The two men who held the girl’s arms tightened their grip. Another man pulled her head back, by the hair, and, as she was held, her body was drawn back, as well, this bending her backward, hair held. Her mouth was then held upward, facing the rafters. A soft, thrilled gasp of pleasure coursed through the free women present. The men were intent. Another man then forced a block of wood, in which a funnel had been inserted, between her teeth. A fourth man then poured liquid into the funnel, while pinching shut her nostrils. Her eyes were wild. Some liquid spilled at the sides of her mouth. The man then desisted for a moment. In a few moments, in misery, she gasped for breath, and drank. This was repeated, again, and then again, in greater pain and misery, and then, after that, realizing resistance was useless, she, tears in her eyes, swallowed the fluid.
“It is more than enough,” said Urta, waving away the fellow with the bottle.
The man holding her bent backward released her.
She stood, unsteadily.
The two men holding her arms now supported her, rather than restrained her.
“Bring a chair for her,” said Urta.
The girl sat in the chair, but, soon, began to move her head back and forth, in misery, as though fighting sleep, as though struggling to retain consciousness, and then she slumped in the chair, and half turned in it, grasping one arm.
“No, no,” she wept.
She tried, suddenly, to thrust a finger in her mouth, to free herself of the liquid, but, instantly, a man pulled her hand away, and then her arms were held, each wrist by a man, but it was not necessary to hold her thusly for more than a few moments as she half sank down in the chair, and her head went back, over the back of the chair.
“What is that?” asked the giant of Ulrich, at the back of the hall.
“It is the drink of truth,” said Ulrich, simply.
“What does it do?” asked the giant.
“You will see,” said Ulrich.
***
“Who is that?” had cried Urta, startled, at the appearance of the giant in the hall.
His presence was not easy to conceal, as he had the breadth of a man and a half, and stood easily better than a head above the others in the hall, many of whom were large men, tall men, men of unusual stature.
This was not unusual among the barbarian peoples, the Alemanni, the Vandals, and many others.
It was one reason they tended to inspire fear in the men of the empire. Another reason was because they, the barbarians, were the sort of men they were.
The giant stood in a space which had seemed mysteriously to clear away about him, in the back of the hall, away from high seats, at the foot of the stone stairs which led down into hall.
“It is a stranger,” said Ulrich.
“How have you dared to bring him here?” asked Urta.
“It was, I think, his wish,” said Ulrich.
“You are a fool!” cried Urta.
“He has with him the pelt of the white vi-cat,” said Ulrich.
“Ai!” cried men in the hall. Women, too, cried out. Exchanged were glances of startled surmise.
“Then he is a fool!” cried Urta.
“Or a king,” said a man.
“Who are you?” asked Urta of the giant.
“I am Otto,” said the giant, “chieftain of the Wolfungs.”
There was a cry of amazement, of skepticism, in the hall.
“The Wolfungs no longer exist,” said Urta.
“Some survive, some hundreds,” said the giant, “in the forests of Varna, to which they were banished, generations ago.”
The relationship between the Wolfungs, the smallest of the Vandal tribes, and the Otungs, the largest of the Vandal tribes, and, indeed, the other three tribes of the Vandal nation, the Basungs, Darisi and Haakons, had tended to be lost.
“You are Wolfung?” asked Urta.
“I do not think so,” said the giant.
“How is it then that you are chieftain?”
“I was lifted upon the shields,” said the giant.
“Are you Otung?” asked Urta, the King Namer.
“I do not know,” said the giant.
“He has a Herul knife!” said a man.
“He is a Herul spy!” said another.
“No,” said the giant.
“How is it that you have a Herul knife?” asked a man.
“It was given to me.”
“By a Herul?”
“Yes.”
“He is a Herul spy!”
“No,” said the giant.
“He brings with him one who was once Hortense, daughter of Thuron,” said Ulrich.
This announcement was greeted with interest.
“Bring her forward,” said Urta.
The girl, in her furs, gagged, bound, the meat about her neck, shook away the men near her and pressed herself forward, until she stood boldly before the dais, before the high seats, before Urta.
“It is long since we have looked upon you,” said Urta.
She uttered muffled sounds, through the gag.
“Are you Hortense, daughter of Thuron?” asked Urta, his question not suggesting that he failed to recognize the girl, but rather that he was inquiring into her condition.
She nodded, vigorously, affirmatively.
“She was a Herul slave,” said the giant, “who was given to me. Her name is Yata.”
The girl shook her head, desperately, negatively.
“If you are a slave,” said Urta, “you should not be standing before a free man. You should be kneeling, your head down, even to the dirt.”
The girl straightened her body, boldly.
“Free her,” said Urta. “Take her aside. Garb her as a noble’s daughter. Then return her before us, that we may inquire into these matters.”
Free women rushed to the girl, and one, with the scissors attached to her belt, together with various keys, accessing chests, and such, common signs of the mistress of a great house, cut the bonds on her wrists. Another, carefully, with her hands, undid the gag. Another removed the meat from about her neck, where she had carried it, collarlike, as might have a slave. They then, gathering about her, as though sheltering her, hurried her from the main room of the hall, to an auxiliary chamber, one of several, this one serving as a storage chamber. In their midst she cast a look of triumph and scorn upon the giant.
“Telnarian dog!” she sneered.
“Are you Telnarian?” asked Urta.
“No,” said the giant.
“You bring the pelt of the white vi-cat,” said Urta.
“I have it with me,” acknowledged the giant.
“Do you bring it as a gift for he who will be chosen this year’s king?”
“No, it is mine,” said the giant.
“Do you think that you are king, that you have such a pelt?” asked Urta.
“No,” said the giant. “The pelt of an animal does not make a king.”
“What makes a king?” asked Urta.
The giant removed the sling and sheath from his shoulder, and drew from the fur sheath the great blade.
This caught the reddish light in the half-darkened hall, from the coals in the fire pit, from the torches, thick with pitch and resin, in their racks, jutting out from the columns and walls.
“This,” said the giant, “is what makes a king.”
“The sword makes the king,” agreed a man.
“That was the view of Genserix,” said a man. Many then looked to the empty throne.
“Who will kill this stranger?” inquired Urta, angrily.
“I have seen him before,” said a man. “Or someone much like him.”
“But it was long ago,” said a man.
“Yes,” said another.
“Call Fuldan, the Old,” said a man.
“I will fetch him,” said a man, turning about, drawing his cloak about him, hurrying from the hall.
“No!” cried Urta. “Who will kill this stranger?”
The giant moved the great blade about. With his strength he handled it easily. He took a stroke with it, about himself, to loosen his muscles. He set his feet apart. Then, both hands on the long hilt, at the ready, he looked about himself.