He did not respond to her.
“Why have you followed me?” she asked. “You have a Herul knife. Did you take it from Hunlaki? Did you kill him?”
“No,” said the giant. “No.”
“Have you come to spy for Heruls on Otungs, as it is said the Hageen did?”
“No,” said the giant.
“Why did you come?” she asked.
“Perhaps I found your flanks of interest, as those of slave,” he said.
She stiffened angrily, but he sensed that something in her was flattered, perhaps the woman, the slave, in her.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I come on the business of Telnaria.”
“Telnaria?” she said.
“Are you disappointed?” he asked.
“No!” she cried. “That is the last thing I would be,” she assured him.
“Oh,” he said.
“To spy?”
“No,” he said.
“You are a Telnarian dog?” she said.
“I am from the festung village of Sim Giadini,” he said, “It is near the heights of Barrionuevo, some miles from the festung of Sim Giadini. Some of the Otungs may know it, from the days when they rode free on the plains of Barrionuevo.”
“On the flats of Tung?”
“As you wish,” he said.
“A peasant?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” said the giant. “I do not know.”
“Build up the fire more,” she suggested.
“You are sure it is safe,” he said.
“Certainly,” she said.
He put more wood on the fire.
She smiled.
“The meat is done,” he said. He drew the spit from the forked sticks on which it had been supported. He put the meat down on the bearskin. He drew out his knife.
“Feed me!” she said.
“On your knees, and crawl to the fire,” he said.
She struggled to her knees, and then, with small movements, inch by inch, made her way to the fire.
“Feed me!” she demanded.
“Why?” he asked.
“I am Hortense,” she said, “daughter of Thuron, noble of the Otungs.”
“It is late at night,” he said, “and one supposes that Otungs would now, in this winter, in this cold, in their halls, and huts, and such, be deep in their furs, would be well abed.”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“It is nothing,” he said.
“I do not understand,” she said, uncertainly.
“So there would be little point, really, in my building up the fire.”
“I only wished to be warmer,” she said.
“It seems unlikely that there would be Otungs about,” he said. “Do you not agree?”
“Yes,” she said, uncertainly.
“If they were about, surely,” said he, “they would have intruded by now.”
She nodded, weakly.
“Thus,” said he, “it seems, clearly, that we must be quite alone. Do you not agree?”
“Yes!” she said, angrily.
“And in the morning,” said he, “when discovery might be more likely, though still a remote possibility, in the morning, when Otungs might possibly be about, though the chances of encountering them would be surely extremely slight, we will not be here.”
She looked at him, fearfully.
“Where will you take me?” she asked. “What will you do with me?”
“You are a slave,” he said. “I will take you where I wish, and do with you what I please.”
“Free me!” she said.
“One does not free slaves,” he said, “particularly ones who are well curved.”
She made an angry noise, and tore at her bonds, futilely, but, too, he could see that something within her was not displeased at all, something perhaps the woman, the slave.
“Do you wish to be fed?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Were you not a camp slave?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“And you were such for some two years?”
“Yes,” she said.
“You must then,” he said, “be in the habit of begging and giving pleasure, before you are fed.”
“I am a free woman!” she said. “I am Hortense, daughter of Thuron, noble of the Otungs!”
“Slaves are given names by their masters,” he said. “What is your name?”
She looked at him, angrily.
He cut a small piece of meat, hot and juicy. She eyed it, covetously.
“What name were you given?” he asked.
“Yata,” she said.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Yata!” she said.
“Yata, what?” he asked.
“Yata, Master!” she said.
“There is one reason for my following you, which does not seem to have occurred to you,” he said.
“What is that?” she asked.
“You are a runaway slave,” he said.
“No!” she said.
“Surely you are,” he said. “And you have now been caught.’’
She looked up at him, trembling.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I have been sent to apprehend you, and return you to the camp, to your masters.”
“Do not!” she wept. “They would cut off my feet! They would kill me!”
“But I have not followed you to return you to your master,” he said.
“Thank you, Master!” she cried.
“For you have been given to me,” he said, “and it is I who am now your master.”
“No!” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “You were given to me. You are my slave.”
“No!” she wept.
“And were it not such,” said he, “I would make you mine now, by claimancy.”
“No, no, no!” she wept.
Then she looked up at him.
“Does Yata beg?” he asked.
“Am I still Yata?” she asked.
“That name will do,” he said, “unless I see fit to change it.”
“It is a Herul name!” she wept.
“It seems fitting,” he said, “for one who was a Herul slave.”
He rose to his feet.
He looked down at her.
“Does Yata beg?” he asked.
He held the piece of meat, lifted, in his right hand.
“Yata begs!” she wept.
“Now Yata may give pleasure,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
A bit later she had fed, still kneeling, her hands tied behind her, her head down, reaching down to the snow, retrieving pieces of meat thrown there, before her.
He enjoyed seeing her take meat thusly, before him.
“That is enough,” he finally said.
She looked up at him.
“You may come forth,” he called out, among the trees. “You have been seen. I know you have been there for some time.”
She looked about, startled, and struggled to rise to her feet, but, her ankles crossed and bound, she could not do so. Several fur-clad figures emerged from the trees, from all sides.
“Greetings,” said the giant.
He motioned that they might join him about the fire, and partake of the meat, but they remained standing.
“You are Otungs?” asked the giant.
“Yes,” said one of the visitors.
“Good,” said the giant.
“Perhaps not,” said one of the newcomers.
“I am Otung!” cried the girl, from her knees.
“She has no tribe,” said the giant. “She is a slave girl.”
“I am Hortense,” she said, “daughter of Thuron! Free my ankles of the thong that binds them! Let me stand! Cut the thong that binds my wrists!”
He who seemed to be the leader of the fur-clad fellows come from the forest, a large man, bearded, with blond, braided hair falling over his shoulders, looked down upon her.
“You looked well, giving pleasure,” he said.
“Perhaps you can give pleasure to all of us,” said another of the fur-clad men.
“That is what women are good for,” said another.
“Is she yours?” asked the leader of the fur-clad men of the giant.