“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.”