“Some Ortungs have sworn me allegiance,” said Abrogastes. “I have given rings to some.”
Ortog looked up, suddenly, at his father. Other Ortungs, too, suddenly, wildly, regarded him.
“The fault, it seems, was not theirs,” said Abrogastes. “They were misled.”
“Who here was misled?” asked Abrogastes.
“I,” cried a man.
“I,” cried another.
“And I, too,” cried others.
“Were you weak and foolish?” asked Abrogastes.
“Yes,” they cried.
“Take them to the block,” said Abrogastes.
“No, mercy!” cried men.
But again, and then again, and then again the brawny, leather-aproned workman raised the mighty implement, the long-handled, heavy adz.
Even some of the Drisriaks turned away.
The heavy blade, by now, you see, was muchly dulled.
Abrogastes looked about himself, at his men, at Ortog, at Gerune, the shieldsman, the clerk, Hendrix and Gundlicht, merchants, ambassadors, warriors, Otto, Julian, Huta, the priestesses and acolytes, huddled to one side, and others.
The eyes of Abrogastes glistened.
The ground ran with blood. Some of the reeds, which had covered the earth within the tent, were soaked with blood. Parts of some, crushed and broken, drifted in shallow currents. Here and there, streams of blood, increased by new contributions, ran among the feet of those standing. Here and there, too, stood pools of blood. Many present, in the vicinity of the block, were spattered with it. Much of the earth within the tent was now no more than churned mud. Blood filled even the depressions of footprints. Body after body, and the parts thereof, were drawn, or thrown, outside. The cries of scavenging birds could be heard. They had come, many of them, from the grove, that on the approach to the place of the sacrifices. Too, like leaves, swarming and rustling, crept keen-sensed filchen, come from acres about, many, too, from the grove, gathering excitedly, as at a dump of offal.
“You, forward!” said Abrogastes. He pointed at one of the few Ortungs left.
The fellow, his arms pinioned behind him, was pushed forward.
“Will you serve me?” asked Abrogastes.
“Yes,” said the man.
“Take him to the block,” said Abrogastes.
“Kill me with a weapon,” he begged, “that I may die well, that I may perish honorably!”
Abrogastes lifted his hand.
“That I may be permitted to go to the halls of the gods!” begged the man.
Abrogastes made a sign with his hand.
It took the adz, even with its weight and leverage, three strokes to complete its work.
“It was a hard one, a tough one,” said a man.
“Yes,” said another man.
“But it is the tool, too,” said a man. “Its edge is flattened.”
“Yes,” said another man.
The head of the implement, and the handle, to a foot below the blade, were thick with the slime of flesh and tissue.
The workman wiped his broad face, and spit to the side. He squinted. He blinked, again and again. His eyes stung with sweat. It ran, too, down his face and neck, profusely, and his chest, and his arms and legs. His body was slick with sweat and blood.
Abrogastes looked about.
Men shrank back.
“Those women,” said Abrogastes, “put them forward.”
“They are my maidens!” said Gerune. “Take pity on them!”
Ten women were pushed forward.
“Those, too,” said Abrogastes.
Ten older women, too, of diverse births and station, attendants also on the princess, one of whom had carried away the jewelry and garments of Gerune from the council tent earlier, at the command of Ortog, were thrust forward.
“Remove their clothing,” said Abrogastes.
“Father!” protested Gerune.
“Of those, too,” said Abrogastes.
“Please, no, Father!” begged Gerune.
Then the two groups of women stood in the tent, in the scarlet mud, in accordance with the words of Abrogastes, lord of the Drisriaks.
“I am thinking of making these women slaves, all of them,” said Abrogastes to Huta, priestess of the Timbri.
“No, milord!” cried the women. “Please, no, milord!”
They fell to their knees in the dark mud, moaning, weeping, and crying out, some extending their hands to Abrogastes for mercy.
“What think you, milady?” asked Abrogastes of Huta. “Do you think these women might be suitable for slaves?”
He indicated the two groups of women, the maidens and the older women.
“Eminently so, milord,” said Huta.
“I think you are right,” said Abrogastes.
“One can see that they are slaves,” said Huta.
“Take them to the ships, and make them slaves,” said Abrogastes.
“Excellent, milord,” called Huta.
The two groups of women, weeping, were dragged to their feet and hurried from the tent.
“They are not slaves!” said Gerune.
“They will be, by nightfall,” said Abrogastes.
Huta laughed.
In the council tent, there were, incidentally, no female slaves. Those, including the three blond display slaves we have referred to earlier, had all been gathered together, outside, and taken, bound hand and foot, in the small ships, the hoverers and floaters, to the larger shuttlers, some distance away, which would communicate with the corsairs, or lionships, in orbit. By now, unbound and stripped, each was in her tiered kennel, the gate’s bars thrust shut, and locked in place.
“He!” said Abrogastes. “Bring him forward!”
The clerk was thrust forward. His hands were bound behind his back, with cord.
“Are you Ortung?” inquired Abrogastes.
“No, milord,” said the clerk.
“Are you Telnarian?”
“No, milord.”
“You can read and write,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said the clerk.
“Have you taken fee with Ortog?”
“Yes, milord,” said the clerk.
“Have you served him well?”
“I have done my best to serve him well,” said the clerk.
“What are your feelings toward the treacherous prince of the Drisriaks?” asked Abrogastes.
“My feelings, milord?” asked the clerk.
“You hate him, and have served him only out of fear, and have been secretly revolted by his treachery,” suggested Abrogastes.
“I am sorry, milord,” said the clerk. “I cannot in truth give you the answer you desire.”
“Have you received rings from him?”
“One such as I does not receive rings, milord,” said the clerk.
“You are his friend?”
“My station is not such that I might be his friend,” said the clerk.
“Yet you have served him well?”
“I have always endeavored to do so, milord,” said the clerk.
“Free him,” said Abrogastes.
The clerk, to his wonder, was freed.
“As you served the Ortungs,” said Abrogastes, “so you will now serve the Drisriaks.”
“Yes, milord,” said the clerk.
Abrogastes then turned his attention to Ortog.
“I would be reconciled with my father,” said Ortog.
Abrogastes then regarded the shieldsman, bound to one side. “You are shieldsman to Ortog, prince of the Drisriaks?” asked Abrogastes.
“To Ortog, prince of the Drisriaks,” said the shieldsman, “and, too, king of the Ortungen!”
Men gasped.
“What is the duty of a shieldsman?” inquired Abrogastes.
“To place the life of his lord above his own,” said the shieldsman.
“A shieldsman should then die before his lord,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said the man.
“Take him to the block,” said Abrogastes.
“Hold!” cried the man.
Abrogastes lifted his hand.