Abrogastes, on the throne, on the dais, in the same tent in which Ortog had held his court earlier, made a sign with his hand.
Women cried out with misery, recoiling.
Yes, it is a terrible thing to die so.
In a moment, Abrogastes made another sign.
It is not a sound that is easy to forget.
“Those!” said Abrogastes. “Bring them forward!”
Nine men were brought forward, the large, simple, blond-haired, blue-eyed men who had figured in the challenge, that pertaining to the status of the Wolfungs.
Abrogastes regarded them, curiously.
“They are much the same,” he said.
“They are one, milord!” called the priestess Huta, from the side.
“You set ten men on one?” Abrogastes asked Ortog, who, bound, and in the charge of two Drisriaks, stood below the dais.
“One at a time,” said Ortog.
“In some machine, one at a time, which might kill either champion, regardless of courage or skill?”
Ortog was silent.
These things and their rationale, of course, had been explained to Abrogastes.
“And how will that improve the bloodlines?” asked Abrogastes.
Ortog looked away.
“And how can such a thing please the gods?” asked Abrogastes.
Ortog did not respond.
“Were there such a thing as the Ortungs,” said Abrogastes, “they would be shamed.”
“We are shamed, my father,” said Ortog.
“It dishonors our traditions, it mocks the ceremony of war, it shames the ritual of challenge.”
“It permits the gods to decide,” said Ortog.
“Do not slander the gods,” said Abrogastes. “Do not put upon them the business of men. They wait upon men, to see what they will do. Men must be brave, and glorious, first, to win the favor of the gods. The friendship of the gods is not easily earned. It is a hard thing, and requires much effort.”
“I think there are no gods,” said Ortog.
“Blasphemy, milord!” cried Huta. She stood out a bit, in her white robes, with the bloodstained sleeves, from her fellow priestesses and acolytes.
“These are the champion?” asked Abrogastes of Huta.
“Yes,” said Huta.
“And they are one?”
“Yes!”
“But one died in the device, did he not?” inquired Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said Huta.
“So one is dead, is he not?” inquired Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said Huta.
“And they are one?” asked Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said Huta.
“Then they are all dead,” said Abrogastes.
“Milord?” asked Huta.
“Kill it,” said Abrogastes, indicating the nine men before him. Each then, who might have been a sturdy yeoman, patiently tilling his land, who might have hunted, and skated on frozen rivers, and climbed snowy mountains, and warmed himself at night with bowls of soup, cooked by a loving wife, was taken to the block where the workman, with one or more blows of the great adz, attended to his labors.
“Your champion is dead,” said Abrogastes to Ortog.
“Yes,” cried Huta. “The champion of the Ortungs is dead! Long live the Drisriaks!”
Hendrix and Gundlicht, in their bonds, turned angry glances upon the priestess.
“Long live Abrogastes! Long live the Drisriaks!” cried Huta.
“Why did you yourself not meet the challenge?” asked Abrogastes of Ortog.
“The Wolfung would have killed me,” said Ortog.
“Then choose another,” said Abrogastes.
“I know none whom he could not kill,” said Ortog, angrily.
“The challenge then should have been surrendered, in honor,” said Abrogastes.
Ortog shrugged.
“He can kill you?” asked Abrogastes of Ortog, regarding Otto narrowly.
“Yes,” said Ortog.
“How is that?” asked Abrogastes.
“He is an Otung, and has been trained in arenas,” said Ortog.
“Is that true?” asked Abrogastes.
“I am a peasant,” said Otto, standing, unbound, Julian slightly behind him, “from the festung village of Sim Giadini, on Tangara. It is true that I have fought for the pleasure of populaces.”
“Many times?” asked Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said Otto.
“He is chieftain, too, of the Wolfungs!” cried Huta.
“Yes,” said Otto.
“The Wolfungs are tributary to the Drisriaks,” said Abrogastes.
“No,” said Otto.
There was laughter from many Drisriak warriors.
“You won the challenge,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said Otto.
“But it was meaningless, unnecessary,” said Abrogastes, “for the Ortungs do not exist.”
“I have recognized them,” said Otto, quietly.
There were gasps of surprise from those present.
Ortog, Gundlicht, Hendrix, Ortog’s shieldsman, his clerk, others in the hall, turned wildly, elatedly, toward Otto.
“Do not speak so!” whispered Julian, startled.
“It is so spoken,” said Otto, folding his arms upon his mighty chest.
“The Ortungs, as of today, no longer exist,” said Abrogastes.
Otto shrugged.
“How is that, my father?” inquired Ortog.
“They have been destroyed, their camps, their fleet,” said Abrogastes.
Ortungs looked upon one another with dismay.
“Surely some have escaped!” cried Ortog.
“Perhaps, some, fugitives, filchen, fleeing for their lives.”
Gerune, who, unbound, in the full regalia in which she had witnessed the matter of the challenge, and its resolution, was sitting on the dais, on a chair, to the left of her father, put her face in her hands and wept.
“The Ortungs are no more,” said Abrogastes. “They are as grass, cast to the winds.”
Gerune’s body shook with sobs.
“Faithless daughter,” said Abrogastes.
“Long live Abrogastes! Long live the Drisriaks!” called Huta.
“Traitorous son,” snarled Abrogastes.
“To the block with him!” called a man.
“To the block with the traitorous princess, too!” called a man.
Gerune looked up, in terror.
“Yes!” cried Huta.
“Both betrayed the Drisriaks!” cried a man.
“Yes, yes!” said Huta.
“To the block with them both!” cried men.
“No, no, Father!” wept Gerune, falling to her knees before her father. His arm swept her to the side, and she then half knelt, half lay, by her chair, looking wildly about her.
“To the block with them both, and all the Ortungs!” cried men.
“Yes!” cried Huta.