The Usurper

by John Norman

  “Perhaps he merely sees the empire differently,” said Otto.

  “The situation is desperate,” said Julian.

  “So desperate that you would arm barbarians,” said Otto.

  “Who else would have the courage and will to face foes so fearful, so dangerous and determined?” asked Julian.

  “Hereditary enmities exist amongst tribes,” said Otto, “which you would seek to exploit.”

  “One seizes what weapons lie at hand,” said Julian.

  Here we may suppose that Julian had in mind, in particular, the hostilities between the tribes of the Vandals, amongst which was that of the Otungs, or Otungen, and those of the Alemanni, whose largest tribe was the Drisriaks.

  “I respect the empire,” said Otto, “as I might respect the seasons or the stars, the vi-cat or the arn bear, but I do not esteem it. I do not love it.”

  “Therein we differ, dear friend,” said Julian. “Understand it. See in it civilitas, the hope of a thousand species.”

  “Civilitas, under the sword,” said Otto.

  “Civilitas cannot survive without the sword,” said Julian.

  “You are my friend,” said Otto.

  “Barbaritas?” smiled Julian.

  “Yes,” said Otto.

  “So simply?” said Julian.

  “So simply,” said Otto.

  “Is it not much like the bond of the comitatus?” asked Julian.

  “I think so,” said Otto.

  “One would die for one’s friend,” said Julian.

  “Barbaritas,” said Otto.

  “Barbaritas,” said Julian.

  “You pause, you muse?” said Otto.

  “I sometimes fear the future is yours, my friend,” said Julian, “where the blood is hot and fresh, and flows strongly, like a scalding, rushing stream in the veins.”

  “The empire has always been,” said Otto.

  “Not always,” said Julian. “Once there was no empire. Once there were only nine villages along a river, on a small, unimportant world.”

  “Long ago?” said Otto.

  “Very long ago,” said Julian.

  “It is said the empire is eternal,” said Otto.

  “Let it be so,” said Julian.

  “Yet I fear for your empire,” said Otto.

  “And well you might,” said Julian.

  “No longer,” said Otto, “are its standards borne bravely.”

  “The thousand suns must flash again on them,” said Julian.

  “You weep,” said Otto, puzzled.

  “Men no longer seek adventure and conquest,” said Julian. “They now seek comfort and protection. Even a fortress of iron may be eaten away by the rust of neglect, and, when its walls collapse, the vermin within will be prey for the vi-cat and arn bear, or die of hunger and cold.”

  “Perhaps they will merely change Masters,” said Otto.

  “And their new Masters,” said Julian, “will be the lions of the future.”

  “You fear for the empire,” said Otto.

  “Yes,” said Julian. “I fear it is no longer loved.”

  “Surely a thousand worlds will stand for the empire,” said Otto.

  “On many worlds,” said Julian, “there is the loss of soil, soil drained of nutrients, borne away by the wind; there is erosion, widespread desiccation, a scarcity of water, and its contamination; there are seas enfilthed with pollution; there are swamps one cannot approach without protective gear; there is the destruction of forests; there is the abandonment of mines, the exhaustion of mineral resources, cavernous shafts emptied of ore and metals; there is the debasing of currency, famine, disease, chaos, banditry.”

  “It is so, and yet the empire sleeps?” said Otto.

  “It must awaken,” said Julian.

  “To some nightmare,” said Otto.

  “No,” said Julian. “But to a new dawn.”

  “A new dawn,” said Otto, “but of whose day?”

  “Let it be that of Telnaria,” said Julian.

  “Resources are finite,” said Otto. “They diminish. The time will come when few will be able to step amongst stars. Engines will be cold. Radios will be silent. Worlds will be alone. The theaters and stadiums will be empty, the altars untended. The vi-cat and the arn bear will reclaim their ranges. The time will come when the forging of the steel blade will become more common than the forging of the blade of fire.”

  “Let the empire be eternal,” said Julian.

  “As you will,” said Otto.

  “The empire is eternal,” said Julian.

  “How so?” asked Otto.

  “I will have it so,” said Julian.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The month of Igon was now long past. The snows had melted long ago from the flats of Tung, or, if you prefer, the plains of Barrionuevo. The lush cattle grass had sprung, thick and green from the black, moist soil in the spring, and the Herul herds, as was the seasonal indulgence of their herdsmen, had drifted south, wading to their knees in the long, wide river of grass flowing between the foothills of the heights of Barrionuevo on the east, and the winding Lothar River on the west. One could still see, however, even now, in the summer, from the wagons of the Herul camp, snow on the distant heights of the Barrionuevo range, amongst which, far to the east and south, might be found the allegedly schismatic festung of Sim Giadini. One could hear the lowing of cattle, the play of children, and the occasional rattle of a slave bell. The Herul wagons, in the ancient fashion, were circled, that a wall of sorts might be formed, to discourage the entry of cattle, and to give pause to nocturnal, prowling vi-cats, and any other intruders which might be so unwise as to attempt an unwelcomed entry into the camp. Now, however, during the long summer days, before nightfall, two wagons, to the Lothar side, were drawn back, affording between them, one on each side, a portal into the camp, through which an occasional rider, his watch done, might enter, or a peddler with his pack or cart, or a trader with his wagon, were he willing to risk his wagon in such a camp, such visitors usually from the provincial capital, Venitzia, or Ifeng, as the Heruls would have it, for Tangara, of course, had been claimed long ago by the empire. Many years ago the camp portal would have remained sealed, even in the daylight hours, but there was little to fear now, as the Otungen were now no longer mounted, and were no longer in a position to dispute the lush grasslands of the flats of Tung. Years ago the lance-bearing Otungen, with their heavy swords and ponderous steeds, had been defeated by the fleet, swiftly encircling, attacking and withdrawing enhorsed archers of the Herul nations, and driven west of the Lothar into the abutting forests. Heruls seldom entered the forests for they were unfamiliar, thick, dark, and dangerous, a milieu so dense that horses could scarcely penetrate, let alone maneuver or race, where branches might sweep an unwary rider from the saddle, and death might lurk undetected in the shadows at one’s stirrup. Indeed, in such places the empire, on various worlds, had lost legions. In these days, of course, a truce, or standing-off, of sorts existed between the grassland-roving Heruls and the forest-dwelling Otungs.

  As is often the case with splendid enemies, the Heruls and the Otungs, or Otungen, for the most part, respected one another. Each, for the most part, with the sensitivity likely to accompany presently sheathed blades, accorded the other the respect it is common amongst warriors to accord a valuable and worthy foe. Only against the finest stone can one’s blade be best sharpened. To be sure, it remained dangerous for a Herul to enter the forest and for an Otung to cross the Lothar. Trade, and converse, amongst these two species, which sometimes occurred, usually took place on the shores of the Lothar, or on trade islands, which, here and there, divided the river. It was rumored in the camps of the Heruls that the Otungs had, within the past year, despite the injunction of the Herul council of chieftains, elected a king, not a year king, emerging from the blo
ody conflict of clans, which so divided the Otungen, but a king whose authority and leadership did not end with the killings following the winter solstice. This development, assuming it had actually taken place, was not likely to improve the somewhat delicate relations between the two nations.

  Cornhair crouched between the wheels of one of the wagons. Her fingers held to the clapper in the bell hung about her neck. To be sure, that was forbidden, as much so as stuffing the bell with grass. It was to be free to swing, and sound, as a slave bell must. This was a large, heavy, dull, plain bell, tapering and rectangular, nothing like the tiered, locked or tied, slave bells with their charming, stimulating jangle, which might be fastened about a slave’s ankles, wrists, or neck, bells the jangle of which proclaimed the presence to all within earshot of a helpless, vulnerable pleasure object, bells designed to arouse male interest and passion, and bells cunningly designed to stir the belly of the slave herself, as well, bringing her to a state of readiness and need, a state in which she will kneel and beg for a slave’s relief, hoping to be granted the lengthy and exquisite raping which, with fortune, may be accorded to one such as she, a slave, a purchasable animal and property.

  Cornhair muchly feared Borchu and her switch.

  So she stayed between the wheels, hiding, holding the clapper of the bell, crouching down. She did not dare, of course, leave the wagons without being accompanied or having been ordered to do so, say, to gather hineen for the common kettles. For such a lapse a slave might be hamstrung or fed to the dogs. One of the other camp slaves, White Ankles, had told her Borchu was searching for her. She had not yet, however, been seen by Borchu nor had Borchu called her name, at least within her hearing. Cornhair trembled, and clutched the clapper of the bell even more tightly. Where was Borchu? Was Borchu really seeking her, or was it a cruel joke played on her by the other slave, for Cornhair knew she was not popular with the other girls. Perhaps because she was so obviously superior to them? Should she have sought out Borchu? Would that have been safer, and meant fewer strokes of the switch? She did not know. Borchu, too, seemed to hate her, so much, even more than the other slaves. She did not know why that should be. Perhaps it was because of her hair color, or eye color, which were unusual, even amongst humans? Surely it could not have to do with her character or personality, such as they were. These would have been of no more interest or concern for a Herul than the character or personality of a pig. Perhaps it had to do, then, with her carriage, attitude, or bearing, for it seems possible that, at that time, some trace of her former station and quality, its haughtiness and insolence, the recollection of the arrogant height of her birth, perhaps hinted at now or then in a gesture or expression, might have lingered in Cornhair’s demeanor.

  Perhaps at that time she did not fully understand the transformation effected in a woman by the affixing of the collar. Perhaps at that time she thought herself a slave only in a legal, or nominal, sense. Perhaps she had not yet realized her collar, had not yet learned it. The time would come when she, as other slaves, would understand that no bit of her was free, that no particle of her was free, that every cell in her body was a cell in the body of a slave. One morning the slave awakens, and realizes she is a slave, helplessly and irremediably, and should be a slave, that this condition is hers, and rightfully and perfectly so, and then she has changed forever. She kneels, and is transformed; the war is done, and may not be renewed; she is ecstatic in the defeat for which she has longed; she experiences the liberation of submission; she has freed her deepest self. She embraces her bondage humbly, gratefully, and joyfully. She has then come home to her being and sex. She is then content at her Master’s feet. But, of course, it was common enough for Herul women to hate slaves. In this, Borchu was not unusual. This may have had to do with some Herul men, some of whom found soft, fair skins of interest, as an oddity, if nothing else; surely they were different, at any rate, from the shimmering, tinted scales of their women, resistant to the scratching of brush, thorns, and knife grass. She had cut the calf of her left leg on such grass, and was now alert to avoid its yellow, innocent-appearing patches. Accordingly, not only Borchu, but many of the Herul women, as well, hated the small, soft-skinned beasts about whose neck was chained the slave bell. Too many men, perhaps, seized and sported with such stock, and used it liberally for their pleasure, even as the inclination of the moment might move them. Did the Herul women not note slaves being dragged up the steps of wagons or being put to the dirt between the wheels? In any event, by the Herul women, the smooth-skinned wearers of the slave bell were commonly despised even more than the tiny, raiding filchen which would try to gnaw through the sacks of hineen. And, unfortunately for the slaves, they found themselves generally under the supervision of the Herul women, for the men, in general, paid them little attention, save when they were moved to do so. Now, usually, Borchu was diligent and tenacious, but there had been the incident, and that had apparently distracted her, that is, if she had been looking for her at all.

  Cornhair did not fully understand the incident, even though the Heruls spoke a dialect of Telnarian, or something which seemed part Telnarian, and part something else, something low-pitched and sibilant. Indeed, Cornhair, to her grief, had had difficulty understanding the Heruls at first, and had not immediately grasped that they were speaking Telnarian, or something like Telnarian. Other camp slaves, at first, had translated for her, and, later, helped her to recognize and expect the phonemic substitutions which brought the Herul stream of sound into something recognizably Telnarian. Happily for her, the Heruls found her Telnarian intelligible, possibly because her phonemes were sounds with which the Heruls were familiar, from prisoners, slaves, tradesmen, administrators and officials at Venitzia, and such. Cornhair had never thanked the other slaves for their assistance in her linguistic acclimatization, which is understandable, as they had been clearly of the humiliori, at best, and she had been not only of the honestori, but of the patricians, and even of the senatorial class. Indeed, two of her uncles had served in the senate itself. Shortly after she had made it clear that they were owed nothing, as they had merely, appropriately, served their better, one who had been of a much higher station than theirs, they had withdrawn from her. She did not have anything further to do with them. They were inferior. Too, she did not need them any longer.

  It was extremely important, of course, for a slave to understand the language of her Masters. She is to be docile and submissive. She is to obey instantly and unquestioningly. Masters tend not to be patient with stupid or ignorant slaves. Even a claim of noncomprehension, however justified, or a pathetic plea for clarification, or repetition, might bring the lash, or worse. The slave struggles with all her intelligence and application to learn the language of her Masters, and to learn it quickly, and well. She is a slave.

  Her first sense of the incident was when a fellow went to the steps of a wagon, followed by several other fellows, and called out to a putatively unseen occupant. Others had soon gathered about, too, amongst them women, and children.

  “Hunlaki is old,” she had heard.

  She did recognize Hunlaki, now and then in the camp. He was one of the few male Heruls in the camp who seemed old. He did seem clear-eyed, and strong, and agile, but, it was true, he was old, or, at least, older than most of the males in the camp. There were several middle-aged and old women amongst the Heruls, and many children, of both sexes, but very few old men. She had speculated that Herul males were not long-lived, at least on the whole. In a sense, she was correct. We, at our distance, and with our familiarity with the annals, are in a much better position to understand what occurred than the slave, Cornhair.

  “The wagon is mine!” had called the fellow, at the foot of the stairs leading up to the wagon. “Emerge from my wagon! It is mine, by claim!”

  “Blood!” had cried an old woman, to others, as she hurried toward the wagon, soon joined by others, and swarming children.

  Indeed, there were one or two Telnarian
traders, from Venitzia, as well, in that small crowd.

  “Hunlaki is done,” announced a short, thickly bodied fellow, his horse tied to a nearby wagon.

  “Let us watch, and see if he dies well,” said another.

  “He will,” said another. “He is Hunlaki.”

  “The dogs have not fed in two days,” said another.

  “They will feed tonight,” said another.

  “Excellent,” said another, “or they would soon drag down a steer.”

  “Come out, decrepit one!” called the fellow, in helmet and fur, at the foot of the stairs to the wagon.

  But the door to the wagon did not open.

  “Come out, old one!” cried the fellow at the foot of the stairs. “The dogs are hungry!”

  “Hunlaki was a great warrior,” said a man.

  “Long ago,” said another.

  “Depart from my wagon, old one!” demanded the fellow at the foot of the stairs. “I have a throat to cut!” And, indeed, he had in his hand a Herul knife, with its blade from Venitzia, and its handle of yellow bone.

  The reason that, to the puzzlement of Cornhair, there were few old men in the Herul camp was that the Heruls, as certain other species, tend to eliminate the old and weak, particularly older and weaker males. There seem to be several strands of consideration which feed into this particular practice, cultural, and, possibly, biological. First, there is an examination of newly hatched offspring. Those deemed unsuitable are thrown to the dogs. Second, there is competition amongst the wagons, for wagons, particularly fine wagons, rather like that in some species for territory. And, as territory is acquired, in many species, so, too, as a consequence, are females. Amongst the Heruls, the possession of a wagon, particularly a fine wagon, confers position and status, and the possessor of a large, strong, well-built wagon is likely to have a choice amongst young females. There are also, of course, as in many species, competitions for dominance, with its usual concomitant of access to females. Sometimes conflicts occur amongst males, with females as, so to speak, the prize. Many Herul females are pleased to mate with a male who has killed to possess her. Even old women, nursing precious memories, proudly tell their grandchildren of such things. One then adds to such things the fact that, throughout much of their tribal histories, the Heruls have faced the natural selections of hunger, disease, and war, and in primitive war, war in which intelligence, keen senses, and physical skill are likely to make the difference between life and death, natural selections take place, selections which, in their way, strengthen certain bloodlines conducive to group survival. As with various peoples, all males are expected to be warriors and face enemies, aggressors, invaders, and such. It is not the case with the Heruls, as it is with more civilized folk, that the healthy, intelligent, adept, and strong are sent forth to die whilst the sickly, stupid, clumsy, stunted, and weak remain at home, in safety, to propagate their kind. In any event, nature, with its blind, unplanned wisdom, the fruit of millennia of harsh selections, for better or for worse, has produced certain animals, such as the vi-cat and arn bear, and certain peoples, such as the Heruls.