment, not that one should blame Rolof severely for that, as, at that time, as we have suggested, the nature of the giant was not clearly understood.

  The accounts differ troublesomely on what exactly occurred.

  They concur, however, on the cry.

  With a sudden, wild cry, a cry which astonished those in the hall, a glad, elated cry, as though of the release of long pent-up frustration, of patience too long restrained, a cry of savage joy, of feral gladness, a releasing, laughing, merciful, discharging cry, a cry like the flashing of fire, like the sudden, unexpected, exultant crack of thunder from violent, aching, swollen clouds, a cry bestial, grateful and exultant, a cry that might have been that of a starving man who sees food, that of a man dying of thirst who sees water, the giant leapt from the table, the huge blade in flight, hurtling, bearing with it all its edged, cruel weight, that mighty blade which the giant handled as if it might have been a straw, sped with all its momentum, that of his movement and of its own swift, smooth arc, like a steel wind, almost invisible.