The King

by John Norman

  "It is madness!" cried Ulrich. "Why must the clans and houses, the families, the lineages, war with one another? Are we not all Otung?"

  "I yield to no one," said Gelerich.

  "Nor I!" said Astarax.

  "I would not hide all my days in the forest," said Ulrich. "I would one day come forth from the forest, bravely, with oxen and wagons, with songs, and arms, marching. We have hidden here long enough, imprisoned not by Heruls but by our own vanities and rivalries.''

  "We are not yet strong enough," said Urta.

  "Let us take the first step, the first step on our march," said Ulrich. "If we must have a king, and cannot have a true king, then let us make a year king, but one who has no party, one who is not of the table of a given house, one who has taken rings from no man, one by means of whom to satisfy, and yet reprove and mystify, Heruls."

  "Only a stranger could be such," said a man.

  "Yes," said Ulrich.

  Eyes turned toward the giant.

  "No!" cried Rolof.

  "He has brought to the hall the pelt of the white vi-cat," said Ulrich.

  "Such was the mantle of Genserix," said a man.

  "It is the medallion and chain which are important," said a man.

  "The medallion and chain were lost," said a man.

  "It fell to the lot of Heruls," said a man.

  "There can be no true king without the medallion and chain," said a man.

  "It was that, allegiance to it, sworn by the fathers of the clans, that united the people," said a man.

  "Yes," said another.

  "So there can be no true king," said a man.

  "I do not come amongst you to be king," said the giant. "I come amongst you to recruit comitates, comites, fellows, companions, swordsmen, fighters."

  "He is a spy for Telnaria!" said a man.

  "He is a Herul spy. See the Herul knife!" said another.

  The giant cut more meat, indeed, with the Herul knife, which, by means of Yata, he distributed, indicating likely recipients.

  Then he rose up, from where he had crouched, cutting meat, and stood again on the table.

  "Begone, stranger," said Rolof.

  The giant freed the great blade of the meat, into which he had thrust it.

  "Make the stranger year king," said Ulrich. "In that way no clan, and no house, takes precedence over another. Why should you, Rolof, or you, Valdemar, or Gundar, or Hartnar, or Gelerich or Astarax, or any other Otung of noble blood, stain his honor by accepting the post of year king? It is dishonor to accept it, not honor. To accept such a kingship is not glory, but shame. It is to serve not Otungs, but Heruls."

  "In yielding to the stranger," said a man, "you lose nothing in honor, for no rival takes precedence over you."

  "And you show contempt for Heruls," said another.

  "No!" said Rolof.

  "I would be king, even if for a year!"

  "I!" said Valdemar.

  "No!" cried the others. "I! I!"

  "Alas," said Ulrich. "All is lost."

  "No," said the giant.

  "How so?" asked Ulrich.

  "For the hero's portion has been claimed," said the giant.

  "That is true, milords," said Urta. "One stands between you and the kingship."

  Retainers rose to their feet.

  But more than a dozen young men before whom meat had been placed rose, too, to their feet.

  "Hold!" cried Urta.

  "My company," said the giant, "is open to all clans, to all Otungs, and to others, as well."

  "And in such a company," said a man, "to whom is allegiance owed-to Telnaria, our hated foe, to whom we owe our exile on Tangara?"

  "No," said the giant, "not to Telnaria."

  "Then to whom?" asked the man.

  "To me," said the giant.

  There was silence in the hall.

  "Kill him," said Rolof, gesturing toward the giant. Six men hurried toward the table.

  "No!" cried others.

  It was a mistake, of course, that the noble, Rolof, had given the order he had.

  It was not in accord with the customs of the Otungs. Too, he did not understand the nature of the giant. But then, at that time, few did. His mistake was then twofold, on the one hand, a breach of civility, on the other, as it turned out, an error of judgment, not that one should blame Rolof severely for that, as, at that time, as we have suggested, the nature of the giant was not clearly understood.

  The accounts differ troublesomely on what exactly occurred.

  They concur, however, on the cry.

  With a sudden, wild cry, a cry which astonished those in the hall, a glad, elated cry, as though of the release of long pent-up frustration, of patience too long restrained, a cry of savage joy, of feral gladness, a releasing, laughing, merciful, discharging cry, a cry like the flashing of fire, like the sudden, unexpected, exultant crack of thunder from violent, aching, swollen clouds, a cry bestial, grateful and exultant, a cry that might have been that of a starving man who sees food, that of a man dying of thirst who sees water, the giant leapt from the table, the huge blade in flight, hurtling, bearing with it all its edged, cruel weight, that mighty blade which the giant handled as if it might have been a straw, sped with all its momentum, that of his movement and of its own swift, smooth arc, like a steel wind, almost invisible.

  Accounts of what matters then occurred, and the order in which these matters occurred, tend to vary amongst the chroniclers. Whereas this is regrettable, it is also quite understandable, as it is a commonplace that when a complex event occurs suddenly, precipitately, in a crowded area, and is hastily resolved, that even eyewitnesses tend to produce conflicting reports of what occurred. Doubtless they are startled, and perhaps confused; much happens quickly; it is soon done; perspectives differ; some vantages are superior to others; what one notes may depend in part on one's expectations; and memory, too, tends to be fallible, particularly in the case of such events, where so much happens so quickly; too, one must remember that the hall was doubtless poorly lit.

  I have elected to follow here, in the main, the account of Orban, of the house of Orix, as reported in the second chronicle of Armenion, as revised by Teminius. I have selected it not because I regard it as that likely to be most accurate, but rather because, as I do not know which account is the most accurate, it is the most restrained.

  I apologize for the account, but it must be remembered that the times were other than ours.

  Six men, it may be recalled, hurried toward the table, these retainers of Rolof, his champion, and five others, these coming from the giant's right.

  The mighty blade, which might have felled a small tree, or cut the head from a horse, with one blow, like a live, leaping thing, rising up, a flat, edged living wind, a flash under the torches, caught the men doubled on one another, they not anticipating the attack, they having foolishly thought it was they who were the aggressors, the first two stopping, suddenly, startled, others stumbling against one another, the men falling amongst themselves, none set, none in the guard position, caught the first two men to the right, cutting upward through the armpit of the first, slashing away the arm and upper torso and neck and head, and flighting thence, in the same arc, to cleave away the upper skull of the second man, the blade turning then, in its back stroke, to cut away the hand and split the ribs of a third man. The other three, half fallen, looked up, wildly, and one amongst them was cleaved at the side of the head, the stroke, downward, at the right eye, ceasing its dividing stroke only at the last of three sheared ribs. Two others turned to flee but another stroke cut both feet from under one, and he hobbled on stumps to the table of Rolof, beneath which he fell, and the last was caught against that very table itself, the table of Rolof, where he fell before his lord, the table itself splintered then in twain, the body, half cut in two, folded in upon itself, descending, sliding, in the collapsed planks. The giant scarcely noted the horrified eyes of Rolof behind the table, when his arena sense, alert to the tiniest of sound
s, was that the movement of a foot in the dust, brought him full about to see men of lord Valdemar advancing toward him.

  "Stop!" cried Urta.

  The giant laughed, to see more meat for his sword, and men hesitated.

  "Stop!" again cried Urta, the namer of kings.

  "Kill him!" cried Valdemar, and his champion edged forward, but one blow of the long blade smote through a shield, flinging the arm, caught in the device's straps, across the hall.

  The man to his right was blinded by the blood, and in a moment, unseeing, screaming, thrust his hand downward, into his own guts, where it was caught, tangled, and in his terror, with two hands, clutching, in madness and pain, disemboweled himself.

  Other men of Valdemar drew back, four others.

  The giant looked about himself, crouching down, like an animal, turning with feral, almost inhuman quickness.

  "Kill him!" called Rolof, as though to the hall itself.

  The giant's eyes were bright.

  There was blood on his hands and furs.

  "It is Genserix," said a man.

  "It is more terrible than Genserix," said another.

  "Kill him!" cried Valdemar to his reluctant liegemen.

  The blood on the blade had run sidewise in narrow channels, these streamlets consequent upon the motion of the article.

  It was this quickness apparently, this seeming capacity to move with unnatural speed, which was one of the first things to have struck, or caught, even enflamed, the imaginations of many men of the time, doubtless rude, simple men, sword-wielders, spearmen and such. There is much agreement on this quickness, it seems, as one of the giant's properties. And yet, as certain chronicles have it, the field diaries of Lucian, for example, the speeds with which he moved tended, even in battle, to shift and vary deceptively, distractively, startling foes, disturbing their anticipations, necessitating costly adjustments, a thousandth of a second sometimes the difference of an inch or more in the reach and thrust of a blade. Such things cannot be taught, not in their fullness of subtlety, not in their diverse pacings, their delicate temporal modalities, their seemingly instantaneous sensings, not in their odd admixture of violence and sensitivity, brutality and refinement. They are bred into warriors, generation by generation, over thousands of years, much as hunting and killing, generation by generation, over thousands of years, is bred into the lion, the vi-cat, the wolf. Sometimes, it is said, he seemed somnolent, slow to act, silent like rock, massive like stone, and then again, sometimes without warning, it seemed that great body could explode, bomblike, destructive to all within its compass. Sometimes he seemed slow, awkward, inarticulate. Certainly he was illiterate, like many of his time. But it seems, too, he was not unintelligent. There is much evidence that he could be patient, reflective and thoughtful. We know little in detail of such things, however, his plans and long thoughts, as he muchly kept his own counsel. Few people claimed to know him well. There is universal agreement, however, that his anger was not a light thing. It could arise suddenly, unpredictably, stormlike. It could seldom be assuaged without blood. Doubtless this was his greatest weakness. Certainly, politically, it was his most grievous flaw. To be sure, his concept of statecraft in any event was rudimentary, being founded on little more, as was common with his sorts of peoples in those times, than simple virtues, such as the keeping of pledged words. He was not equally at home in the saddle and on a throne. But this was not unusual, too, for many leaders of his time. We know little of the deeper currents within him, or if there were such. He is said, once in the darkness of the woods, thinking himself alone, to have howled, as though in great pain. Men never saw him cry. Little is known of his inner life, or if he, in effect, had one. It is speculated that men in his time were less self-aware, less self-conscious, than men in our time, that they were simpler, and more like animals, than we. One does not know, of course. Too, on such matters it is difficult to speculate.

  The giant looked about himself.

  The warriors of Valdemar had drawn back.

  The giant went back to the table and, with the great blade, cut another piece of meat.

  Yata ran to him and knelt before him, her head down, her hands lifted, and he put the meat in her small hands, her tiny fingers clutching it, warm juice running between her fingers.

  She looked up at her master.

  He looked about.

  At the tables a young man had risen.

  The giant pointed to the young man and Yata hurried to him, and placed the meat before him. His eyes shone. Yata then drew back from the table, knelt, put her head to the dirt, and then turned, on her knees, lifting her head a little, to face the giant.

  How next would she be commanded?

  The young man had scarcely glanced at the lovely young slave before him, though she would doubtless have brought a high price in many markets.

  Mightier things were afoot.

  She was only a female, and a slave.

  "I have at this time no rings to give," said the giant.

  "I would not serve for rings," said the young man.

  "What is your name?" said the giant.

  "Vandar," said the young man.

  "It is a good name," said the giant.

  "I am ready!" said the young man. "Summon me to your side!"

  "At my side is danger," said the giant.

  "I would rather die at the side of one such as you than live elsewhere," said the man.

  "Do not move," said a man.

  "The night is cold, and the stars are indifferent," said the young man. "I answer only to myself."

  "Cease your obscure rantings," said a man.

  "Milord!" cried the young man to the giant.

  "Remain where you are!" said the giant.

  The young man cried out in misery.

  "Can you not see?" asked a man. "He stands alone."

  "At this time one such as he must stand alone," said another.

  "He who cannot stand alone deserves to have none stand with him," said another.

  "He has brought to the hall the pelt of a white vi-cat," said Ulrich.

  "No, no!" cried Valdemar, looking about himself. "Kill him! Kill him!"

  One of his men turned to him. "We follow you, my liege," he said.

  Valdemar did not move.

  Then his men drew away from him.

  "You are no longer first among the Tiri," said a man.

  "No!" cried Valdemar.

  Valdemar drew his blade, and cried out, and he, then followed instantly by several men, those of the Tiri in the hall, rush toward the giant.

  "No!" cried Urta. "Only the lord, or his champion, may challenge!"

  But none gave ear to the plaint of the King Namer.

  The giant struck about him with the great sword.

  A shield was cut in twain. Men were struck to the side, buffeted. The mighty sword flashed again, and sparks, like flaming snow, bright from three blades, exploded in the hall. Men pressed forward.

  "Stop!" cried the King Namer.

  "Stop!" cried others.

  The giant, looking about himself, backed away. The fire pit was behind him, long, some eighteen feet in length, some five feet in width, a foot deep with glowing coals. The two supports on which the spit had been mounted were still in place. The spit itself, one end pointed for insertion in the meat, the other end bent to a handle that the device might be turned, that spit on which the boar had been roasted, lay to one side, on a wooden rack. The giant felt the heat behind him.

  Valdemar lunged forward, his charge turned by the great blade, and the noble, screaming, losing his footing, fell into the pit. Otto forced the retainers back with a terrible blow, and spun about, turning to Valdemar, who, screaming, twisted in the coals, rose up wildly, slipped, fell, climbed again to his feet, and began to wade, frenziedly, stumbling, to the edge of the pit, but the giant turned about and plunged after him, wading into the coals, and seized Valdemar at the edge of the pit, by the collar of his furs, and threw him back, on his back, into
the coals. Two men plunged after the giant, but he cut them down with one stroke, over the body of Valdemar, which he forced down, deeper, with one foot, into the coals. He then, to the horror of the liegemen, who hesitated, aware they could not reach him with their smaller blades, not having time to circle the pit, raised his blade above his head, holding it there with two hands, as he had, earlier, over the roast boar.

  "No!" cried one of the liegemen, raising his hand.

  "Strike!" cried Valdemar.

  The sword was poised.

  The liegemen cast their weapons to the floor of the hall.

  "Strike!" screamed Valdemar.

  But the giant stepped back from the body, through the coals, ascending the far side of the pit.

  Valdemar's liegemen drew him swiftly from the coals, covering his own body with theirs, to smother flames.

  Two other bodies were drawn, too, slashed, half dismembered, from the coals, one leg hanging by a muscle to a trunk, furs blackened, and, at the sides, burned away.

  A grayish smoke, like haze, hung over the coals.

  There was an ugly, sweet odor of burned flesh, of skin, of muscle and fat, in the hall.

  The left side of Valdemar's face was gone, burned away.

  The giant came about the pit, and stood over Valdemar, looking down at him.

  Valdemar's men drew back.

  Valdemar looked up, unblinking, staring, his right eyelid burned away.

  "You are Otung," he whispered.

  "I do not know," said the giant.

  The giant wiped on his furred thigh the long blade.

  "Aii!" cried a man.

  Too, at the same time, the slave had screamed, but the giant had already slipped to the side.

  The blow of Rolof's sword rang on the thick iron spit, it lying on its rack.

  Sparks sprang upward.

  "A felon's stroke!" cried a man.

  "Pig!" cried another.

  The giant rolled beneath the spit, the long blade lost, and another blow struck down, again ringing, showering sparks, from the spit.

  "No longer are you first among the Gri!" cried an angered retainer.

  Rolof snarled, and put his foot on the blade of the great sword, holding his own blade ready.

  "Pig!" cried a man.