The Captain

CHAPTER 5

“Do not cry out, or betray emotion,” had said Otto to his companion, who was at his heel, in a short, ragged tunic, much as might have been a slave. But on his body there was no sign of bondage, nor had he been branded, that the mark on his body might bespeak one subject, as much as a slave girl, to exchange, to barter, to gifting and pricing.

“I will not,” said Julian.

They were flanked by Ortungs.

An Ortung ship, one which still bore the scars of the encounter with the Alaria, had come to orbit over Varna, which was the world to which two life rafts, or escape capsules, caught in similar gravitational geodesics, had drifted, that following their departure from the Alaria. In the first capsule had been a gladiator, one who had been carefully trained in the school of Pulendius on Terennia, he, and a prize won in contest, a dark-haired girl, named Janina, who need not significantly concern us, as she was slave. In the second capsule had been one man and three women. The three women were as follows, a wealthy, lovely, highly intelligent, mature woman, and two younger women, a slender, attractive blonde and an exquisitely figured, delicately and sensitively featured brunette, the sort made for chains, and surely one beautiful enough to bring a good price in almost any market. The man had been a young naval officer, an ensign in the imperial navy.

It was a muddy track they followed, as there had been a rain that morning.

The landing craft, or lighter, as one might think of it, a small vessel suitable for comings and goings, for negotiating the shallows of space, from the Ortung ship, had come down gently, not far away, in a circular, rain-soaked meadow, small, delicate animals fleeing beneath its descending shadow and heat. From it several individuals had disembarked, the broad-bladed, green, wet grass, fragrant, edged with rain, soon cutting at their ankles, muchly different from the grass about the craft, farther out oddly dried, despite the invading dampness surging back into the meadow, and close in, even yards from the twelve thrust chambers, blackened and burned. Among those disembarking were Otto and Julian. They had come from Varna. The entire matter had to do with a challenge.

“There seems no reason for your counsel,” remarked Julian.

“We have not yet come to the grove,” said Otto.

“I do not understand,” said Julian.

“The Ortungs have borrowed certain practices from the Timbri,” said Otto.

In this area, the path was, now, less muddy, and, to some extent, graveled. Clearly this was a path now, a real path, or walk, one bearing some signs of attention, no longer a simple track, such as might have been consequent on the passage of some party in single file, their numbers obscured, deliberately perhaps, by the linearity of their progression. The soles of their sandals, as they followed the path, pressed, here and there, small stones deeper into the soft soil. Tiny alkaline trickles of water, whitish, made their way, sometimes haltingly, in no more than a sudden succession of intermittent drops, backward, behind the walkers, down the slope, among the tiny, awash, dislodged stones.

The Vandalii or Vandal nation, consisting of its five tribes, the smallest and least auspicious among them the Wolfungs, were not untypical of barbarian peoples. Such tended, almost as a matter of habit, and surely of custom, to enjoy uneasy, if not actually hostile, relations with their neighbors, wherever they might be found, which was often at hand, given the frequent movements, the periodic migrations, of such folk. These enmities tended to be long-lasting, and the hostilities involved, though intermittent, as one group might be forced to give way to another, tended to be pursued with vigor and cruelty. The surviving, successful tribes, particularly as lands, and worlds, became more scarce, tended, through culture, breeding, and tradition, through trials and raids, and the lessons of songs and deeds, to become stronger, prouder, less patient, quicker to anger, more cruel and more warlike, as the less adept, gentler, weaker, more pacifistic tribes, in accordance with the decrees of reality, recorded in the judgments of history, tended to be ruthlessly supplanted, destroyed, enslaved, made tributary, such things. In the light of such considerations, and in order that a fuller understanding of these matters may be conveyed, we mention that the Alemanni, of which the Drisriaks were a tribe, and the Ortungs a secessionist tribe, were a particularly successful people. It should also be pointed out that the Alemanni and the Vandals, another of the fiercest, and once one of the most successful, of such barbarous nations, were traditional, hereditary, enemies. The empire, of course, introduced into these scarlet equations new and terrible variables, its own existence and ambitions, new, powerful, unfamiliar weaponry, discord, bribery, intimidation, treachery, and such. In some generations of war with the empire the Vandals, despite some initial successes with weaponry furnished by enemies of the empire, were gradually reduced and decimated, the tribes scattered, denied significant weaponry and such. The remnants of the Wolfungs, for example, generations ago, had bee transported to an exile world, far from familiar spacelanes. Its name was Varna. There they had been left, it seemed forgotten, though doubtless their presence was noted on some imperial records, that in case, for example, in some byway of time or politics, it might seem suitable for the empire to recollect them and recall them, perhaps as federates, or as woodsmen, to clear worlds, or peasants, to sow and reap, to supply produce, perhaps to remote stations, or to the limitanei, the far-flung border troops. The Alemanni, it might be noted, on the other hand, had never had more than a series of terrible skirmishes with the empire. Always they had managed to draw back, and then wait, and then begin again their testing, their probing, their sniffing and prowling at the imperial borders. Sometimes, even, their ships had penetrated to the capitals of provincial worlds. Had the Alemanni been differently situated, in both space and time, and had they encountered the empire earlier, and under conditions comparable to those of the Vandalii, it seems not unlikely that their fate might have been similar. But they had not. It was only in the last generation that they had significantly appeared on the horizon of the empire.

“You need not have come with me,” said Otto to his companion, Julian. “The matter obtains between the Ortungs and the Wolfungs.”

“I am curious to see how these things are resolved,” said Julian.

“It will not be difficult to understand,” said Otto.

In the records of the empire this world had only a number, and not a name, as many worlds. We do not know the number, nor are we sure, today, of the world, for much which might have been useful for making such determinations has been lost. The number of the world would have been, as we do know, the number of its star, followed by a numerical suffix, giving its position, counting outward from the star. The world presumably still exists, of course, on which the events took place which we are recounting. We just do not know which world it is. Possibilities have been proposed, but they remain confessedly conjectural. The world did have a name in the logs of the Alemanni, but, even so, the matter remains obscure. The Alemanni name, cumbersomely transliterated as ‘Tenguthaxichai’, is said to mean “Tengutha’s Camp,” or, perhaps, “The Camp of Tengutha,” the nature of the genitive indicator being a matter of dispute among scholars. I personally favor “Tengutha’s Camp” as there is some reason to believe, from other constructions, that the expression transliterated as ‘ichai’ in Alemanni may have meant a hidden camp, or lair. We do not know who the Tengutha in question might have been, but the name itself was common in several of the barbarian nations. We choose to avoid these various problems by referring to this world as the Meeting World, to be sure a title which might serve to designate almost any world. Meeting worlds, however, at least worlds chosen for meetings of the sort with which we are concerned, where disputes among barbarians were to be resolved, worlds rather like, in a sense, those of lonely beaches on desert islands, or those like the surface of barren skerries in the icy sea, were normally isolated, uninhabited worlds, worlds where detection and interference, you see, were unlikely.

“You did not bring weapons,” said Julian.

“It was I who issued the challenge,” said Otto. “It is they who will choose the weapons.”

The remnant of the Wolfungs, exiled on Varna, now armed with no more than primitive weapons, and eking out their living in the forests, in the ancient manners, had been discovered by scouts of the Drisriaks, the parent tribe, or conjectured such, of the Alemanni nation. Much pleasure had it given the Drisriaks to discover their ancient enemies in such straits, in effect, disarmed and at their mercy. Many of the Wolfungs had been slaughtered, in the festivals of blood, saving, of course, the fairest of their daughters, which constitute always delicious, pleasing spoils for the conquerors. The Wolfungs had then, kneeling, denied chieftains, their heads to the dirt, humbled to the yoke of their masters, been permitted to survive, as a tributary people. This tribute was regularly collected by envoys of the Drisriaks, a tribute consisting largely of produce, amber, resin, precious woods, furs, herbs, and women. Some two years ago, however, Ortog, a prince of the Drisriaks, with followers, and ships, declared his house secessionist, and himself king of a new tribe, the Ortungs, or Ortungen. Ortog then, as he had when a prince of the Drisriaks, plied the crafts of his people, in such matters as piracy, trading, reaving where feasible within the empire, collecting tributes, and so on. It was shortly before his envoys, now in the name of the Ortungen, came to collect the tribute from the Wolfungs that the two aforementioned life rafts, or escape capsules, from a sacked and gutted, then destroyed, putative cruise ship, the Alaria, had beached on Varna. Ortog, who had earlier fallen into the hands of bounty hunters and traitors, and had been turned over to imperial forces at the remote station of Tinos, had been a prisoner on the Alaria, being transported to the Telnarian worlds, when she was overtaken by his ships and disabled.

“I hear it again,” said Julian, “the clash of cymbals!”

“The Timbri,” said Otto, “are fond of such instruments in their observances.”

“There is singing, too,” said Julian.

“Yes,” said Otto.

The singing was in female voices, for such were the officiants, priestesses.

The party continued to wend its way upward, on the graveled, wet path.

Preceding Otto were two men, Hendrix and Gundlicht, of the Ortungen, men of Ortog, who had come, earlier, to the Wolfungs for the tribute. They had been surprised to learn that the Wolfungs had taken a chieftain, which they had forbidden to them, and that the tribute was refused. It had not been deemed appropriate, however, to return to the ship, arm the weaponry, and destroy the Wolfungs, and their forests, for a thousand latimeasures. The explanation for this had to do with a set of unusual circumstances.

“I hear again the cymbals,” said Julian.

“Yes,” said Otto.

The singing, too, could be heard, once more.

It began to rain again.

Above, in a sort of level place, through which the path led, and then, beyond it, once more ascended, toward the top of a hill, there was a thick copse.

It is a small thing we do here, thought Otto. It does not matter much. What is the life, or death, or the fates and fortunes, of a few men, or rabbits or dogs, to the world.

Gundlicht, in one hand, clutched what appeared to be a tightly rolled bundle of soiled, brocaded fabric. It was damp with rain.

“That is the grove, above,” said Otto.

Again, tiny trickles of water, alkaline rivulets, flowed between the small stones, much as rivers might have flooded about boulders strewn in their path. The whitish waters stained the soles of their sandals, and, as they occasionally fought for footing, it splashed about their ankles, lashed from the grass in the meadows below. Sometimes a passing sandal dislodged a small rock, a pebble even, breaking some tiny dam, and the water rushed in its frenzied smallness down the slope. How the most fearsome of natural phenomena can be enacted on small stages, for the forces at work here, on the slope, were not so much different from those which, on grander platforms, might have awed and discomfited populations, for the smallest of winds, bending a blade of grass, is not so different, save in force and volume, from the mighty storms which uproot forests, nor the stirring of a hand in a bowl of water so different, save in its dimensions, from the vast, thunderous waves that can shake and drown continents. But even the trickles, the small drops, in their numbers, conjoined, confluent, become weighty with menace. Molecules of gas constitute both the breeze and the hurricane, as drops of water form both the gentle rain and the violent sea.

But it is hard to know, thought Otto, the turning out, of small things.

“Look,” said Julian, pointing downward. Dilute, in the rivulets, mixing in with the whitish wash descending the slope, were tenuous streaks of red, serpentine in the gravel.

“Do not stop,” said Hendrix.

“What is that?” asked Julian.

“It does not concern you,” said Hendrix.

“It is blood,” said Otto.

The gladiator had come to be raised on the shields of the Wolfungs, as their chieftain. It was he who had refused the tribute to the Ortungs, he who had issued the challenge to Ortog, king of the Ortungs.

“Aii!” said Julian, as they reached the level, as he caught sight of a dark shape, back among the shadows, suspended from a branch.

The path led through the grove.

“What is it?” asked Julian of Gundlicht, who was ahead, on the right.

“Silence, pig,” said Gundlicht.

“Do not speak so to him,” said Otto. “He is a free man.”

“He is a Telnarian pig,” said Gundlicht.

“He is a citizen of the empire,” said Otto.

“So, too, as I understand it,” laughed Gundlicht, “were three others in your village.”

“But they were women,” said Otto.

Gundlicht laughed again, knowingly.

The path was now on the level. The trees of the copse, or grove, were thick on either side. It had stopped raining now, but it was still half-dark, from the roiling clouds. There was little sound but that of the passage of the men, the tiny sounds of small stones being trod upon, the descent of drops of water from the branches of trees.

“There, another, back there, amongst the trees,” said Julian.

“Keep silent,” said Hendrix. “This is a holy place.”

There were the tracks of a two-wheeled cart to one side. These could be easily discerned, from some damp pressed-down grass, to the left of the path, and, here and there, where a wheel had left the path, by marks in the mud.

“There is another, there,” said Julian.

“You cannot see much from the path,” said Gundlicht.

“Wait,” said Julian.

“Do not stop,” said Hendrix.

“Let him go,” said Otto.

The group waited on the level, and Julian entered the grove. Otto, in a moment, followed him, and then Hendrix and Gundlicht. Otto and Julian were not prisoners. They had come because of the challenge.

“It is dark here,” said Julian.

“One can see well enough,” said Otto.

The creak of a rope was heard.

Julian brushed back leaves. His hand was wet. There was the smell of crushed leaves, of wet, dark branches.

There were many shadows. Rain dripped from the leaves and branches.

“What manner of place is this?” asked Julian.

There was at that moment, startling them, as they were now closer to the sound, again the clash of cymbals, and the sound of female voices, raised in song.

“It is going to clear,” said Gundlicht, looking up, through the branches.

Beneath the wet, dark matting of leaves, hidden in delicate tunnels, in fragile palaces, dwelt grubs.

Julian stepped back, quickly, as a filch, its fur slick with rain skittered away.

“Let us return to the path,” said Otto.

“Wait,” said Julian.

He proceeded more deeply into the grove.

“Ai!” he cried suddenly, for in the darkness, and shadows, inadvertently coming upon it, he had literally struck against it, heavy, feeling the ribs through the fur, the fur wet. He pushed it back. It swung away, heavily. He stepped to the side, avoiding it as it returned to its place, suspended.

“What is it?” asked Julian.

“Speak softly,” said Hendrix.

“Can you not see, Telnarian pig?” said Gundlicht.

“It is a dog,” said Otto.

There were several other bodies, too, nearby, and an indefinite number in the grove. The dog’s head was oddly pointed upward, the legs oddly dangling beside the body. The rope was about its throat.

“There is a sheep,” said Otto.

“Look there,” said Julian.

“That is a horse sacrifice,” said Hendrix.

“And here is a pig, Telnarian pig,” said Gundlicht to Julian.

The porcine creature hung upside down, holes cut in its rear shanks, through which the rope had been run.

Its throat was cut open.

In places only the dangling end of a rope swung free from a branch.

“Let us return to the path,” said Hendrix.

It was at that time that they heard again the cymbals, and once more voices, those of women, raised in song.

“What is the meaning of the cymbals?” asked Julian.

“They mask other sounds,” said Otto.

They turned about, and began to make their way back to the path.

“Wait,” said Julian. “There, look.”

“Yes,” said Gundlicht.

“What is it?” asked Julian.

“Go closer,” said Gundlicht.

Julian regarded the object dangling from the branch.

“Do not those of the empire perform sacrifices?” asked Otto.

“Sometimes,” said Julian. “White bulls, fully grown beasts, with gilded horns and hoofs, such things.”

“But it is done cleanly,” said Julian.

The bronze blade, of course, bronze from immemorial tradition, moved swiftly in the sure hands of the priests, and the animal would sink to its knees or side, its head lolling, the lavers, held in the hands of neophytes, filling then with the hot blood.

“Sometimes it is not so cleanly done, in the arena,” said Otto.

“Those are not sacrifices,” said Julian.

“These things are done in the manner of the Timbri,” said Hendrix.

“We would not do things in this way,” said Gundlicht.

“I am pleased to hear it,” said Julian.

“We would have hung them more properly,” said Gundlicht.

“Of course,” said Julian.

“Their seeresses came to have influence over Ortog,” said Gundlicht.

“It had to do with the readings, the prophecies,” said Hendrix.

“I see,” said Julian.

“Step carefully,” said Hendrix.

Some bones, some knobs of vertebrae, and some ribs, like white branches, wet from the rain, lay among the dark, crumbled leaves. To one side there was a skull.

“The ropes break, in time,” said Gundlicht.

The eyes of a filch, beady and bright, observed them, peering up from beneath leaves, where it had taken refuge.

In the grove there was no sound of birds. They were not now active, because of the rain.

The filch drew back, quickly, under the leaves.

Such a creature, though an omnivore, and surely not averse to scavenging, would profit little from the grisly trove introduced into its environment. There are temporal limits imposed on viable scavenging for mammalian and mammalianlike creatures. By the time portions of such weights might fall naturally to the leaves, the laws of chemistry would have had their say, producing cadaverine alkaloids. The taste of these is aversive to such creatures, apparently experienced as repelling and abhorrent. Those of their ancestors, or of generative life forms, for whom the taste was acceptable, or even reinforcive, presumably died, poisoned. We leave it to others to ponder on the interplay of that which is found marvelous in the living of it and healthfulness, and that which is found inhibiting, diminishing and depressing in the living of it, and disease and death.

The party then returned to the path, where a number of Ortungen, from the ship, had been awaiting them.

Shortly thereafter the sun came out.

On the ascent, having resumed it, they noted more blood, dark in the gravel. It had washed down, with the water, from above. To be sure, there was not much of it.

They continued to ply their way toward the top of the path.

Birds sang.

These creatures were again, now, active in the grove below.

They, unlike the filchen, fluttering about, pecking, alighting, had no difficulty in reaching the weights prior to the formation of natural toxins.

To be sure, the weights were not always without some profit even to the tiny filchen, as bits of matter might fall to the leaves, dropped by birds, perhaps lost in their small disputes, or even worms, or maggots, gorged, bright and swollen, like pearls.

It was hot now.

Otto shaded his eyes.

Water steamed from the flat surfaces of rocks to the side.

In a few minutes they had reached the top of the path.

Several bodies lay there, some in the mud, near a cart, others on the cart. Much ropage was wrapped about these bodies. It seemed the bodies were otherwise naked. Their ankles had been crossed and bound. To the crossed, bound ankles of each was attached a length of rope, some ten feet in length. The throat of each was cut, a gash going back, deep into the neck. The eyes of some of these bodies was still open, quite widely.

“Come along,” said Hendrix.

The path had, at its height, debouched into a wide, circular area, and near the center of this area there was a small platform, something like a yard high, and, near the platform, was an altarlike structure, of flat stones. Above this structure there reared two vertical posts, one planted on each side of it, with a heavy crosspost lashed in place, high, between the two vertical posts.

Two Ortungs, from within the clearing, were making their way rather in the direction of the group with which we have been concerned, but actually toward the vicinity of the cart. They dragged a body behind them, which Julian, looking back, saw them turn about, and then leave near the cart, with others.

There were several individuals near the center of the clearing, some on the platform, some about it, others about the altar.

“That is our king, Ortog, on the platform,” said Hendrix, “the tallest, he helmed in gold.”

Otto said nothing.

He had met the magnificent Ortog before, on the Alaria, on a measure of sand. Ortog had not known the stadium blade. It had not been a good match. The gladiator had declined to administer a death blow. Shortly thereafter the Alaria had come under attack by pursuing Ortung ships.

From where they were, several yards away, they saw two of the Ortungs drag a roped man toward the altar.

About the altar were several women in long, white gowns. Some of these held sistrums and cymbals.

The man did not protest.

The sistrums began to jangle.

Cymbals were poised.

Ortungs threw a rope, attached to the man’s bound ankles, over the crossbar. The music became more agitated as he was drawn upward, by his ankles, until he hung, head down, over the altar. A curved object lay, flattish, to the right, on the altar. This object, as would be clearly observed shortly, was a large, bronze, sicklelike knife. One of the white-gowned women, she who seemed first among them, threw over her head the hood of her gown, covering her head, as is customary in such a rite. Four other women now crowded close about the suspended figure. They seized the roped body, to hold it in place. Two others brought forth a large bronze vessel, rather like a shallow caldron. It had three clawlike feet. It was carried by two circular rings, or handles, which, when released, hung down, beside the vessel. This low caldronlike vessel, on its clawlike feet, they placed on the altar. The head, as it hung downward, was almost within it, and much of the hair was actually within it, and could not be seen for its sides.

“Ortog was betrayed some months ago,” said Hendrix. “He was captured by bounty hunters, with the aid of traitors. He was taken to Tinos, an outpost of the empire, and delivered there to his enemies.”

“Such as this dog!” said Gundlicht, striking Julian, who drew back, angrily.

“Desist,” said Otto.

“He is only a half-naked thrall, in rags,” said Gundlicht, puzzled.

“He is a free man, and with me,” said Otto.

“You would defend a dog of the empire?” asked Gundlicht.

“He is free. He is with me.” said Otto.

“Ortog,” said Hendrix, “was rescued, while being conveyed to Telnaria.”

“Yes,” said Otto.

Otto did not mention that there had been no intention of conveying Ortog as far as Telnaria.

“Do you know who those pigs are?” asked Hendrix of Otto, turning, indicating the bodies, in the mud, and on the cart, behind them some yards, to their left.

“No,” said Otto.

“Do you know who that is?” asked Hendrix, turning back toward the altar, indicating the rope-swathed figure dangling head down over the altar.

“No,” said Otto.

Then, in the midst of a din of cymbals, the white-gowned, hooded woman, who seemed chief among the others, who was a priestess, of the rites of the Timbri, her head now covered in the folds of her hood, drew back, by the hair, with her left hand, the man’s head, while with her right hand she lifted from the surface of the altar, where it lay near one of the three clawlike feet of the caldron, the large, bronze, sicklelike blade.

There was a climactic clash of cymbals.

“It is done,” said Hendrix.

“It takes some time for them to die,” said Gundlicht.

Once more Otto and Julian heard female voices raised in song, as they had earlier, on the trail, and in the grove.

The officiant had now uncovered her head.

“So who are these men?” asked Otto, looking back.

“Ortog was given into the hands of bounty hunters, by traitors, and even those he thought his brothers,” said Hendrix.

“And they were hunted down?” asked Otto.

“To the last man,” said Hendrix.

“I see,” said Otto.

“And he,” said Hendrix, indicating the body dangling over the altar, and the bronze vessel, “was the leader of the bounty hunters.”

“He died well,” said Otto.

“And he was only a brigand, not even of a people,” said Hendrix.

Otto shrugged.

“I am proud of him,” said Hendrix.

In a time two men removed the caldronlike vessel from the altar, that which had been brought to it by two women. They carried it to the side, where the two women were waiting. The women removed the lid from a large bronze vat, on a heavy wooden sledge, which would be drawn by chains. Into this vat the men emptied the contents of the caldronlike vessel, after which the women replaced the lid. The two men returned the caldronlike vessel to the vicinity of the altar. The two women in white came then to stand beside it. Other men were lowering the body from the framework at the altar. It was dragged past the group with which we have been concerned. The bloodied hair left streaks on the turf behind it.

“I did not know the Ortungs practiced the rites of the Timbri,” said Otto.

“It is the influence of the priestess, Huta, of the Timbri,” said Hendrix, with distaste. “She it is who with her tricks, and the readings, convinced Ortog that he should be king and not prince, who put it into his head that he should found his own tribe.”

“But you, and Gundlicht, like Ortog, were Drisriak,” said Otto. “How is it that you followed him?”

“We took rings from him,” said Hendrix. “We would die for him, he is our lord.”

Loyalties among the barbarian peoples, it might be mentioned, are seldom simple. Seldom, unlike those of more civilized groups, are their loyalties to abstractions, such as institutions or states. Loyalties tend rather to be based on blood and debt, and are owed, in the final analysis, more to leaders, and, derivatively, to lines or families, than anything else. Indeed, it is out of these basic forms of primitive allegiance that the tribal forms tend to emerge. Even in the tribal matrix the primary loyalty is customarily viewed as being owed to one’s lord, the giver of shelter, the provider of loaves.

There was a sudden howl of misery coming from behind the altar, and a twisting, struggling figure, but one almost totally covered with rope, was dragged into view.

“Ortog! Ortog!” it cried. “Have mercy on me! Do not hurt me! Do not do this to me! We have played together as children! We have stood back-to-back, as men! Have mercy! Mercy!”

Ortog raised his hand, to the women, and the cymbals began to clash.

The mouth of the man continued to move, crying out. Tears streamed down his face. But he could not be heard, because of the sound of the cymbals.

He was thrown across the altar, and, by the trailing rope on his ankles, hoisted by two men into position, the rope being then fastened in such a way as to suspend him, his head and throat at the convenience of the officiant.

Otto inclined his head to Hendrix, who spoke to him, his lips close to the giant’s ear.

“That is Andrax, leader of the conspirators,” said Hendrix. “He has been saved for last, and had been permitted, by intent to watch the fate of his predecessors.”

Otto nodded.

The mouth of the suspended man continued to move, frantically, wildly, but it was not clear if sound were being emitted, and was simply not audible because of the din, or if no sound were being emitted, perhaps because the vocal cords had failed him, and there was nothing remaining, then, but the frenzied, terror-stricken, wild movements of a contorted visage.

Four women came to hold him steady, which they could do only with difficulty. Two other women brought the caldronlike vessel, which had been earlier emptied into the vat on the rude sledge, from the side of the altar and placed it on the altar, as they had before. The women holding the man, as he was taller, pulled his head up and back, and then released it, so that it was then partly within the rim of the vessel. The priestess, once again, with two hands, drew over her head the hood of her gown.

There was a fiery climactic clash of cymbals.

The figure then squirmed, twisting on the rope. No longer was there any question of its capacity to utter sound.

“He is not dying well,” said Hendrix.

“You are not proud of him,” said Otto.

“No,” said Hendrix, “in spite of the fact that he is of the people.”

“He is not of the people,” said Gundlicht. “He is a traitor.”

“True,” said Hendrix.

“Are you not all traitors?” asked Otto.

“We have followed Ortog, who is our lord,” said Hendrix.

“We are of the people, still,” said Gundlicht, “of the Alemanni.”

“But not of the Drisriaks,” said Otto.

“No,” said Hendrix, “not of the Drisriaks.”

“You do not approve of the rites of the Timbri,” speculated Otto.

“No,” said Hendrix, “but we abide the will of Ortog, our lord.”

“And what would you prefer?” asked Otto.

“The old ways,” said Hendrix, shrugging. “The adz and the block.”

The officiant had now thrown back the hood of her gown. She had high cheekbones. Her hair was long, and dark.

“That is Huta, the priestess,” said Otto.

“Yes,” said Hendrix.

Once again, then, were the voices of the women, saving that of the high priestess, raised in song.

“It is over now,” said Hendrix.

“It is hot,” said Gundlicht.

“It will be good for visibility,” said Hendrix.

“Yes,” said Gundlicht.

The tall figure on the platform, that in the golden helm, turned to regard the group with which we have been concerned. A man beside him lifted his hand.

“We may approach,” said Hendrix. “Ortog, prince of the Drisriaks, king of the Ortungen, will see you now.”

“I do not see Gerune, the sister of Ortog, on the platform,” said Otto.

Hendrix stiffened.

“She is with the women, in the tents,” said Gundlicht.

“Remain in the background,” said Otto to Julian, “lest Ortog recognize you, from the Alaria.”

Julian nodded.

It was unlikely, however, that anyone who had been on the Alaria would have recognized in the barefoot, ragged fellow at the heel of Otto, chieftain of the Wolfungs, the impeccably groomed young officer, in full dress uniform, with purple cords at the left shoulder, of the Alaria. Surely he could be no more than the meanest of servants and was perhaps even a field slave, fit for a collar and kennel at night, and shackles during the day.

“Come along,” said Hendrix. “Ortog will see you now.”