“Do you like being a slave?” asked Urta.
“Yes.”
“Do you love being a slave?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to be a slave?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” she said. “I want to be a slave! I want to be a slave, totally, helplessly, to be overwhelmed, to be choice-less, to love and serve, to be at the will of my master, to kneel before him, to strive to do his bidding, to attempt to please him in all ways, to the best of my ability, to lie soft in his arms, grateful and timid, obedient and fearful, to be mastered, ruthlessly, uncompromisingly, to be owned!”
“Heat an iron,” said Urta to a man at the side. The fellow then turned away, and went back to the fire pit, and stirred the coals.
“You do not mind if your slave is marked?” asked Urta of the giant.
“Not if it is well, and cleanly, done,” said the giant.
“It will be so,” said Urta.
“Take the slave from the chair,” said Urta. “Put her in the dirt. Remove the chair. Strip her. Bind her hands before her body, with a strand free. When she awakens, let her find herself naked and bound, as the slave she is.”
“I will give you five sheep for her,” said a man.
“Who are you?” asked the giant.
“Citherix,” said the man.
“It seems he will have her after all,” said a man.
“But in the best possible way, as a slave,” said another.
There was general laughter.
“But she is mine,” said the giant.
“I will make it seven sheep,” said Citherix.
“I will consider the offer,” said the giant.
“Let the fire be built up,” said Urta. “Let the gutted boar be brought in, that it may be cooked, and the hero’s portion decided.”
There was assent to this in the hall.
Two large, four-legged iron supports were put in place, two legs of each on opposite sides of the fire pit, on which an iron spit could be laid, lengthwise, over the fire.
Tables were set up, about the edges of the hall, and, to each side of the throne, upon the dais. These were planked tables, set on trestles. Such arrangements, or settings up, of eating boards is common in many halls, the trestles, and planked surfaces, being stored, sometimes the trestles folded, between meals. These materials are sometimes kept in ancillary chambers, but, quite commonly, are simply placed, or leaned, lengthwise against the walls. In this fashion space within a hall, or great room, may be adjusted, conveniently, to meet the requirements of diverse occasions. Benches are usually kept, too, to the side.
Four men brought in, on its spit, the carcass of a giant, gutted boar.
In a few moments, the carcass turning, the smell of roast boar began to permeate the hall.
The giant had resheathed the sword.
He sat at one of the tables, with Ulrich, whom he had met in the forest, earlier, at his own encampment.
One table, one of heavy planks, and resting on stout trestles, four of them, with no benches about it, was set up before the dais, lengthwise, one end facing the dais, the other pointing to the fire pit.
“What table is that?” asked the giant.
“The table upon which will be placed the roast boar,” said Ulrich.
“From which the hero’s portion is to be cut?”
“Yes.”
“Whose throne is that on the dais, on which no king sits?” asked the giant.
“That is the throne of the Otungs,” said Ulrich. “The last king to sit upon it was Genserix.”
“Who was he?”
“He was the last true king of the Otungs,” said Ulrich. “He died in battle. It was long ago. The Heruls respected him, though he was human. They built a pyre and burned his body upon it. To Genserix even the Heruls lifted their lances.”
“No one sits now upon the throne?”
“No,” said Ulrich.
“And the medallion and chain of the king, the medallion and chain of the lordship of the Otungs, was lost, long ago,” said a man.
“I do not understand,” said the giant.
“It does not matter, not now,” said Ulrich.
“There are no longer true kings among the Otungs?”
“They have been forbidden to us by the Heruls,” said Ulrich. “We may have only year kings, kings who rule for a single year.’’
“That seems unwise,” said the giant.
“It is wise from the point of view of the Heruls,” said Ulrich, “for the absence of a true king divides us, and spreads dissension among the lineages.”
“Who is the leader, he of the dais?”
“That is Urta, the King Namer,” said Ulrich.
“He then is king, or the year king?”
“No, he is the King Namer.”
“I do not understand.”
“This is not called the Killing Time because we would have the forests closed to strangers during this, our time of shame,” said Ulrich, “but it is called the Killing Time because in this time it is common for the families, the lineages, sometimes the clans, to fight one another, to kill, for the possession of, for the prestige of, the kingship.”
“It is foolish to fight for an empty throne,” said the giant.
“One supposes so,” he said.
“What has the hero’s portion to do with this?”
“It is divisive,” said Ulrich. “There is no king to bestow it, either to the satisfaction or dissatisfaction of the nobles, the lords. It is, in effect, thrown amongst us, that the strongest, the fiercest, may claim it for himself.”
“The strongest, the fiercest, of the lineages, of the clans?” said the giant.
“That is much the way it is,” said Ulrich. “What Otung lineage would grant itself less than any other?”
“You are denied then not only a king, not only continuity of leadership, of policy and action,” said the giant, “but must war with one another.”
“There has always been conflict among the Otungs, among the families,” said Ulrich.
“You need a king,” said the giant.
“Yes,” said Ulrich. “That is true.”
“Where will you find one?”
“Perhaps one day,” said Ulrich, “someone will bring into the forest the pelt of the giant white vi-cat.”
The giant looked at him.
“Why else do you think I brought you to the hall?” asked Ulrich.
CHAPTER 27
“Your slave is awakening,” called Urta, from the dais.
Otto rose from the bench where he had been sitting with Ulrich, and walked behind the tables, toward the front of the hall. It was his habit to sit with his back to the wall. The high seats on the dais are similarly arranged.
Some other men, and some women, too, hearing Urta’s words, went to gather about the uneasily stirring slave. Among the men was Citherix. Ulrich accompanied Otto.
“She is well curved, indeed,” said a man to Citherix.
“She is a beauty,” said a man.
“I had not expected so much,” said Citherix.
The girl lay in the dirt before the dais, between the long table on which the hero’s portion was to be cut and the dais.
She rolled about, a little.
She was as naked as any item of livestock.
She seemed puzzled, a little, that she could not separate her wrists. They were bound before her body, tightly, with leather thongs, with a strand, a yard or so in length, free. She made a tiny puzzled, protestive noise.