The Captain

CHAPTER 10

“Let the auspices be taken,” called Ortog, from a dais.

This dais was outside, open to the sun and air, but it, and the area for viewers, and the field of the challenge itself, were within a large, oval, temporary enclosure, some seven to eight feet high, wall-like, formed of braced poles and yellow silk. This silk billowed in the wind. If one listened carefully one could hear it. Occasionally a bird’s cry, too, could be heard, from somewhere beyond the enclosure. It was traditional that challenges be met in the open air, and on a natural surface, such as earth or grass. To be sure, they sometimes took place on a small island, in a river, or on a bleak skerry, offshore, or even, interestingly enough, in a stream itself, commonly one dividing warring territories.

“As the king wishes,” said Huta, of the Timbri, in her white gown.

Her cheekbones were high, her eyes bright, her hair as dark as the night of sunless Sheol.

“Let the truthful, consecrated blood, sacred to the ten thousand gods of Timbri, be brought,” she called.

Two women, perhaps acolytes, or novices, escorted two men who brought forth, and placed a few feet before the dais, on a surface of linked boards, supported by two trestles, a large, sealed container.

“That will be blood from the sacrifices,” said Julian, whispering to Otto.

They stood rather alone, a bit before, and to one side, of the dais.

On the dais, but clearly isolated there, stood Gerune. None regarded her. None would stand near her. She had, last night, been taken to the tent of the Wolfung. She had spent the night there. She had been put there, as much at his mercy, as much to be used as he might wish, as any slave girl. Not even her women would now look upon her. She wore, however, having been carefully dressed therein, within the women’s tents, that she might appear resplendent upon the dais, adding glory to the day, intricately worked, regal, barbaric garments, these garments, too, with gold and jewels, muchly bedecked.

The two men who had set the container on the surface of linked boards now withdrew.

The two acolytes removed its lid.

Otto looked about himself.

There were many within the enclosure, much as there had been within the great tent, and many were the same individuals, warriors, soldiers, ambassadors, traders, guests, free men, free women.

On the dais, with Ortog, were his shieldsman, and the clerk, and other high men.

Hendrix and Gundlicht were to one side, to the right of the dais as one might face it.

A priestess brought forth a large wooden pole, and plunged it into the container, and began to stir the liquid within it.

She lifted it and blood, fresh and bright, dripped back into the container.

Men cried out with awe.

“How can it be fresh?” asked Otto. “Surely now it must be caked and hard.”

“It is done with chemicals,” said Julian, irritably.

“What are chemicals?” asked Otto.

“Substances,” said Julian, “iron, salt, a thousand things.”

Otto was silent.

He had been raised in a festung village. There were many things he did not understand.

“We are so helpless!” Julian said suddenly, angrily. He pulled a little at the golden manacles confining his wrists.

Some men regarded him, and then looked away.

Gerune turned, too, and looked at him, but then lifted her head, loftily, in misery, and looked away.

“I wonder if Ortog has tried to contact an imperial fleet with respect to your ransom,” said Otto.

“Do not concern yourself with me,” said Julian.

“He will doubtless wait a time,” said Otto. “It will be done through intermediaries. He will not wish to reveal his own position.”

“Consider your own peril, my friend,” said Julian.

“I wonder if your message, from Varna, was heard,” said Otto.

“It would seem not,” said Julian.

“Surely an imperial fleet would be in the quadrant,” said Otto.

“One does not know,” said Julian.

“The Alaria surely had time to transmit distress signals, calls for help,” said Otto.

“We are far from the scene of the Alaria’s misfortune,” said Julian.

“You transmitted a message from Varna,” said Otto.

“It seems it was not heard,” said Julian.

“Bring a plain piece of cloth,” said Huta to a priestess, “a simple piece of cloth, one no different from any other.”

A cloth was fetched.

Surely there seemed nothing unusual about it.

“Would you care to inspect this cloth, milord?” inquired Huta of Ortog.

“No, milady,” said Ortog.

Huta held the cloth by its corners, and turned about, displaying it to the crowd. It was some two-foot square.

“I should like to inspect it,” said Otto.

“You would detect nothing unusual in it,” said Julian.

“There are many slaves present,” said Otto.

This was true, and there was a purpose for it. Earlier, in the great tent, there had been, near the dais, rather at its foot, to the right, as one would face it, chained in place, only three slaves, three only, blond display slaves, women who had been taken from the Alaria, women who had been, in a former reality, one now quite abrogated and superseded, citizenesses of the empire. But there were now several slaves present, perhaps between forty and fifty, many kneeling, their wrists chained behind, or before, their bodies, in the first row of the viewers, the men standing behind them.

“Yes,” said Julian. “And one of the most beautiful is on the dais.”

“She is free,” Otto reminded Julian.

“She is a beautiful slut,” said Julian, admiring Gerune.

She looked down at him, and then glanced away, quickly.

“Yes,” said Otto.

“Do you not think she would make an excellent slave?” asked Julian.

“Yes,” said Otto. “I think she would make an excellent slave.”

“You note,” said Julian, “that her former garments, and jewelry, are about.”

“Yes,” said Otto.

And, indeed, it was to display such things that so many slaves were present.

On each of the slaves present there was some shred, or particle, of what had been the regal garments of Gerune on the Alaria.

Those garments had been cut, and torn, to pieces, until they were now little more than scarves and ribbons.

At the foot of the dais, rather to its left, chained there much as they had been in the great tent, one might again notice the three blond display slaves, spoken of upon occasion earlier, the former citizenesses of the empire, taken from the Alaria. Their adornments, such as they were, may be taken as typical of those of the slaves present. One wore, knotted about her left ankle, much as though it might be a slave anklet, such things, metal and locked, used in some locales to identify slaves, a shred of cloth, cut from the garments which Gerune had worn on the Alaria. Another had such a strip of cloth thrust loosely, and then looped there, about her collar. The third had such a piece of cloth knotted about her upper left arm. These three, too, among them, shared the jewelry which had been worn by Gerune, bracelets, after the placement of which their manacles had been replaced, and several necklaces, thrown over their heads, the hair then taken back and lifted up, thence to be replaced attractively, arranged and smoothed, over the strings and chains. The hair of the women had not been cut since their capture. Long hair tends to be favored in slave girls, as it is attractive and there is much that can be done with it, both cosmetically and in the performance of their more intimate tasks. It may also serve, upon occasion, as a bond. Cutting the hair short, or shaving the head, is normally a punishment. To be sure, much depends on the tasks to which the girl is set. Long hair is less practical, for example, if she is to be put to the cleaning of stables. The length, style, arrangement and such of a slave’s hair, is, as one would expect, a function of the will of the master. She must wear it as it pleases him, and may make no changes without his permission. It is so, of course, in effect, with the grooming of any animal.

“How shamed must be Gerune, to see her garments, her jewelries, thus displayed on the bodies of mere slaves,” said Otto.

“Yes,” said Julian, approvingly.

“Do you not feel sorry for her?” asked Otto.

“As she is a free woman, and I am a free man, in a sense, of course,” said Julian. “But if she were a slave, then I would not feel sorry for her.”

“No,” said Otto. “One would not feel sorry for her then.”

“Then she herself would be only a slave,” said Julian.

“Yes,” said Otto.

“Behold, milord,” called Huta. “I dip within the consecrated blood, the blood of truth, the plain cloth, innocent of all design and preparation, and call upon the ten thousand gods of Timbri, if it be their will, to vouchsafe us a sign.”

She thrust her white-clad arms, to the elbows, into the container of blood, plunging the cloth into the liquid, then she straightened up, her sleeves scarlet with blood, but holding the cloth beneath the surface of the blood, it now stirred about her submerged wrists. “Vouchsafe us a sign, O gods of the Timbri!” she cried. Then she drew the cloth from the liquid and held it up, first to the dais, then turning, showing it to the crowd on all sides. Men cried out with awe. Women screamed.

“Aiii!” cried Otto.

The cloth bore upon its surface, outlined in blood, the sign of the Ortungs.

“The auspices have been taken,” announced Huta.

“Come forward,” Ortog called to Otto, who stepped before the dais, followed by Julian.

The priestess Huta handed the cloth, it bearing the sign of the Ortungs, to another priestess, who folded it carefully, and carried it away.

“You are Otto, claiming to be chieftain of the Wolfungs,” said Ortog.

“I am Otto, chieftain of the Wolfungs,” said Otto.

“Let him be chieftain,” whispered the clerk to Ortog. “He must be chieftain, for the matter to be proper.”

“I salute you,” said Ortog, lifting his hand, “chieftain of the Wolfungs.”

“I am chieftain of the Wolfungs,” Otto said. “Salute me,” said Ortog.

“I salute you,” said Otto, lifting his hand, “Ortog, prince of the Drisriaks.”

“And king of the Ortungs,” said Ortog.

“And king of the Ortungs,” said Otto.

There was then much cheering in the enclosure, the raising of weapons, the clashing of them. Pistols, too, and rifles, were fired into the air. It seemed even, far off, that there was, too, the sound of gunfire.

“We do not need your recognition to be what we are, a sovereign tribe of the Alemanni peoples, the Ortungs,” said Ortog.

“In any event,” said Otto, “you have it.”

“Long live the Ortungs!” cried an ambassador.

“Long live the Ortungs!” cried others.

“You have what you wanted,” said Otto. “Now I would have what I want, that the predations of the Ortungs against the Wolfungs cease.”

“‘Predations’?” asked Ortog.

“The Wolfungs are tributary to the Ortungs,” said the clerk.

“That the Ortungs renounce all claim to the Wolfungs as tributaries,” said Otto.

“But we are fond of the Wolfungs,” said Ortog, grinning.

“Especially of their women,” called a man from the side.

There was laughter.

“This matter rests,” said Otto, “as I understand it, on the outcome of the challenge.”

“Agreed,” said Ortog.

“It is you who will meet me?” inquired Otto.

“No,” said Ortog.

“You will choose weapons, then, and a champion, as is your right,” said Otto.

Once before Ortog and Otto had met in combat. It had occurred on a square of sand, in a small arena, one improvised in a section of the Alaria’s gigantic hold. Otto was then a gladiator, being groomed by Pulendius, master of the school of Pulendius, and his trainers, for matches in major arenas.

The experience was not one which Ortog was eager to repeat, nor was it one which he could, in justice, have been expected to repeat.

Ortog was a king, not a pit killer. It was no dishonor for an unarmed, naked man to decline to enter the lair of a vi-cat. Even Abrogastes, his father, lord of the Drisriaks, fierce and terrible, would not be expected to accept such an invitation. Such a thing would not be courage, but insanity.

Too, there were some risks to which a king, if only in virtue of his responsibilities, should not subject himself.

“The arrangements will be explained to you by my advisor and confidante, Huta, of the Timbri,” said Ortog.

There was laughter.

“What is one, and what is many?” inquired Huta.

“I do not understand,” said Otto.

“Are the stars many?” asked Huta.

“Yes,” said Otto.

“But they are all stars, are they not?” asked Huta.

“Yes,” said Otto.

“Thus they are also one,” said Huta.

“I do not understand,” said Otto.

“Is the principle of individuation, of oneness, one of form or matter?” she asked.

“I do not understand,” said Otto.

“Many can be one, and one can be many,” she said.

“I do not understand her speech,” said Otto. “Perhaps she is very wise.”

“Or mad, or clever,” said Julian.

“Bring forth, milord, the champion,” said Huta.

“Bring forth the champion,” said Ortog.

From back, from among the men, a large, simple, slow-moving fellow, blond and blue-eyed, was led forth by the arm. He was very large, and broad-shouldered, but soft, and carried no weapons. His eyes were glazed. He did not seem clearly aware of what was about him.

“He is drunk, or drugged,” said Julian.

“Choose another champion,” said Otto.

“Behold, the champion!” said Ortog, and gestured, again, to the side.

Another such fellow, seemingly identical to the first, was led forth.

“They are the same,” said Otto, puzzled.

“Twins,” said Julian.

“Bring forth the champion!” called Ortog, again.

Another such fellow was conducted forth.

“I am to fight three?” asked Otto.

But again, and again, the call for the champion was issued. Then, at the end, as the crowd stood quiet, uneasy, there were brought before the dais ten such fellows, seemingly somnolent, narcotized. Men supported some of them.

“It is called cloning,” said Julian. “It is a process whereby genetic identicals may be produced.”

“There is the champion,” said Huta, pointing to the ten men before the dais.

“That is ten champions,” said Julian.

“It is one,” said Huta. “They are one!”

“Ten!” said Julian.

“Were you given permission to speak, thrall?” asked Huta. Let his tongue be cut out!” she cried to Ortog.

“No,” said Ortog.

“They do not seem to be fighters,” said Otto.

“They are not,” said Ortog.

“They are drunk, or sick,” speculated Otto.

“Drunk, or drugged,” said Julian.

“They will not be quick,” said Otto.

“They do not need to be,” said Ortog.

“Surely I am to fight them all, at the same time?” said Otto.

“You will meet them one at a time,” said Ortog.

“I do not understand,” said Otto.

“Do you not fear he will win, milord?” inquired the clerk.

“No,” smiled Ortog.

“Does milord intend to surrender so lightly his rights to the property and women of the Wolfungs?” asked Ortog’s shieldsman.

“Not at all,” said Ortog.

“The king of the Ortungs is generous,” said Otto. “But I beg his indulgence, and request that he put before me a true fighter, a suitable champion, if he wishes, his finest warrior.”

“I am he,” said Ortog. “How else is it that I have rings to give?”

“Then meet me,” said Otto, puzzled.

“No,” said Ortog.

“I do not wish to slay drunken, or drugged, men,” said Otto.

“Why have these champions been drugged?” asked Julian.

“That the champion be not too much aware of what is occurring,” said Ortog.

“I do not understand,” said Otto.

“Bring forth the device,” said Ortog.

“Do not do this thing, my brother!” cried out Gerune.

“Be silent, shamed woman,” he snarled.

“She spoke without permission,” said Julian.

“She is free,” said Otto.

“If she were roped at my feet, as a slave,” said Julian, “she would not have dared to speak.”

“No,” said Otto, “but then things would be quite different.”

“Yes,” said Julian.

“Bring forth the device!” called Ortog.

The apparatus was brought forth.

Far off, it seemed there sounded a cry, perhaps that of a bird. The wind snapped the yellow silk which, with its poles, formed the wall of the enclosure.

“Hold his arms!” cautioned Ortog.

Four men seized Otto, and held him fast. Two others restrained Julian.

Huta’s laugh rang out merrily in the enclosure.

It appeared at first a complicated device, but it was not really so. Two chairs, facing one another, with a heavy metal backing behind the head of each, were linked together beneath a small tablelike platform, on which, on an adjustable stand, its base fixed in the platform, was something which looked like a horizontal pipe, or tube. Feeding into this tube, vertically, entering it at the center, rather at the breech at the center of the horizontal tube, was another tube.

“Put them in the chairs,” said Ortog.

There was a murmur of anger from the men about.

Otto shook away those who would hold him and sat in one of the chairs. There were caliperlike grippers attached to the heavy metal backing, behind the head. He placed his head, unbidden, between these calipers, or pincers. They did not restrain his head, but merely positioned it. One could leave them only by moving forward, or downward, not to the side. Their purpose was to prevent any reflexive movements to the side.

“No!” cried Julian.

“Silence, thrall,” said Huta.

The first of the large, soft, somnolent individuals was placed in the seat opposite Otto.

“The charge,” said Huta, “is entered into the vertical tube, at this point. The tube is precisely made, as are the charges. The drop is a fair one, insofar as such things can be tooled, to the thousandths of an inch. There is, in so far as can be assured, exactly the same chance that the charge will fall to the left as to the right, exactly the same chance that it will enter the barrel to the left as the barrel to the right.”

“I understand,” said Otto.

“Do you wish to be tied in the chair?” asked a man.

“No,” said Otto.

“You can reach the trigger?” asked a man.

“Yes,” said Otto.

“If you do not wish to participate, you have lost the challenge,” said another man.

“Abandon the challenge,” urged Julian.

“I do not,” said Otto.

“It is too late to abandon the challenge,” said Ortog.

“The Ortungen are without honor!” cried Julian.

“Your ransom is doubled!” said Ortog.

“Do not interfere, my friend,” said Otto, “if you would again see your worlds.”

The pipe was being adjusted now.

The man opposite Otto was tied in the chair, not because he was unwilling to take that place, as he had little understanding of what was transpiring, but rather in order to hold him in position.

“Do you understand what they are doing?” Julian asked Otto.

“Yes,” said Otto.

“Your skills, such as they may be, and if you retain any, are herewith neutralized, completely,” said Ortog. “The outcome is a matter of chance.”

“Of probabilities,” said Julian, angrily.

“He does not need to cooperate,” said Ortog. “If he wishes, he may leave the chair, and be quickly, mercifully, put to death.”

“There is one chance in two that you will die on the first firing,” said Julian. “The chance of escaping the first firing is one in two; the chance of escaping two firings in a row is one in four; the chance of escaping three firings in a row is one in eight; of four, one in sixteen; of five, one in thirty-two; of six, one in sixty-four; of seven, one in one hundred and twenty-eight; of eight, one in two hundred and fifty-six; of nine, one in five hundred and twelve; of ten, one in one thousand and twenty-four.”

“I am ready,” said Otto.

“You cannot even count so high, my friend,” said Julian, despairing.

“I know what a thousand is,” said Otto. “I think I know. It is a great many.”

“You could have put him against dwarfs, or women!” raged Julian.

“Like the leaves of a tree, like the stones on a beach,” said Otto.

Let those who are familiar with mathematics congratulate themselves on their knowledge of a simple number, such as a thousand, but let them, too, aside from marks on paper, and procedures of counting, and such, see if they can visualize that number, say, a thousand leaves or a thousand stones. Are they visualizing a thousand, truly, or nine hundred and fifty, or a thousand and ten?

“Dwarfs are amusing,” said Ortog. “And one would surely not wish to waste women in such a manner. They have much more pleasant uses.”

“Milord!” cried Huta, in horror.

Her priestesses and acolytes gasped, too, some placing their hands to their breasts. They exchanged wild glances. Such women are vowed to chastity.

“It is a high number, surely,” said Otto.

There was one trigger for the apparatus. It was mounted on a small, movable box, which we may refer to as the trigger box, or housing. This box rested on the table. From it, an insulated cord ran to the base of the stand.

“Forgive me, Lady Huta,” said Ortog.

The pipe was adjusted on the stand. It was arranged in such a way as to be level with, and focused toward, the center of Otto’s forehead. The barrel of the pipe, its muzzle, was somewhat lower on the fellow across from Otto. It was centered there just above the bridge of the nose. This was because Otto was the taller man. The muzzle, on each side, was about four inches from the faces of the men.

“Place a charge,” said Huta.

One of the men who had been assisting the priestesses removed a spheroid from a box and dropped it into the vertical tube.

“You may fire first,” said Ortog.

“Is there any advantage in firing first?” asked Otto.

“None,” said Ortog. “The trigger fires the device. One does not know where the charge is.”

“Let him fire first then,” said Otto.

“Wait, milord!” called Hendrix, from the side. “This is not the way of the Drisriaks, nor should it be the way of the Ortungs.”

“This is not a matter of steel, of a duel in which glory may be sought, a cutting with knives, the thrust of the blade, the sort of thing of which songs are made!” cried another man.

“It has been decided,” said Ortog.

“It is a mockery of honor!” cried another.

“All has been arranged,” said Ortog, angrily.

Overhead, but muchly unnoticed, there was a flight of birds, hurrying to the west.

“I will be the champion of the Ortungs!” called Hendrix.

“And you would die!” said Ortog. He himself, on the Alaria, had once crossed blades with the seated blond giant. He had not cared to do so again.

“I am swift,” called Gundlicht, stepping forward, “Let me fight him, in the ways of honor.”

“Yes!” called others.

“Me!” called another.

“No, I!” cried another.

“He would kill any of you,” screamed Ortog.

“How can it be?” cried a man.

“Can you not see the breeding, and the blood, in him?” inquired Ortog.

“Let the match begin!” called Huta.

“He is an Otung!” called Ortog.

Otto did not move.

The men were stilled for an instant.

“Of royal blood!” cried Ortog.

“I am a peasant, from the festung village of Sim Giadini,” said Otto.

Julian regarded Otto wildly.

“I am sure of it!” said Ortog.

“They are a race of warriors, the fiercest of the Vandal peoples!” said a man.

“They were destroyed by the empire!” said another.

“The Alemanni are the greatest of all the peoples!” cried a man.

“Yes, yes!” shouted others.

Julian’s mind raced.

These cries, and the stirring of the crowd, its murmuring, and unease, tended to obscure even the sounds of the wind at the yellow silk.

“Let the match begin!” called out Huta.

“Yes,” said Ortog. “Let the match begin!”

“No, milord,” begged his shieldsman.

“It has been arranged by the priestess Huta,” said Ortog.

“Please, milord!” begged a man.

“It has been decided,” said Ortog.

“Milord!” protested another.

“Who is king of the Ortungs?” asked Ortog.

“Ortog is king of the Ortungs,” said a man.

“Let the match begin,” said Ortog.

“Let the match begin,” said men.

“Press the trigger!” said Huta.

Her words were addressed to the man fastened in the seat opposite Otto.

“The trigger! The trigger!” cried Huta.

“Here, this,” said one of the men who had been assisting the priestesses. He took the trigger housing, on its cord, running to the stand, and put it in the hands of the fellow opposite Otto.

“Wait,” said another man, he who had also been assisting the priestesses. He thrust up, and back, the head of the man opposite Otto, indeed, he held his head in place by the hair, pulling it back, that it would be properly positioned within the caliperlike grips attached to the shielding at the back of the seat.

“Press the trigger,” said the first man.

“Trigger?” asked the lethargic form in the chair across from the chieftain of the Wolfungs.

“This, this,” said the first man.

“I am the champion?” asked the man across from Otto.

“Yes, you and the others, they are all the champion,” said the man who had literally thrust the trigger housing into the fellow’s hands.

“It is glorious to be the champion,” said the lethargic creature, slowly.

“Yes, yes!” said the man near him.

“I am glorious?” asked the lethargic form.

“Yes! Press the trigger!” said the man.

A second flight of birds passed overhead, hurrying like the first, to the west.

The finger of the fellow opposite Otto slowly moved toward the trigger, or switch, and rested upon it.

“Press it!” said the man nearest him.

There was a sudden flash of fire and light, and a cry of horror from men, and screams from slave girls, and the fellow who had been standing behind the shielding of the fellow across from Otto, holding the fellow’s head up, and back, by the hair, now held, dangling from his hand by the hair, half of a head, the eyes opened wildly, no longer seemingly dazed. There was a slick matting, smoking, of blood and flesh and brains smeared upon, and dripping from, the shielding across from Otto. Blood pumped up, like an underground spring, through the throat, and spilled out, over the remains of the lower jaw.

Gerune screamed and threw her hands before her face. Slave girls wept, and put down their heads, shuddering, sickened. Some retched onto the grass. Many, those who could do so, buried their face in their chained hands. The three display slaves turned away, sick, moaning in horror, in their chains.

“Get rid of that!” screamed Huta, pointing to the most of a body, still fastened opposite Otto.

“Bring the champion!” called Ortog, shaken.

The remainder of the man who had been fastened opposite Otto was freed from its place and dragged to one side.

Another man, another of the original ten, the champion, or champions, if you like, was dragged toward the chair.

“No!” he cried. It was the sight of what was before him, I suppose, the spattering, the stew, of blood and flesh, the cast-aside part of a head, the bleeding, still-convulsing body of the other, that had shocked him into some sort of soberness, or awareness.

He was wrestled into this place, and bound there, bodily, save for his arms.

“No!” he cried.

Another charge was placed in the device.

“No, no!” he cried.

“Press the trigger or die!” cried Ortog.

The fellow’s hand, shaking, reached toward the trigger.

But his hand did not reach the trigger box, for Otto had swept it toward himself.

He then rose from the chair, to the consternation of all.

“What are you doing?” cried Huta.

Otto’s hand was on the adjustable stand, that which provided the mount, the support, for the barrel. He tore this stand, in a rending of metal, from the platform.

“Sit down! Take your place!” cried the fellow who had placed the spheroidal charge, it now dormant, like an unexploded bomb, within the apparatus.

“Do so!” cried the other, his fellow.

“The challenge has been met, and I am victorious,” announced Otto.

“No, no!” cried Ortog.

Otto then set the device against himself, one barrel at his own chest, the other, opposite, trained on the breast of Ortog, who rose from his chair, turning white.

Swords leapt from sheaths, weapons, with small, swift sounds, darted from holsters.

“Kill him, kill him!” screamed Huta.

“No, no!” cried Ortog, thrusting aside his chair, backing away a step.

Otto’s finger was on the trigger of the device. It was there tightly, the tiniest particle of energy away from activating it. The smallest reflex, the slightest jerk, as of a blow striking him, the lash or thrust of a blade, the impact of a projectile, even the breath of a ray, would fire the device.

“Has the challenge not been met?” inquired Otto. “Am I not victorious?

The opposing barrels of the device, torn from the tablelike platform, were aligned, the rear barrel to the chest of Otto, the forward barrel to toward the dais, and the breast of Ortog.

Ortog’s shieldsman inched toward his lord.

“Do not move!” cried Otto, fiercely.

“Go back,” said Ortog, softly. The flash leaves the barrel with almost the speed of light.

The shieldsman returned to his place.

Ortog seemed much alone now on the dais.

His high men had drawn away from him. Gerune now was closest to him.

At the foot of the dais, on its left, looking outward, even the display slaves drew away, to the extent they could, huddling down, terrified. Their chains were taut against the common ring.

Otto was ringed with weapons. He paid them no attention.

“Well, milord,” said Otto. “Who has won the challenge?”

Ortog drew himself up.

He was king.

“The tribute of the Wolfungs is as nothing,” said the clerk.

“You can buy their women, or others, doubtless better, in a thousand markets,” said his shieldsman.

“The Wolfung has won, milord,” called Hendrix.

“The challenge has been met, and survived, milord!” called Gundlicht.

“The Ortungs are now a recognized tribe,” said his shieldsman, urgently.

“That is what we want,” said the clerk.

“Give him the liberty of the Wolfungs, as a gift,” pressed his shieldsman.

“I have won their liberty,” said Otto.

“I await your answer, milord,” said Otto.

“The challenge has been met,” said Ortog.

There was a cheer from the men present.

“No, no!” cried Huta.

“You are victorious,” said Ortog.

Otto lowered the device.

Weapons were sheathed.

“No, no, milord!” cried Huta.

“Be silent, woman,” said Julian.

“Chained thrall!” screamed Huta. She tried to strike Julian but he caught her wrists, and she struggled, briefly, futilely, helplessly.

The other priestesses, and acolytes, cried out with dismay.

“Respect the sacred person of the priestess!” cried Ortog.

“She is only a woman,” said Julian.

The priestess cried out in fury.

There were cries of protest, too, from her fellow priestesses, and the acolytes.

“Unhand her,” demanded Ortog.

Julian then flung her hands down, contemptuously, away from him. She staggered back.

There seemed cries, too, somehow, those of men, from some distance to the east.

“I hear something,” said a man.

“I, too,” said another.

“Press the trigger, Wolfung,” said Ortog to Otto.

“As milord wishes,” said Otto.

“Yes, I hear it!” cried a man.

Some of the kneeling slave girls raised their heads in alarm, looking about themselves. The three display slaves looked about themselves, trying to place the sound.

“It is coming from the east,” said a man.

Otto pressed the trigger on the trigger housing, held in his hand. Almost instantly there burst from the forward barrel, that which had been trained on the breast of Ortog, it now held downward to Otto’s right, a flash of fire. It tore open the turf. A hole now gaped there, better than six inches in width, and indeterminately deep. It smoked. Grass was charred at the edges.

Ortog turned white.

Men shuddered.

“Now you may kill him, milord!” cried Huta.

“Be silent, woman!” cried men.

“No!” she cried. “No!”

“Listen!” cried a man.

“I am priestess of the Timbri!” cried Huta.

“Be silent!” cried a man.

“Listen, listen!” cried another.

Ortog raised his head, listening.

At that moment, suddenly, almost noiselessly, over the curtain, or wall, of yellow silk to the right, to the east, there appeared the dark, circular shape of a hoverer. It was not more than a yard above the silk. Leaning over the gunwales of the ship were riflemen. Rifle fire ripped downward, tearing into the throng. Then there was another such ship, and more fire. Men tried to run. Circular holes appeared suddenly, black-rimmed, and spreading, in the yellow wall. Armed men were seen on the other side. Slave girls screamed. Some leapt up and fell, tangled in their chains. Men cried out. Men pushed against one another, and buffeted one another. Many fell, stumbling over others. Otto seized Julian and flung him to the ground. Fire from the ground swept upward. More of the small, circular ships passed over the enclosure. Gerune huddled on the dais, her robes over her head. Wood splintered, burning, about her. Julian freed himself of Otto’s grasp and, half hobbling, half crawling, fighting his chains, made his way to the dais. “How dare you touch me!” cried Gerune. But Julian had drawn her, forcibly, from the dais, and behind it, where he thrust her beneath its timbers. The three display slaves, too, had taken refuge there, and huddled helplessly there, in the smoke and fire. Others, too, slave and free, had fled beneath it. Men fled to the west, but some there reeled and fell, plunging backward, their chests smoking. Ortog stood on the dais, a pistol in his hand. He fired upward. None of the ships returned his fire. “There is another!” cried a man in misery. More fire was exchanged. Otto hurried to the dais and joined Julian. “It is lost!” said Otto. Men fired upward. More of the shallow, circular ships passed over the enclosure. “Where is he who holds the key to your chains?” demanded Otto. Julian looked about himself, wildly. “I do not know,” said Julian, pulling at the chains. “There!” cried Julian. “There!” He pointed to a body near the front of the dais, that of one of Ortog’s yeoman. Otto crawled to the body and drew it under the dais, and tore away the wallet at its belt. In moments he had freed Julian of his bonds. “We must flee,” said Otto.

“I will not leave without her,” said Julian, indicating Gerune.

She looked at him, wildly.

“You love me!” cried Gerune.

“You can judge of that when you are whipped,” exclaimed Julian, angrily.

“Dog!” she wept.

“We must flee!” said Otto, seizing Julian by the arm.

“It is no use,” said a man. “We are surrounded.”

On the surface of the flaming, blackened, splintered dais, Ortog stood, alone, cursing, firing his pistol into the air, at the ships. He had not been fired upon. No one had returned his fire. Then, cursing, he flung his empty pistol from him.

Already, in the enclosure, men were standing, their hands lifted, their weapons cast aside.

Some of the slaves, who were out in the enclosure, knelt, lifting their chained wrists imploringly, beseechingly, to the ships. Then they put their heads down to the ground. Others, whose wrists were fastened behind them, already knelt with their heads to the ground, weeping, hoping to be spared, rendering obeisance to they knew not whom.

“Slaves, out,” called one of the surrendering men, his hands raised.

The slaves who had taken refuge under the dais, with the exception of the three display slaves, who were chained in place, crept out, and went to the center of the enclosure, to kneel there, with the others. The three display slaves emerged from beneath the dais, and knelt there, as they had before. Their chains would permit them no more.

Ortog stood on the surface of the dais, alone.

Otto and Julian emerged from beneath the dais.

Otto went toward the center of the enclosure. He did not raise his hands, but he was unarmed, and he stood in full view of the ships. It was obvious that he did not intend to offer any resistance. “Do not raise your arms,” said Otto to Julian. “We are not as the others, and I want them to understand that.”

And so resistance was ended within the enclosure. There were slaves there, and priestesses, and acolytes, and many men, traders and others. Most of the men, with the exception of Ortog, and Otto, and Julian, stood with their arms raised.

They were vulnerable to the ships.

Too, they were clearly surrounded. They could see armed warriors about, many of them even within the remains of the enclosure, the tattered, burned yellow silk here and there fluttering from shattered, awry poles, like flags.

Then a ship, moving very slowly, appeared above the remains of the wall of silk. It approached the center of the enclosure, and then stopped there, and remained in place, some twenty feet in the air. A man stood at the bow, with his hands on the gunwales of the small vessel.

“It is Abrogastes,” said a man, “lord of the Drisriaks.”