The warrior released Huta and stepped back, that at a sign from Abrogastes.
“I declare myself a slave,” said Huta. “I am a slave.”
There were sounds of satisfaction from the men about, for little love was lost for the former priestess of the Timbri, no more now than any other woman in bondage.
“You are now subject to claim,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” she said.
“I claim you,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” she said.
“Whose are you?” he asked.
“Yours, milord,” she said.
“Your name is ‘Huta,’” he said.
“Yes, milord,” she said.
“Bring a collar for this slave,” said Abrogastes, “a heavy one.”
Such a collar was brought and placed on the slave. It was of heavy iron, a half inch thick and some two and a half inches in height. It fitted closely. It was fastened with a hasp and staple, and stout padlock, the lock in front, dangling.
Huta winced.
“Crawl to my son, Ortog,” said Abrogastes, “and kiss his feet.”
Huta obeyed, and then she lifted her head, to look up at him, fearfully.
Ortog did not look down upon her.
“What do you think of my new slave?” asked Abrogastes.
Ortog then looked down at Huta, and then, again, lifted his head, and looked away.
“Surely you could find better in any market,” he said.
“Here, girl,” said Abrogastes, snapping his fingers. “Lie here, at the side of my chair, on the dais.”
Huta crept to the surface of the dais, and, frightened, lay down, near the right, front leg of the chair of Abrogastes.
“Look up at me,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said Huta.
“When women have power, they abuse it,” said Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said Huta.
“Thus they should not have power,” said Abrogastes.
“No, milord,” said Huta.
“Do you have power now?” asked Abrogastes.
“No, milord,” she said.
“Are you absolutely powerless?” asked Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord!” she said.
He looked down upon her.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
Abrogastes then turned his attention again to the shieldsman who had been standing to one side.
Unnoticed, Huta, naked and collared, lying at the side of the chair of Abrogastes, no more than a slave, and Gerune, a princess, sitting on his left, on her chair, her back straight, in her regalia, exchanged glances. In Gerune’s eyes there was a strange mixture of emotions, hatred, contempt, pity, and many others, and among them, another emotion, a strange one, one she fought to deny and suppress, that, it seemed, could it be possible, of envy. But Huta turned her eyes away quickly, perhaps failing to note the hint of envy, or perhaps more than a hint, in the countenance of Gerune, fearing as she did to look into the eyes of a free woman. Slaves can be much beaten for such things. Too, it was with strange emotions that Huta lay in her place, in shame, in misery, in fear. But she was aware of other feelings, too, feelings which she tried desperately to force from her mind, an incredible exhilaration and relief of sorts, a sense, paradoxically, of total liberation. Each inch of her, too, seemed alive. Had she been so much as touched, anywhere, she would have cried out helplessly. But, too, of course, she was conscious, very conscious, of the weighty collar on her neck. It had been put on her, and she could not remove it, no more than could have any other slave girl. She squirmed a little, and then lay fearfully still, frightened that someone might have seen her. It was not necessary for her to wear such a heavy, uncomfortable collar. A lighter one would do quite as well. But she knew that such matters were not up to her.
She looked up, a little, and saw a man’s eyes upon her. Then she put down her head, trembling.
How he had dared to look upon her!
Did he think she was a slave?
But, of course, now, she was a slave!
Suddenly she feared men.
She knew she belonged to them, and must serve them.
She considered, suddenly, with momentary alarm, that she, now a slave, would be branded. She did not think that Abrogastes would put the mark on her with his own hand. That would be too much an honor for her. No, doubtless some common fellow, skilled in such matters, one used to the handling of irons and women, would do the job, doubtless she only one in a lot of several. She hoped the mark would be pretty. In any event it would be on her. And its meaning would be recognized throughout the galaxies.
She lifted her head, again, and saw that another fellow, too, had his eyes upon her, as she lay, like a dog, at the side of her master’s chair.
Never before had she been looked at in that fashion!
She knew she must now respond to men, uninhibitedly and totally, in the fullness of her long-suppressed female passion, for inertness and frigidity were no longer permitted her. She must now learn to obey and feel. If necessary the lash would instruct her in such matters.
Another man’s eyes were upon her, too.
And she was not yet even marked!
She hoped the brand would not hurt too much. After a little while, she told herself, it would not hurt.
But the mark would still be upon her, even then, that mark whose meaning was recognized throughout the galaxies.
It was with strange feelings, mixed and tumultuous, that she lay at the side of her master’s chair.
A warrior hurried to the side of Abrogastes and spoke to him, confidentially. Abrogastes nodded, impassively.
These things were noted by Julian.
But then the attention of all was focused on Abrogastes, who addressed himself to the shieldsman.
“Will you serve me?” asked Abrogastes.
“No, milord,” said the shieldsman.
“Go to the block,” said Abrogastes.
“You would deny me even death by the blade,” said the shieldsman.
“Yes,” said Abrogastes.
The shieldsman then shook away the warriors who would have held his arms and went to the block, and knelt before it, putting down his head.
The workman grasped again the handle of the mighty adz.
“Hold,” said Abrogastes.
The workman lowered the adz.
“Would you enter the halls of Kragon?” inquired Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord!” said the shieldsman.
“A blade might be used,” said Abrogastes.
“Milord!” said the shieldsman.
“But on one condition,” said Abrogastes.
“Milord?” asked the man.
“Forswear your lord,” said Abrogastes.
“Never!” said the shieldsman.
“You would be a villein until the end of time, laboring in the darkness, rather than forswear your lord?” inquired Abrogastes.
“Yes, milord,” said the shieldsman.
“I release you!” cried Ortog.
“No, milord,” said the shieldsman.
“Free him,” said Abrogastes. “I have need of such a shieldsman.”
The shieldsman was freed of his bonds and he stood, unsteadily, his eyes wild.
He went to kneel before Ortog.
“I forswear you,” said Ortog. “You are no more my shieldsman.” Tears ran down the face of Ortog.
“Milord!” wept the shieldsman.
Then he rose up to go before the dais and knelt before Abrogastes.
“I am your man,” he said.
“You are my man,” said Abrogastes.
Abrogastes then turned to regard Ortog.
“How is it that you can inspire such loyalty in a man?” asked Abrogastes.
“Surely it is no different from what your men feel for you,” said Ortog.
“Such loyalty might well be learned by a son,” said Abrogastes.
“It might have been better taught by a father!” cried Hendrix, from the side.
“No!” said Ortog. Then he turned, again, to face Abrogastes. “I am too much like you, to follow you,” said Ortog.