by John Norman
“I do not know,” she said.
“They fell to Heruls, and were made slaves,” said an Otung.
“I escaped, and fled, and have been hiding, and wandering,” said the girl. “I was not made a slave. I can prove that! You see I have no collar, no anklet, no bracelet! Let me be examined by women. You will not find a mark on my body!”
“Why were you not with your maidens?” asked an Otung.
“I went into the woods, to gather flowers,” she said, hastily.
“Why did you leave them?” asked an Otung.
“Why did you not look out for them?” asked another.
“Surely you heard the sounds of their capture,” said another.
“No, no,” she said.
“Your own garments were found with theirs, on the bank,” said another.
“But I was not there!” she said.
“Why did you not return to the villages, to rouse the men?” asked an Otung.
“I was trying to elude capture,” she said.
“Where did you obtain the garments you are wearing?” asked one of the Otungs.
“I stole them, in my wanderings, from Heruls,” she said.
“You were long in your wanderings,” said one of the Otungs.
“I should have returned sooner,” she said, “but I was captured by this Telnarian dog! I am his prisoner, as you see, but not his slave! I am now rescued!”
“The maidens were comely,” said an Otung. “We have learned that they were sold in Scharnhorst, and thence transported to other worlds, where they were to be vended in slave markets.’’
“That proves my story!” she said. “Had I been enslaved, I would have shared their fate!”
“Perhaps you were insufficiently comely,” said an Otung.
She reacted, as if struck.
“She is comely enough to be vended in a market,” said the giant. “Indeed, I think her beauty was such that it was adjudged worthy of being retained among the wagons. Too, I think it amused the Heruls to keep in their lowest bondage, at least for a time, one who had been the daughter of an Otung noble.”
“She was a camp slave?” said the Otung leader.
“Yes,” said the giant.
“No!” cried the girl.
“You were not a camp slave?” asked the Otung leader.
“No!” said the girl. “I-I was not even a slave!”
“Cut the thongs on her ankles,’’ said the leader of the Otungs.
“Thank you, noble lord!” said the girl.
“Remain on your knees,” he cautioned her, as she made as though to rise.
“Milord!” she protested.
“In the village,” he said, “we shall look into the truth of these matters.”
“We have ways, as you know,” said one of the Otungs.
“And woe to you,” said one of the Otungs, “if you have lied.”
“Doubtless Citherix will be pleased to see you returned to the village, and as a slave,” said one of the Otungs.
The girl turned white.
“You refused his suits often enough,” said one of the Otungs.
The girl, her ankles freed, but her hands still bound behind her, on her knees, trembled.
To these matters the giant was attentive.
“Where did you steal the pelt of a white vi-cat?” asked the leader of the Otungs of the giant.
“It is mine. I did not steal it,” said the giant.
“Why are you in the forest?” asked the leader of the Otungs.
“I have come to find Otungs,” said the giant.
“But it seems that it is you who have been found by them,” said a man.
“It is my way of finding them,” said the giant. “Else, why would I build the fire so high?”
“You will now come with us,” said the leader of the Otungs.
“Of course,” said the giant.
“You know this is the Killing Time?’’ asked the leader of the Otungs.
“Yes,” said the giant.
“And yet you came?”
“Yes.”
“He has with him the pelt of the giant white vi-cat,’’ said one of the Otungs.
“That is the pelt of a king,” said another of the Otungs.
“I have heard so,” said the giant.
“It is all very strange,” said one of the Otungs.
“Put out the fire,” said the leader of the Otungs. “Destroy all traces of the camp. Gather up the meat. Tie it about the neck of the woman. Gag her. Bring the bearskin, and his goods, and the pelt of the white vi-cat.”
“Bring, too, the weapon,” said the leader of the Otungs.
“I will bring that,” said the giant.
One of the men looked to the leader.
“Very well,” said the leader of the Otungs.
“He has a knife,” said one of the men.
“A Herul knife,” said another.
“I keep that, too,” said the giant.
The leader of the Otungs nodded.
The group then left the scene of the small encampment and made its ways through the trees, and the black shadows, trudging through the pale, moonlit snow. The leader of the Otungs went first and, behind him, flanked by two Otungs, came the giant, the great blade upon his shoulder. Then came the rest of the Otungs, some dozen or so. Lastly came the woman, her hands tied behind her, the balance of the roast bear meat tied, rolled and thonged, about her neck. She was gagged. The men did not now wish to hear her speak. Accordingly, she was silenced. Her case, such as it might be, would be considered in the village. Too, in the event she should prove to be a slave, the gag, in its bands, which was a heavy and broad one, denied the meat to her, even that she might somehow touch it with her tongue. The feeding of a slave, as is commonly understood, is subject to the supervision of the master, subject, for example, to his generosity, his convenience, and even his discretion.
CHAPTER 25
“There are the men of Rolof,” said one of the Otungs.
Other figures, booted, similarly fur-clad, in jackets and cloaks, armed, were seen among the trees.
This had been after a trek of some two hours through the forest, from the giant’s small encampment, the fire from which had attracted the attention of the men of Ulrich, for that was the name of the leader of the Otungs, those with whom the giant was now in company.
Some quarter of an hour later another such group, consisting of some nineteen men, was detected, it, too, moving through the forest.
“Those are the men owing faith to the house of Valdemar,” said one of the Otungs with the giant.
As time passed, more and more of these groups were observed.
Interestingly, to the giant, these groups, though apparently all Otungs, neither hailed one another, nor marched together.
There were now several such groups, some almost side by side, several within at least yards of one another, who made their way through the snow.
Similar groups, though this was at that time not known to the giant, were converging on a given point from other directions.
At last, through the trees, better than a hundred yards ahead, a long, low feature could be seen. It would have been quite natural, initially, at the distance, and particularly in the light, to have mistaken it for a natural feature, an eccentricity of terrain. It seemed, on the whole, like an extended hillock, or mound.
“We will stop here,” said Ulrich.
“Why?” asked the giant, drawing up to him.
“We must wait for admittance,” said Ulrich.
“Admittance?”
“To the hall,” said Ulrich.
“Ah,” said the giant.
Such halls, or, perhaps better, lest a misleading conception be conveyed, common shelters, are encountered more frequently farther to the north. About the structure of wood, formed of stout timbers, or of great logs, if they may be found, dirt is heaped, and then packed. The hall, or shelter, is oriented north to south, that neither of its main surfaces w
ill be exposed to the northern winds. The entrance, or back of the hall, in a sense, surely that area away from the high seats, faces north, and the front of the hall, where are found the high seats, backs against the southern wall. This particular hall was a large one, for its type, being some seventy-five yards on its long axis; twenty-five yards in width, the roof supported by the walls and two rows of timber columns, in the manner of a three-aisle house; and some four or five yards raised above the surrounding level of the forest. Within the hall itself, of course, whose floor was cut down into the forest floor, it was better than eight or ten yards from the floor, of dirt, to the rafters of the roof. The hall then is half sunken into, or half dug into, the floor of the forest. One descends to the interior floor by means of stone steps. The dirt is heaped some two thirds, or better, of the way up the walls. It does not cover the full height of the exterior walls, or the roof. In the roof, and high on the walls, there are smoke holes. Given the width of the structural timbers it is difficult, unless the holes were to be considerably enlarged, to fire arrows into the hall from the roof, or from ladders, in any martially efficient manner. The dirt packing provides some protection against fire, but, on the whole, given that the gate cannot be forced, the common weapon for reducing such a hall is indeed fire. If one wishes to keep the hall, then one must make do with forcing the gate, or cutting through the walls, at some point or another.
Such structures, it might be noted, in passing, are not designed for defense, but for housing and warmth. They do provide some security, in the sense that they are isolated, in remote areas, and that it is dangerous to approach them. Otungs, and many of the forest peoples, withdraw to, and fight from the stealth, the silence and darkness of the forest itself. Indeed, long ago, imperial cohorts perished, pursuing them in such environments. Hill forts, on the other hand, are known west of the Lothar, among the Basungs. Indeed, it was such forts that hugely stopped the advance of the Heruls into the western forests, long ago, in the winter of 1103, in the chronology of the imperial claiming stone, from the placing of which time, or, at least, history, from the viewpoint of the imperial records, began on Tangara.
The giant could see smoke, in pale wisps, emerging from smoke holes. And through some of these, and chinks in the logs, high in the walls, he could detect some flickering, as of a lighting within.
“So you have come to the hall,” said the giant, “and there is no rejoicing?”
One would suppose, of course, that the coming to the hall, from the outside, at such a time, from the dark night and the winter, when one is hungry and cold, would constitute a joyous occasion, one that would be eagerly looked forward to, and retained long afterward in the warmth of memory.
“Among the Otungs, for many years,” said Ulrich, “there has been little rejoicing.”
“I shall change that,” said the giant.
“Let us kill the stranger,” said one of the men, angrily.
“Let us clear a space in the snow,” said the giant. “We will then consider the matter.”
The fellow looked at the mighty stature of the giant, and the great blade upon his shoulder, like a flat, sheathed bolt of sleeping lightning, and looked away.
“These are important times for the Otungs,” said the leader of the Otungs. “Strangers are seldom welcome in the forests, but, at this time, in particular, we do not welcome them.”
“At this time,” said another, “it is common to kill them.”
“Perhaps I am not a stranger,” said the giant.
“This is the time of the claiming of the hero’s portion,” said an Otung.
“And the naming of the king,” said another.
“I know,” said the giant.
“At such a time, you come amongst us?”
“Yes,” said the giant.
“Why?” asked a man.
“I would speak with he who is first amongst you,” said the giant.
“I do not understand what you are doing here,” said one of the men.
“Perhaps I am coming home,” said the giant.
CHAPTER 26
“Give her,” called out Urta, the King Namer, “the drink of truth!”
“No, milord!” cried out the girl. “It is as I have said! I swear it!”
Two men seized the girl by the arms, holding her before the high seats. In the midst of the high seats on the dais was a throne, high-backed, with huge arms, of heavy, ornately carved wood. This throne was empty. To its right there was a small stool. It was from that stool that Urta, the King Namer, had arisen.
“There is the torch,” had said Ulrich, waiting outside the hall, several yards away, in the snow. “We may now enter.”
He, and his party, including the giant, had then approached the portal of the hall.
“Who is he?” challenged the gatesman, lifting his torch.
“A stranger,” had said Ulrich.
“Kill him!” said the guard.
“Do so yourself,” said Ulrich.
“You may not enter!” said the gatesman.
“I will,” said the giant. “I do. I am.”
“Stop him!” cried the gatesman, thrust to the side, staggering against the jamb of the gate.
The giant turned. He surveyed, slowly, evenly, those about the portal. “Who will do so?” he asked.
Then he had turned about, and descended the stone steps to the interior of the hall.
“Who is he, Ulrich?” inquired the gatesman.
“I do not know,” said Ulrich.
“What is that you have with you?” asked the gatesman.
“It is the pelt of the white vi-cat,” said Ulrich.
“You dare bring such a thing to the hall?” inquired the gatesman.
“It is not mine,” said Ulrich. “It belongs to the stranger.”
“You do not know him?”
“No.”
“How dare he bring such a thing here?”
“I do not know,” said Ulrich.
“Surely he does not understand its meaning,” said the gatesman.
“I do not know,” had said Ulrich.
“Enter,” had said the gatesman.
***
“Administer the drink of truth!” commanded Urta, the King Namer.
The girl was dressed now in the beads and robes, and sleeves, of the daughter of an Otung noble. Her hair had been brushed, and braided, and was inwrought with strings of pearls, brought in trade, via Heruls, from Venitzia, or Scharnhorst, as the Otungs have it. Her vesture had been provided by free women in the hall, and she had been so arrayed in a pantry, a storage room. There had been gasps of admiration as she had been brought forth, and conducted to the front of the hall.
One of the men had come forth, from the side, and looked upon her closely, as she had awaited the recognition of Urta, the King Namer. The giant had stood toward the rear of the hall, the blade now sheathed, his arms folded on his broad chest, with Ulrich, and his men.
The two men who held the girl’s arms tightened their grip. Another man pulled her head back, by the hair, and, as she was held, her body was drawn back, as well, this bending her backward, hair held. Her mouth was then held upward, facing the rafters. A soft, thrilled gasp of pleasure coursed through the free women present. The men were intent. Another man then forced a block of wood, in which a funnel had been inserted, between her teeth. A fourth man then poured liquid into the funnel, while pinching shut her nostrils. Her eyes were wild. Some liquid spilled at the sides of her mouth. The man then desisted for a moment. In a few moments, in misery, she gasped for breath, and drank. This was repeated, again, and then again, in greater pain and misery, and then, after that, realizing resistance was useless, she, tears in her eyes, swallowed the fluid.
“It is more than enough,” said Urta, waving away the fellow with the bottle.
The man holding her bent backward released her.
She stood, unsteadily.
The two men holding her arms now supported her, rather than restrained her.
“Bring a chair for her,” said Urta.
The girl sat in the chair, but, soon, began to move her head back and forth, in misery, as though fighting sleep, as though struggling to retain consciousness, and then she slumped in the chair, and half turned in it, grasping one arm.
“No, no,” she wept.
She tried, suddenly, to thrust a finger in her mouth, to free herself of the liquid, but, instantly, a man pulled her hand away, and then her arms were held, each wrist by a man, but it was not necessary to hold her thusly for more than a few moments as she half sank down in the chair, and her head went back, over the back of the chair.
“What is that?” asked the giant of Ulrich, at the back of the hall.
“It is the drink of truth,” said Ulrich, simply.
“What does it do?” asked the giant.
“You will see,” said Ulrich.
***
“Who is that?” had cried Urta, startled, at the appearance of the giant in the hall.
His presence was not easy to conceal, as he had the breadth of a man and a half, and stood easily better than a head above the others in the hall, many of whom were large men, tall men, men of unusual stature.
This was not unusual among the barbarian peoples, the Alemanni, the Vandals, and many others.
It was one reason they tended to inspire fear in the men of the empire. Another reason was because they, the barbarians, were the sort of men they were.
The giant stood in a space which had seemed mysteriously to clear away about him, in the back of the hall, away from high seats, at the foot of the stone stairs which led down into hall.
“It is a stranger,” said Ulrich.
“How have you dared to bring him here?” asked Urta.
“It was, I think, his wish,” said Ulrich.
“You are a fool!” cried Urta.
“He has with him the pelt of the white vi-cat,” said Ulrich.
“Ai!” cried men in the hall. Women, too, cried out. Exchanged were glances of startled surmise.
“Then he is a fool!” cried Urta.
“Or a king,” said a man.
“Who are you?” asked Urta of the giant.
“I am Otto,” said the giant, “chieftain of the Wolfungs.”