One of the former gladiators, bodyguards of Safarius, stepped close to the bars.
“Release the noble Timon Safarius Rhodius,” he called.
Neither Ortog nor Abrogastes responded. Safarius himself could not speak for the pressure on his throat. He opened his eyes, frantically, looking toward those on the far side of the gate.
“You are trapped,” called the bodyguard to Abrogastes and Ortog. “You cannot escape. The keys to the cells are here, behind the gate. You are four floors down. The dogs can be killed with arrows. We can then enter the corridor and do with you as we wish. Release the noble Timon Safarius Rhodius.”
This demand was met with silence.
Safarius lifted his hands, futilely, toward the band on his throat but quickly lowered them, for Ortog drew the band back, more tightly.
“You are to be slain,” called the bodyguard, the former gladiator. “Your choice is simple. If you release the noble Timon Safarius Rhodius, your death will be quick and easy, attendant on a swift, merciful stroke. We are skilled in such matters. If you do not, your death will be slow, and, I assure you, one not to be envied.”
Neither Abrogastes nor Ortog saw fit to respond to this offer, as generous as it might have been.
The dogs continued to feed.
The living jailers within the corridor shrank back more closely against the bars.
There was some consultation behind the gate, murmurs, and earnest whispers.
Then the former gladiator, who seemed spokesman for those in the hall, spoke once more.
“Very well, noble foes,” he called. “We have lost. You have won. Release the noble Timon Safarius Rhodius and we will grant you not only your lives, but your freedom, as well. You will be released and escorted in safety to a destination of your choice.”
“And given a hundred darins of gold, each, for our inconvenience?” asked Abrogates.
“Two hundred,” said the former gladiator.
“Each?” asked Abrogastes.
“Of course!” said the former gladiator.
Abrogastes laughed, and such a laugh, emanating from the throat of the Far-Grasper, might have chilled the blood of a Tangaran wolf.
“We have weapons,” the bodyguard reminded Abrogastes, “and the dogs can be killed.”
“In whose name do you act, in whose name do you offer terms?” called Abrogastes.
“In the name of the noble Timon Safarius Rhodius, primarius of the senate of Telnaria,” called the former gladiator.
“The senate is an instrument, a tool,” said Abrogastes. “Who is behind the senate? Who wields the senate? Who stands in the shadows, unseen?”
Consultation took place once more behind the closed gate.
Then the former gladiator called out, “Otungs! The usurper, the false emperor, he who dares call himself Ottonius, the First!”
“Your response was less than prompt,” said Abrogastes.
“Ottonius, Ottonius, the First!” said the former gladiator.
“It must be,” said Abrogastes to Ortog. “It is as I thought. It can be no other.”
“It was he,” said Ortog, “by whom I was misled, and betrayed.”
“Bring arrows, and bowmen, Otung arrows,” said the former gladiator.
“It seems your prisoner can be spared,” said Abrogastes to Ortog.
Safarius squirmed, unable to speak. He moved his left hand pathetically, pleadingly, at the closed gate.
“Kill the dogs first,” said the former gladiator, “then the barbarians.”
“Are you prepared to die well, my son,” asked Abrogastes.
“How else should a Drisriak die?” said Ortog.
“Or an Ortung,” said Abrogastes.
“I would have preferred an open field,” said Ortog.
“Where one dies is one’s field,” said Abrogastes.
The jailers and the two former gladiators drew back a yard or so from the closed gate. Footsteps were heard, ascending the stairs behind them.
“As soon as you see the bow,” said Abrogastes to Ortog, “act.”
“I need only turn the span and jerk back,” said Ortog, “and the head is gone.”
The dogs, surfeited, lay down amongst the bodies in the corridor. The two living jailers in the corridor, their eyes wide with fear, dared move no more than to stanch their wounds with bloody hands. Blood spread between their fingers.
“I hear sounds on the stairs,” said Ortog.
“Be ready,” said Abrogastes.
“What is going on?” called the former gladiator, turning about, and looking upward, into the darkness, up the steep well of stairs. “Hurry! Hurry!”
There was then another sound on the stairs, much like a scuffle, and a short cry, and then there was the sound of a brief clatter of metal, and of something scraping, and then of an object, or weight, something, something rolling, or tumbling, down the stairs, and, twice, a snapping, as of a slender stick of wood.
“What madness is this?” cried the former gladiator, upward, into the darkness.
Suddenly, from behind the closed gate, there were cries of consternation and alarm. There was the heavy, sudden, quick sound of long shafts striking into bodies.
Borne lanterns, lifted, descending, illuminated the stairwell.
Twice more there was the sound, sudden, decisive, unmistakable, of long shafts striking targets.
“Otung arrows!” cried a man. “As you called for!”
“Stop, stop, fools!” cried the former gladiator. “You are confused! We are not the enemy! Hold your fire!”
Two more men fell.
The gate was then unlocked and opened, and the living jailers from outside, some seven or eight, pressed through the gate, swarming, crowding through it, and ran, now oblivious of the somnolent dogs and strewn bodies, to the blind end of the corridor. These were followed by the two gladiators, backing slowly, swords drawn, picking their way carefully, to the far end of the corridor.
Three bowmen appeared then in the portal, at the gate, with arrows set to the string.
“Ulrich, Citherix, Vandar,” said a mighty voice from behind, “hold your fire.”
The bows were lowered, but the arrows did not leave the string.
“Good,” said the voice, as the speaker, a great sword hung behind his left shoulder, appeared behind the bowmen. He looked down, at various bodies, and turned one or more over with a foot. “One arrow per kill. Excellent. I had feared the softness, gentilities, and luxuries of civilization might have diminished your skill,” he said. He then brushed past the bowmen, and entered the corridor, looking about.
Behind this figure then appeared two more, fierce, bearded Rurik, the Tenth Consul of Larial VII, of the Larial Farnichi, sword in hand, and Julian, he of the Aureliani, one of the foremost of the imperial families, cousin even to Aesilesius, occupant of the imperial throne prior to the accession of Ottonius, the First, he of the Aureliani, with a pistol in hand, containing four cartridges, any one of which could blast through a wall.
“Filchen,” cried Rurik, “do you dare stand in the presence of your emperor?”
The jailers then knelt on one knee, their heads down. Even the two suffering jailers, grievously bitten and clawed, who had been unable to leave the corridor, lowered their heads. The two dogs looked up, curiously. The two gladiators remained on their feet, swords drawn.
“Greetings, noble Abrogastes, king of the Drisriaks,” said Otto, “and greetings, too, to the noble Ortog, king of the Ortungen.”
“Greetings to the emperor,” said Abrogastes, “and to the king of the Otungs and chieftain of the Wolfungs.”
“Dear Ortog,” said Otto, “our friend, Timon Safarius Rhodius, appears uncomfortable.”
Ortog released one end of the band about Safarius’ throat and it snapped back, springing, strik
ing against the bars, and Ortog withdrew it into the cell.
Safarius collapsed, shuddering, to the bloody tiles at the foot of the bars.
“Are we now to be killed, Otung?” asked Abrogastes.
“No,” said Otto. “But perhaps in another time and another place.”
“I have not been betrayed,” said Ortog, wonderingly.
“No,” said Otto. “I am Otung.”
“Your arrival was tardy,” said Ortog.
“We waited, hoping for the appearance of higher foes, who declined to reveal themselves, and wished, too, to allow time for the plans and proposals of your captors to be made clear.”
“We, too, anticipated a period of bargaining, of flatterings and promises, of threats, of menaces, and such, but, it seems, matters had changed,” said Ortog.
“I had not expected that,” said Otto.
“Nor we,” said Ortog.
“How is it to be accounted for?” asked Otto.
“A new order was given, a new proposal made,” said Ortog. He did not elaborate on this remark.
“You are alive,” said Otto.
“This does not diminish the enmity between the Alemanni and the Vandalii,” said Abrogastes.
“Even foes can share a horn of bror upon occasion,” said Otto. He then looked toward the far end of the corridor, where, on one knee, knelt the jailers, and where stood the two former gladiators.
“Bring keys,” said Otto, “release the prisoners.”
One of the jailers leapt up, and, taking keys from his belt, opened the two cells, after which he returned to his place with the others.
The two dogs, filled and content, lay quietly in place.
Safarius rose to a sitting position. He wiped the wound on his face with the sleeve of his robes. His eyes were glazed, vacant.
“You who manned this place, hirelings,” said Otto, “may withdraw. Take with you your still-living, bloodied fellows.”
Men looked at him, wildly.
“And tonight drink the health of Aesilesius of Telnaria,” said Otto.
Uncertain, trembling, wondering, they rose to their feet.
“Noble ruler, Great Emperor!” cried a man, looking back, as they began, with their two bloodied fellows, to ascend the stairs.
“Hail Ottonius,” cried others. “Hail Ottonius, the First, noble and merciful monarch!”
“Barbarians,” said one of the former gladiators, “are not noted for mercy.”
“Beware how you speak to the emperor!” said Rurik.
Julian leveled his pistol at the two gladiators. One cartridge could blow both to pieces and shatter the wall behind them.
“What are your names?” asked Otto.
“Boris,” said one.
“Andak,” said the other.
“I have heard of you,” said Otto. “There are no cheering crowds in this corridor, in this basement.”
“One would prefer,” said Boris, “the canopied arena, the raked sand.”
“We three,” said Otto, “are long from the sand.”
“It is true, the rumors?” asked Andak.
“Some, perhaps,” said Otto.
“Otto, of the school of Pulendius?” said Boris.
“Otto, of the Dozen Worlds?” said Andak.
“You do not choose to sheath your weapons?” asked Otto.
“No,” said the two facing the emperor.
“It is a long time since I have laughed with steel,” said Otto.
“No!” said Rurik.
“Refrain!” said Julian.
“You have the long blade,” said Boris. “You have much the reach on us.”
“Do not engage,” said Julian.
Otto removed the long blade from its shoulder sling and handed it to Rurik. “Your sword,” he said.
“Surely not!” said Rurik.
Then he placed the shorter blade in the hand of Otto.
Otto then faced the two gladiators.
“Let the bowmen kill them now,” said Rurik.
“No,” said Otto.
“After we kill you,” said Boris, “I take it we will be slain.”
“Not at all,” said Otto. “If you are successful, you may leave, unmolested and without fear of recriminations.”
“No!” said Julian.
“You need not even wait for ten kills,” said Otto.
“No, no!” said Julian, he of the Aureliani.
“I have spoken,” said Otto.
“What of the throne, the empire, the future?” demanded Rurik.
“The usual things,” said Otto, “politics, lies, favors, corruption, influence, betrayals, assassinations, uprisings, civil wars, such things, will determine matters.”
“Surely the throne matters,” said Julian.
“I prefer the saddle, the wind bending tall grass, boots treading fallen leaves, a forest trail,” said Otto. He then regarded the two gladiators. “Will you come one at a time, or together?” he asked.
The two former gladiators looked at one another.
“It does not matter to you?” asked Boris.
“Not greatly,” said Otto. “It does affect certain subtleties of engagement, the manner of defense, the timing of certain strokes.”
“Together!” begged Safarius, rising to an elbow, the mark of the steel band still on his throat. “If he is so mad, such a fool, as to permit it, seize the opportunity. Together! Kill him! Kill him!”
Boris did not move.
“I have fought three several times,” said Otto, “and twice I fought four, and once, on Inez IV, five.”
“One at a time,” said Boris.
“As you wish,” said Otto.
“No!” cried Safarius.
The interaction was fierce, and brief. One could scarcely see the blades move, and then Boris reeled back, his blade struck away. He fell to his side. Andak rushed forward, and found a sword at his throat. He flung down his weapon and went to kneel beside Boris.
“You are the Otto of the school of Pulendius, the Otto of the Dozen Worlds,” said Boris.
“Our lives are yours,” said Andak. “We are at your mercy.”
“Kill them and be done with it,” said Rurik.
Otto returned the sword to Rurik, and received back the long blade.
“I can align them, all three, they and the primarius, kneeling, heads down, the backs of the neck exposed,” said Rurik. “With your blade, the long blade, you could take three heads with one stroke.”
“No, no!” cried Safarius. “Kill them! Kill them! Not me! They lifted weapons against you! Not I! They are nothings, hirelings, killers, dispensable minions. I am too important to be killed. I am of the Telnar Rhodii, the primarius of the senate! I have power, influence.”
“In a day or two,” said Abrogastes, “the dogs will be hungry again.”
“No!” cried Safarius.
Otto stepped forward, regarding the fallen Boris, and the kneeling Andak. “Have you taken fee,” he asked, “from Timon Safarius Rhodius?”
“We have,” said Boris.
“Repudiate him,” said Otto.
“We have taken fee,” said Boris.
“Repudiate him, or die,” said Otto.
“We have taken fee,” said Boris.
“You would rather die than renounce your fee giver?” asked Otto.
“We have taken fee,” said Boris.
“I thought it would be so,” said Otto. “You are free to go.”
“My emperor!” said Boris.
“You are not Otung,” said Otto, “but I would have such men about me.”
“We are your men!” cried Boris.
Otto then turned to face Safarius.
“They are yours,” said Safarius.
Rurik
then confronted Safarius, his sword drawn. “You are less than some,” he said. “Who is greater than you?”
Safarius put his head down.
“Who is your leader, or leaders,” demanded Julian, “your principal, or principals?”
“I dare not speak,” said Safarius.
“Burning irons will encourage you,” snarled Rurik.
“Mercy!” begged Safarius.
“The irons, the fire, the pincers, the nails,” said Rurik, “then speech, then death.”
“No, no!” whispered Safarius.
“You are free to go,” said Otto.
“I am released?” asked Safarius, looking up.
“Yes,” said Otto.
“They will think I have spoken,” said Safarius.
“Only if you give them that impression,” said Otto.
“I do not understand,” said Safarius.
“Do you think the released jailers will make public their discomfiting and the loss of their prisoners?”
“I think not,” said Safarius. “It could mean their lives.”
“And yours, as well?” asked Otto.
“I fear so,” said Safarius.
“Your principal, or principals,” said Otto, “at least for a time, unless informed otherwise, will presume their plans have proceeded apace, will they not?”
“But what of the discovered bodies, riddled with arrows?” asked Safarius.
“That matter,” said Otto, “is met without difficulty. Two of the slain jailers will do nicely, found in the garments of barbarians, their bodies abounding with arrows, bodies publicly proclaimed to be those of Abrogastes and Ortog.”
“But surely some could recognize Abrogastes and Ortog,” said Safarius.
“Few,” said Otto, “other than Drisriaks and Ortungen.”
“But Drisriaks and Ortungen,” said Safarius.
“The faces will be torn away,” said Otto, “and the bodies muchly mutilated, such depredations, given where the bodies are placed, to be attributed to the wild dogs of Telnar.”
“I am to be released?” asked Safarius, again, uncertainly.
“If matters proceed awry,” said Otto, “you would be well advised to claim you were not present at the actual killing of Abrogastes and Ortog, preferring to have left the matter in the hands of jailers.”
“I might be faint of heart, or unwilling to have witnessed so distasteful or unaesthetic an event?” said Safarius.
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