“Gundar,” said he, “of the lineage of Asa, of the Oni.”
“No!” said another man, rising. “I, Hartnar, son of Tasach, son of Sala, scion of clan Reni!”
“Gelerich,” said another man, rising, a lean man, “of the line of Pertinax, clan Orti.”
“Astarax,” said another, rising, “of the line of Fendash, clan Eni.”
“Each of you,” asked Urta, “have champions?”
Assent was nodded to this. At the right hand of each was a sullen, stalwart fellow, a helmet cradled in his arm. Some were of the clans in question, others mercenaries.
“Six clans are contestants, and claimants,” said Urta. “What of the other clans?”
None others spoke, or rose from behind the tables.
“They are coward clans,” said a man.
“No!” cried men.
“Be silent!” commanded Urta.
“Is there no champion on behalf of Lord Ulrich, son of Emmerich?”
“None,” said Ulrich.
“Clan Elbi, Lord Ulrich, first of the clans of the Otungs, first tribe of the Vandal peoples, proposes no champion?” asked Urta.
“The Elbi propose no champion,” said Ulrich.
There was a murmur of disappointment about the tables.
“What has become of the Elbi?” asked a man.
“What has become of the clan of Genserix?” asked another.
“Propose a champion,” pressed a man.
“No,” said Ulrich.
“They are cowards,” said a man.
“Say no words which may be washed away only with blood,” said Ulrich.
“Forgive me, milord,” said the man who had spoken.
“I do not think I heard such words,” said Ulrich.
“They were not spoken,” said the man.
“It is only his concern for the Elbi, and the Otungs, that prompted his speech, milord,” said a scarred man.
“What speech?” asked Ulrich.
“That which was not spoken,” said the scarred man.
“The matter is done,” said Ulrich.
“There are six claimant clans,” said Urta. He then looked about. “Will no clan yield place to another?”
“No,” said each of those who had spoken, in turn.
“I implore you to yield place, or to let the lots decide the matter, letting chance choose from amongst you,” said Urta.
“No,” said Rolof, looking about.
“None yields to any,” snarled Gelerich.
“If there is to be gambling, let it be that of blades,” said Valdemar.
“Yes!” said men.
“We shall laugh with steel,” said a man.
“Yes,” agreed the others.
A woman wept.
“Let it be understood that none but claimants or their champions may participate,” said Urta.
Men looked angrily about.
“It is understood,” said Valdemar.
The others, the claimants, murmured assent to this.
Grumbling came from retainers, and dark, suspicious looks were cast about.
“I shall prepare the lots, to determine the composition and order of the matches,” said Urta.
“Proceed,” said Rolof.
“Proceed,” said Valdemar.
“There is yet time to withdraw,” said Urta.
“Proceed!” said Gundar.
“Each of you claims the hero’s portion?” said Urta. He looked from one to the other, in turn.
“Yes,” said Rolof.
“Yes,” said Valdemar.
“Yes,” said Gundar.
“Yes,” said Hartnar.
“Yes,” said Gelerich.
“Yes,” said Astarax.
“Behold,” cried Ulrich, suddenly, elatedly, rising, pointing, “you are too late! It is already claimed!”
There were cries of rage, and of astonishment, throughout the hall.
On the table itself, towering there, legs spread, stood the blond giant. The great blade, five feet in length, was thrust into the body of the boar. He had held with two hands the hilt of the great blade, above his head, the point downward, and then plunged it downward. The point of the blade could be seen beneath the table where it had emerged, splintering the plank.
“Kill him!” cried men.
“Sacrilege!” cried others.
“Blasphemy!” cried others.
“How dare you do what you have done?’’ cried Urta, aghast.
“I am hungry,” said the giant.
“Kill him!” screamed men.
The giant loosened the blade, and, lifting it, with three blows, hacked away the right, rear thigh of the massive boar.
He then, with the blade, sliced away a slab of hot meat, running with blood and juice.
He bit into this, deliberately, looking about himself, the blood and juice running at the side of his mouth.
“Kill him!” cried men.
“Surely others are hungry as well,” he said.
He cut another piece of meat, and held it out to Urta, who drew back.
The giant then turned about.
“Untie the slave,” he called.
One of the men at Ulrich’s table crouched down behind the table and freed Yata’s wrists and ankles. He wrapped the leather several times about her left ankle, and knotted it there, rather in the nature of a slave anklet. The slave may not undo such a knot without permission. It can be death to do so. Too, in this fashion, carrying the leather with her, she may be conveniently, instantly, bound, leashed or tethered, that at one’s discretion.
The giant motioned that she should approach, and she did so, hesitantly, self-consciously, the eyes of all upon her.
She knelt below the table on which he stood, waiting, and he threw her the piece of meat which Urta had refused, and pointed back, toward Ulrich.
She rose and carried the meat to Ulrich, placed it before him, on the bare table, and then knelt near the table, facing the giant, her master.
“What is wrong?” asked the giant, calling to the tables. “Have you never seen a naked slave serve at a feast before?”
Ulrich did not touch the meat, but, eyes glistening, kept his eyes on the giant.
“Women of the empire,” said the giant, “serve such feasts well.”
He recalled perhaps a small feast at which, on Vellmer, three women of the empire had so served, and well, Flora, Renata and Sesella. Another had served, too, and well, Gerune, but she had not been of the empire. She had been once a Drisriak, and then an Ortung, and then but livestock, a slave.
“On behalf of whom do you claim this meat?” asked Urta.
“On my own behalf,” said the giant.
“By what right?”
“By the right of my hunger,” said the giant.
“That is not enough,” said Urta.
“By the right of my pleasure then,” said the giant.
“That is not enough,” said Urta.
“By the right of my will then,” said the giant.
“That is not enough,” said Urta.
“Then by the right of my sword,” said the giant.
“Whose champion are you?” asked Urta.
“I am my own champion,” said the giant.
“You cannot claim this meat,” protested Urta.
“Dispute it with me who will,” said the giant, cutting another piece of meat.
He then, piece by piece, cut meat, throwing the meat to the slave, who carried it to one warrior or another, as indicated by the giant. He read the warriors, and in reading them, seeing who seemed young, and virile, and dangerous, and perhaps fit to be a companion, accordingly made his selections. None touched the meat put before them, but the eyes of many shone, and the hands of more than one inched toward the steaming, juicy provender.
“He gives meat!” cried a retainer of Rolof.
“He is a giver of meat,” said a man, in awe.
“You are not a lord, to provide for companions, for a retinue!” said Urta.
“I have seen one who looked much like him, once before, long ago!” said a man.
“Where is Fuldan, the Old?” asked another.