The King

CHAPTER 32

“Who will stand for king?” called Urta, the King Namer.

The carcass of the roast boar, hot, basted, steaming, glistening, now lay, lengthwise, on the heavy, stained planks, laid over four trestles, before the dais on which stood, alone, the simple, wooden empty throne, the dais at the end of the hall, away from the entrance, down its flat, stone steps.

“Rolof, of the lineage of Ondax,” said a man, rising from behind one of the long tables, to the side of the hall.

“The Gri!” said a man.

There were cries of anger, murmurs of discontent.

Rolof looked about himself, with contempt. Men near him, retainers, rose, their hands on the hilts of blades. “Yes,” said Rolof, “Rolof, of the lineage of Ondax, of clan Gri.”

“Valdemar!” cried a stout fellow from the opposite side of the room, rising to his feet, he, too, flanked by armed men. “Valdemar, of the lineage of Alberich, of the clan Tiri!”

This entry, too, was met with a menacing roll of anger, like thunder, far off.

“Better Gundar!” cried a man.

“Yes!” cried another.

“Clan Oni!”

“No!” cried other voices.

Eyes turned toward a blond fellow, with braided hair. He rose to his feet.

“Gundar,” said he, “of the lineage of Asa, of the Oni.”

“No!” said another man, rising. “I, Hartnar, son of Tasach, son of Sala, scion of clan Reni!”

“Gelerich,” said another man, rising, a lean man, “of the line of Pertinax, clan Orti.”

“Astarax,” said another, rising, “of the line of Fendash, clan Eni.”

“Each of you,” asked Urta, “have champions?”

Assent was nodded to this. At the right hand of each was a sullen, stalwart fellow, a helmet cradled in his arm. Some were of the clans in question, others mercenaries.

“Six clans are contestants, and claimants,” said Urta. “What of the other clans?”

None others spoke, or rose from behind the tables.

“They are coward clans,” said a man.

“No!” cried men.

“Be silent!” commanded Urta.

“Is there no champion on behalf of Lord Ulrich, son of Emmerich?”

“None,” said Ulrich.

“Clan Elbi, Lord Ulrich, first of the clans of the Otungs, first tribe of the Vandal peoples, proposes no champion?” asked Urta.

“The Elbi propose no champion,” said Ulrich.

There was a murmur of disappointment about the tables.

“What has become of the Elbi?” asked a man.

“What has become of the clan of Genserix?” asked another.

“Propose a champion,” pressed a man.

“No,” said Ulrich.

“They are cowards,” said a man.

“Say no words which may be washed away only with blood,” said Ulrich.

“Forgive me, milord,” said the man who had spoken.

“I do not think I heard such words,” said Ulrich.

“They were not spoken,” said the man.

“It is only his concern for the Elbi, and the Otungs, that prompted his speech, milord,” said a scarred man.

“What speech?” asked Ulrich.

“That which was not spoken,” said the scarred man.

“The matter is done,” said Ulrich.

“There are six claimant clans,” said Urta. He then looked about. “Will no clan yield place to another?”

“No,” said each of those who had spoken, in turn.

“I implore you to yield place, or to let the lots decide the matter, letting chance choose from amongst you,” said Urta.

“No,” said Rolof, looking about.

“None yields to any,” snarled Gelerich.

“If there is to be gambling, let it be that of blades,” said Valdemar.

“Yes!” said men.

“We shall laugh with steel,” said a man.

“Yes,” agreed the others.

A woman wept.

“Let it be understood that none but claimants or their champions may participate,” said Urta.

Men looked angrily about.

“It is understood,” said Valdemar.

The others, the claimants, murmured assent to this.

Grumbling came from retainers, and dark, suspicious looks were cast about.

“I shall prepare the lots, to determine the composition and order of the matches,” said Urta.

“Proceed,” said Rolof.

“Proceed,” said Valdemar.

“There is yet time to withdraw,” said Urta.

“Proceed!” said Gundar.

“Each of you claims the hero’s portion?” said Urta. He looked from one to the other, in turn.

“Yes,” said Rolof.

“Yes,” said Valdemar.

“Yes,” said Gundar.

“Yes,” said Hartnar.

“Yes,” said Gelerich.

“Yes,” said Astarax.

“Behold,” cried Ulrich, suddenly, elatedly, rising, pointing, “you are too late! It is already claimed!”

There were cries of rage, and of astonishment, throughout the hall.

On the table itself, towering there, legs spread, stood the blond giant. The great blade, five feet in length, was thrust into the body of the boar. He had held with two hands the hilt of the great blade, above his head, the point downward, and then plunged it downward. The point of the blade could be seen beneath the table where it had emerged, splintering the plank.

“Kill him!” cried men.

“Sacrilege!” cried others.

“Blasphemy!” cried others.

“How dare you do what you have done?’’ cried Urta, aghast.

“I am hungry,” said the giant.

“Kill him!” screamed men.

The giant loosened the blade, and, lifting it, with three blows, hacked away the right, rear thigh of the massive boar.

He then, with the blade, sliced away a slab of hot meat, running with blood and juice.

He bit into this, deliberately, looking about himself, the blood and juice running at the side of his mouth.

“Kill him!” cried men.

“Surely others are hungry as well,” he said.

He cut another piece of meat, and held it out to Urta, who drew back.

The giant then turned about.

“Untie the slave,” he called.

One of the men at Ulrich’s table crouched down behind the table and freed Yata’s wrists and ankles. He wrapped the leather several times about her left ankle, and knotted it there, rather in the nature of a slave anklet. The slave may not undo such a knot without permission. It can be death to do so. Too, in this fashion, carrying the leather with her, she may be conveniently, instantly, bound, leashed or tethered, that at one’s discretion.

The giant motioned that she should approach, and she did so, hesitantly, self-consciously, the eyes of all upon her.

She knelt below the table on which he stood, waiting, and he threw her the piece of meat which Urta had refused, and pointed back, toward Ulrich.

She rose and carried the meat to Ulrich, placed it before him, on the bare table, and then knelt near the table, facing the giant, her master.

“What is wrong?” asked the giant, calling to the tables. “Have you never seen a naked slave serve at a feast before?”

Ulrich did not touch the meat, but, eyes glistening, kept his eyes on the giant.

“Women of the empire,” said the giant, “serve such feasts well.”

He recalled perhaps a small feast at which, on Vellmer, three women of the empire had so served, and well, Flora, Renata and Sesella. Another had served, too, and well, Gerune, but she had not been of the empire. She had been once a Drisriak, and then an Ortung, and then but livestock, a slave.

“On behalf of whom do you claim this meat?” asked Urta.

“On my own behalf,” said the giant.

“By what right?”

“By the right of my hunger,” said the giant.

“That is not enough,” said Urta.

“By the right of my pleasure then,” said the giant.

“That is not enough,” said Urta.

“By the right of my will then,” said the giant.

“That is not enough,” said Urta.

“Then by the right of my sword,” said the giant.

“Whose champion are you?” asked Urta.

“I am my own champion,” said the giant.

“You cannot claim this meat,” protested Urta.

“Dispute it with me who will,” said the giant, cutting another piece of meat.

He then, piece by piece, cut meat, throwing the meat to the slave, who carried it to one warrior or another, as indicated by the giant. He read the warriors, and in reading them, seeing who seemed young, and virile, and dangerous, and perhaps fit to be a companion, accordingly made his selections. None touched the meat put before them, but the eyes of many shone, and the hands of more than one inched toward the steaming, juicy provender.

“He gives meat!” cried a retainer of Rolof.

“He is a giver of meat,” said a man, in awe.

“You are not a lord, to provide for companions, for a retinue!” said Urta.

“I have seen one who looked much like him, once before, long ago!” said a man.

“Where is Fuldan, the Old?” asked another.

“He has been sent for,” said another.

“He is a stranger,” said Hartnar, angrily.

“He has brought to the hall the pelt of a white vi-cat,” said Ulrich. “It is the first time in a generation such a pelt has been in this place, not since Genserix.”

“It means nothing!” cried a man.

“Such was the mantle of Genserix,” said Ulrich.

The man was silent.

“Who are you, stranger?” demanded a man.

“A peasant, a fighter, one who was lifted upon the shields of Wolfungs, a Vandal people, as are the Otungs, a captain in the auxilia of Telnaria, come simply to recruit a company,” said the giant.

“What is your people?” asked a man.

“I do not know,” said the giant.

“I think you are Otung,” said a man, in awe.

“Then,” said the giant, “I am come home, and would be welcomed.”

“Think, think!” cried Ulrich. “The Heruls put upon us year kings, insult kings, kings to divide us, kings to be replaced, kings who are to us as prisons and fetters, kings we despise and ignore, kings who are nothing, a kind of kings created by our enemies, kings who have but a compromised, meretricious, bestowed prestige, and one bought dearly with our own blood. The Heruls defeated us once, in battle, now they defeat us each year, by guile. Why do you think the Elbi propose no king, no champion? We will not play the game of the Heruls. I say, make no king, or make a true king!”

“The Heruls will not permit a true king,” said Urta.

“Then make no king!” said Ulrich.

“The Heruls will be displeased,” said Urta.

“Let them be displeased,” said Ulrich.

“Yes,” said men, softly.

“We cannot meet them, unmounted, on the plains,” said Urta.

“And I do not think they will much care to seek us out in the darkness of the forest, in the shadows, in the growth and underbrush,” said Ulrich. “Long ago, Telnaria lost armies in such endeavors.”

“No more false kings,” said a man.

“No king unless it be a true king!” said a man.

There were cries of approval from about the tables.

“It will mean war,” said Urta.

“Lift me upon the shields,” said Rolof. “I will be true king.”

“No!” cried Valdemar.

“No!” cried other claimants.

“There would then be but one slaughter,” said Rolof.

“We will not risk a king of clan Gri,” said Astarax.

“Then year kings again it must be,” said Valdemar.

“It is madness!” cried Ulrich. “Why must the clans and houses, the families, the lineages, war with one another? Are we not all Otung?”

“I yield to no one,” said Gelerich.

“Nor I!” said Astarax.

“I would not hide all my days in the forest,” said Ulrich. “I would one day come forth from the forest, bravely, with oxen and wagons, with songs, and arms, marching. We have hidden here long enough, imprisoned not by Heruls but by our own vanities and rivalries.’’

“We are not yet strong enough,” said Urta.

“Let us take the first step, the first step on our march,” said Ulrich. “If we must have a king, and cannot have a true king, then let us make a year king, but one who has no party, one who is not of the table of a given house, one who has taken rings from no man, one by means of whom to satisfy, and yet reprove and mystify, Heruls.”

“Only a stranger could be such,” said a man.

“Yes,” said Ulrich.

Eyes turned toward the giant.

“No!” cried Rolof.

“He has brought to the hall the pelt of the white vi-cat,” said Ulrich.

“Such was the mantle of Genserix,” said a man.

“It is the medallion and chain which are important,” said a man.

“The medallion and chain were lost,” said a man.

“It fell to the lot of Heruls,” said a man.

“There can be no true king without the medallion and chain,” said a man.

“It was that, allegiance to it, sworn by the fathers of the clans, that united the people,” said a man.

“Yes,” said another.

“So there can be no true king,” said a man.

“I do not come amongst you to be king,” said the giant. “I come amongst you to recruit comitates, comites, fellows, companions, swordsmen, fighters.”

“He is a spy for Telnaria!” said a man.

“He is a Herul spy. See the Herul knife!” said another.

The giant cut more meat, indeed, with the Herul knife, which, by means of Yata, he distributed, indicating likely recipients.

Then he rose up, from where he had crouched, cutting meat, and stood again on the table.

“Begone, stranger,” said Rolof.

The giant freed the great blade of the meat, into which he had thrust it.

“Make the stranger year king,” said Ulrich. “In that way no clan, and no house, takes precedence over another. Why should you, Rolof, or you, Valdemar, or Gundar, or Hartnar, or Gelerich or Astarax, or any other Otung of noble blood, stain his honor by accepting the post of year king? It is dishonor to accept it, not honor. To accept such a kingship is not glory, but shame. It is to serve not Otungs, but Heruls.”

“In yielding to the stranger,” said a man, “you lose nothing in honor, for no rival takes precedence over you.”

“And you show contempt for Heruls,” said another.

“No!” said Rolof.

“I would be king, even if for a year!”

“I!” said Valdemar.

“No!” cried the others. “I! I!”

“Alas,” said Ulrich. “All is lost.”

“No,” said the giant.

“How so?” asked Ulrich.

“For the hero’s portion has been claimed,” said the giant.

“That is true, milords,” said Urta. “One stands between you and the kingship.”

Retainers rose to their feet.

But more than a dozen young men before whom meat had been placed rose, too, to their feet.

“Hold!” cried Urta.

“My company,” said the giant, “is open to all clans, to all Otungs, and to others, as well.”

“And in such a company,” said a man, “to whom is allegiance owed-to Telnaria, our hated foe, to whom we owe our exile on Tangara?”

“No,” said the giant, “not to Telnaria.”

“Then to whom?” asked the man.

“To me,” said the giant.

There was silence in the hall.

“Kill him,” said Rolof, gesturing toward the giant. Six men hurried toward the table.

“No!” cried others.

It was a mistake, of course, that the noble, Rolof, had given the order he had.

It was not in accord with the customs of the Otungs. Too, he did not understand the nature of the giant. But then, at that time, few did. His mistake was then twofold, on the one hand, a breach of civility, on the other, as it turned out, an error of judgment, not that one should blame Rolof severely for that, as, at that time, as we have suggested, the nature of the giant was not clearly understood.

The accounts differ troublesomely on what exactly occurred.

They concur, however, on the cry.

With a sudden, wild cry, a cry which astonished those in the hall, a glad, elated cry, as though of the release of long pent-up frustration, of patience too long restrained, a cry of savage joy, of feral gladness, a releasing, laughing, merciful, discharging cry, a cry like the flashing of fire, like the sudden, unexpected, exultant crack of thunder from violent, aching, swollen clouds, a cry bestial, grateful and exultant, a cry that might have been that of a starving man who sees food, that of a man dying of thirst who sees water, the giant leapt from the table, the huge blade in flight, hurtling, bearing with it all its edged, cruel weight, that mighty blade which the giant handled as if it might have been a straw, sped with all its momentum, that of his movement and of its own swift, smooth arc, like a steel wind, almost invisible.

Accounts of what matters then occurred, and the order in which these matters occurred, tend to vary amongst the chroniclers. Whereas this is regrettable, it is also quite understandable, as it is a commonplace that when a complex event occurs suddenly, precipitately, in a crowded area, and is hastily resolved, that even eyewitnesses tend to produce conflicting reports of what occurred. Doubtless they are startled, and perhaps confused; much happens quickly; it is soon done; perspectives differ; some vantages are superior to others; what one notes may depend in part on one’s expectations; and memory, too, tends to be fallible, particularly in the case of such events, where so much happens so quickly; too, one must remember that the hall was doubtless poorly lit.

I have elected to follow here, in the main, the account of Orban, of the house of Orix, as reported in the second chronicle of Armenion, as revised by Teminius. I have selected it not because I regard it as that likely to be most accurate, but rather because, as I do not know which account is the most accurate, it is the most restrained.

I apologize for the account, but it must be remembered that the times were other than ours.

Six men, it may be recalled, hurried toward the table, these retainers of Rolof, his champion, and five others, these coming from the giant’s right.

The mighty blade, which might have felled a small tree, or cut the head from a horse, with one blow, like a live, leaping thing, rising up, a flat, edged living wind, a flash under the torches, caught the men doubled on one another, they not anticipating the attack, they having foolishly thought it was they who were the aggressors, the first two stopping, suddenly, startled, others stumbling against one another, the men falling amongst themselves, none set, none in the guard position, caught the first two men to the right, cutting upward through the armpit of the first, slashing away the arm and upper torso and neck and head, and flighting thence, in the same arc, to cleave away the upper skull of the second man, the blade turning then, in its back stroke, to cut away the hand and split the ribs of a third man. The other three, half fallen, looked up, wildly, and one amongst them was cleaved at the side of the head, the stroke, downward, at the right eye, ceasing its dividing stroke only at the last of three sheared ribs. Two others turned to flee but another stroke cut both feet from under one, and he hobbled on stumps to the table of Rolof, beneath which he fell, and the last was caught against that very table itself, the table of Rolof, where he fell before his lord, the table itself splintered then in twain, the body, half cut in two, folded in upon itself, descending, sliding, in the collapsed planks. The giant scarcely noted the horrified eyes of Rolof behind the table, when his arena sense, alert to the tiniest of sounds, was that the movement of a foot in the dust, brought him full about to see men of lord Valdemar advancing toward him.

“Stop!” cried Urta.

The giant laughed, to see more meat for his sword, and men hesitated.

“Stop!” again cried Urta, the namer of kings.

“Kill him!” cried Valdemar, and his champion edged forward, but one blow of the long blade smote through a shield, flinging the arm, caught in the device’s straps, across the hall.

The man to his right was blinded by the blood, and in a moment, unseeing, screaming, thrust his hand downward, into his own guts, where it was caught, tangled, and in his terror, with two hands, clutching, in madness and pain, disemboweled himself.

Other men of Valdemar drew back, four others.

The giant looked about himself, crouching down, like an animal, turning with feral, almost inhuman quickness.

“Kill him!” called Rolof, as though to the hall itself.

The giant’s eyes were bright.

There was blood on his hands and furs.

“It is Genserix,” said a man.

“It is more terrible than Genserix,” said another.

“Kill him!” cried Valdemar to his reluctant liegemen.

The blood on the blade had run sidewise in narrow channels, these streamlets consequent upon the motion of the article.

It was this quickness apparently, this seeming capacity to move with unnatural speed, which was one of the first things to have struck, or caught, even enflamed, the imaginations of many men of the time, doubtless rude, simple men, sword-wielders, spearmen and such. There is much agreement on this quickness, it seems, as one of the giant’s properties. And yet, as certain chronicles have it, the field diaries of Lucian, for example, the speeds with which he moved tended, even in battle, to shift and vary deceptively, distractively, startling foes, disturbing their anticipations, necessitating costly adjustments, a thousandth of a second sometimes the difference of an inch or more in the reach and thrust of a blade. Such things cannot be taught, not in their fullness of subtlety, not in their diverse pacings, their delicate temporal modalities, their seemingly instantaneous sensings, not in their odd admixture of violence and sensitivity, brutality and refinement. They are bred into warriors, generation by generation, over thousands of years, much as hunting and killing, generation by generation, over thousands of years, is bred into the lion, the vi-cat, the wolf. Sometimes, it is said, he seemed somnolent, slow to act, silent like rock, massive like stone, and then again, sometimes without warning, it seemed that great body could explode, bomblike, destructive to all within its compass. Sometimes he seemed slow, awkward, inarticulate. Certainly he was illiterate, like many of his time. But it seems, too, he was not unintelligent. There is much evidence that he could be patient, reflective and thoughtful. We know little in detail of such things, however, his plans and long thoughts, as he muchly kept his own counsel. Few people claimed to know him well. There is universal agreement, however, that his anger was not a light thing. It could arise suddenly, unpredictably, stormlike. It could seldom be assuaged without blood. Doubtless this was his greatest weakness. Certainly, politically, it was his most grievous flaw. To be sure, his concept of statecraft in any event was rudimentary, being founded on little more, as was common with his sorts of peoples in those times, than simple virtues, such as the keeping of pledged words. He was not equally at home in the saddle and on a throne. But this was not unusual, too, for many leaders of his time. We know little of the deeper currents within him, or if there were such. He is said, once in the darkness of the woods, thinking himself alone, to have howled, as though in great pain. Men never saw him cry. Little is known of his inner life, or if he, in effect, had one. It is speculated that men in his time were less self-aware, less self-conscious, than men in our time, that they were simpler, and more like animals, than we. One does not know, of course. Too, on such matters it is difficult to speculate.

The giant looked about himself.

The warriors of Valdemar had drawn back.

The giant went back to the table and, with the great blade, cut another piece of meat.

Yata ran to him and knelt before him, her head down, her hands lifted, and he put the meat in her small hands, her tiny fingers clutching it, warm juice running between her fingers.

She looked up at her master.

He looked about.

At the tables a young man had risen.

The giant pointed to the young man and Yata hurried to him, and placed the meat before him. His eyes shone. Yata then drew back from the table, knelt, put her head to the dirt, and then turned, on her knees, lifting her head a little, to face the giant.

How next would she be commanded?

The young man had scarcely glanced at the lovely young slave before him, though she would doubtless have brought a high price in many markets.

Mightier things were afoot.

She was only a female, and a slave.

“I have at this time no rings to give,” said the giant.

“I would not serve for rings,” said the young man.

“What is your name?” said the giant.

“Vandar,” said the young man.

“It is a good name,” said the giant.

“I am ready!” said the young man. “Summon me to your side!”

“At my side is danger,” said the giant.

“I would rather die at the side of one such as you than live elsewhere,” said the man.

“Do not move,” said a man.

“The night is cold, and the stars are indifferent,” said the young man. “I answer only to myself.”

“Cease your obscure rantings,” said a man.

“Milord!” cried the young man to the giant.

“Remain where you are!” said the giant.

The young man cried out in misery.

“Can you not see?” asked a man. “He stands alone.”

“At this time one such as he must stand alone,” said another.

“He who cannot stand alone deserves to have none stand with him,” said another.

“He has brought to the hall the pelt of a white vi-cat,” said Ulrich.

“No, no!” cried Valdemar, looking about himself. “Kill him! Kill him!”

One of his men turned to him. “We follow you, my liege,” he said.

Valdemar did not move.

Then his men drew away from him.

“You are no longer first among the Tiri,” said a man.

“No!” cried Valdemar.

Valdemar drew his blade, and cried out, and he, then followed instantly by several men, those of the Tiri in the hall, rush toward the giant.

“No!” cried Urta. “Only the lord, or his champion, may challenge!”

But none gave ear to the plaint of the King Namer.

The giant struck about him with the great sword.

A shield was cut in twain. Men were struck to the side, buffeted. The mighty sword flashed again, and sparks, like flaming snow, bright from three blades, exploded in the hall. Men pressed forward.

“Stop!” cried the King Namer.

“Stop!” cried others.

The giant, looking about himself, backed away. The fire pit was behind him, long, some eighteen feet in length, some five feet in width, a foot deep with glowing coals. The two supports on which the spit had been mounted were still in place. The spit itself, one end pointed for insertion in the meat, the other end bent to a handle that the device might be turned, that spit on which the boar had been roasted, lay to one side, on a wooden rack. The giant felt the heat behind him.

Valdemar lunged forward, his charge turned by the great blade, and the noble, screaming, losing his footing, fell into the pit. Otto forced the retainers back with a terrible blow, and spun about, turning to Valdemar, who, screaming, twisted in the coals, rose up wildly, slipped, fell, climbed again to his feet, and began to wade, frenziedly, stumbling, to the edge of the pit, but the giant turned about and plunged after him, wading into the coals, and seized Valdemar at the edge of the pit, by the collar of his furs, and threw him back, on his back, into the coals. Two men plunged after the giant, but he cut them down with one stroke, over the body of Valdemar, which he forced down, deeper, with one foot, into the coals. He then, to the horror of the liegemen, who hesitated, aware they could not reach him with their smaller blades, not having time to circle the pit, raised his blade above his head, holding it there with two hands, as he had, earlier, over the roast boar.

“No!” cried one of the liegemen, raising his hand.

“Strike!” cried Valdemar.

The sword was poised.

The liegemen cast their weapons to the floor of the hall.

“Strike!” screamed Valdemar.

But the giant stepped back from the body, through the coals, ascending the far side of the pit.

Valdemar’s liegemen drew him swiftly from the coals, covering his own body with theirs, to smother flames.

Two other bodies were drawn, too, slashed, half dismembered, from the coals, one leg hanging by a muscle to a trunk, furs blackened, and, at the sides, burned away.

A grayish smoke, like haze, hung over the coals.

There was an ugly, sweet odor of burned flesh, of skin, of muscle and fat, in the hall.

The left side of Valdemar’s face was gone, burned away.

The giant came about the pit, and stood over Valdemar, looking down at him.

Valdemar’s men drew back.

Valdemar looked up, unblinking, staring, his right eyelid burned away.

“You are Otung,” he whispered.

“I do not know,” said the giant.

The giant wiped on his furred thigh the long blade.

“Aii!” cried a man.

Too, at the same time, the slave had screamed, but the giant had already slipped to the side.

The blow of Rolof’s sword rang on the thick iron spit, it lying on its rack.

Sparks sprang upward.

“A felon’s stroke!” cried a man.

“Pig!” cried another.

The giant rolled beneath the spit, the long blade lost, and another blow struck down, again ringing, showering sparks, from the spit.

“No longer are you first among the Gri!” cried an angered retainer.

Rolof snarled, and put his foot on the blade of the great sword, holding his own blade ready.

“Pig!” cried a man.

The noble of the Gri was flanked by two cohorts.

The giant now crouched behind the heavy iron spit, it on its rack, a foot above the ground, its metal now twice scarred from the blade of Rolof.

Before him was the noble, and his two fellows, and three blades.

He did not take his eyes from the steel. The giant’s eyes were terrible. From his throat there came a rumbling, growling noise.

“Sheath your weapon!” called Urta to Rolof.

“I sheath my weapon for no man,” said Rolof. “I am king!”

The huge hands of the giant felt for, and closed upon, the long, thick, weighty, still-warm spit on its rack.

Before him were Rolof, and two of the Gri, behind him, glowing, bright with heat, deep with coals, was the fire pit. Its heat was fierce upon his back and legs.

The hands of the giant were upon the spit. The spit had held the weight, unbending, of the great boar, which, ungutted, had weighed better than four hundred pounds. Two men had turned the spit in its mounts. Rolof raised his sword.

With a cry of rage the giant rose up. The spit, like a snake, striking, was not even lifted from the rack, but shattered free, bursting, scattering wood.

The man to the giant’s right had no time even to scream, for the spit, a yard from its end, caught him beneath the left ear, breaking the neck, half tearing the head from the body. Rolof and his fellow were struck to the side by the same blow, and fell, rolling, to the floor. The giant kicked aside the remnants of the rack. Rolof scrambled back. The man to the giant’s left was struck on the return of the spit, and his arm, the elbow smashed, running with blood, hung like rope to the side. He put up his left hand to fend the next blow, but the crook in the spit’s handle, tearing back through the fingers, struck him in the throat, crushing it back, breaking cartilage, inches. Rolof reached for his lost blade. The giant lifted and plunged the portion of the spit handle, two feet long, parallel to its shaft, down twice, once through the jaw and mouth of the man, then on his back, breaking teeth and bone, and driving through tissue, and, then, more carefully, through the forehead, until it stopped, inches deep, in the dirt floor of the hall. Rolof now had his sword in hand but backed away from the giant, who was now regarding him eagerly, terribly, who now held the huge spit, drawn free, its length well beyond the reach of even the great blade, holding it as one might have held the peasant’s weapon, one hand at the center, the other below, the long staff.

Suddenly Rolof cried out, flung down his weapon, and fled toward the entrance of the hall.

The giant pursued him, in fury, the spit, its pointed end forward, lifted over his head in both hands.

Rolof fled up the stairs, toward the wooden door of the hall.

But of course the two beams, barring the door, the hall having been entered, were now in place, secure in their brackets.

Rolof turned about, suddenly, wildly, at the door, knowing he had no time to lift the two beams from the braces.

He stood there, for a moment, on the level before the door, his back to the door.

“No!” he cried.

“Aii!” cried men.

Women screamed.

The giant worked the spit free of the door, through which the point had penetrated, emerging on the other side, and then he carried the spit, on which the body of Rolof was impaled down the stairs, and to the side of the fire pit.

The hall was silent.

He stood near the fire pit, the spit still in the body of Rolof, who, toward the lower end of the spit, had slipped toward its point, and lay on the floor, near the coals, one side of the body illuminated by their light.

One of the liegemen of the Tiri looked up, from his knees, where he knelt beside a seared body.

“Lord Valdemar is dead,” said the man.

“He died as first among the Tiri,” said another.

“Yes,” said another.

The giant, with his foot, thrust the body of Rolof from the spit, and cast the spit aside.

He then, from near the fire pit, retrieved the great sword.

He then looked about the hall, from face to face, Ulrich, Gundar, Hartnar, Gelerich, Astarax, the others.

He then turned to face Urta, the King Namer.

“Who is king?” asked the giant.

“You are king,” said Urta.

“Let us eat,” said the giant. “I am hungry.”