by John Norman
His feet slipped, climbing a drift. He could not climb it, and then, feet bleeding, he came to the top of it. The dots were closer now, larger, leaping, plunging in his traces. He cried out, in fury, as he stumbled down the other side of the drift, rolling in the snow. There was a depression there. He stood upright in it. Then, angrily, struggling, he fought his way back to the top of the drift. It was high, and seemed as good as any other likely place. It was there he would make his stand. Too, the snow was soft behind, almost like a trap, slipping down to the depression. He did not think that dogs would have much better footing in it than he had had. In the summer water might have gathered there.
He looked back at the dogs.
They were much closer now.
He took snow in his mouth, to melt it. As he could, then, with his hands, and the water from his mouth, mixing that water with soft snow, packing it carefully, shaping it, he formed a tubular, tapering, pointed trench, some eighteen inches in length, some four inches in diameter at its thick end, and like a needle at its narrow end.
The gentle reader may be advised to skip the following pages, as he may find them offensive. I cannot, in conscience, however, omit the accounts as they have come down to us. That would betray my task, which is not, when all is said and done, to protect the feelings of the delicate, however laudable that aim, but to give an account of the times of troubles. Accordingly, I crave the reader's indulgence, reminding him that we, herein, are dealing with times other than our own, times harsher and more primitive, darker times, ruder times, more savage times, times of transition, of change, the times of troubles.
More water from his mouth, spread slick against the sides of that trench, froze almost instantly.
Ice daggers may be formed variously. They may be formed, for example, from pieces of ice shaped, and sharpened, and edged by abrasion, chipping or warmth. They may also be formed, if there is time, from water, perhaps from snow melted in the mouth, and then poured into a snow mold to freeze.
Too, of course, urine may be used.
That is common with the Heruls.
But much depends on the temperature. The riders with the knouts had followed him, driving him from the wagons, before turning back. Then there had been the search for the place to make a stand, for even a dagger is of little use against five hunters, which may tear at one from all sides. And then it takes time for water to freeze.
To be sure, it was bitterly cold.
At some temperatures water freezes almost instantaneously, for example, as when, in an arctic area, urine strikes the ground in brittle shafts. But at such temperatures an unprotected, warm-blooded animal would have already been incapacitated or dead.
The urine in the trench would remain warm no more than a moment.
He, in that moment, mixed in more snow, it melting but, almost instantly, cooling, it having, too, in that instant, further reduced the temperature of the bodily fluid, which was already crystallizing. He mixed in more snow, and spit into the trench, and took snow in his mouth, to heat it, and add it to the pale artifact.
It did not seem likely that there would be time.
He trampled down the snow at the height of the drift to give himself a better footing, certainly better than the dogs would have in their climb.
He could now see the brown crests of the dogs clearly. The baying, the cries, of the animals were extremely clear, sharp in the icy air.
He sensed their excitement.
The dogs were some fifty yards away.
He watched them coming, the leader first, the others plunging behind.
He shuddered with cold, and crouched down in the snow.
He touched the object before him.
Two fingers slipped over its surface.
He then put his two hands about it, prying up its thick end an inch from the mold, that the ice might melt away a little, from the warmth of his fingers, to leave impressions, to provide a grip. But then he pulled his hands away, and blew on his numbed, stiffened fingers. Could he even hold such an object? Could he even manage to retain it in his grasp, without dropping it in pain, without its slipping away from his half-frozen fingers?
The dogs did not hesitate. They were ten yards away. If anything, his nearness, and his visible presence, energized them in their pursuit.
He went to his knees.
This was not in despair.
It gave him greater stability in the drift.
The leader was at the foot of the drift, rushing upward, furrowing snow, its scrambling hind legs, slipping, spattering it behind him, almost obscuring the second dog, so close behind.
The giant reached down and wrenched the heavy weapon from the snow, and tore it upward, holding it over his head, mold and all.
He saw the large head of the lead dog, the eyes, the hump, the manelike crest, the long tongue, livid and wet, the fangs, white, the curved, saberlike canines, some seven inches long, a foot away, and the beast slipped back in the loose snow, and pawed for its footing.
And it was then that the giant lunged forward, bringing down, pointed, hammerlike, the stakelike, tapering cone of ice on the beast's skull, which, point snapping, it penetrated, and the second animal, impeded by the footing, and the blockage of the lead animal, slipped back, but only to be pursued by the giant, half sliding down the hill, who struck it with the blunted, sharpened stake of ice, crashing in its head. With one foot he thrust it down the drift, into the way of the third animal, itself fighting for footing. Then, scratching with the icy stake at the drift, scrambling, the giant regained its summit. The third animal sped its way about the second, slipped sideways on the drift, went to its belly, and then, feet under it, began to inch its way upward, slavering. The fourth and fifth animal stood at the foot of the drift, baying. The first animal had slid down, and lay before them. The giant struck at the third animal but the ice, blunted now, and slick from the heat of his grip, missed the skull and only tore the snout on the right side. The giant tried to strike again but the stake slipped from his hand. It struck into the drift beside the third animal and it snapped at it, angrily, getting its teeth on it, and then, snarling, in pain, drew back, puzzled. The giant reached down and seized the animal by the manelike crest, and drew it, it frenziedly scratching and bending about, to rend him, to him, and then hurled it behind him, down to the soft snow in the depression, behind the drift. It rolled down the slope, caught its footing at the bottom, and stood up, shaking snow from its pelt. The giant then crawled a few feet down and seized the second animal, whose skull had been crashed in by the stake of ice, and pulled it, by its right hind foot to the summit of the drift. The giant, shuddering, clasped the body to him, rejoicing in the heat of the still hot carcass. Then he broke away the right canine tooth, that saberlike canine, some seven inches in length, and ripped open the belly of the beast, drenching the snow with blood. The viscera exposed, the carcass hot with spilled blood, the giant held it over his head and flung it down to the foot of the drift. The fourth and fifth dogs, at that point, hesitated not at all, but began to tear the carcass to pieces, feeding. The remains of the first dog, the giant did not doubt, the hunger lust aroused, would soon follow. These animals were not far from wolves, whose packs will turn on a disabled member, even a leader, and utilize it for game.
Breathing heavily the giant, picking up the canine tooth, torn from the animal's jaw, turned about, and looked down on the far side of the drift, where the third animal was turning about, putting its paws up, here and there, trying to find footing. It looked up at the giant, and growled.
Then the beast turned about, gathered its hind legs under it, leapt up, and, slipping, tried to scratch its way up, out of the depression.
It slipped back.
In a moment or two, of course, it would find, or would have packed, firmer snow, and might scratch, or even, in effect, have swum its way to freedom.
Its frustration, its discomfiture, the giant did not doubt, would be alarmingly temporary.
The giant, whose blo
od was now, despite the bitter cold, racing in his great body, measured the distance from the summit of the drift to the pit below, and to the center of the backbone, fifteen feet below, of the restless, moving animal.
He leapt down, legs flexed, he caught by gravity, plummeting, hurtling, and struck the animal in the back, which produced a sudden, snapping sound, and a startled squeal of pain.
In moments, using the canine tooth as a knife, the giant had opened the belly of the wild-eyed animal, and then, rejoicing, thrust, in turn, his feet and hands into the throbbing, blood-filled, heat-rich cavity. Then he embraced the carcass, pressing himself to it. He bathed in its blood and fluids. Then, crouching beside it in the snow, he drank blood, cupping it in his hands, and fed on the liver and heart. Then he began to cut its skin away.
He could hear, on the other side of the drift, the feeding of the fourth and fifth dog.
…CHAPTER 22…
It was late at night on the plains. It was extremely dark. Neither the moon nor stars could be seen. The giant, crouching in the snow, clad in the skins of dogs, booted in their fur, cowled, helmeted even, in the head and neck of the leader, peering out through what had been its mouth, watched the tiny light of the lantern in the distance.
It was carried by a rider.
That could be told from its movement.
The giant had known little of the location of the Otungs. He had been moving south in the plains of Barrionuevo when, caught in a new storm, freezing, starving, half-blinded in the snow, lost, he had had to slay the horse. It had been his intention to cross the Lothar, to seek the Basung Vandals, whom he recalled, from his days in the festung village of Sim Giadini, lived in the forests west of the Lothar. From them he had hoped to learn the whereabouts of the Otungs, if any survived. He now knew there were still Otungs, from the information he had obtained from the Herul in the wagon of Mujiin, who had been the leader of the men who had captured him. Indeed, he had even made rich and diverse use, in the same wagon, for several nights, of a lovely slave girl, a former Otung noblewoman, one who had been captured by Heruls only two years ago.
At times it had seemed almost as though she had thought herself still free.
Sometimes the older Herul, who had seemed to be his keeper, or warder, had removed one of his shackles, to put it more loosely, but unslippably, about her own ankle, that she would be chained with him, to the same couch, so that she could not run from him, but might be, when he wished, drawn to him.
It seemed she might think of herself as free, but he had had her kick like a slave, the slave she was.
"What is your name?" he would ask.
"Hortense!" she said. "Do not stop, I beg you!"
"What is your name?" he would inquire.
"Yata!" she would cry. "Yata, the slave! Please do not stop, Master! Yata, only a slave, begs you not to stop! Please do not stop, Master!"
But he did not know where he was, really, where the camp of the Heruls was, its relation to the Otungs, and such. He did not know how long the trip to the camp had taken. He did know he had been unconscious for four days in the camp. He had dim recollections of the trip itself, of being delirious, of being bound, of being in pain, of being forced awake, and fed, some sort of white clods, like watered cheese, and having snow jammed in his mouth for drink, and being beaten, and then again losing consciousness. Too, in the days he had been with the camp, the wagons, which were few in number, as is common with a winter camp of Heruls, had moved, apparently from one cache of fodder to another. When he had been unchained and brought forth from the wagon, to be stripped and run for the dogs, he had seen only some twenty wagons, perhaps some fifty or sixty horses, and a similar number of cattle. There had been a low, open-sided, snow-covered shed in the distance. Tracks led to it. He could see hay within it. There was straw about. There was a rich smell of manure. Such sheds are used for the storage of fodder, and the sheltering, at times, of beasts. The camp, this far north for the season, was presumably an outpost camp. Such commonly serve as bases for hunters, for scouts and outriders. In such a way, by such scattered camps, far from the winter pastures, which for the great herds are far to the south, and for many smaller ones nestled in sheltered mountain valleys, the Heruls keep themselves apprised of what occurs on the flats of Tung, on the plains of Barrionuevo. He had been chained. The wagon had been closed. He had been able to conjecture little, save, by the sunlight, bright in cracks about the door, and the single, shuttered window, that they had been moving north, and then northeast. He was probably much closer to Venitzia now than he had been when he had slain the horse.
The giant watched the light coming closer.
He knew it must be a Herul, for who else might be abroad at this time, in this place.
The giant removed the stained canine tooth from its makeshift sheath at his skin belt.
His bag of meat, which, in the cold might last for days, was in the snow, beside him.
He had little doubt but what the rider was looking for him.
The lantern cast an unsteady, flickering, moving pool of light, some four or five yards in diameter.
The giant watched, patiently.
He chewed a little meat from the bag.
Something, too, the giant noted, might accompany the rider. It was hard to tell in the light.
The giant finished the meat, and tied shut the bag. There seemed to be a small figure, heavily bundled, on the left side of the horse, trudging in the snow.
The lantern was quite close now.
Surely the rider must see him, as he crouched in the snow.
The lantern lifted.
The giant did not move.
Suddenly there was a woman's scream.
He did not move.
"It is a dog!" screamed a woman. "It is a dog!" She spun away from the stirrup, turning, frightened, to run, but, choking, weeping, in a moment, was held up short, by the tether on her neck.
"Greetings," said the rider.
"Greetings," said the giant, rising up.
He stood then, like some unusual creature, bipedalian, but canine, in the light of the lamp.
The rider, with one hand, not taking his eyes from the giant, slowly unlooped the tether, which had been wound some four or five times about the pommel of the saddle.
He dropped it into the snow.
The woman's hands were not bound. She backed away, into the darkness, the tether on her neck.
"Do not attack me," said the rider.
It was the older Herul, who had been his keeper, or warden, in the wagon of Mujiin.
The giant did not move.
"Two of the dogs returned," said the Herul. "In the camp it is thought you are dead."
"But you did not think so?"
"I did not know," said the Herul.
"It was clever of you," said the Herul, "to let the dogs return."
The giant shrugged.
It would have been possible, though dangerous, to kill them in their feeding frenzy.
Too, he had been cold, and miserable.
"How did you arm yourself?" asked the Herul.
"With ice," said the giant, "a weapon formed thereof, frozen, from snow, heated in my mouth, and a fluid of my body."
"It is an old Herul trick," said the Herul, approvingly.
"It is known in the festung village of Sim Giadini," said the giant.
"I had thought it might be," said the Herul.
"You have sought me," said the giant.
"Yes," said the Herul.
"Why?" asked the giant.
"I mean you no harm," said the Herul. "You have escaped the dogs."
"Why have you sought me?" asked the giant.
"I have brought you your sword, the great blade, and a Herul knife, some food, and the pelt of the giant white vi-cat, which I have had prepared for you."
The Herul loosened from across his back the great blade, now in a fur sheath, and dropped it, with its belt, to the snow, to the right side of the horse. He put with it, one objec
t after the other, a smaller object, doubtless the knife, a dark bag, which might contain food, and then, folded, what must be the pelt of the vi-cat.
"Why are you doing this?" asked the giant.
"The pelt," said the Herul, "is that of the giant white vi-cat. Among the Vandals it is understood as the robe of a king."
"Perhaps that is why," said the giant, "that the two Basungs crossed the Lothar, to obtain such a robe."
"Doubtless," said the Herul.
The two Basungs, those who had drawn the sledge to the Herul camp, had been killed.
"Why do you give it to me?" asked the giant.
"It was you who killed the beast," said the Herul. "It is thus yours."
"Why do you return to me the sword, why give me these things?"
"It does not matter," said the Herul.
"Why?" asked the giant.
"The Heruls grow fat, and slack," said the Herul. "They need splendid enemies."
"I do not understand."
"It does not matter," said the Herul.
"I thank you for these gifts," said the giant.
"The woman whom I brought with me," said the Herul, "will have fled by now."
"She was a slave?"
"Yes."
"She may be easily followed in the snow," said the giant, "thence to be recaptured, thence to be beaten, or to have her feet cut off, or be fed to dogs."
"I shall leave such decisions to you," said the Herul.
"I do not understand," said the giant.
"She thought herself brought with me, late at night, in the cold, to perform the services of the slave female, to cook, to lie at my feet, to warm them, to give pleasure with her body, her lips and tongue, and such. It is common on journeys to bring slaves, for such things."
"But you brought her here, to let her escape?"
"Of course," said the Herul.
"When you freed her of the pommel, she doubtless thought it merely to free the horse of its impediment, to prepare for combat with me, taken as your quarry."
"That was my intention, that she should think so."