The Captain

CHAPTER 11

“Aii!” cried men, drawing back.

The sound is difficult to describe, but it is one that, once heard, is not to be soon forgotten.

It is too swift to be a tearing sound.

But, too, it is not like the descending ease of a curved blade, little more than a momentary whisper, the stroke delivered from behind, dividing the vertebrae, opening the neck, then arrested, with the small, sharp sound of touching wood.

It is much more crude than that.

It is more analogous to the blow of an ax, held in two hands, delivered downward, striking crosswise into a felled log, except that it lacks that ring, the resonance of men making their marks on the world, shaping wood to their ends. It is more like the sudden chopping through a different material, through, say, a twisted vine, and thence further vegetable matter, the sound not altogether unlike that of splitting a gourd or melon, the blow then stopped, muffled, the sound not clean or sharp, by the weighty, rude, scarred surface of the base. The muffling of the sound has to do with the damping effect, the insulation, so to speak, provided by the intervening material, that between the instrument and the base. There is little splintering, too, or what there is, better, tends to be obscured, the intervening material providing shielding from the bursting chips and needles of wood that would attend, say, the blow of an ax into wood. Too, of course, the base tends to be washed with fluid, after each stroke, suddenly, plentifully, and this causes many of the small particles of wood, drenched, to run down the sides of the base. The wielder of the instrument, wearing a large, leather workman’s apron, stands before his work. In this fashion, the blood, for the most part, of which there is a great quantity, and which tends to leave the body with considerable force, sometimes to a distance of several feet, reaches him. Indeed, one cannot stand before the object of attention without being drenched with it. Indeed, sometimes the operator, or workman, if you prefer, is even temporarily blinded by it, and must wipe it from his eyes with the back of a forearm. This orientation, that before, or behind, if one wished, the object of attention, has to do with the manner in which the blade is fixed on the haft, or handle. If it were an ax, for example, the operator, or workman, so to speak, would merely have to stand to one side or the other, each operator, or workman, in such a business, having his preferred side, some preferring the left, others the right. One normally stands before the object of attention, of course, rather than behind it, because this orientation provides a much better access to it. The blow may be more accurately, and surely, delivered. The sound, it might be mentioned, is also conditioned by the fact that the blade is, purposefully, not ground as closely as that of an ax. It is, by intent, duller. The whole matter then has a certain roughness about it. One dares not speak of terribleness, or brutality here, for fear of injecting value judgments into the narrative. My purpose is not to praise or blame, but to recount, simply to relate, what happened. There is a conjecture that the adz is used, incidentally, imperfect implement as it might seem for such a purpose, precisely because it, unlike the ax, is not a weapon. Indeed, its deliberate dullness may be intended to emphasize that fact. To die by a weapon, you see, is regarded among certain warrior peoples as a very desirable end. Indeed, there is a thought among many of them that it is not only honorable, but glorious, to so perish, and that those who do so perish are beloved by the gods of war, such as Kragon, and are thence made welcome in a thousand halls and worlds beyond the stars, where they may feast and fight to their heart’s content, until the end of time, until the stars grow cold, and the halls themselves, like the stars, grow dim and vanish. But there is no honor, you see, in dying by the adz. It is shameful to die so. It is not a weapon. It is a tool. Indeed, it is not even wielded by a warrior, but rather, and intentionally, by a workman. And how then, if one should perish so, so shamefully, so disgracefully, could one hope to enter into the far halls? Would one not find at the entrance the spear of Kragon barring one’s way? Perhaps, at best, one might hope to glimpse the lights of such halls from afar, set among distant snowy hills, looking up from one’s labors, those of the lowliest of villeins, in the darkness.

Abrogastes, on the throne, on the dais, in the same tent in which Ortog had held his court earlier, made a sign with his hand.

Women cried out with misery, recoiling.

Yes, it is a terrible thing to die so.

In a moment, Abrogastes made another sign.

It is not a sound that is easy to forget.

“Those!” said Abrogastes. “Bring them forward!”

Nine men were brought forward, the large, simple, blond-haired, blue-eyed men who had figured in the challenge, that pertaining to the status of the Wolfungs.

Abrogastes regarded them, curiously.

“They are much the same,” he said.

“They are one, milord!” called the priestess Huta, from the side.

“You set ten men on one?” Abrogastes asked Ortog, who, bound, and in the charge of two Drisriaks, stood below the dais.

“One at a time,” said Ortog.

“In some machine, one at a time, which might kill either champion, regardless of courage or skill?”

Ortog was silent.

These things and their rationale, of course, had been explained to Abrogastes.

“And how will that improve the bloodlines?” asked Abrogastes.

Ortog looked away.

“And how can such a thing please the gods?” asked Abrogastes.

Ortog did not respond.

“Were there such a thing as the Ortungs,” said Abrogastes, “they would be shamed.”

“We are shamed, my father,” said Ortog.

“It dishonors our traditions, it mocks the ceremony of war, it shames the ritual of challenge.”

“It permits the gods to decide,” said Ortog.

“Do not slander the gods,” said Abrogastes. “Do not put upon them the business of men. They wait upon men, to see what they will do. Men must be brave, and glorious, first, to win the favor of the gods. The friendship of the gods is not easily earned. It is a hard thing, and requires much effort.”

“I think there are no gods,” said Ortog.

“Blasphemy, milord!” cried Huta. She stood out a bit, in her white robes, with the bloodstained sleeves, from her fellow priestesses and acolytes.

“These are the champion?” asked Abrogastes of Huta.

“Yes,” said Huta.

“And they are one?”

“Yes!”

“But one died in the device, did he not?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said Huta.

“So one is dead, is he not?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said Huta.

“And they are one?” asked Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said Huta.

“Then they are all dead,” said Abrogastes.

“Milord?” asked Huta.

“Kill it,” said Abrogastes, indicating the nine men before him. Each then, who might have been a sturdy yeoman, patiently tilling his land, who might have hunted, and skated on frozen rivers, and climbed snowy mountains, and warmed himself at night with bowls of soup, cooked by a loving wife, was taken to the block where the workman, with one or more blows of the great adz, attended to his labors.

“Your champion is dead,” said Abrogastes to Ortog.

“Yes,” cried Huta. “The champion of the Ortungs is dead! Long live the Drisriaks!”

Hendrix and Gundlicht, in their bonds, turned angry glances upon the priestess.

“Long live Abrogastes! Long live the Drisriaks!” cried Huta.

“Why did you yourself not meet the challenge?” asked Abrogastes of Ortog.

“The Wolfung would have killed me,” said Ortog.

“Then choose another,” said Abrogastes.

“I know none whom he could not kill,” said Ortog, angrily.

“The challenge then should have been surrendered, in honor,” said Abrogastes.

Ortog shrugged.

“He can kill you?” asked Abrogastes of Ortog, regarding Otto narrowly.

“Yes,” said Ortog.

“How is that?” asked Abrogastes.

“He is an Otung, and has been trained in arenas,” said Ortog.

“Is that true?” asked Abrogastes.

“I am a peasant,” said Otto, standing, unbound, Julian slightly behind him, “from the festung village of Sim Giadini, on Tangara. It is true that I have fought for the pleasure of populaces.”

“Many times?” asked Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said Otto.

“He is chieftain, too, of the Wolfungs!” cried Huta.

“Yes,” said Otto.

“The Wolfungs are tributary to the Drisriaks,” said Abrogastes.

“No,” said Otto.

There was laughter from many Drisriak warriors.

“You won the challenge,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said Otto.

“But it was meaningless, unnecessary,” said Abrogastes, “for the Ortungs do not exist.”

“I have recognized them,” said Otto, quietly.

There were gasps of surprise from those present.

Ortog, Gundlicht, Hendrix, Ortog’s shieldsman, his clerk, others in the hall, turned wildly, elatedly, toward Otto.

“Do not speak so!” whispered Julian, startled.

“It is so spoken,” said Otto, folding his arms upon his mighty chest.

“The Ortungs, as of today, no longer exist,” said Abrogastes.

Otto shrugged.

“How is that, my father?” inquired Ortog.

“They have been destroyed, their camps, their fleet,” said Abrogastes.

Ortungs looked upon one another with dismay.

“Surely some have escaped!” cried Ortog.

“Perhaps, some, fugitives, filchen, fleeing for their lives.”

Gerune, who, unbound, in the full regalia in which she had witnessed the matter of the challenge, and its resolution, was sitting on the dais, on a chair, to the left of her father, put her face in her hands and wept.

“The Ortungs are no more,” said Abrogastes. “They are as grass, cast to the winds.”

Gerune’s body shook with sobs.

“Faithless daughter,” said Abrogastes.

“Long live Abrogastes! Long live the Drisriaks!” called Huta.

“Traitorous son,” snarled Abrogastes.

“To the block with him!” called a man.

“To the block with the traitorous princess, too!” called a man.

Gerune looked up, in terror.

“Yes!” cried Huta.

“Both betrayed the Drisriaks!” cried a man.

“Yes, yes!” said Huta.

“To the block with them both!” cried men.

“No, no, Father!” wept Gerune, falling to her knees before her father. His arm swept her to the side, and she then half knelt, half lay, by her chair, looking wildly about her.

“To the block with them both, and all the Ortungs!” cried men.

“Yes!” cried Huta.

“Some Ortungs have sworn me allegiance,” said Abrogastes. “I have given rings to some.”

Ortog looked up, suddenly, at his father. Other Ortungs, too, suddenly, wildly, regarded him.

“The fault, it seems, was not theirs,” said Abrogastes. “They were misled.”

“Who here was misled?” asked Abrogastes.

“I,” cried a man.

“I,” cried another.

“And I, too,” cried others.

“Were you weak and foolish?” asked Abrogastes.

“Yes,” they cried.

“Take them to the block,” said Abrogastes.

“No, mercy!” cried men.

But again, and then again, and then again the brawny, leather-aproned workman raised the mighty implement, the long-handled, heavy adz.

Even some of the Drisriaks turned away.

The heavy blade, by now, you see, was muchly dulled.

Abrogastes looked about himself, at his men, at Ortog, at Gerune, the shieldsman, the clerk, Hendrix and Gundlicht, merchants, ambassadors, warriors, Otto, Julian, Huta, the priestesses and acolytes, huddled to one side, and others.

The eyes of Abrogastes glistened.

The ground ran with blood. Some of the reeds, which had covered the earth within the tent, were soaked with blood. Parts of some, crushed and broken, drifted in shallow currents. Here and there, streams of blood, increased by new contributions, ran among the feet of those standing. Here and there, too, stood pools of blood. Many present, in the vicinity of the block, were spattered with it. Much of the earth within the tent was now no more than churned mud. Blood filled even the depressions of footprints. Body after body, and the parts thereof, were drawn, or thrown, outside. The cries of scavenging birds could be heard. They had come, many of them, from the grove, that on the approach to the place of the sacrifices. Too, like leaves, swarming and rustling, crept keen-sensed filchen, come from acres about, many, too, from the grove, gathering excitedly, as at a dump of offal.

“You, forward!” said Abrogastes. He pointed at one of the few Ortungs left.

The fellow, his arms pinioned behind him, was pushed forward.

“Will you serve me?” asked Abrogastes.

“Yes,” said the man.

“Take him to the block,” said Abrogastes.

“Kill me with a weapon,” he begged, “that I may die well, that I may perish honorably!”

Abrogastes lifted his hand.

“That I may be permitted to go to the halls of the gods!” begged the man.

Abrogastes made a sign with his hand.

It took the adz, even with its weight and leverage, three strokes to complete its work.

“It was a hard one, a tough one,” said a man.

“Yes,” said another man.

“But it is the tool, too,” said a man. “Its edge is flattened.”

“Yes,” said another man.

The head of the implement, and the handle, to a foot below the blade, were thick with the slime of flesh and tissue.

The workman wiped his broad face, and spit to the side. He squinted. He blinked, again and again. His eyes stung with sweat. It ran, too, down his face and neck, profusely, and his chest, and his arms and legs. His body was slick with sweat and blood.

Abrogastes looked about.

Men shrank back.

“Those women,” said Abrogastes, “put them forward.”

“They are my maidens!” said Gerune. “Take pity on them!”

Ten women were pushed forward.

“Those, too,” said Abrogastes.

Ten older women, too, of diverse births and station, attendants also on the princess, one of whom had carried away the jewelry and garments of Gerune from the council tent earlier, at the command of Ortog, were thrust forward.

“Remove their clothing,” said Abrogastes.

“Father!” protested Gerune.

“Of those, too,” said Abrogastes.

“Please, no, Father!” begged Gerune.

Then the two groups of women stood in the tent, in the scarlet mud, in accordance with the words of Abrogastes, lord of the Drisriaks.

“I am thinking of making these women slaves, all of them,” said Abrogastes to Huta, priestess of the Timbri.

“No, milord!” cried the women. “Please, no, milord!”

They fell to their knees in the dark mud, moaning, weeping, and crying out, some extending their hands to Abrogastes for mercy.

“What think you, milady?” asked Abrogastes of Huta. “Do you think these women might be suitable for slaves?”

He indicated the two groups of women, the maidens and the older women.

“Eminently so, milord,” said Huta.

“I think you are right,” said Abrogastes.

“One can see that they are slaves,” said Huta.

“Take them to the ships, and make them slaves,” said Abrogastes.

“Excellent, milord,” called Huta.

The two groups of women, weeping, were dragged to their feet and hurried from the tent.

“They are not slaves!” said Gerune.

“They will be, by nightfall,” said Abrogastes.

Huta laughed.

In the council tent, there were, incidentally, no female slaves. Those, including the three blond display slaves we have referred to earlier, had all been gathered together, outside, and taken, bound hand and foot, in the small ships, the hoverers and floaters, to the larger shuttlers, some distance away, which would communicate with the corsairs, or lionships, in orbit. By now, unbound and stripped, each was in her tiered kennel, the gate’s bars thrust shut, and locked in place.

“He!” said Abrogastes. “Bring him forward!”

The clerk was thrust forward. His hands were bound behind his back, with cord.

“Are you Ortung?” inquired Abrogastes.

“No, milord,” said the clerk.

“Are you Telnarian?”

“No, milord.”

“You can read and write,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said the clerk.

“Have you taken fee with Ortog?”

“Yes, milord,” said the clerk.

“Have you served him well?”

“I have done my best to serve him well,” said the clerk.

“What are your feelings toward the treacherous prince of the Drisriaks?” asked Abrogastes.

“My feelings, milord?” asked the clerk.

“You hate him, and have served him only out of fear, and have been secretly revolted by his treachery,” suggested Abrogastes.

“I am sorry, milord,” said the clerk. “I cannot in truth give you the answer you desire.”

“Have you received rings from him?”

“One such as I does not receive rings, milord,” said the clerk.

“You are his friend?”

“My station is not such that I might be his friend,” said the clerk.

“Yet you have served him well?”

“I have always endeavored to do so, milord,” said the clerk.

“Free him,” said Abrogastes.

The clerk, to his wonder, was freed.

“As you served the Ortungs,” said Abrogastes, “so you will now serve the Drisriaks.”

“Yes, milord,” said the clerk.

Abrogastes then turned his attention to Ortog.

“I would be reconciled with my father,” said Ortog.

Abrogastes then regarded the shieldsman, bound to one side. “You are shieldsman to Ortog, prince of the Drisriaks?” asked Abrogastes.

“To Ortog, prince of the Drisriaks,” said the shieldsman, “and, too, king of the Ortungen!”

Men gasped.

“What is the duty of a shieldsman?” inquired Abrogastes.

“To place the life of his lord above his own,” said the shieldsman.

“A shieldsman should then die before his lord,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said the man.

“Take him to the block,” said Abrogastes.

“Hold!” cried the man.

Abrogastes lifted his hand.

“Let it be by the ax, or the blade of some weapon,” said the man.

“Lord!” cried Hendrix, suddenly, angrily, from where he stood, bound, amid Drisriak warriors. “Reflect! Show mercy to your son! These things are not his fault, though he may have been weak. If you seek blame here look no further than the wicked Huta, priestess of the Timbri!”

“No!” cried Huta, alarmed.

“Your son fell beneath her baneful influence,” said Hendrix. “It was to her readings, her prophecies, and wiles and tricks, that Ortog succumbed. It was she who led him astray!”

“No,” said Ortog, “I would break, in any event, from the Drisriaks.”

“Were you unlike him in your youth, milord?” called Gundlicht, he, too, bound, near Hendrix.

“I am king of the Drisriaks,” said Abrogastes.

“And what if you had not been?” asked Gundlicht.

“But he has lost,” said Abrogastes.

“It is Huta who is to blame!” called Hendrix.

“It is true she enflamed his ambition, and led him on,” said Gundlicht.

“Is this true, Lady Huta?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Certainly not, milord!” said Huta. “I am priestess of the Timbri, the humble and obedient servant of the ten thousand gods of the Timbri. I, and my sisters, are holy women, sworn to chastity, sacred virgins all. We have no interest in the affairs of the world! We have no interests in material goods!”

“And what of power?” asked Abrogastes.

“We have, of course, no interest in such things,” said Huta.

“I am not fond of the rites of the Timbri,” said Abrogastes.

Otto recalled the sacrifices, those on the plateau above the grove.

“Forgive me, milord,” said Huta. “But it is not the place of their priestesses to question the observances and appointments of the ten thousand gods. It is ours only to humbly do their will.”

“I have heard there were signs,” said Abrogastes. “Is that true?” he asked Ortog.

Ortog shrugged in his bonds.

“Yes,” said Huta suddenly, elatedly, “we can prove our teachings, and our truth, by signs!”

“It seems the signs were false,” said Abrogastes.

“Perhaps the priestesses of the Timbri may prove to be of use to you, milord,” said Huta.

“But the signs were false,” said Abrogastes.

“They are never false,” said Huta.

“But did they not favor the Ortungs?” asked Abrogastes.

“Once, perhaps,” said Huta.

“Not long ago?” asked Abrogastes.

“Might they not have been misread?” called one of the older priestesses.

“Perhaps,” said Huta, apprehensively.

“It is sometimes difficult to read the signs, milord,” called one of the priestesses.

“The matter can be dark and difficult,” said another.

“But,” cried Huta, “might it not be that the will of the gods has changed?”

“Yes!” cried a priestess.

“Yes!” said another.

“Can it be that the will of the gods has changed?” asked Huta.

“It is possible,” cried a priestess.

“Yes!” averred another.

“Let us take again the auspices,” said one of the priestesses.

Hendrix laughed, bitterly.

Abrogastes lifted his hand, for silence.

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

“I will bring one,” said one of the priestesses. It was she who had, earlier, outside, fetched another cloth, that which, after having been soaked in blood, had borne upon its surface, as though emblazoned there, the sign of the Ortungs.

In moments the priestess, under guard, had returned to the tent, bearing with her a roll of cloth, tied closed with a string.

She gave this cloth into the hands of Huta, and retired to her place.

Huta undid the string and unrolled the cloth, which, like the other, was some two-foot square.

She turned about, solemnly, displaying the cloth to those in the tent.

Then she faced Abrogastes.

“Would you care to inspect the cloth, milord?” asked Huta of Abrogastes.

“Use another cloth,” suggested Hendrix.

“It would not do,” said Huta, patiently, “as it would not have been blessed on the world of the Timbri.”

“Milord?” she asked Abrogastes.

“I do not need to examine the cloth,” said Abrogastes.

“Let the auspices be taken!” called a priestess.

“Let the auspices be taken,” repeated the priestesses, and the acolytes.

“Milord!” protested Hendrix.

But Abrogastes lifted his hand, and there was silence. Huta knelt down in the tent, at the edge of a depression, one of those pools in the tent, smelling, and thick, half blood, half mud. “Let the blood be consecrated!” called the priestess who had brought the cloth.

“It is consecrated!” said the priestesses.

“It is consecrated,” said the acolytes.

“Let it be the blood of truth,” called the priestess who had brought the cloth.

“It is now the blood of truth,” said Huta.

“It is the blood of truth,” said the priestesses.

“It is the blood of truth,” called the acolytes.

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

The cloth was pressed down, into the liquid, into the thickness of the half-clotted blood, in the mud.

“Vouchsafe us a sign, O gods of the Timbri!” called Huta.

She then lifted up the cloth, and then stood, displaying it. The Drisriak warriors in the tent cried out in awe.

The cloth bore upon its surface, brightly, as though emblazoned there, the sign of the Drisriaks.

“You see, milord?” called Huta.

“There can be no mistaking so obvious a sign, milord,” called the priestess who had fetched the cloth.

“Its meaning is incontrovertible!” called another.

Ortog seemed shaken.

Men looked at one another, wildly.

“The gods look upon you with favor, milord,” said Huta to Abrogastes.

“Glory to the Drisriaks!” cried a man. This cry was taken up, too, by many others. Even the merchants and ambassadors present, uneasy, fearful, bound and under guard, joined in this cry.

“I am much impressed,” said Abrogastes.

“It is nothing, milord,” said Huta.

“I did not know you had such power,” said Abrogastes.

“The power comes not from us, milord, but from our gods,” said Huta.

“It seems,” said Abrogastes, “that your gods tend to favor those with the heaviest armaments.”

“Milord?” asked Huta.

“But I congratulate you on having planned well, on having prepared for various contingencies.”

“I do not understand you, milord,” said Huta, uneasily.

“What is it that you wish?” asked Abrogastes.

“We ask nothing for ourselves, milord,” said Huta.

“It is seldom that a king encounters such restraint,” said Abrogastes. “Surely you would have something?”

“Perhaps that we might prove to be of some use to you, milord,” said Huta.

“How so,” asked he.

“The Drisriaks would be invincible, were they allied with the gods of the Timbri,” said Huta.

“Ah,” said Abrogastes.

“Secure victory,” said Huta. “Ally yourself with our gods, milord.”

“And how could this alliance be brought about?” asked Abrogastes.

“Through the offices of the priestesses of the Timbri,” said Huta.

“That would be a most inestimable gift, indeed,” said Abrogastes.

Huta bowed her head, modestly.

“And what would you ask for this priceless favor?” inquired Abrogastes.

“We ask nothing, as we have no concern with the affairs of the world, nor with material possessions.”

“You would ask nothing?”

“The generosity of Abrogastes, lord of the Drisriaks, is, of course, well known,” said Huta.

“What is it that is most prized by you?” asked Abrogastes. “What is it that you most desire?”

“Surely milord knows,” said Huta.

“What?” asked he.

“We are holy women, sacred virgins,” said Huta.

“Yes?” said Abrogastes.

“What we most desire is that we serve our gods well, and then, when all is done, join them.”

“You have served your gods well,” said Abrogastes.

“Milord?” said Huta.

“Go to join them,” he said.

“Milord!” cried Huta.

Blades leapt forth from sheaths, and at a sign from Abrogastes, Drisriak warriors seized the priestesses, and began, seizing their hair and putting them to their knees, to put them to the sword.

There was screaming.

Ambassadors, merchants, and others drew back.

“Spare those two,” said Abrogastes, pointing to the two young acolytes.

Then, after bloody moments, screams, seizing, plunging bodies, reddened blades, only Huta herself, and the two acolytes, were left.

Huta, on her knees before the dais, the hand of a warrior in her hair, tightly knotted there, looked up, wildly, in terror, at Abrogastes, lord of the Drisriaks.

“The gods of the Alemanni, of the Drisriaks,” said Abrogastes, “are not the gods of the Timbri.”

“Mercy, milord!” cried Huta.

Abrogastes lifted his hand.

“No, no, milord!” wept Huta.

Abrogastes motioned that the warrior who held the priestess should release her.

The priestess looked wildly about her.

“My gods are false gods!” she cried.

The two young acolytes, one on her knees, the other on all fours, looked at her, wildly.

“They are false gods!” cried Huta.

“And why have you done what you have done?” asked Abrogastes.

“I wanted power!” she cried.

“It is not appropriate that women have power,” said Abrogastes.

“No, milord!” said Huta. “Forgive me, milord!”

“When women have power, they abuse it,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord!” wept Huta.

“Thus they should not have power,” said Abrogastes.

“No, milord!” cried Huta.

“How did you bring out the sign of the Drisriaks on the cloth?” asked Abrogastes.

“It has to do with washes, and stains, and reactions,” wept Huta. “The blood interacts with chemicals in a prepared pattern, that causing the pattern to emerge.”

“You had such cloths prepared for various contingencies,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said Huta.

“And the other matters, the sayings, the readings, the prophecies, such things.”

“They are false, milord,” she said. “One relies on vagueness, on research, on inquiries, on the hopes of those who attend one, on sensitivity to the responses of the interrogator, to his movements, to his expressions of attention, any number of things.”

“They are all false things,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said Huta. “They, and other such things, are familiar to conjurors, mountebanks, tellers of fortune, and such throughout the galaxies.”

Abrogastes made again to raise his hand.

“No, no, milord!” cried Huta. She put her hands to the collar of her robes.

Abrogastes regarded her.

Swiftly Huta tore her robes down about her shoulders.

The two acolytes regarded her with horror.

Then, with a wild look at Abrogastes, Huta tore down her robes, until they lay back, upon her calves, as she knelt.

“No!” cried the acolytes.

“Strip yourselves, little fools,” said Huta, “if you would live. The game is done! These are men!”

“The game?” cried one of the acolytes.

“Yes,” snapped Huta.

“But the gods!” cried the second of the acolytes.

“They are false!” said Huta.

“We must die for our faith,” said one of the acolytes.

“The faith is false,” said Huta. “It is an infantile fabrication.”

The acolytes wept, looking about themselves.

“Die, if you will,” said Huta.

“It is not true?” wept one.

“No,” said Huta.

The second acolyte seemed paralyzed with misery and fear.

“Consider your bodies!” said Huta. “They are made for men. Strip!”

The first acolyte, with numb fingers, kneeling, drew away her robes.

“See!” said Huta. “That is what you are, a woman! Understand it!”

The second acolyte then, suddenly, forcibly, fighting with closures, divested herself of her robes.

“Yes, yes!” said Huta. “Kneel well! Good! See? See? You are not a man! You are quite different from a man! You are a woman! Understand it! Accept it! Rejoice in it! You are precious! Men will pay much for you!”

The acolytes exchanged terrified glances.

Then one, suddenly, made a wild, tiny, helpless sound, one it seemed of misery, and yet, one, too, of elation, and utter irrepressible relief, and joy. “The fighting is done!” she sobbed. “It is done, finished!”

“Yes! Yes!” wept the other, thankfully.

“Take them away, make them slaves,” said Abrogastes.

The two young women lifted their wrists willingly, even eagerly, to the cords that bound them. Then, each, her wrists bound before her, and on a tether formed from the binding on her wrists, was conducted from the tent.

Huta then, in the midst of her discarded robes, knelt before Abrogastes.

She looked up at him.

“And what of you?” asked Abrogastes.

“I beg mercy, milord,” she wept.

“Kill her, milord!” cried a man.

“Let her die the death of a thousand tortures!” cried another.

“Yes!” cried another.

“Please, no, milord!” begged Huta.

“What shall be done with her?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Slay her!” cried men.

“I beg to be looked upon, as a man looks upon a woman,” she said.

“Is that not a fair request from a woman?” asked Abrogastes.

“Not from such as she!” cried a man.

“Please, milord,” begged Huta.

“You are not without interest,” he said.

“Find me pleasing,” she begged.

“I would as soon cut your throat as look at you,” he said, in anger.

“Please, no, milord,” she said.

“Yet your body is luscious,” he said.

“Let it please you, milord,” she begged.

“You look well, stripped,” he said, musingly.

“Thank you, milord,” she said.

“I wonder what you would bring in a market,” said Abrogastes.

“Please do not think of me so,” she wept.

“Perhaps you would like for your beauty to purchase your life,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, yes!” she said.

“Perhaps it might,” he said, “at least for a brief time.”

“You are generous, milord!” she cried with joy.

“Your life, perhaps for a brief time,” he said, “-but not your freedom.”

“Milord?” said Huta. “Oh! No, no, milord!”

“If you wish,” said Abrogastes, “you may declare yourself a slave.”

“But I would then be no more than a dog or pig!” she cried.

“You would be less,” said Abrogastes.

“Please, no, milord!” she cried.

Abrogastes raised his hand, and the warrior nearest Huta took her hair in his hand, and pulled her head back.

A knife went to her throat.

“No, no!” said Huta, frantically, shaking her head.

The warrior released Huta and stepped back, that at a sign from Abrogastes.

“I declare myself a slave,” said Huta. “I am a slave.”

There were sounds of satisfaction from the men about, for little love was lost for the former priestess of the Timbri, no more now than any other woman in bondage.

“You are now subject to claim,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” she said.

“I claim you,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” she said.

“Whose are you?” he asked.

“Yours, milord,” she said.

“Your name is ‘Huta,’” he said.

“Yes, milord,” she said.

“Bring a collar for this slave,” said Abrogastes, “a heavy one.”

Such a collar was brought and placed on the slave. It was of heavy iron, a half inch thick and some two and a half inches in height. It fitted closely. It was fastened with a hasp and staple, and stout padlock, the lock in front, dangling.

Huta winced.

“Crawl to my son, Ortog,” said Abrogastes, “and kiss his feet.”

Huta obeyed, and then she lifted her head, to look up at him, fearfully.

Ortog did not look down upon her.

“What do you think of my new slave?” asked Abrogastes.

Ortog then looked down at Huta, and then, again, lifted his head, and looked away.

“Surely you could find better in any market,” he said.

“Here, girl,” said Abrogastes, snapping his fingers. “Lie here, at the side of my chair, on the dais.”

Huta crept to the surface of the dais, and, frightened, lay down, near the right, front leg of the chair of Abrogastes.

“Look up at me,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said Huta.

“When women have power, they abuse it,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said Huta.

“Thus they should not have power,” said Abrogastes.

“No, milord,” said Huta.

“Do you have power now?” asked Abrogastes.

“No, milord,” she said.

“Are you absolutely powerless?” asked Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord!” she said.

He looked down upon her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Abrogastes then turned his attention again to the shieldsman who had been standing to one side.

Unnoticed, Huta, naked and collared, lying at the side of the chair of Abrogastes, no more than a slave, and Gerune, a princess, sitting on his left, on her chair, her back straight, in her regalia, exchanged glances. In Gerune’s eyes there was a strange mixture of emotions, hatred, contempt, pity, and many others, and among them, another emotion, a strange one, one she fought to deny and suppress, that, it seemed, could it be possible, of envy. But Huta turned her eyes away quickly, perhaps failing to note the hint of envy, or perhaps more than a hint, in the countenance of Gerune, fearing as she did to look into the eyes of a free woman. Slaves can be much beaten for such things. Too, it was with strange emotions that Huta lay in her place, in shame, in misery, in fear. But she was aware of other feelings, too, feelings which she tried desperately to force from her mind, an incredible exhilaration and relief of sorts, a sense, paradoxically, of total liberation. Each inch of her, too, seemed alive. Had she been so much as touched, anywhere, she would have cried out helplessly. But, too, of course, she was conscious, very conscious, of the weighty collar on her neck. It had been put on her, and she could not remove it, no more than could have any other slave girl. She squirmed a little, and then lay fearfully still, frightened that someone might have seen her. It was not necessary for her to wear such a heavy, uncomfortable collar. A lighter one would do quite as well. But she knew that such matters were not up to her.

She looked up, a little, and saw a man’s eyes upon her. Then she put down her head, trembling.

How he had dared to look upon her!

Did he think she was a slave?

But, of course, now, she was a slave!

Suddenly she feared men.

She knew she belonged to them, and must serve them.

She considered, suddenly, with momentary alarm, that she, now a slave, would be branded. She did not think that Abrogastes would put the mark on her with his own hand. That would be too much an honor for her. No, doubtless some common fellow, skilled in such matters, one used to the handling of irons and women, would do the job, doubtless she only one in a lot of several. She hoped the mark would be pretty. In any event it would be on her. And its meaning would be recognized throughout the galaxies.

She lifted her head, again, and saw that another fellow, too, had his eyes upon her, as she lay, like a dog, at the side of her master’s chair.

Never before had she been looked at in that fashion!

She knew she must now respond to men, uninhibitedly and totally, in the fullness of her long-suppressed female passion, for inertness and frigidity were no longer permitted her. She must now learn to obey and feel. If necessary the lash would instruct her in such matters.

Another man’s eyes were upon her, too.

And she was not yet even marked!

She hoped the brand would not hurt too much. After a little while, she told herself, it would not hurt.

But the mark would still be upon her, even then, that mark whose meaning was recognized throughout the galaxies.

It was with strange feelings, mixed and tumultuous, that she lay at the side of her master’s chair.

A warrior hurried to the side of Abrogastes and spoke to him, confidentially. Abrogastes nodded, impassively.

These things were noted by Julian.

But then the attention of all was focused on Abrogastes, who addressed himself to the shieldsman.

“Will you serve me?” asked Abrogastes.

“No, milord,” said the shieldsman.

“Go to the block,” said Abrogastes.

“You would deny me even death by the blade,” said the shieldsman.

“Yes,” said Abrogastes.

The shieldsman then shook away the warriors who would have held his arms and went to the block, and knelt before it, putting down his head.

The workman grasped again the handle of the mighty adz.

“Hold,” said Abrogastes.

The workman lowered the adz.

“Would you enter the halls of Kragon?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord!” said the shieldsman.

“A blade might be used,” said Abrogastes.

“Milord!” said the shieldsman.

“But on one condition,” said Abrogastes.

“Milord?” asked the man.

“Forswear your lord,” said Abrogastes.

“Never!” said the shieldsman.

“You would be a villein until the end of time, laboring in the darkness, rather than forswear your lord?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said the shieldsman.

“I release you!” cried Ortog.

“No, milord,” said the shieldsman.

“Free him,” said Abrogastes. “I have need of such a shieldsman.”

The shieldsman was freed of his bonds and he stood, unsteadily, his eyes wild.

He went to kneel before Ortog.

“I forswear you,” said Ortog. “You are no more my shieldsman.” Tears ran down the face of Ortog.

“Milord!” wept the shieldsman.

Then he rose up to go before the dais and knelt before Abrogastes.

“I am your man,” he said.

“You are my man,” said Abrogastes.

Abrogastes then turned to regard Ortog.

“How is it that you can inspire such loyalty in a man?” asked Abrogastes.

“Surely it is no different from what your men feel for you,” said Ortog.

“Such loyalty might well be learned by a son,” said Abrogastes.

“It might have been better taught by a father!” cried Hendrix, from the side.

“No!” said Ortog. Then he turned, again, to face Abrogastes. “I am too much like you, to follow you,” said Ortog.

“You left the Drisriaks,” said Abrogastes.

“In such ways tribes begin,” said Ortog.

“But you have lost,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes,” said Ortog, “I have lost.”

“And there are costs to be paid, penalties to be exacted,” said Abrogastes.

“I am ready,” said Ortog.

“You are a traitor to the Alemanni, to the Drisriaks,” said Abrogastes.

Ortog did not respond.

“You should have been your own champion, or have chosen another, fairly,” said Abrogastes.

Ortog looked at the slave, lying at the side of the chair of Abrogastes, but then looked away.

She did not meet his eyes.

“He can kill you?” asked Abrogastes, indicating Otto, who stood back, Julian a little behind him.

“Yes,” said Ortog, angrily.

“I would see what a traitor can do,” said Abrogastes.

“Wolfung!” he cried, rising up from the chair, and pointing to Otto.

“Milord?” asked Otto.

“You will fight,” said Abrogastes.

“Am I invited to do so?” asked Otto.

“Yes,” said Abrogastes.

“It will be my pleasure to accept,” said Otto.

“He is no executioner!” cried Julian to Abrogastes.

“Be silent,” said Otto.

Julian, startled, stepped back.

“Let the king of the Ortungs choose his weapon,” said Otto.

“The prince of the Drisriaks may choose his weapon,” said Abrogastes.

“Free me,” said Ortog.

His bonds were severed.

“I choose the ax,” said Ortog.

“You may choose the ax, or some comparable weapon, one neither clearly superior to nor inferior to the ax,” said Abrogastes to Otto.

“This,” said Otto, striding angrily to the workman and tearing from his startled grasp the bloody adz, “is my weapon!” He brandished it, angrily.

“That is not a weapon!” cried Abrogastes.

“I have chosen it as my weapon,” said Otto, “and the challenge has begun!”

“It is a weapon, so chosen, milord!” said the spared clerk to Abrogastes.

Abrogastes turned an angry glance upon him, and the clerk put down his head.

“He is right, milord,” said a man.

“You are a clever rogue, Wolfung,” said Abrogastes, resuming his seat.

“It is a weapon!” cried a man.

“Those who perished by the adz feast now in the halls of Kragon!” said another.

The Drisriak warriors lifted their hands, and weapons, and cheered.

Abrogastes looked about himself, scowling.

“It is so, milord!” cried men, joyfully.

“It seems only fair, milord,” said Otto, “that if you would permit your son to perish by a weapon, for you did not know what he or I might choose, then, so, too, you should be willing to permit his followers to have similarly perished.”

“Yes, milord!” cried men, eagerly.

“I have chosen the adz,” said Otto. “Is it a weapon, milord?”

Abrogastes looked at Ortog, narrowly.

“It seems, my father,” said Ortog, “that you bear me love still.”

“Yes,” said Abrogastes. “It is a weapon.”

Men cheered.

An ax was brought and placed in the hands of Ortog.

“I am grateful to you, Wolfung,” said Ortog.

“It is controversial,” said Abrogastes, angrily, “the matter of weapons and such.”

“Some claim, milord,” said the clerk, “that only those who die in battle are worthy of the halls of Kragon.”

“Others, milord,” said a man, “that only those who die with a weapon in their grasp.”

“And in such things, milord,” said a man, “it is said that it is only warriors who may enter the halls of the gods.”

“Perhaps they will need their clerks,” said the clerk.

There was laughter.

“And what of women, Father,” asked Gerune, suddenly. “Have they no place in the halls of the gods?”

“Doubtless some serve there,” said a man.

There was laughter.

“But they cannot earn their way there?” asked Gerune.

“No,” said a man. “Those who are there are selected to be there, as choiceless as women purchased at a market, to serve as cupbearers and slaves.”

“I see,” said Gerune.

“Perhaps the gods have no concern with us,” said Abrogastes.

“Perhaps there are no gods,” said Ortog, bitterly.

“What think you, Wolfung?” asked Abrogastes. “Are there gods?”

“I do not know, milord,” said Otto.

“What think you, little Huta?” asked Abrogastes, looking downward, to his right.

“I do not know, Master,” she said, frightened. “I am only a slave.”

“It is a suitable answer,” said Abrogastes. “Do not cover yourself,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Much is obscure,” said the clerk.

“The adherents of Floon claim to know the answers to all,” said a man.

Floon was a gentle, itinerant teacher, a humble salamanderlike creature, from a largely aqueous world, who had preached peace and love, and such things. He had died in an electric chair, or, perhaps better, a burning rack. Already the first wars in his name had been waged.

“They are fools,” said another man.

“They grow stronger,” said another man.

“Let us consider the suns, and rocks, and iron, and ships, and the blades of weapons, and gold!” said Abrogastes.

“Yes!” said men.

And then he looked down at Huta, to his right, “And the bodies of women!” he added.

Huta looked down, frightened.

Gerune stiffened.

“Yes!” said men.

“They are real,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, yes!” said men.

“Fight!” said Abrogastes to Ortog and Otto.

“When have I obeyed you, Father?” asked Ortog.

Then he turned to Otto. “I salute you, Wolfung,” he said, “for the honor you have shown me, undeserving though I have been, and for the respect you have shown my people, the Ortungs, unworthy though we may have been.” Then he struck down at the stump with the ax, half burying the blade in the stump. Then he turned to Otto. “Strike,” he said. “I am ready.”

But Otto lifted the adz and with a mighty blow drove the head of the adz deeply into the stump, to the very socket of the weapon. Men cried out with wonder, seeing the force of such a blow.

Hendrix and Gundlicht cried out with joy.

Ortog turned to Abrogastes. “I bid recognition for the Ortungs, my father,” he said. “Let the Ortungs be. I would be reconciled with you.”

“Come to my arms,” said Abrogastes, rising.

Ortog, tears in his eyes, advanced to his father, his arms open.

He stepped to the height of the dais.

Huta screamed.

Ortog fell back, stumbling from the dais.

Abrogastes, on the height of the dais, his eyes terrible, looked down upon his son, now fallen to the earth.

In the hand of Abrogastes, gripped there, was a bloody knife.

“Do you think I am so easily cheated?” asked Abrogastes of those within the tent.

“My brother!” cried Gerune, and fled from the dais, to kneel beside Ortog.

“He was your son!” cried a man.

“I have many sons,” said Abrogastes.

“He wanted reconciliation!” said another.

“Now we are reconciled,” said Abrogastes, wiping his weapon on his thigh, then sheathing it.

“A blade was used,” said a man.

“Even now Ortog enters the halls of Kragon,” said another.

“It is for the best,” said another.

“Perhaps we will meet again, each in the beauty of our youth, in the halls of Kragon, my son,” said Abrogastes. “And we may then dispute these matters properly.”

“And afterwards,” said a man, “lift cups together, feasting in joy.”

“Who will win?” asked a man.

“I will win,” said Abrogastes.

“To whom in the hall will go the hero’s portion?” asked another man.

“It will be mine,” said Abrogastes.

Gerune knelt beside Ortog, weeping.

“Thus perishes a traitor,” said Abrogastes.

“Remove him,” said Abrogastes.

“Bring spears,” said a man. “Lash a cloak between them.”

“Release those two,” said Abrogastes, pointing to Hendrix and Gundlicht.

“Take your lord to the grove,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord,” said Hendrix and Gundlicht.

“I would precede them, with a candle, if I may, milord,” said the clerk.

“He was not your lord,” said Abrogastes.

“You are devoted to him?” said Abrogastes.

“Then precede him, as you will,” said Abrogastes.

“I would follow them, if I may, milord,” said the shieldsman.

“Why?” asked Abrogastes.

“He was my lord,” said the shieldsman.

“Do so,” said Abrogastes.

“Thank you, milord,” said the shieldsman.

It was now late in the day, and it was half dark in the tent.

In a short time the simple bier, of two spears, with a cloak lashed between them, was prepared.

Ortog was placed upon the bier.

Otto threw his own cloak over the body.

The bier was lifted to the shoulders of Hendrix and Gundlicht. It was then carried from the tent. Preceding the bier was the clerk, who carried a lighted candle. Following it, some paces behind, his sword upon his shoulder, was the shieldsman. Gerune was left behind, kneeling where she had been, sobbing, before the dais.

Abrogastes, who had resumed his seat during the preparation of the bier, had now again risen.

“Stand up,” said Abrogastes to Huta.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Oh!” she said, as her wrists were lashed together, tightly, behind her back.

“Prepare the ships,” said Abrogastes to a man.

“Yes, milord,” he said.

Then, from the dais, he looked down on Gerune.

“We are not yet done here,” said Abrogastes. “There is one more to deal with, the traitress, Gerune.”

Gerune looked up, frightened.

“Take her to the block,” said Abrogastes.

“She is your daughter!” cried a man.

“I have many daughters,” said Abrogastes.

“Please, no, Father!” cried Gerune.

But she was dragged by a warrior to the stump. There she was placed on her knees and a warrior, crouching beside her, tied her hands behind her back. The workman worked the ax and adz free from the stump. Gerune’s head, by the hair, was drawn forward, and down. She whimpered. The workman seized the adz and lifted it.

“No,” cried Julian. “No!”

“Silence,” said Otto.

Julian stepped back, uncertain, confused.

“It seems a simple end for her, milord,” said Otto. “Is it not quick, and honorable?”

“How speak you, Wolfung?” asked Abrogastes.

Abrogastes made a sign to the workman, and he lowered the adz, and stood back.

Gerune could lift her head only a little from the block, held there by the hair as she was.

She looked to Otto, and then to her father.

“She is only a female,” said Otto. “And it is said that she was marched naked, bound, through the corridors of an imperial ship, the Alaria, thus muchly shaming the Drisriaks.”

“Yes?” said Abrogastes.

“Surely then some other end might be more appropriate for her,” said Otto.

“Something more terrible and shameful?” asked Abrogastes.

“Yes,” said Otto.

“Something suitable for a traitress?”

“Yes,” said Otto.

“Remove her clothing and throw her to the mud,” said Abrogastes.

“Please, no, Father!” cried Gerune.

But it was done, as Abrogastes had commanded.

Gerune then lay in the mud, stripped, her hands still tied behind her back.

“Traitress!” said Abrogastes.

“Forgive me!” wept Gerune.

“For treachery there is no forgiveness!” said Abrogastes.

“Mercy!” she wept.

“There is none for a traitress,” said Abrogastes.

“You cannot treat me in this fashion!” cried Gerune. “I am a princess!”

“Lie in the mud, traitorous princess, as naked and bound as a slave!” said Abrogastes.

“No, no!” cried Gerune.

“And when I pronounce my next words,” said Abrogastes, “you will no longer be a princess!”

“Please, no, Father!” wept Gerune.

“You are no longer a princess,” he said.

She sobbed, no longer a princess.

“What think you, Huta?” asked Abrogastes.

“I am only a slave, Master!” said Huta.

“Do not forget it,” said Abrogastes.

“No, Master!” said Huta.

“I am your daughter!” cried Gerune.

“When I pronounce my next words,” said Abrogastes, “you will no longer be my daughter.”

“No,” she cried, “no!”

“You are no longer my daughter,” said Abrogastes.

She sobbed, disowned, forsworn.

Men cried out with approbation.

“Do not treat me thusly!” she wept. “If I am no longer a princess or your daughter, show me at least the respect that is my due as a free woman!”

“Prepare!” said Abrogastes.

“No, Father!” she cried.

“Traitress,” he said.

“Please, no, Father!” she cried.

“When I speak my next words,” said Abrogastes, “you will no longer be a free woman.”

“No, no!” she cried.

“You are a slave,” he said.

She sobbed wildly, lying bound in the mud, a slave.

Drisriaks cheered.

Surely it was suitable punishment for one who had once been a traitorous princess.

“She is subject to claimancy,” said Abrogastes.

Men drew back, looking upon the slave with contempt.

“Who wants her?” asked Abrogastes.

Men regarded her with disgust.

“None wants her?” asked Abrogastes.

No one spoke.

“Surely her body is not without some interest,” said Abrogastes. “And I speculate that she would bring a reasonable price in a market.”

Doubtless these things were true, for the slave was quite beautiful, but yet none spoke.

“Would she not look well under the whip?” asked Abrogastes. Then he looked at Huta. Huta quickly lowered her head.

Men laughed.

“I think, milord,” said a man, “that we do not find her of interest.”

“The adz!” cried a man.

“The adz!” cried another.

“Send her to the block!” cried another.

A warrior appeared in the entrance of the tent, the front entrance, behind the Drisriaks, the merchants, the warriors, Otto, Julian, and others. He made a sign to Abrogastes.

Abrogastes lifted his hand, for silence.

“There is little time,” he said. “We are going to the ships.”

Julian and Otto exchanged glances.

Those in the tent who were merchants and ambassadors, and artisans, craftsmen, and such, who had been at the court of Ortog began to tremble.

Abrogastes waved his hand toward them.

“Go your ways,” said he.

“Thank you, milord!” they cried and, freed, hurriedly, undetained, unobstructed, left the tent.

“Let the signal for the return to the ships be sounded,” said Abrogastes.

A warrior quickly left the tent.

“Take this slave,” said Abrogastes, indicating Huta, “and see that she is placed, well bound and helpless, in my hoverer.”

“Yes, milord,” said a warrior, and seized Huta by the upper left arm, and conducted her rudely, in her collar, with her hands tied behind her back, from the tent.

“Wolfung,” said Abrogastes.

“Milord?” asked Otto.

“We will come soon for the tribute,” said Abrogastes.

“I think you will not find it, milord,” said Otto.

“We shall see,” said Abrogastes.

“Kill him, now, while you may,” urged a man.

“He may not,” said Otto, “for I am come here for a challenge, in which matter I have been successful.”

“I shall not detain you,” said Abrogastes.

Otto nodded.

“Beware in the future, Wolfung,” said Abrogastes.

“And may you beware as well, milord,” said Otto.

“He has the audacity of an Otung!” cried a man.

“See that the tribute is ready, when it is called for,” said Abrogastes.

“Do not delay, milord,” said a man. “Time is short. Cut off the head of the slave.”

“Cut off her head!” cried others.

“No!” cried Julian, loudly, stepping out from behind Otto.

“‘No’?” inquired Abrogastes.

“I will take her,” said Julian.

“You, a thrall?” asked Abrogastes. “A thrall can own nothing.”

“I am not a thrall, milord,” said Julian, firmly.

Abrogastes looked to Otto.

“He is a free man,” said Otto.

“I am a citizen of the empire,” said Julian.

“Kill him!” said a man, drawing his knife.

“You are here in some ambassadorial capacity?” inquired Abrogastes.

“No, milord,” said Julian.

“And how have you been employed here?” inquired Abrogastes.

“I have been tending pigs, milord,” said Julian.

This announcement was greeted with laughter from the Drisriaks.

“It is fitting,” said a man, “that those of the empire, whom we see fit to spare, should tend our pigs.”

There was more laughter.

“You are filthy, and barefoot, and in rags,” said Abrogastes.

Julian went to kneel in the mud, next to the distraught Gerune. He lifted her head in his hands. He looked into her eyes, which were bright with terror, and tears.

“You are well curved,” he said.

“Dog!” she wept.

“Do you want to die?” he asked.

“What does it matter?” she asked.

“You are right,” said Julian. “You are only a slave. What does it matter?”

She regarded him, startled.

“You are right,” he said. “It does not matter.”

Tears sprang anew to her eyes.

“Put the slut at the block!” said a man.

The slave looked wildly about.

“Do you want to die?” Julian asked her.

“No,” she said.

“Speak more clearly,” said Julian.

“I do not want to die,” she said.

“Speak more clearly,” he said, angrily.

“I do not want to die-Master,” she said.

“Ah,” said men.

“It seems the slut learns quickly,” said a man.

“They all do,” said another.

Julian then stood up, and stepped back from the slave. “Kneel,” he said.

The slave, bound, straggled to her knees.

“Excellent,” said men.

“You are well curved,” said Julian.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

There was laughter.

“Here,” said Julian, pointing to his feet.

“Go, stupid slave, to his feet, and kiss them,” said a man.

The slave, on her knees, moved to Julian, and put down her head, to his feet.

“Aii!” said men.

She then straightened up, and regarded Julian with awe.

“I will take her,” he said.

“Give her to him,” men urged Abrogastes. “Let her belong to a tender of pigs!”

“She is yours,” said Abrogastes.

“Thank you, milord,” said Julian.

The slave collapsed to the mud near the feet of Julian.

“I thought I knew her,” said Abrogastes. “I thought that she would require a strong and unflinching master. I see that any master will do.”

“As you say, milord,” said Julian.

Outside now there was a piercing whistle. It was the signal for returning to the ships.

“You,” said Julian, pointing to the fellow who had, when he had learned that Julian was of the empire, drawn his knife. “Give me your knife,” said Julian.

The man looked at Abrogastes.

“Do it,” said Abrogastes.

Julian took the knife and then crouched beside the slave.

“Master?” she asked.

“You are Gerune,” he said, naming her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

He reached to her hair.

“What are you going to do, Master?” she asked.

“You have long, fine hair,” he said.

It was blond hair, in two long, thick braids, which, had she stood, would have fallen to the back of her knees. It had never been cut.

“Master?” she asked.

“A slave,” he said, “does not need such long, fine hair.”

“Master?” she asked.

“Oh!” she wept, for he, gathering the hair together, in handfuls, cut it from her, close to the head.

Then he stood up, and returned the knife to the warrior, who sheathed it.

Gerune wept.

“Such hair,” said Julian, “was more fit for a princess than a slave.”

She put down her head, sobbing.

“You are now more fit for lowly tasks,” said Julian.

“Yes, Master,” she wept.

Abrogastes stepped from the dais.

Abrogastes made a sign to the workman, he who had wielded the adz, and to two warriors.

“Remove the block and tray,” he said.

“Yes, milord,” they said.

The whistle sounded once more outside.

Abrogastes looked about himself. He looked back to the dais. He regarded the trampled, muddied earth. He regarded the pools of blood, the broken reeds, the footprints. He recalled the vengeances, the slaughters and enslavements of the afternoon. He regarded the workman, his leather apron, and his arms, drenched with blood. He looked back to where Ortog had fallen. He looked down, at the bound slave.

He then looked at this men.

“It is good!” he said.

He then, followed by his men, left the tent.

Otto followed the others out.

Julian, too, a moment later, left the tent. He carried a bound slave.

“She is unconscious,” said Otto, considering the slave in Julian’s arm, her head back.

“It is just as well,” said Julian.

“She should give you much pleasure at the foot of the couch,” said Otto, regarding the slave.

“I will see to it,” said Julian.

The hoverer of Abrogastes was not far away, only some yards from the tent.

Filchen scurried about, disturbed. Birds rose into the air, like protesting leaves in the wind. But, in a few moments, the birds descended again. And soon the filchen, too, wary, their tiny ears upright, their small, round eyes bright, creeping back, returned to their feeding.

Julian looked up at the sky.

“I think it would be well to conceal ourselves,” said Otto, “until we know the nature of the new arrivals.”

“The woods?” said Julian.

“Yes,” said Otto.

They were now quite near the hoverer of Abrogastes.

Already the lord of the Drisriaks was within the hoverer, his hands on the gunwales.

“The tent, milord?” a man asked of Abrogastes.

“Burn it,” said Abrogastes.

A torch was lit.

“We have found golden chains!” said one of the Drisriaks to Abrogastes.

These would have been found, presumably, near the place of the challenge.

“We have no time to concern ourselves with such things,” said Abrogastes.

The man threw the chains over his shoulder, and hurried to a hoverer.

A moment later the hoverer of Abrogastes rose from the turf.

The slave, her body buffeted by wind and pelted with dust, stirred in Julian’s arms, but she did not recover consciousness.

Otto and Julian watched the departure of the hoverer of Abrogastes.

Within the hoverer, Otto surmised, though he could not make this determination, given the distance of the ship, the height of the gunwales, the armoring of the hull and such, would be a bound slave. Doubtless she would be, too, bound to metal rings, fixed in the plating of the hoverer’s deck. In any event that is a common way in which captives and slaves are secured in such a vessel. The arrangement not only keeps them fixed in place, which is fitting and desirable, but can, under certain circumstances, such as abrupt maneuvers, serve also to keep them literally within the vessel. She might be, as well, gagged, in order that, in the event of engagements or violent actions, of one sort of another, her responses would be less distractive.

Otto and Julian, the latter carrying the unconscious slave, made their way from the crowded area outside the tent, from the hurrying men, the assemblage of small ships.

They returned to the trail, which would lead downward, past the grove.

They paused on the height to look into the distance, to the meadow where the ship of Hendrix and Gundlicht had landed, that ship which had brought them to this world. It was a shambles of blackened steel.

Behind them the tent was ablaze.

Once again there was a piercing blast from the whistle.

On the trail downward, they met two men, the shieldsman and the clerk, who were hurrying upward, that they might reach the hoverers before they departed. The clerk averted his eyes as they passed. The shieldsman, for a moment, just for a moment, met the eyes of Otto, and then he, too, hurried past.

“Let us go to the woods edging the meadow,” said Otto.

“Good,” said Julian.

That portion of the woods, because of the destroyed ship, would not be likely to draw fire.

In a short while, on the way downward, they came to a grove. Otto paused on the trail at that place.

Then he continued on, followed by Julian.

A quarter of an hour later they had crossed the meadow, and entered the woods.

It was dusk now.

One could still see a glow, and, in places, flames, from the height of the plateau.

Hoverers, like dots, some in formation, rose from the plateau, and then moved eastward.

Smoke, a darkness against a darkness, billowed upward.

“We are safe now,” said Julian.

They stood at the edge of the trees, looking upward, toward the trail, the grove, the height of the plateau.

Behind them they had placed Gerune on the leaves.

With a vine they had lashed together her ankles and, with the same vine, extended from her ankles, fastened her to a tree.

She was still unconscious.

“But we are stranded on this world,” said Otto.

“I do not think so,” said Julian.

“Oh?” said Otto.

“No, my friend,” said Julian. “I do not think so. Rest now, if you wish, and I will watch.”

There was a tiny whimper behind them, and they turned about. Gerune moved a little in the darkness. One could hear the crinkling of the leaves.

“She is recovering consciousness,” said Otto.

“Oh, oh,” moaned Gerune. Then she cried, “Oh!” and there was the sound of her ankles pulling suddenly against the vine which fastened her to the tree.

“Be silent,” said Julian, going to crouch near the slave.

She slid forward on the leaves, that she might sit upright.

She looked at Julian.

He took her head in his hands, holding her helplessly, and pressed his lips fiercely upon hers.

She uttered tiny sounds of protest but they were muffled in the uncompromising ferocity of his kiss.

Julian drew back.

She looked at him, reproachfully.

“Do you not know how exciting you are?” he asked. “Have you never been kissed before, as a slave? No, of course, doubtless not.”

Few women, other than slaves, can guess what is the passion of a male.

Few women, other than slaves, have any conception of the heights, the aggressions, the sheer power of uninhibited male passion.

Once again he took her head firmly in his hands and pressed his lips against her.

“Oh,” she said, suddenly, softly.

Then suddenly she understood herself as what she was, a woman, the complement to this passion, its other, and her entire body seemed bathed in need and flame, and she squirmed in her bonds, his, and he drew back a little and she whimpered, protestingly, and thrust her head forward, pressing her lips timidly, fervently, to his, and then Julian took her by the shoulders and threw her from him, to her side, on the leaves, where she lay, her eyes wide.

“Perhaps, later,” he said, “there will be time for a slave.”

She lay there quietly then, helpless, spurned, discarded until wanted.

She tried to understand herself and her feelings, her desires, her needs. She feared she might be going mad. Why had no one told her of these things? Were they so dangerous, really? Were they such dreadful secrets? She knew herself now, and this frightened her, terribly, a woman, and slave.

She moaned a little, in her bonds.

“Be silent,” said Julian.

She sobbed, softly.

“Sleep,” he said to her.

She closed her eyes, and shuddered, and lost consciousness.

“You, too, should rest,” said Julian to Otto.

“I am weary,” said Otto, and lay down.

It was toward midnight when Julian gently shook Otto awake.

“What is it?” said Otto, quickly.

“Look,” said Julian, standing, and pointing upward, to the west. “A light in the sky.”

“What is it?” asked Otto, standing, looking to where Julian had pointed.

“Wait,” said Julian, eagerly.

“There,” he said, after a time.

Overhead there was a set of lights, and a mighty shape moved among the clouds, a shape designed to enter and negotiate atmospheres, as well as traverse the depths of space.

“What is it?” asked Otto.

“It is an imperial cruiser,” said Julian.

“There are other lights, too,” said Otto, looking upward.

“It is an imperial fleet!” said Julian.