No, thought the giant. Remember the school of Pulendius, remember the arn bear.
But this is not an arn bear, he told himself. It is something different. It may be like an arn bear, but it is not an arn bear. There must be many differences. Doubtless there must be many differences.
That was doubtless correct, but, of course, the question in point had to do with a particular modality of behavior. Was it like, or unlike, the arn bear in that respect?
The answer to this question, of course, he did not know.
Too, animals, as men, differ among themselves.
It is gone, he told himself. It is gone.
At that moment there was a savage roar from behind him and a scuffling, rushing sound in the snow.
In the school of Pulendius he, and the others, at any sudden, unexpected sound had been trained, even with blows, to react instantly, the same cry which might thus in one person induce startled, momentary immobility becoming the trigger in another, properly conditioned, to movement.
But he could scarcely interpose the blade and he was struck from his feet.
He scrambled up, throwing himself to the side, as the beast turned like a whip, and he flung the sword up between them The beast struck at it and bit at it. Then its jaws were full of blood. The giant leapt to his feet, and turned, and struck at the forelegs of the animal, it growling, air bursting through the bubbles of blood in its mouth, and it went down, legs cut away at the second joint, and the man raised the sword again, and, as the beast turned, head lifted, reaching for him, jaws gaping, he struck it across the skull, over the right eye, cutting away part of the skull, and then, as the beast stopped, as though puzzled, and lowered its head slowly, tissue and brains wet on the side of its face and in the snow, he raised the great blade again, and, slashing down, severed the vertebrae and half the neck. It then lay convulsing in the snow.
CHAPTER 24
The fire was well blazing.
It sizzled, and hissed, as grease, from roasting bear meat, fell into the flames.
There was wood aplenty, cold, fallen and dry, from the trees about. It had not been so on the plains. It is not hard to make a firedrill, even without a cord, and tiny shavings, cut by the Herul knife, and crushed, crumbled leaves, the ice broken out of them, dried and heated, warmed, against the skin, had taken the heat of friction, and begun to smolder, with a tiny, curling thread of smoke, and then flicker, and then spring up, in an infancy of encouraged fire, in which, soon, twigs blazed, and then hand-broken kindling.
She sat to one side, bound hand and foot.
It had not been difficult to follow her in the snow, her prints clear.
She had known he was about, of course, from the moment she had had a clear glimpse of him, earlier, he clad in the skins of the dogs, cowled in the head of the dog, in the moonlight, terrible, with the sword, engaged with the bear.
She had fled.
Surely he would be killed.
In any event she must flee.
But, in a time, knowing herself followed, he making no secret of the matter, she had turned, at bay, armed with a stick.
“Does a slave,” he had inquired, “raise a weapon against a free man?”
Swiftly she had thrown the stick down, into the snow.
“Remain standing,” he had said, “turn about, place your hands, wrists crossed, behind your back.”
She faced away from him, trembling, in tears.
He lashed her wrists together, behind her back, with a leather cord, part of the drawstring from the bag given him by the Herul, which had contained some food, meal, cheese and strips of meat, cut paper thin in the summer and dried on poles. In this way flies do not lay their eggs in it. He cut the drawstring in such a way that there was enough left over for her ankles.
She squirmed a little, inching a bit closer to the fire.
“Where did you get the pelt of the white vi-cat?” she asked.
“It seems,” he said, “that on the prairie I killed the animal, that it died from blows I inflicted. Others skinned it. It was given to me by a Herul, one named Hunlaki. You know Hunlaki.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know Hunlaki.” She shuddered. She was a human female, and a slave.
“I had killed another vi-cat earlier,” he said, “a smaller animal, one with a mottled coat. That pelt they kept.”
“I do not believe that you, alone, could kill the white vi-cat,” she said.
He shrugged.
“I killed the bear,” he said.
“You were fortunate,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
After he had captured her he had returned to the carcass of the bear which he had then, she kneeling nearby, bound, in the snow, had skinned. He also took a quantity of meat from it. He had put the meat in the skin and tied it all, with sinew, into a long roll. This roll he put about her neck, and tied its ends together, before her. He had then gathered up his other things and left the place, she following.
An hour later, a good distance from the remains of the bear, which might attract scavengers, or wolves, he had found a place which had seemed suitable for a camp.
He had there relieved her of her burden and freed her hands, that she might, under his watchful eye, gather wood for the fire. When she had returned several times, with suitable fuel, which she placed to the side, he had rebound her, this time crossing her ankles, and serving her feet as well. He had then set about making the fire.
“Thank you for not stripping me in the snow,” she said.
“You are not going anywhere,” he said.
She squirmed a little, angrily.
“There are few furs for you,” he added.
This sort of thing has been mentioned, the common practice, in the winter, and in cold areas, of transporting, and housing, slaves naked, in furs, as a way of increasing their vulnerability and rendering escape impractical. It might be mentioned that in areas of blazing heat, and burning soils, as on various worlds, a similar practice obtains, only there the slaves have only a sheet of reflective material to gather about themselves, and are denied insulated boots, and such protective gear.
“You did not think,” said he, “that I would permit you, a mere slave, to be wrapped in the pelt of the vi-cat, did you, as though you might be a queen, in the arms of a king?”
“I am Hortense,” she said, “daughter of Thuron, noble of the Otungs.”
He did not respond.
“Build up the fire,” she suggested.
“This is the forest of the Otungs,” he said.
“Oh?” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“They are far away,” she said. “There is no danger. Build up the fire.”
He threw some extra wood on the blaze.
“I am hungry,” she said.
They were some two days into the forest.
“There is some meat of dog, raw,” he said, “some cheese, some dried meat, some meal.”
“There is roast bear meat,” she said.
“True,” he said, watching the meat sizzle on the spit, propped over the blaze. He turned it a little, twisting the spit, and more grease dropped, hissing, into the fire.
“I have had only some nuts, some roots, some seeds,” she said. “It is hard to find anything, under the snow.”
“When did you eat last?” he asked.
“Yesterday,” she said.
“You must be very hungry,” he said.
“Yes!” she said.
“The meat is almost done,” he said.
“Excellent,” she said.
“Do you think you will be given any?” he asked.
“Beast!” she cried, and struggled to free herself, but could not do so.
He observed her, dispassionately.
“I am Hortense,” she said, “daughter of Thuron, noble of the Otungs!”