“I am the champion?” asked the man across from Otto.
“Yes, you and the others, they are all the champion,” said the man who had literally thrust the trigger housing into the fellow’s hands.
“It is glorious to be the champion,” said the lethargic creature, slowly.
“Yes, yes!” said the man near him.
“I am glorious?” asked the lethargic form.
“Yes! Press the trigger!” said the man.
A second flight of birds passed overhead, hurrying like the first, to the west.
The finger of the fellow opposite Otto slowly moved toward the trigger, or switch, and rested upon it.
“Press it!” said the man nearest him.
There was a sudden flash of fire and light, and a cry of horror from men, and screams from slave girls, and the fellow who had been standing behind the shielding of the fellow across from Otto, holding the fellow’s head up, and back, by the hair, now held, dangling from his hand by the hair, half of a head, the eyes opened wildly, no longer seemingly dazed. There was a slick matting, smoking, of blood and flesh and brains smeared upon, and dripping from, the shielding across from Otto. Blood pumped up, like an underground spring, through the throat, and spilled out, over the remains of the lower jaw.
Gerune screamed and threw her hands before her face. Slave girls wept, and put down their heads, shuddering, sickened. Some retched onto the grass. Many, those who could do so, buried their face in their chained hands. The three display slaves turned away, sick, moaning in horror, in their chains.
“Get rid of that!” screamed Huta, pointing to the most of a body, still fastened opposite Otto.
“Bring the champion!” called Ortog, shaken.
The remainder of the man who had been fastened opposite Otto was freed from its place and dragged to one side.
Another man, another of the original ten, the champion, or champions, if you like, was dragged toward the chair.
“No!” he cried. It was the sight of what was before him, I suppose, the spattering, the stew, of blood and flesh, the cast-aside part of a head, the bleeding, still-convulsing body of the other, that had shocked him into some sort of soberness, or awareness.
He was wrestled into this place, and bound there, bodily, save for his arms.
“No!” he cried.
Another charge was placed in the device.
“No, no!” he cried.
“Press the trigger or die!” cried Ortog.
The fellow’s hand, shaking, reached toward the trigger.
But his hand did not reach the trigger box, for Otto had swept it toward himself.
He then rose from the chair, to the consternation of all.
“What are you doing?” cried Huta.
Otto’s hand was on the adjustable stand, that which provided the mount, the support, for the barrel. He tore this stand, in a rending of metal, from the platform.
“Sit down! Take your place!” cried the fellow who had placed the spheroidal charge, it now dormant, like an unexploded bomb, within the apparatus.
“Do so!” cried the other, his fellow.
“The challenge has been met, and I am victorious,” announced Otto.
“No, no!” cried Ortog.
Otto then set the device against himself, one barrel at his own chest, the other, opposite, trained on the breast of Ortog, who rose from his chair, turning white.
Swords leapt from sheaths, weapons, with small, swift sounds, darted from holsters.
“Kill him, kill him!” screamed Huta.
“No, no!” cried Ortog, thrusting aside his chair, backing away a step.
Otto’s finger was on the trigger of the device. It was there tightly, the tiniest particle of energy away from activating it. The smallest reflex, the slightest jerk, as of a blow striking him, the lash or thrust of a blade, the impact of a projectile, even the breath of a ray, would fire the device.
“Has the challenge not been met?” inquired Otto. “Am I not victorious?
The opposing barrels of the device, torn from the tablelike platform, were aligned, the rear barrel to the chest of Otto, the forward barrel to toward the dais, and the breast of Ortog.
Ortog’s shieldsman inched toward his lord.
“Do not move!” cried Otto, fiercely.
“Go back,” said Ortog, softly. The flash leaves the barrel with almost the speed of light.
The shieldsman returned to his place.
Ortog seemed much alone now on the dais.
His high men had drawn away from him. Gerune now was closest to him.
At the foot of the dais, on its left, looking outward, even the display slaves drew away, to the extent they could, huddling down, terrified. Their chains were taut against the common ring.
Otto was ringed with weapons. He paid them no attention.
“Well, milord,” said Otto. “Who has won the challenge?”
Ortog drew himself up.
He was king.
“The tribute of the Wolfungs is as nothing,” said the clerk.
“You can buy their women, or others, doubtless better, in a thousand markets,” said his shieldsman.
“The Wolfung has won, milord,” called Hendrix.
“The challenge has been met, and survived, milord!” called Gundlicht.
“The Ortungs are now a recognized tribe,” said his shieldsman, urgently.
“That is what we want,” said the clerk.
“Give him the liberty of the Wolfungs, as a gift,” pressed his shieldsman.
“I have won their liberty,” said Otto.
“I await your answer, milord,” said Otto.
“The challenge has been met,” said Ortog.
There was a cheer from the men present.
“No, no!” cried Huta.
“You are victorious,” said Ortog.
Otto lowered the device.
Weapons were sheathed.
“No, no, milord!” cried Huta.
“Be silent, woman,” said Julian.
“Chained thrall!” screamed Huta. She tried to strike Julian but he caught her wrists, and she struggled, briefly, futilely, helplessly.
The other priestesses, and acolytes, cried out with dismay.
“Respect the sacred person of the priestess!” cried Ortog.
“She is only a woman,” said Julian.
The priestess cried out in fury.
There were cries of protest, too, from her fellow priestesses, and the acolytes.
“Unhand her,” demanded Ortog.
Julian then flung her hands down, contemptuously, away from him. She staggered back.
There seemed cries, too, somehow, those of men, from some distance to the east.
“I hear something,” said a man.
“I, too,” said another.
“Press the trigger, Wolfung,” said Ortog to Otto.
“As milord wishes,” said Otto.
“Yes, I hear it!” cried a man.
Some of the kneeling slave girls raised their heads in alarm, looking about themselves. The three display slaves looked about themselves, trying to place the sound.
“It is coming from the east,” said a man.
Otto pressed the trigger on the trigger housing, held in his hand. Almost instantly there burst from the forward barrel, that which had been trained on the breast of Ortog, it now held downward to Otto’s right, a flash of fire. It tore open the turf. A hole now gaped there, better than six inches in width, and indeterminately deep. It smoked. Grass was charred at the edges.
Ortog turned white.
Men shuddered.
“Now you may kill him, milord!” cried Huta.
“Be silent, woman!” cried men.
“No!” she cried. “No!”
“Listen!” cried a man.
“I am priestess of the Timbri!” cried Huta.
“Be silent!” cried a man.
“Listen, listen!” cried another.
Ortog raised his head, listening.
At that moment, suddenly, almost noiselessly, over the curtain, or wall, of yellow silk to the right, to the east, there appeared the dark, circular shape of a hoverer. It was not more than a yard above the silk. Leaning over the gunwales of the ship were riflemen. Rifle fire ripped downward, tearing into the throng. Then there was another such ship, and more fire. Men tried to run. Circular holes appeared suddenly, black-rimmed, and spreading, in the yellow wall. Armed men were seen on the other side. Slave girls screamed. Some leapt up and fell, tangled in their chains. Men cried out. Men pushed against one another, and buffeted one another. Many fell, stumbling over others. Otto seized Julian and flung him to the ground. Fire from the ground swept upward. More of the small, circular ships passed over the enclosure. Gerune huddled on the dais, her robes over her head. Wood splintered, burning, about her. Julian freed himself of Otto’s grasp and, half hobbling, half crawling, fighting his chains, made his way to the dais. “How dare you touch me!” cried Gerune. But Julian had drawn her, forcibly, from the dais, and behind it, where he thrust her beneath its timbers. The three display slaves, too, had taken refuge there, and huddled helplessly there, in the smoke and fire. Others, too, slave and free, had fled beneath it. Men fled to the west, but some there reeled and fell, plunging backward, their chests smoking. Ortog stood on the dais, a pistol in his hand. He fired upward. None of the ships returned his fire. “There is another!” cried a man in misery. More fire was exchanged. Otto hurried to the dais and joined Julian. “It is lost!” said Otto. Men fired upward. More of the shallow, circular ships passed over the enclosure. “Where is he who holds the key to your chains?” demanded Otto. Julian looked about himself, wildly. “I do not know,” said Julian, pulling at the chains. “There!” cried Julian. “There!” He pointed to a body near the front of the dais, that of one of Ortog’s yeoman. Otto crawled to the body and drew it under the dais, and tore away the wallet at its belt. In moments he had freed Julian of his bonds. “We must flee,” said Otto.