The Captain th-2
Page 15
“It is consecrated!” said the priestesses.
“It is consecrated,” said the acolytes.
“Let it be the blood of truth,” called the priestess who had brought the cloth.
“It is now the blood of truth,” said Huta.
“It is the blood of truth,” said the priestesses.
“It is the blood of truth,” called the acolytes.
“Behold, milord,” called Huta, looking up at Abrogastes. “I press down within the consecrated blood, the blood of truth, this plain cloth, innocent of all design and preparation, and call upon the ten thousand gods of the Timbri, if it be their will, to vouchsafe us a sign.”
The cloth was pressed down, into the liquid, into the thickness of the half-clotted blood, in the mud.
“Vouchsafe us a sign, O gods of the Timbri!” called Huta.
She then lifted up the cloth, and then stood, displaying it. The Drisriak warriors in the tent cried out in awe.
The cloth bore upon its surface, brightly, as though emblazoned there, the sign of the Drisriaks.
“You see, milord?” called Huta.
“There can be no mistaking so obvious a sign, milord,” called the priestess who had fetched the cloth.
“Its meaning is incontrovertible!” called another.
Ortog seemed shaken.
Men looked at one another, wildly.
“The gods look upon you with favor, milord,” said Huta to Abrogastes.
“Glory to the Drisriaks!” cried a man. This cry was taken up, too, by many others. Even the merchants and ambassadors present, uneasy, fearful, bound and under guard, joined in this cry.
“I am much impressed,” said Abrogastes.
“It is nothing, milord,” said Huta.
“I did not know you had such power,” said Abrogastes.
“The power comes not from us, milord, but from our gods,” said Huta.
“It seems,” said Abrogastes, “that your gods tend to favor those with the heaviest armaments.”
“Milord?” asked Huta.
“But I congratulate you on having planned well, on having prepared for various contingencies.”
“I do not understand you, milord,” said Huta, uneasily.
“What is it that you wish?” asked Abrogastes.
“We ask nothing for ourselves, milord,” said Huta.
“It is seldom that a king encounters such restraint,” said Abrogastes. “Surely you would have something?”
“Perhaps that we might prove to be of some use to you, milord,” said Huta.
“How so,” asked he.
“The Drisriaks would be invincible, were they allied with the gods of the Timbri,” said Huta.
“Ah,” said Abrogastes.
“Secure victory,” said Huta. “Ally yourself with our gods, milord.”
“And how could this alliance be brought about?” asked Abrogastes.
“Through the offices of the priestesses of the Timbri,” said Huta.
“That would be a most inestimable gift, indeed,” said Abrogastes.
Huta bowed her head, modestly.
“And what would you ask for this priceless favor?” inquired Abrogastes.
“We ask nothing, as we have no concern with the affairs of the world, nor with material possessions.”
“You would ask nothing?”
“The generosity of Abrogastes, lord of the Drisriaks, is, of course, well known,” said Huta.
“What is it that is most prized by you?” asked Abrogastes. “What is it that you most desire?”
“Surely milord knows,” said Huta.
“What?” asked he.
“We are holy women, sacred virgins,” said Huta.
“Yes?” said Abrogastes.
“What we most desire is that we serve our gods well, and then, when all is done, join them.”
“You have served your gods well,” said Abrogastes.
“Milord?” said Huta.
“Go to join them,” he said.
“Milord!” cried Huta.
Blades leapt forth from sheaths, and at a sign from Abrogastes, Drisriak warriors seized the priestesses, and began, seizing their hair and putting them to their knees, to put them to the sword.
There was screaming.
Ambassadors, merchants, and others drew back.
“Spare those two,” said Abrogastes, pointing to the two young acolytes.
Then, after bloody moments, screams, seizing, plunging bodies, reddened blades, only Huta herself, and the two acolytes, were left.
Huta, on her knees before the dais, the hand of a warrior in her hair, tightly knotted there, looked up, wildly, in terror, at Abrogastes, lord of the Drisriaks.
“The gods of the Alemanni, of the Drisriaks,” said Abrogastes, “are not the gods of the Timbri.”
“Mercy, milord!” cried Huta.
Abrogastes lifted his hand.
“No, no, milord!” wept Huta.
Abrogastes motioned that the warrior who held the priestess should release her.
The priestess looked wildly about her.
“My gods are false gods!” she cried.
The two young acolytes, one on her knees, the other on all fours, looked at her, wildly.
“They are false gods!” cried Huta.
“And why have you done what you have done?” asked Abrogastes.
“I wanted power!” she cried.
“It is not appropriate that women have power,” said Abrogastes.
“No, milord!” said Huta. “Forgive me, milord!”
“When women have power, they abuse it,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord!” wept Huta.
“Thus they should not have power,” said Abrogastes.
“No, milord!” cried Huta.
“How did you bring out the sign of the Drisriaks on the cloth?” asked Abrogastes.
“It has to do with washes, and stains, and reactions,” wept Huta. “The blood interacts with chemicals in a prepared pattern, that causing the pattern to emerge.”
“You had such cloths prepared for various contingencies,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said Huta.
“And the other matters, the sayings, the readings, the prophecies, such things.”
“They are false, milord,” she said. “One relies on vagueness, on research, on inquiries, on the hopes of those who attend one, on sensitivity to the responses of the interrogator, to his movements, to his expressions of attention, any number of things.”
“They are all false things,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said Huta. “They, and other such things, are familiar to conjurors, mountebanks, tellers of fortune, and such throughout the galaxies.”
Abrogastes made again to raise his hand.
“No, no, milord!” cried Huta. She put her hands to the collar of her robes.
Abrogastes regarded her.
Swiftly Huta tore her robes down about her shoulders.
The two acolytes regarded her with horror.
Then, with a wild look at Abrogastes, Huta tore down her robes, until they lay back, upon her calves, as she knelt.
“No!” cried the acolytes.
“Strip yourselves, little fools,” said Huta, “if you would live. The game is done! These are men!”
“The game?” cried one of the acolytes.
“Yes,” snapped Huta.
“But the gods!” cried the second of the acolytes.
“They are false!” said Huta.
“We must die for our faith,” said one of the acolytes.
“The faith is false,” said Huta. “It is an infantile fabrication.”
The acolytes wept, looking about themselves.
“Die, if you will,” said Huta.
“It is not true?” wept one.
“No,” said Huta.
The second acolyte seemed paralyzed with misery and fear.
“Consider your bodies!” said Huta. “They are made for men. S
trip!”
The first acolyte, with numb fingers, kneeling, drew away her robes.
“See!” said Huta. “That is what you are, a woman! Understand it!”
The second acolyte then, suddenly, forcibly, fighting with closures, divested herself of her robes.
“Yes, yes!” said Huta. “Kneel well! Good! See? See? You are not a man! You are quite different from a man! You are a woman! Understand it! Accept it! Rejoice in it! You are precious! Men will pay much for you!”
The acolytes exchanged terrified glances.
Then one, suddenly, made a wild, tiny, helpless sound, one it seemed of misery, and yet, one, too, of elation, and utter irrepressible relief, and joy. “The fighting is done!” she sobbed. “It is done, finished!”
“Yes! Yes!” wept the other, thankfully.
“Take them away, make them slaves,” said Abrogastes.
The two young women lifted their wrists willingly, even eagerly, to the cords that bound them. Then, each, her wrists bound before her, and on a tether formed from the binding on her wrists, was conducted from the tent.
Huta then, in the midst of her discarded robes, knelt before Abrogastes.
She looked up at him.
“And what of you?” asked Abrogastes.
“I beg mercy, milord,” she wept.
“Kill her, milord!” cried a man.
“Let her die the death of a thousand tortures!” cried another.
“Yes!” cried another.
“Please, no, milord!” begged Huta.
“What shall be done with her?” inquired Abrogastes.
“Slay her!” cried men.
“I beg to be looked upon, as a man looks upon a woman,” she said.
“Is that not a fair request from a woman?” asked Abrogastes.
“Not from such as she!” cried a man.
“Please, milord,” begged Huta.
“You are not without interest,” he said.
“Find me pleasing,” she begged.
“I would as soon cut your throat as look at you,” he said, in anger.
“Please, no, milord,” she said.
“Yet your body is luscious,” he said.
“Let it please you, milord,” she begged.
“You look well, stripped,” he said, musingly.
“Thank you, milord,” she said.
“I wonder what you would bring in a market,” said Abrogastes.
“Please do not think of me so,” she wept.
“Perhaps you would like for your beauty to purchase your life,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, yes!” she said.
“Perhaps it might,” he said, “at least for a brief time.”
“You are generous, milord!” she cried with joy.
“Your life, perhaps for a brief time,” he said, “-but not your freedom.”
“Milord?” said Huta. “Oh! No, no, milord!”
“If you wish,” said Abrogastes, “you may declare yourself a slave.”
“But I would then be no more than a dog or pig!” she cried.
“You would be less,” said Abrogastes.
“Please, no, milord!” she cried.
Abrogastes raised his hand, and the warrior nearest Huta took her hair in his hand, and pulled her head back.
A knife went to her throat.
“No, no!” said Huta, frantically, shaking her head.
The warrior released Huta and stepped back, that at a sign from Abrogastes.
“I declare myself a slave,” said Huta. “I am a slave.”
There were sounds of satisfaction from the men about, for little love was lost for the former priestess of the Timbri, no more now than any other woman in bondage.
“You are now subject to claim,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” she said.
“I claim you,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” she said.
“Whose are you?” he asked.
“Yours, milord,” she said.
“Your name is ‘Huta,’” he said.
“Yes, milord,” she said.
“Bring a collar for this slave,” said Abrogastes, “a heavy one.”
Such a collar was brought and placed on the slave. It was of heavy iron, a half inch thick and some two and a half inches in height. It fitted closely. It was fastened with a hasp and staple, and stout padlock, the lock in front, dangling.
Huta winced.
“Crawl to my son, Ortog,” said Abrogastes, “and kiss his feet.”
Huta obeyed, and then she lifted her head, to look up at him, fearfully.
Ortog did not look down upon her.
“What do you think of my new slave?” asked Abrogastes.
Ortog then looked down at Huta, and then, again, lifted his head, and looked away.
“Surely you could find better in any market,” he said.
“Here, girl,” said Abrogastes, snapping his fingers. “Lie here, at the side of my chair, on the dais.”
Huta crept to the surface of the dais, and, frightened, lay down, near the right, front leg of the chair of Abrogastes.
“Look up at me,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said Huta.
“When women have power, they abuse it,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said Huta.
“Thus they should not have power,” said Abrogastes.
“No, milord,” said Huta.
“Do you have power now?” asked Abrogastes.
“No, milord,” she said.
“Are you absolutely powerless?” asked Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord!” she said.
He looked down upon her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
Abrogastes then turned his attention again to the shieldsman who had been standing to one side.
Unnoticed, Huta, naked and collared, lying at the side of the chair of Abrogastes, no more than a slave, and Gerune, a princess, sitting on his left, on her chair, her back straight, in her regalia, exchanged glances. In Gerune’s eyes there was a strange mixture of emotions, hatred, contempt, pity, and many others, and among them, another emotion, a strange one, one she fought to deny and suppress, that, it seemed, could it be possible, of envy. But Huta turned her eyes away quickly, perhaps failing to note the hint of envy, or perhaps more than a hint, in the countenance of Gerune, fearing as she did to look into the eyes of a free woman. Slaves can be much beaten for such things. Too, it was with strange emotions that Huta lay in her place, in shame, in misery, in fear. But she was aware of other feelings, too, feelings which she tried desperately to force from her mind, an incredible exhilaration and relief of sorts, a sense, paradoxically, of total liberation. Each inch of her, too, seemed alive. Had she been so much as touched, anywhere, she would have cried out helplessly. But, too, of course, she was conscious, very conscious, of the weighty collar on her neck. It had been put on her, and she could not remove it, no more than could have any other slave girl. She squirmed a little, and then lay fearfully still, frightened that someone might have seen her. It was not necessary for her to wear such a heavy, uncomfortable collar. A lighter one would do quite as well. But she knew that such matters were not up to her.
She looked up, a little, and saw a man’s eyes upon her. Then she put down her head, trembling.
How he had dared to look upon her!
Did he think she was a slave?
But, of course, now, she was a slave!
Suddenly she feared men.
She knew she belonged to them, and must serve them.
She considered, suddenly, with momentary alarm, that she, now a slave, would be branded. She did not think that Abrogastes would put the mark on her with his own hand. That would be too much an honor for her. No, doubtless some common fellow, skilled in such matters, one used to the handling of irons and women, would do the job, doubtless she only one in a lot of several. She hoped the mark would be pretty. In any event it would be on her. And its meaning would be recogni
zed throughout the galaxies.
She lifted her head, again, and saw that another fellow, too, had his eyes upon her, as she lay, like a dog, at the side of her master’s chair.
Never before had she been looked at in that fashion!
She knew she must now respond to men, uninhibitedly and totally, in the fullness of her long-suppressed female passion, for inertness and frigidity were no longer permitted her. She must now learn to obey and feel. If necessary the lash would instruct her in such matters.
Another man’s eyes were upon her, too.
And she was not yet even marked!
She hoped the brand would not hurt too much. After a little while, she told herself, it would not hurt.
But the mark would still be upon her, even then, that mark whose meaning was recognized throughout the galaxies.
It was with strange feelings, mixed and tumultuous, that she lay at the side of her master’s chair.
A warrior hurried to the side of Abrogastes and spoke to him, confidentially. Abrogastes nodded, impassively.
These things were noted by Julian.
But then the attention of all was focused on Abrogastes, who addressed himself to the shieldsman.
“Will you serve me?” asked Abrogastes.
“No, milord,” said the shieldsman.
“Go to the block,” said Abrogastes.
“You would deny me even death by the blade,” said the shieldsman.
“Yes,” said Abrogastes.
The shieldsman then shook away the warriors who would have held his arms and went to the block, and knelt before it, putting down his head.
The workman grasped again the handle of the mighty adz.
“Hold,” said Abrogastes.
The workman lowered the adz.
“Would you enter the halls of Kragon?” inquired Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord!” said the shieldsman.
“A blade might be used,” said Abrogastes.
“Milord!” said the shieldsman.
“But on one condition,” said Abrogastes.
“Milord?” asked the man.
“Forswear your lord,” said Abrogastes.
“Never!” said the shieldsman.
“You would be a villein until the end of time, laboring in the darkness, rather than forswear your lord?” inquired Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said the shieldsman.
“I release you!” cried Ortog.
“No, milord,” said the shieldsman.