The King

CHAPTER 24

The fire was well blazing.

It sizzled, and hissed, as grease, from roasting bear meat, fell into the flames.

There was wood aplenty, cold, fallen and dry, from the trees about. It had not been so on the plains. It is not hard to make a firedrill, even without a cord, and tiny shavings, cut by the Herul knife, and crushed, crumbled leaves, the ice broken out of them, dried and heated, warmed, against the skin, had taken the heat of friction, and begun to smolder, with a tiny, curling thread of smoke, and then flicker, and then spring up, in an infancy of encouraged fire, in which, soon, twigs blazed, and then hand-broken kindling.

She sat to one side, bound hand and foot.

It had not been difficult to follow her in the snow, her prints clear.

She had known he was about, of course, from the moment she had had a clear glimpse of him, earlier, he clad in the skins of the dogs, cowled in the head of the dog, in the moonlight, terrible, with the sword, engaged with the bear.

She had fled.

Surely he would be killed.

In any event she must flee.

But, in a time, knowing herself followed, he making no secret of the matter, she had turned, at bay, armed with a stick.

“Does a slave,” he had inquired, “raise a weapon against a free man?”

Swiftly she had thrown the stick down, into the snow.

“Remain standing,” he had said, “turn about, place your hands, wrists crossed, behind your back.”

She faced away from him, trembling, in tears.

He lashed her wrists together, behind her back, with a leather cord, part of the drawstring from the bag given him by the Herul, which had contained some food, meal, cheese and strips of meat, cut paper thin in the summer and dried on poles. In this way flies do not lay their eggs in it. He cut the drawstring in such a way that there was enough left over for her ankles.

She squirmed a little, inching a bit closer to the fire.

“Where did you get the pelt of the white vi-cat?” she asked.

“It seems,” he said, “that on the prairie I killed the animal, that it died from blows I inflicted. Others skinned it. It was given to me by a Herul, one named Hunlaki. You know Hunlaki.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know Hunlaki.” She shuddered. She was a human female, and a slave.

“I had killed another vi-cat earlier,” he said, “a smaller animal, one with a mottled coat. That pelt they kept.”

“I do not believe that you, alone, could kill the white vi-cat,” she said.

He shrugged.

“I killed the bear,” he said.

“You were fortunate,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he said.

After he had captured her he had returned to the carcass of the bear which he had then, she kneeling nearby, bound, in the snow, had skinned. He also took a quantity of meat from it. He had put the meat in the skin and tied it all, with sinew, into a long roll. This roll he put about her neck, and tied its ends together, before her. He had then gathered up his other things and left the place, she following.

An hour later, a good distance from the remains of the bear, which might attract scavengers, or wolves, he had found a place which had seemed suitable for a camp.

He had there relieved her of her burden and freed her hands, that she might, under his watchful eye, gather wood for the fire. When she had returned several times, with suitable fuel, which she placed to the side, he had rebound her, this time crossing her ankles, and serving her feet as well. He had then set about making the fire.

“Thank you for not stripping me in the snow,” she said.

“You are not going anywhere,” he said.

She squirmed a little, angrily.

“There are few furs for you,” he added.

This sort of thing has been mentioned, the common practice, in the winter, and in cold areas, of transporting, and housing, slaves naked, in furs, as a way of increasing their vulnerability and rendering escape impractical. It might be mentioned that in areas of blazing heat, and burning soils, as on various worlds, a similar practice obtains, only there the slaves have only a sheet of reflective material to gather about themselves, and are denied insulated boots, and such protective gear.

“You did not think,” said he, “that I would permit you, a mere slave, to be wrapped in the pelt of the vi-cat, did you, as though you might be a queen, in the arms of a king?”

“I am Hortense,” she said, “daughter of Thuron, noble of the Otungs.”

He did not respond.

“Build up the fire,” she suggested.

“This is the forest of the Otungs,” he said.

“Oh?” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“They are far away,” she said. “There is no danger. Build up the fire.”

He threw some extra wood on the blaze.

“I am hungry,” she said.

They were some two days into the forest.

“There is some meat of dog, raw,” he said, “some cheese, some dried meat, some meal.”

“There is roast bear meat,” she said.

“True,” he said, watching the meat sizzle on the spit, propped over the blaze. He turned it a little, twisting the spit, and more grease dropped, hissing, into the fire.

“I have had only some nuts, some roots, some seeds,” she said. “It is hard to find anything, under the snow.”

“When did you eat last?” he asked.

“Yesterday,” she said.

“You must be very hungry,” he said.

“Yes!” she said.

“The meat is almost done,” he said.

“Excellent,” she said.

“Do you think you will be given any?” he asked.

“Beast!” she cried, and struggled to free herself, but could not do so.

He observed her, dispassionately.

“I am Hortense,” she said, “daughter of Thuron, noble of the Otungs!”

He did not respond to her.

“Why have you followed me?” she asked. “You have a Herul knife. Did you take it from Hunlaki? Did you kill him?”

“No,” said the giant. “No.”

“Have you come to spy for Heruls on Otungs, as it is said the Hageen did?”

“No,” said the giant.

“Why did you come?” she asked.

“Perhaps I found your flanks of interest, as those of slave,” he said.

She stiffened angrily, but he sensed that something in her was flattered, perhaps the woman, the slave, in her.

“Perhaps,” he said, “I come on the business of Telnaria.”

“Telnaria?” she said.

“Are you disappointed?” he asked.

“No!” she cried. “That is the last thing I would be,” she assured him.

“Oh,” he said.

“To spy?”

“No,” he said.

“You are a Telnarian dog?” she said.

“I am from the festung village of Sim Giadini,” he said, “It is near the heights of Barrionuevo, some miles from the festung of Sim Giadini. Some of the Otungs may know it, from the days when they rode free on the plains of Barrionuevo.”

“On the flats of Tung?”

“As you wish,” he said.

“A peasant?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” said the giant. “I do not know.”

“Build up the fire more,” she suggested.

“You are sure it is safe,” he said.

“Certainly,” she said.

He put more wood on the fire.

She smiled.

“The meat is done,” he said. He drew the spit from the forked sticks on which it had been supported. He put the meat down on the bearskin. He drew out his knife.

“Feed me!” she said.

“On your knees, and crawl to the fire,” he said.

She struggled to her knees, and then, with small movements, inch by inch, made her way to the fire.

“Feed me!” she demanded.

“Why?” he asked.

“I am Hortense,” she said, “daughter of Thuron, noble of the Otungs.”

“It is late at night,” he said, “and one supposes that Otungs would now, in this winter, in this cold, in their halls, and huts, and such, be deep in their furs, would be well abed.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“It is nothing,” he said.

“I do not understand,” she said, uncertainly.

“So there would be little point, really, in my building up the fire.”

“I only wished to be warmer,” she said.

“It seems unlikely that there would be Otungs about,” he said. “Do you not agree?”

“Yes,” she said, uncertainly.

“If they were about, surely,” said he, “they would have intruded by now.”

She nodded, weakly.

“Thus,” said he, “it seems, clearly, that we must be quite alone. Do you not agree?”

“Yes!” she said, angrily.

“And in the morning,” said he, “when discovery might be more likely, though still a remote possibility, in the morning, when Otungs might possibly be about, though the chances of encountering them would be surely extremely slight, we will not be here.”

She looked at him, fearfully.

“Where will you take me?” she asked. “What will you do with me?”

“You are a slave,” he said. “I will take you where I wish, and do with you what I please.”

“Free me!” she said.

“One does not free slaves,” he said, “particularly ones who are well curved.”

She made an angry noise, and tore at her bonds, futilely, but, too, he could see that something within her was not displeased at all, something perhaps the woman, the slave.

“Do you wish to be fed?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Were you not a camp slave?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“And you were such for some two years?”

“Yes,” she said.

“You must then,” he said, “be in the habit of begging and giving pleasure, before you are fed.”

“I am a free woman!” she said. “I am Hortense, daughter of Thuron, noble of the Otungs!”

“Slaves are given names by their masters,” he said. “What is your name?”

She looked at him, angrily.

He cut a small piece of meat, hot and juicy. She eyed it, covetously.

“What name were you given?” he asked.

“Yata,” she said.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Yata!” she said.

“Yata, what?” he asked.

“Yata, Master!” she said.

“There is one reason for my following you, which does not seem to have occurred to you,” he said.

“What is that?” she asked.

“You are a runaway slave,” he said.

“No!” she said.

“Surely you are,” he said. “And you have now been caught.’’

She looked up at him, trembling.

“Perhaps,” he said, “I have been sent to apprehend you, and return you to the camp, to your masters.”

“Do not!” she wept. “They would cut off my feet! They would kill me!”

“But I have not followed you to return you to your master,” he said.

“Thank you, Master!” she cried.

“For you have been given to me,” he said, “and it is I who am now your master.”

“No!” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “You were given to me. You are my slave.”

“No!” she wept.

“And were it not such,” said he, “I would make you mine now, by claimancy.”

“No, no, no!” she wept.

Then she looked up at him.

“Does Yata beg?” he asked.

“Am I still Yata?” she asked.

“That name will do,” he said, “unless I see fit to change it.”

“It is a Herul name!” she wept.

“It seems fitting,” he said, “for one who was a Herul slave.”

He rose to his feet.

He looked down at her.

“Does Yata beg?” he asked.

He held the piece of meat, lifted, in his right hand.

“Yata begs!” she wept.

“Now Yata may give pleasure,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

A bit later she had fed, still kneeling, her hands tied behind her, her head down, reaching down to the snow, retrieving pieces of meat thrown there, before her.

He enjoyed seeing her take meat thusly, before him.

“That is enough,” he finally said.

She looked up at him.

“You may come forth,” he called out, among the trees. “You have been seen. I know you have been there for some time.”

She looked about, startled, and struggled to rise to her feet, but, her ankles crossed and bound, she could not do so. Several fur-clad figures emerged from the trees, from all sides.

“Greetings,” said the giant.

He motioned that they might join him about the fire, and partake of the meat, but they remained standing.

“You are Otungs?” asked the giant.

“Yes,” said one of the visitors.

“Good,” said the giant.

“Perhaps not,” said one of the newcomers.

“I am Otung!” cried the girl, from her knees.

“She has no tribe,” said the giant. “She is a slave girl.”

“I am Hortense,” she said, “daughter of Thuron! Free my ankles of the thong that binds them! Let me stand! Cut the thong that binds my wrists!”

He who seemed to be the leader of the fur-clad fellows come from the forest, a large man, bearded, with blond, braided hair falling over his shoulders, looked down upon her.

“You looked well, giving pleasure,” he said.

“Perhaps you can give pleasure to all of us,” said another of the fur-clad men.

“That is what women are good for,” said another.

“Is she yours?” asked the leader of the fur-clad men of the giant.

“Yes,” he said.

“What is her name?” asked the leader of the fur-clad men.

“Yata,” said the giant.

“A Herul name.”

“Yes.”

“I am Hortense!” cried the girl. “I am the daughter of Thuron, noble of the Otungs!”

“Thuron is dead,” said one of the men.

The girl drew back.

“She was a Herul slave?” asked the leader of the Otungs.

“Yes,” said the giant.

“No!” suddenly cried the girl.

“As a Herul slave, you are useless to us,” said one of the Otungs to the girl.

“You were taken with your maidens, while bathing,” said one of the Otungs.

“No!” said the girl.

“Your garments were found upon the banks, and in the mud, though soon vanished, the marks of transport poles,” said one of the Otungs.

“No, no!” said the girl.

“Where are your maidens?” asked an Otung.

“I do not know,” she said.

“They fell to Heruls, and were made slaves,” said an Otung.

“I escaped, and fled, and have been hiding, and wandering,” said the girl. “I was not made a slave. I can prove that! You see I have no collar, no anklet, no bracelet! Let me be examined by women. You will not find a mark on my body!”

“Why were you not with your maidens?” asked an Otung.

“I went into the woods, to gather flowers,” she said, hastily.

“Why did you leave them?” asked an Otung.

“Why did you not look out for them?” asked another.

“Surely you heard the sounds of their capture,” said another.

“No, no,” she said.

“Your own garments were found with theirs, on the bank,” said another.

“But I was not there!” she said.

“Why did you not return to the villages, to rouse the men?” asked an Otung.

“I was trying to elude capture,” she said.

“Where did you obtain the garments you are wearing?” asked one of the Otungs.

“I stole them, in my wanderings, from Heruls,” she said.

“You were long in your wanderings,” said one of the Otungs.

“I should have returned sooner,” she said, “but I was captured by this Telnarian dog! I am his prisoner, as you see, but not his slave! I am now rescued!”

“The maidens were comely,” said an Otung. “We have learned that they were sold in Scharnhorst, and thence transported to other worlds, where they were to be vended in slave markets.’’

“That proves my story!” she said. “Had I been enslaved, I would have shared their fate!”

“Perhaps you were insufficiently comely,” said an Otung.

She reacted, as if struck.

“She is comely enough to be vended in a market,” said the giant. “Indeed, I think her beauty was such that it was adjudged worthy of being retained among the wagons. Too, I think it amused the Heruls to keep in their lowest bondage, at least for a time, one who had been the daughter of an Otung noble.”

“She was a camp slave?” said the Otung leader.

“Yes,” said the giant.

“No!” cried the girl.

“You were not a camp slave?” asked the Otung leader.

“No!” said the girl. “I-I was not even a slave!”

“Cut the thongs on her ankles,’’ said the leader of the Otungs.

“Thank you, noble lord!” said the girl.

“Remain on your knees,” he cautioned her, as she made as though to rise.

“Milord!” she protested.

“In the village,” he said, “we shall look into the truth of these matters.”

“We have ways, as you know,” said one of the Otungs.

“And woe to you,” said one of the Otungs, “if you have lied.”

“Doubtless Citherix will be pleased to see you returned to the village, and as a slave,” said one of the Otungs.

The girl turned white.

“You refused his suits often enough,” said one of the Otungs.

The girl, her ankles freed, but her hands still bound behind her, on her knees, trembled.

To these matters the giant was attentive.

“Where did you steal the pelt of a white vi-cat?” asked the leader of the Otungs of the giant.

“It is mine. I did not steal it,” said the giant.

“Why are you in the forest?” asked the leader of the Otungs.

“I have come to find Otungs,” said the giant.

“But it seems that it is you who have been found by them,” said a man.

“It is my way of finding them,” said the giant. “Else, why would I build the fire so high?”

“You will now come with us,” said the leader of the Otungs.

“Of course,” said the giant.

“You know this is the Killing Time?’’ asked the leader of the Otungs.

“Yes,” said the giant.

“And yet you came?”

“Yes.”

“He has with him the pelt of the giant white vi-cat,’’ said one of the Otungs.

“That is the pelt of a king,” said another of the Otungs.

“I have heard so,” said the giant.

“It is all very strange,” said one of the Otungs.

“Put out the fire,” said the leader of the Otungs. “Destroy all traces of the camp. Gather up the meat. Tie it about the neck of the woman. Gag her. Bring the bearskin, and his goods, and the pelt of the white vi-cat.”

“Bring, too, the weapon,” said the leader of the Otungs.

“I will bring that,” said the giant.

One of the men looked to the leader.

“Very well,” said the leader of the Otungs.

“He has a knife,” said one of the men.

“A Herul knife,” said another.

“I keep that, too,” said the giant.

The leader of the Otungs nodded.

The group then left the scene of the small encampment and made its ways through the trees, and the black shadows, trudging through the pale, moonlit snow. The leader of the Otungs went first and, behind him, flanked by two Otungs, came the giant, the great blade upon his shoulder. Then came the rest of the Otungs, some dozen or so. Lastly came the woman, her hands tied behind her, the balance of the roast bear meat tied, rolled and thonged, about her neck. She was gagged. The men did not now wish to hear her speak. Accordingly, she was silenced. Her case, such as it might be, would be considered in the village. Too, in the event she should prove to be a slave, the gag, in its bands, which was a heavy and broad one, denied the meat to her, even that she might somehow touch it with her tongue. The feeding of a slave, as is commonly understood, is subject to the supervision of the master, subject, for example, to his generosity, his convenience, and even his discretion.