“He has been sent for,” said another.
“He is a stranger,” said Hartnar, angrily.
“He has brought to the hall the pelt of a white vi-cat,” said Ulrich. “It is the first time in a generation such a pelt has been in this place, not since Genserix.”
“It means nothing!” cried a man.
“Such was the mantle of Genserix,” said Ulrich.
The man was silent.
“Who are you, stranger?” demanded a man.
“A peasant, a fighter, one who was lifted upon the shields of Wolfungs, a Vandal people, as are the Otungs, a captain in the auxilia of Telnaria, come simply to recruit a company,” said the giant.
“What is your people?” asked a man.
“I do not know,” said the giant.
“I think you are Otung,” said a man, in awe.
“Then,” said the giant, “I am come home, and would be welcomed.”
“Think, think!” cried Ulrich. “The Heruls put upon us year kings, insult kings, kings to divide us, kings to be replaced, kings who are to us as prisons and fetters, kings we despise and ignore, kings who are nothing, a kind of kings created by our enemies, kings who have but a compromised, meretricious, bestowed prestige, and one bought dearly with our own blood. The Heruls defeated us once, in battle, now they defeat us each year, by guile. Why do you think the Elbi propose no king, no champion? We will not play the game of the Heruls. I say, make no king, or make a true king!”
“The Heruls will not permit a true king,” said Urta.
“Then make no king!” said Ulrich.
“The Heruls will be displeased,” said Urta.
“Let them be displeased,” said Ulrich.
“Yes,” said men, softly.
“We cannot meet them, unmounted, on the plains,” said Urta.
“And I do not think they will much care to seek us out in the darkness of the forest, in the shadows, in the growth and underbrush,” said Ulrich. “Long ago, Telnaria lost armies in such endeavors.”
“No more false kings,” said a man.
“No king unless it be a true king!” said a man.
There were cries of approval from about the tables.
“It will mean war,” said Urta.
“Lift me upon the shields,” said Rolof. “I will be true king.”
“No!” cried Valdemar.
“No!” cried other claimants.
“There would then be but one slaughter,” said Rolof.
“We will not risk a king of clan Gri,” said Astarax.
“Then year kings again it must be,” said Valdemar.
“It is madness!” cried Ulrich. “Why must the clans and houses, the families, the lineages, war with one another? Are we not all Otung?”
“I yield to no one,” said Gelerich.
“Nor I!” said Astarax.
“I would not hide all my days in the forest,” said Ulrich. “I would one day come forth from the forest, bravely, with oxen and wagons, with songs, and arms, marching. We have hidden here long enough, imprisoned not by Heruls but by our own vanities and rivalries.’’
“We are not yet strong enough,” said Urta.
“Let us take the first step, the first step on our march,” said Ulrich. “If we must have a king, and cannot have a true king, then let us make a year king, but one who has no party, one who is not of the table of a given house, one who has taken rings from no man, one by means of whom to satisfy, and yet reprove and mystify, Heruls.”
“Only a stranger could be such,” said a man.
“Yes,” said Ulrich.
Eyes turned toward the giant.
“No!” cried Rolof.
“He has brought to the hall the pelt of the white vi-cat,” said Ulrich.
“Such was the mantle of Genserix,” said a man.
“It is the medallion and chain which are important,” said a man.
“The medallion and chain were lost,” said a man.
“It fell to the lot of Heruls,” said a man.
“There can be no true king without the medallion and chain,” said a man.
“It was that, allegiance to it, sworn by the fathers of the clans, that united the people,” said a man.
“Yes,” said another.
“So there can be no true king,” said a man.
“I do not come amongst you to be king,” said the giant. “I come amongst you to recruit comitates, comites, fellows, companions, swordsmen, fighters.”
“He is a spy for Telnaria!” said a man.
“He is a Herul spy. See the Herul knife!” said another.
The giant cut more meat, indeed, with the Herul knife, which, by means of Yata, he distributed, indicating likely recipients.
Then he rose up, from where he had crouched, cutting meat, and stood again on the table.
“Begone, stranger,” said Rolof.
The giant freed the great blade of the meat, into which he had thrust it.
“Make the stranger year king,” said Ulrich. “In that way no clan, and no house, takes precedence over another. Why should you, Rolof, or you, Valdemar, or Gundar, or Hartnar, or Gelerich or Astarax, or any other Otung of noble blood, stain his honor by accepting the post of year king? It is dishonor to accept it, not honor. To accept such a kingship is not glory, but shame. It is to serve not Otungs, but Heruls.”
“In yielding to the stranger,” said a man, “you lose nothing in honor, for no rival takes precedence over you.”
“And you show contempt for Heruls,” said another.
“No!” said Rolof.
“I would be king, even if for a year!”
“I!” said Valdemar.
“No!” cried the others. “I! I!”
“Alas,” said Ulrich. “All is lost.”
“No,” said the giant.
“How so?” asked Ulrich.
“For the hero’s portion has been claimed,” said the giant.
“That is true, milords,” said Urta. “One stands between you and the kingship.”
Retainers rose to their feet.
But more than a dozen young men before whom meat had been placed rose, too, to their feet.
“Hold!” cried Urta.
“My company,” said the giant, “is open to all clans, to all Otungs, and to others, as well.”
“And in such a company,” said a man, “to whom is allegiance owed-to Telnaria, our hated foe, to whom we owe our exile on Tangara?”
“No,” said the giant, “not to Telnaria.”
“Then to whom?” asked the man.
“To me,” said the giant.
There was silence in the hall.
“Kill him,” said Rolof, gesturing toward the giant. Six men hurried toward the table.
“No!” cried others.
It was a mistake, of course, that the noble, Rolof, had given the order he had.
It was not in accord with the customs of the Otungs. Too, he did not understand the nature of the giant. But then, at that time, few did. His mistake was then twofold, on the one hand, a breach of civility, on the other, as it turned out, an error of judgment, not that one should blame Rolof severely for that, as, at that time, as we have suggested, the nature of the giant was not clearly understood.
The accounts differ troublesomely on what exactly occurred.
They concur, however, on the cry.
With a sudden, wild cry, a cry which astonished those in the hall, a glad, elated cry, as though of the release of long pent-up frustration, of patience too long restrained, a cry of savage joy, of feral gladness, a releasing, laughing, merciful, discharging cry, a cry like the flashing of fire, like the sudden, unexpected, exultant crack of thunder from violent, aching, swollen clouds, a cry bestial, grateful and exultant, a cry that might have been that of a starving man who sees food, that of a man dying of thirst who sees water, the giant leapt from the table, the huge blade in flight, hurtling, bearing with it all its edged, cruel weight, that mighty blade which the giant handled as if it might have been a straw, sped with all its momentum, that of his movement and of its own swift, smooth arc, like a steel wind, almost invisible.