The Captain th-2

by John Norman

  “We are shamed, my father,” said Ortog.

  “It dishonors our traditions, it mocks the ceremony of war, it shames the ritual of challenge.”

  “It permits the gods to decide,” said Ortog.

  “Do not slander the gods,” said Abrogastes. “Do not put upon them the business of men. They wait upon men, to see what they will do. Men must be brave, and glorious, first, to win the favor of the gods. The friendship of the gods is not easily earned. It is a hard thing, and requires much effort.”

  “I think there are no gods,” said Ortog.

  “Blasphemy, milord!” cried Huta. She stood out a bit, in her white robes, with the bloodstained sleeves, from her fellow priestesses and acolytes.

  “These are the champion?” asked Abrogastes of Huta.

  “Yes,” said Huta.

  “And they are one?”

  “Yes!”

  “But one died in the device, did he not?” inquired Abrogastes.

  “Yes, milord,” said Huta.

  “So one is dead, is he not?” inquired Abrogastes.

  “Yes, milord,” said Huta.

  “And they are one?” asked Abrogastes.

  “Yes, milord,” said Huta.

  “Then they are all dead,” said Abrogastes.

  “Milord?” asked Huta.

  “Kill it,” said Abrogastes, indicating the nine men before him. Each then, who might have been a sturdy yeoman, patiently tilling his land, who might have hunted, and skated on frozen rivers, and climbed snowy mountains, and warmed himself at night with bowls of soup, cooked by a loving wife, was taken to the block where the workman, with one or more blows of the great adz, attended to his labors.

  “Your champion is dead,” said Abrogastes to Ortog.

  “Yes,” cried Huta. “The champion of the Ortungs is dead! Long live the Drisriaks!”

  Hendrix and Gundlicht, in their bonds, turned angry glances upon the priestess.

  “Long live Abrogastes! Long live the Drisriaks!” cried Huta.

  “Why did you yourself not meet the challenge?” asked Abrogastes of Ortog.

  “The Wolfung would have killed me,” said Ortog.

  “Then choose another,” said Abrogastes.

  “I know none whom he could not kill,” said Ortog, angrily.

  “The challenge then should have been surrendered, in honor,” said Abrogastes.

  Ortog shrugged.

  “He can kill you?” asked Abrogastes of Ortog, regarding Otto narrowly.

  “Yes,” said Ortog.

  “How is that?” asked Abrogastes.

  “He is an Otung, and has been trained in arenas,” said Ortog.

  “Is that true?” asked Abrogastes.

  “I am a peasant,” said Otto, standing, unbound, Julian slightly behind him, “from the festung village of Sim Giadini, on Tangara. It is true that I have fought for the pleasure of populaces.”

  “Many times?” asked Abrogastes.

  “Yes, milord,” said Otto.

  “He is chieftain, too, of the Wolfungs!” cried Huta.

  “Yes,” said Otto.

  “The Wolfungs are tributary to the Drisriaks,” said Abrogastes.

  “No,” said Otto.

  There was laughter from many Drisriak warriors.

  “You won the challenge,” said Abrogastes.

  “Yes, milord,” said Otto.

  “But it was meaningless, unnecessary,” said Abrogastes, “for the Ortungs do not exist.”

  “I have recognized them,” said Otto, quietly.

  There were gasps of surprise from those present.

  Ortog, Gundlicht, Hendrix, Ortog’s shieldsman, his clerk, others in the hall, turned wildly, elatedly, toward Otto.

  “Do not speak so!” whispered Julian, startled.

  “It is so spoken,” said Otto, folding his arms upon his mighty chest.

  “The Ortungs, as of today, no longer exist,” said Abrogastes.

  Otto shrugged.

  “How is that, my father?” inquired Ortog.

  “They have been destroyed, their camps, their fleet,” said Abrogastes.

  Ortungs looked upon one another with dismay.

  “Surely some have escaped!” cried Ortog.

  “Perhaps, some, fugitives, filchen, fleeing for their lives.”

  Gerune, who, unbound, in the full regalia in which she had witnessed the matter of the challenge, and its resolution, was sitting on the dais, on a chair, to the left of her father, put her face in her hands and wept.

  “The Ortungs are no more,” said Abrogastes. “They are as grass, cast to the winds.”

  Gerune’s body shook with sobs.

  “Faithless daughter,” said Abrogastes.

  “Long live Abrogastes! Long live the Drisriaks!” called Huta.

  “Traitorous son,” snarled Abrogastes.

  “To the block with him!” called a man.

  “To the block with the traitorous princess, too!” called a man.

  Gerune looked up, in terror.

  “Yes!” cried Huta.

  “Both betrayed the Drisriaks!” cried a man.

  “Yes, yes!” said Huta.

  “To the block with them both!” cried men.

  “No, no, Father!” wept Gerune, falling to her knees before her father. His arm swept her to the side, and she then half knelt, half lay, by her chair, looking wildly about her.

  “To the block with them both, and all the Ortungs!” cried men.

  “Yes!” cried Huta.

  “Some Ortungs have sworn me allegiance,” said Abrogastes. “I have given rings to some.”

  Ortog looked up, suddenly, at his father. Other Ortungs, too, suddenly, wildly, regarded him.

  “The fault, it seems, was not theirs,” said Abrogastes. “They were misled.”

  “Who here was misled?” asked Abrogastes.

  “I,” cried a man.

  “I,” cried another.

  “And I, too,” cried others.

  “Were you weak and foolish?” asked Abrogastes.

  “Yes,” they cried.

  “Take them to the block,” said Abrogastes.

  “No, mercy!” cried men.

  But again, and then again, and then again the brawny, leather-aproned workman raised the mighty implement, the long-handled, heavy adz.

  Even some of the Drisriaks turned away.

  The heavy blade, by now, you see, was muchly dulled.

  Abrogastes looked about himself, at his men, at Ortog, at Gerune, the shieldsman, the clerk, Hendrix and Gundlicht, merchants, ambassadors, warriors, Otto, Julian, Huta, the priestesses and acolytes, huddled to one side, and others.

  The eyes of Abrogastes glistened.

  The ground ran with blood. Some of the reeds, which had covered the earth within the tent, were soaked with blood. Parts of some, crushed and broken, drifted in shallow currents. Here and there, streams of blood, increased by new contributions, ran among the feet of those standing. Here and there, too, stood pools of blood. Many present, in the vicinity of the block, were spattered with it. Much of the earth within the tent was now no more than churned mud. Blood filled even the depressions of footprints. Body after body, and the parts thereof, were drawn, or thrown, outside. The cries of scavenging birds could be heard. They had come, many of them, from the grove, that on the approach to the place of the sacrifices. Too, like leaves, swarming and rustling, crept keen-sensed filchen, come from acres about, many, too, from the grove, gathering excitedly, as at a dump of offal.

  “You, forward!” said Abrogastes. He pointed at one of the few Ortungs left.

  The fellow, his arms pinioned behind him, was pushed forward.

  “Will you serve me?” asked Abrogastes.

  “Yes,” said the man.

  “Take him to the block,” said Abrogastes.

  “Kill me with a weapon,” he begged, “that I may die well, that I may perish honorably!”

  Abrogastes lifted his hand.

  “That I may be p
ermitted to go to the halls of the gods!” begged the man.

  Abrogastes made a sign with his hand.

  It took the adz, even with its weight and leverage, three strokes to complete its work.

  “It was a hard one, a tough one,” said a man.

  “Yes,” said another man.

  “But it is the tool, too,” said a man. “Its edge is flattened.”

  “Yes,” said another man.

  The head of the implement, and the handle, to a foot below the blade, were thick with the slime of flesh and tissue.

  The workman wiped his broad face, and spit to the side. He squinted. He blinked, again and again. His eyes stung with sweat. It ran, too, down his face and neck, profusely, and his chest, and his arms and legs. His body was slick with sweat and blood.

  Abrogastes looked about.

  Men shrank back.

  “Those women,” said Abrogastes, “put them forward.”

  “They are my maidens!” said Gerune. “Take pity on them!”

  Ten women were pushed forward.

  “Those, too,” said Abrogastes.

  Ten older women, too, of diverse births and station, attendants also on the princess, one of whom had carried away the jewelry and garments of Gerune from the council tent earlier, at the command of Ortog, were thrust forward.

  “Remove their clothing,” said Abrogastes.

  “Father!” protested Gerune.

  “Of those, too,” said Abrogastes.

  “Please, no, Father!” begged Gerune.

  Then the two groups of women stood in the tent, in the scarlet mud, in accordance with the words of Abrogastes, lord of the Drisriaks.

  “I am thinking of making these women slaves, all of them,” said Abrogastes to Huta, priestess of the Timbri.

  “No, milord!” cried the women. “Please, no, milord!”

  They fell to their knees in the dark mud, moaning, weeping, and crying out, some extending their hands to Abrogastes for mercy.

  “What think you, milady?” asked Abrogastes of Huta. “Do you think these women might be suitable for slaves?”

  He indicated the two groups of women, the maidens and the older women.

  “Eminently so, milord,” said Huta.

  “I think you are right,” said Abrogastes.

  “One can see that they are slaves,” said Huta.

  “Take them to the ships, and make them slaves,” said Abrogastes.

  “Excellent, milord,” called Huta.

  The two groups of women, weeping, were dragged to their feet and hurried from the tent.

  “They are not slaves!” said Gerune.

  “They will be, by nightfall,” said Abrogastes.

  Huta laughed.

  In the council tent, there were, incidentally, no female slaves. Those, including the three blond display slaves we have referred to earlier, had all been gathered together, outside, and taken, bound hand and foot, in the small ships, the hoverers and floaters, to the larger shuttlers, some distance away, which would communicate with the corsairs, or lionships, in orbit. By now, unbound and stripped, each was in her tiered kennel, the gate’s bars thrust shut, and locked in place.

  “He!” said Abrogastes. “Bring him forward!”

  The clerk was thrust forward. His hands were bound behind his back, with cord.

  “Are you Ortung?” inquired Abrogastes.

  “No, milord,” said the clerk.

  “Are you Telnarian?”

  “No, milord.”

  “You can read and write,” said Abrogastes.

  “Yes, milord,” said the clerk.

  “Have you taken fee with Ortog?”

  “Yes, milord,” said the clerk.

  “Have you served him well?”

  “I have done my best to serve him well,” said the clerk.

  “What are your feelings toward the treacherous prince of the Drisriaks?” asked Abrogastes.

  “My feelings, milord?” asked the clerk.

  “You hate him, and have served him only out of fear, and have been secretly revolted by his treachery,” suggested Abrogastes.

  “I am sorry, milord,” said the clerk. “I cannot in truth give you the answer you desire.”

  “Have you received rings from him?”

  “One such as I does not receive rings, milord,” said the clerk.

  “You are his friend?”

  “My station is not such that I might be his friend,” said the clerk.

  “Yet you have served him well?”

  “I have always endeavored to do so, milord,” said the clerk.

  “Free him,” said Abrogastes.

  The clerk, to his wonder, was freed.

  “As you served the Ortungs,” said Abrogastes, “so you will now serve the Drisriaks.”

  “Yes, milord,” said the clerk.

  Abrogastes then turned his attention to Ortog.

  “I would be reconciled with my father,” said Ortog.

  Abrogastes then regarded the shieldsman, bound to one side. “You are shieldsman to Ortog, prince of the Drisriaks?” asked Abrogastes.

  “To Ortog, prince of the Drisriaks,” said the shieldsman, “and, too, king of the Ortungen!”

  Men gasped.

  “What is the duty of a shieldsman?” inquired Abrogastes.

  “To place the life of his lord above his own,” said the shieldsman.

  “A shieldsman should then die before his lord,” said Abrogastes.

  “Yes, milord,” said the man.

  “Take him to the block,” said Abrogastes.

  “Hold!” cried the man.

  Abrogastes lifted his hand.

  “Let it be by the ax, or the blade of some weapon,” said the man.

  “Lord!” cried Hendrix, suddenly, angrily, from where he stood, bound, amid Drisriak warriors. “Reflect! Show mercy to your son! These things are not his fault, though he may have been weak. If you seek blame here look no further than the wicked Huta, priestess of the Timbri!”

  “No!” cried Huta, alarmed.

  “Your son fell beneath her baneful influence,” said Hendrix. “It was to her readings, her prophecies, and wiles and tricks, that Ortog succumbed. It was she who led him astray!”

  “No,” said Ortog, “I would break, in any event, from the Drisriaks.”

  “Were you unlike him in your youth, milord?” called Gundlicht, he, too, bound, near Hendrix.

  “I am king of the Drisriaks,” said Abrogastes.

  “And what if you had not been?” asked Gundlicht.

  “But he has lost,” said Abrogastes.

  “It is Huta who is to blame!” called Hendrix.

  “It is true she enflamed his ambition, and led him on,” said Gundlicht.

  “Is this true, Lady Huta?” inquired Abrogastes.

  “Certainly not, milord!” said Huta. “I am priestess of the Timbri, the humble and obedient servant of the ten thousand gods of the Timbri. I, and my sisters, are holy women, sworn to chastity, sacred virgins all. We have no interest in the affairs of the world! We have no interests in material goods!”

  “And what of power?” asked Abrogastes.

  “We have, of course, no interest in such things,” said Huta.

  “I am not fond of the rites of the Timbri,” said Abrogastes.

  Otto recalled the sacrifices, those on the plateau above the grove.

  “Forgive me, milord,” said Huta. “But it is not the place of their priestesses to question the observances and appointments of the ten thousand gods. It is ours only to humbly do their will.”

  “I have heard there were signs,” said Abrogastes. “Is that true?” he asked Ortog.

  Ortog shrugged in his bonds.

  “Yes,” said Huta suddenly, elatedly, “we can prove our teachings, and our truth, by signs!”

  “It seems the signs were false,” said Abrogastes.

  “Perhaps the priestesses of the Timbri may prove to be of use to you, milord,” said Huta.

  “But the
signs were false,” said Abrogastes.

  “They are never false,” said Huta.

  “But did they not favor the Ortungs?” asked Abrogastes.

  “Once, perhaps,” said Huta.

  “Not long ago?” asked Abrogastes.

  “Might they not have been misread?” called one of the older priestesses.

  “Perhaps,” said Huta, apprehensively.

  “It is sometimes difficult to read the signs, milord,” called one of the priestesses.

  “The matter can be dark and difficult,” said another.

  “But,” cried Huta, “might it not be that the will of the gods has changed?”

  “Yes!” cried a priestess.

  “Yes!” said another.

  “Can it be that the will of the gods has changed?” asked Huta.

  “It is possible,” cried a priestess.

  “Yes!” averred another.

  “Let us take again the auspices,” said one of the priestesses.

  Hendrix laughed, bitterly.

  Abrogastes lifted his hand, for silence.

  “Bring a plain piece of cloth, a simple piece of cloth, one no different from any other,” said Huta.

  “I will bring one,” said one of the priestesses. It was she who had, earlier, outside, fetched another cloth, that which, after having been soaked in blood, had borne upon its surface, as though emblazoned there, the sign of the Ortungs.

  In moments the priestess, under guard, had returned to the tent, bearing with her a roll of cloth, tied closed with a string.

  She gave this cloth into the hands of Huta, and retired to her place.

  Huta undid the string and unrolled the cloth, which, like the other, was some two-foot square.

  She turned about, solemnly, displaying the cloth to those in the tent.

  Then she faced Abrogastes.

  “Would you care to inspect the cloth, milord?” asked Huta of Abrogastes.

  “Use another cloth,” suggested Hendrix.

  “It would not do,” said Huta, patiently, “as it would not have been blessed on the world of the Timbri.”

  “Milord?” she asked Abrogastes.

  “I do not need to examine the cloth,” said Abrogastes.

  “Let the auspices be taken!” called a priestess.

  “Let the auspices be taken,” repeated the priestesses, and the acolytes.

  “Milord!” protested Hendrix.

  But Abrogastes lifted his hand, and there was silence. Huta knelt down in the tent, at the edge of a depression, one of those pools in the tent, smelling, and thick, half blood, half mud. “Let the blood be consecrated!” called the priestess who had brought the cloth.