by John Norman
“It is glorious to be the champion,” said the lethargic creature, slowly.
“Yes, yes!” said the man near him.
“I am glorious?” asked the lethargic form.
“Yes! Press the trigger!” said the man.
A second flight of birds passed overhead, hurrying like the first, to the west.
The finger of the fellow opposite Otto slowly moved toward the trigger, or switch, and rested upon it.
“Press it!” said the man nearest him.
There was a sudden flash of fire and light, and a cry of horror from men, and screams from slave girls, and the fellow who had been standing behind the shielding of the fellow across from Otto, holding the fellow’s head up, and back, by the hair, now held, dangling from his hand by the hair, half of a head, the eyes opened wildly, no longer seemingly dazed. There was a slick matting, smoking, of blood and flesh and brains smeared upon, and dripping from, the shielding across from Otto. Blood pumped up, like an underground spring, through the throat, and spilled out, over the remains of the lower jaw.
Gerune screamed and threw her hands before her face. Slave girls wept, and put down their heads, shuddering, sickened. Some retched onto the grass. Many, those who could do so, buried their face in their chained hands. The three display slaves turned away, sick, moaning in horror, in their chains.
“Get rid of that!” screamed Huta, pointing to the most of a body, still fastened opposite Otto.
“Bring the champion!” called Ortog, shaken.
The remainder of the man who had been fastened opposite Otto was freed from its place and dragged to one side.
Another man, another of the original ten, the champion, or champions, if you like, was dragged toward the chair.
“No!” he cried. It was the sight of what was before him, I suppose, the spattering, the stew, of blood and flesh, the cast-aside part of a head, the bleeding, still-convulsing body of the other, that had shocked him into some sort of soberness, or awareness.
He was wrestled into this place, and bound there, bodily, save for his arms.
“No!” he cried.
Another charge was placed in the device.
“No, no!” he cried.
“Press the trigger or die!” cried Ortog.
The fellow’s hand, shaking, reached toward the trigger.
But his hand did not reach the trigger box, for Otto had swept it toward himself.
He then rose from the chair, to the consternation of all.
“What are you doing?” cried Huta.
Otto’s hand was on the adjustable stand, that which provided the mount, the support, for the barrel. He tore this stand, in a rending of metal, from the platform.
“Sit down! Take your place!” cried the fellow who had placed the spheroidal charge, it now dormant, like an unexploded bomb, within the apparatus.
“Do so!” cried the other, his fellow.
“The challenge has been met, and I am victorious,” announced Otto.
“No, no!” cried Ortog.
Otto then set the device against himself, one barrel at his own chest, the other, opposite, trained on the breast of Ortog, who rose from his chair, turning white.
Swords leapt from sheaths, weapons, with small, swift sounds, darted from holsters.
“Kill him, kill him!” screamed Huta.
“No, no!” cried Ortog, thrusting aside his chair, backing away a step.
Otto’s finger was on the trigger of the device. It was there tightly, the tiniest particle of energy away from activating it. The smallest reflex, the slightest jerk, as of a blow striking him, the lash or thrust of a blade, the impact of a projectile, even the breath of a ray, would fire the device.
“Has the challenge not been met?” inquired Otto. “Am I not victorious?
The opposing barrels of the device, torn from the tablelike platform, were aligned, the rear barrel to the chest of Otto, the forward barrel to toward the dais, and the breast of Ortog.
Ortog’s shieldsman inched toward his lord.
“Do not move!” cried Otto, fiercely.
“Go back,” said Ortog, softly. The flash leaves the barrel with almost the speed of light.
The shieldsman returned to his place.
Ortog seemed much alone now on the dais.
His high men had drawn away from him. Gerune now was closest to him.
At the foot of the dais, on its left, looking outward, even the display slaves drew away, to the extent they could, huddling down, terrified. Their chains were taut against the common ring.
Otto was ringed with weapons. He paid them no attention.
“Well, milord,” said Otto. “Who has won the challenge?”
Ortog drew himself up.
He was king.
“The tribute of the Wolfungs is as nothing,” said the clerk.
“You can buy their women, or others, doubtless better, in a thousand markets,” said his shieldsman.
“The Wolfung has won, milord,” called Hendrix.
“The challenge has been met, and survived, milord!” called Gundlicht.
“The Ortungs are now a recognized tribe,” said his shieldsman, urgently.
“That is what we want,” said the clerk.
“Give him the liberty of the Wolfungs, as a gift,” pressed his shieldsman.
“I have won their liberty,” said Otto.
“I await your answer, milord,” said Otto.
“The challenge has been met,” said Ortog.
There was a cheer from the men present.
“No, no!” cried Huta.
“You are victorious,” said Ortog.
Otto lowered the device.
Weapons were sheathed.
“No, no, milord!” cried Huta.
“Be silent, woman,” said Julian.
“Chained thrall!” screamed Huta. She tried to strike Julian but he caught her wrists, and she struggled, briefly, futilely, helplessly.
The other priestesses, and acolytes, cried out with dismay.
“Respect the sacred person of the priestess!” cried Ortog.
“She is only a woman,” said Julian.
The priestess cried out in fury.
There were cries of protest, too, from her fellow priestesses, and the acolytes.
“Unhand her,” demanded Ortog.
Julian then flung her hands down, contemptuously, away from him. She staggered back.
There seemed cries, too, somehow, those of men, from some distance to the east.
“I hear something,” said a man.
“I, too,” said another.
“Press the trigger, Wolfung,” said Ortog to Otto.
“As milord wishes,” said Otto.
“Yes, I hear it!” cried a man.
Some of the kneeling slave girls raised their heads in alarm, looking about themselves. The three display slaves looked about themselves, trying to place the sound.
“It is coming from the east,” said a man.
Otto pressed the trigger on the trigger housing, held in his hand. Almost instantly there burst from the forward barrel, that which had been trained on the breast of Ortog, it now held downward to Otto’s right, a flash of fire. It tore open the turf. A hole now gaped there, better than six inches in width, and indeterminately deep. It smoked. Grass was charred at the edges.
Ortog turned white.
Men shuddered.
“Now you may kill him, milord!” cried Huta.
“Be silent, woman!” cried men.
“No!” she cried. “No!”
“Listen!” cried a man.
“I am priestess of the Timbri!” cried Huta.
“Be silent!” cried a man.
“Listen, listen!” cried another.
Ortog raised his head, listening.
At that moment, suddenly, almost noiselessly, over the curtain, or wall, of yellow silk to the right, to the east, there appeared the dark, circular shape of a hoverer. It was not more than a yard above the silk. Lea
ning over the gunwales of the ship were riflemen. Rifle fire ripped downward, tearing into the throng. Then there was another such ship, and more fire. Men tried to run. Circular holes appeared suddenly, black-rimmed, and spreading, in the yellow wall. Armed men were seen on the other side. Slave girls screamed. Some leapt up and fell, tangled in their chains. Men cried out. Men pushed against one another, and buffeted one another. Many fell, stumbling over others. Otto seized Julian and flung him to the ground. Fire from the ground swept upward. More of the small, circular ships passed over the enclosure. Gerune huddled on the dais, her robes over her head. Wood splintered, burning, about her. Julian freed himself of Otto’s grasp and, half hobbling, half crawling, fighting his chains, made his way to the dais. “How dare you touch me!” cried Gerune. But Julian had drawn her, forcibly, from the dais, and behind it, where he thrust her beneath its timbers. The three display slaves, too, had taken refuge there, and huddled helplessly there, in the smoke and fire. Others, too, slave and free, had fled beneath it. Men fled to the west, but some there reeled and fell, plunging backward, their chests smoking. Ortog stood on the dais, a pistol in his hand. He fired upward. None of the ships returned his fire. “There is another!” cried a man in misery. More fire was exchanged. Otto hurried to the dais and joined Julian. “It is lost!” said Otto. Men fired upward. More of the shallow, circular ships passed over the enclosure. “Where is he who holds the key to your chains?” demanded Otto. Julian looked about himself, wildly. “I do not know,” said Julian, pulling at the chains. “There!” cried Julian. “There!” He pointed to a body near the front of the dais, that of one of Ortog’s yeoman. Otto crawled to the body and drew it under the dais, and tore away the wallet at its belt. In moments he had freed Julian of his bonds. “We must flee,” said Otto.
“I will not leave without her,” said Julian, indicating Gerune.
She looked at him, wildly.
“You love me!” cried Gerune.
“You can judge of that when you are whipped,” exclaimed Julian, angrily.
“Dog!” she wept.
“We must flee!” said Otto, seizing Julian by the arm.
“It is no use,” said a man. “We are surrounded.”
On the surface of the flaming, blackened, splintered dais, Ortog stood, alone, cursing, firing his pistol into the air, at the ships. He had not been fired upon. No one had returned his fire. Then, cursing, he flung his empty pistol from him.
Already, in the enclosure, men were standing, their hands lifted, their weapons cast aside.
Some of the slaves, who were out in the enclosure, knelt, lifting their chained wrists imploringly, beseechingly, to the ships. Then they put their heads down to the ground. Others, whose wrists were fastened behind them, already knelt with their heads to the ground, weeping, hoping to be spared, rendering obeisance to they knew not whom.
“Slaves, out,” called one of the surrendering men, his hands raised.
The slaves who had taken refuge under the dais, with the exception of the three display slaves, who were chained in place, crept out, and went to the center of the enclosure, to kneel there, with the others. The three display slaves emerged from beneath the dais, and knelt there, as they had before. Their chains would permit them no more.
Ortog stood on the surface of the dais, alone.
Otto and Julian emerged from beneath the dais.
Otto went toward the center of the enclosure. He did not raise his hands, but he was unarmed, and he stood in full view of the ships. It was obvious that he did not intend to offer any resistance. “Do not raise your arms,” said Otto to Julian. “We are not as the others, and I want them to understand that.”
And so resistance was ended within the enclosure. There were slaves there, and priestesses, and acolytes, and many men, traders and others. Most of the men, with the exception of Ortog, and Otto, and Julian, stood with their arms raised.
They were vulnerable to the ships.
Too, they were clearly surrounded. They could see armed warriors about, many of them even within the remains of the enclosure, the tattered, burned yellow silk here and there fluttering from shattered, awry poles, like flags.
Then a ship, moving very slowly, appeared above the remains of the wall of silk. It approached the center of the enclosure, and then stopped there, and remained in place, some twenty feet in the air. A man stood at the bow, with his hands on the gunwales of the small vessel.
“It is Abrogastes,” said a man, “lord of the Drisriaks.”
CHAPTER 11
“Aii!” cried men, drawing back.
The sound is difficult to describe, but it is one that, once heard, is not to be soon forgotten.
It is too swift to be a tearing sound.
But, too, it is not like the descending ease of a curved blade, little more than a momentary whisper, the stroke delivered from behind, dividing the vertebrae, opening the neck, then arrested, with the small, sharp sound of touching wood.
It is much more crude than that.
It is more analogous to the blow of an ax, held in two hands, delivered downward, striking crosswise into a felled log, except that it lacks that ring, the resonance of men making their marks on the world, shaping wood to their ends. It is more like the sudden chopping through a different material, through, say, a twisted vine, and thence further vegetable matter, the sound not altogether unlike that of splitting a gourd or melon, the blow then stopped, muffled, the sound not clean or sharp, by the weighty, rude, scarred surface of the base. The muffling of the sound has to do with the damping effect, the insulation, so to speak, provided by the intervening material, that between the instrument and the base. There is little splintering, too, or what there is, better, tends to be obscured, the intervening material providing shielding from the bursting chips and needles of wood that would attend, say, the blow of an ax into wood. Too, of course, the base tends to be washed with fluid, after each stroke, suddenly, plentifully, and this causes many of the small particles of wood, drenched, to run down the sides of the base. The wielder of the instrument, wearing a large, leather workman’s apron, stands before his work. In this fashion, the blood, for the most part, of which there is a great quantity, and which tends to leave the body with considerable force, sometimes to a distance of several feet, reaches him. Indeed, one cannot stand before the object of attention without being drenched with it. Indeed, sometimes the operator, or workman, if you prefer, is even temporarily blinded by it, and must wipe it from his eyes with the back of a forearm. This orientation, that before, or behind, if one wished, the object of attention, has to do with the manner in which the blade is fixed on the haft, or handle. If it were an ax, for example, the operator, or workman, so to speak, would merely have to stand to one side or the other, each operator, or workman, in such a business, having his preferred side, some preferring the left, others the right. One normally stands before the object of attention, of course, rather than behind it, because this orientation provides a much better access to it. The blow may be more accurately, and surely, delivered. The sound, it might be mentioned, is also conditioned by the fact that the blade is, purposefully, not ground as closely as that of an ax. It is, by intent, duller. The whole matter then has a certain roughness about it. One dares not speak of terribleness, or brutality here, for fear of injecting value judgments into the narrative. My purpose is not to praise or blame, but to recount, simply to relate, what happened. There is a conjecture that the adz is used, incidentally, imperfect implement as it might seem for such a purpose, precisely because it, unlike the ax, is not a weapon. Indeed, its deliberate dullness may be intended to emphasize that fact. To die by a weapon, you see, is regarded among certain warrior peoples as a very desirable end. Indeed, there is a thought among many of them that it is not only honorable, but glorious, to so perish, and that those who do so perish are beloved by the gods of war, such as Kragon, and are thence made welcome in a thousand halls and worlds beyond the stars, where they may feast and fight to their heart�
��s content, until the end of time, until the stars grow cold, and the halls themselves, like the stars, grow dim and vanish. But there is no honor, you see, in dying by the adz. It is shameful to die so. It is not a weapon. It is a tool. Indeed, it is not even wielded by a warrior, but rather, and intentionally, by a workman. And how then, if one should perish so, so shamefully, so disgracefully, could one hope to enter into the far halls? Would one not find at the entrance the spear of Kragon barring one’s way? Perhaps, at best, one might hope to glimpse the lights of such halls from afar, set among distant snowy hills, looking up from one’s labors, those of the lowliest of villeins, in the darkness.
Abrogastes, on the throne, on the dais, in the same tent in which Ortog had held his court earlier, made a sign with his hand.
Women cried out with misery, recoiling.
Yes, it is a terrible thing to die so.
In a moment, Abrogastes made another sign.
It is not a sound that is easy to forget.
“Those!” said Abrogastes. “Bring them forward!”
Nine men were brought forward, the large, simple, blond-haired, blue-eyed men who had figured in the challenge, that pertaining to the status of the Wolfungs.
Abrogastes regarded them, curiously.
“They are much the same,” he said.
“They are one, milord!” called the priestess Huta, from the side.
“You set ten men on one?” Abrogastes asked Ortog, who, bound, and in the charge of two Drisriaks, stood below the dais.
“One at a time,” said Ortog.
“In some machine, one at a time, which might kill either champion, regardless of courage or skill?”
Ortog was silent.
These things and their rationale, of course, had been explained to Abrogastes.
“And how will that improve the bloodlines?” asked Abrogastes.
Ortog looked away.
“And how can such a thing please the gods?” asked Abrogastes.
Ortog did not respond.
“Were there such a thing as the Ortungs,” said Abrogastes, “they would be shamed.”