Suddenly Rolof cried out, flung down his weapon, and fled toward the entrance of the hall.
The giant pursued him, in fury, the spit, its pointed end forward, lifted over his head in both hands.
Rolof fled up the stairs, toward the wooden door of the hall.
But of course the two beams, barring the door, the hall having been entered, were now in place, secure in their brackets.
Rolof turned about, suddenly, wildly, at the door, knowing he had no time to lift the two beams from the braces.
He stood there, for a moment, on the level before the door, his back to the door.
“No!” he cried.
“Aii!” cried men.
Women screamed.
The giant worked the spit free of the door, through which the point had penetrated, emerging on the other side, and then he carried the spit, on which the body of Rolof was impaled down the stairs, and to the side of the fire pit.
The hall was silent.
He stood near the fire pit, the spit still in the body of Rolof, who, toward the lower end of the spit, had slipped toward its point, and lay on the floor, near the coals, one side of the body illuminated by their light.
One of the liegemen of the Tiri looked up, from his knees, where he knelt beside a seared body.
“Lord Valdemar is dead,” said the man.
“He died as first among the Tiri,” said another.
“Yes,” said another.
The giant, with his foot, thrust the body of Rolof from the spit, and cast the spit aside.
He then, from near the fire pit, retrieved the great sword.
He then looked about the hall, from face to face, Ulrich, Gundar, Hartnar, Gelerich, Astarax, the others.
He then turned to face Urta, the King Namer.
“Who is king?” asked the giant.
“You are king,” said Urta.
“Let us eat,” said the giant. “I am hungry.”
CHAPTER 33
There is little more to tell, at this time, though, in a sense, this was the beginning, not that it was then recognized as such.
On a winter night, after feasting, the giant, outside the hall, in the snow, for such things are done outside, in the light of a sun, or of stars, was lifted upon the shields of Otungs.
His nature, and his lineage, no more than his destiny, were at that time unknown.
He refused to sit upon the empty throne, that upon the dais in the hall, as he had not yet, at that time, in his view, earned such a right. Too, the medallion and chain, which was the token of an Otung king’s office, his heritage and right, was not with the Otungs. It was that on which the heads of clans, long ago, had sworn the honoring of the kingship, even before the time of Genserix. Until that was found there was little assurance, and even less hope, that the nobles of the Otungen would long respect the kingship, such being the force of ambition amongst them.
Fuldan, the Old, who had been sought, that he might look upon the stranger, and speak upon his appearance, which had so intrigued some members of the hall, was not found in his hut, for he had, in desolation and grief, in sorrow for the debasement of the Otungen, even before the time of the king naming, left the forest, borne upon a litter, in furs, his bones ancient with pain, and misery, with ten retainers.
“They are no longer the folk, no longer the Otungen,” he had said.
He did not know then, mercifully enough, one supposes, of the election of a stranger as king, which matter might have caused him even greater pain.
Urta, for he was the King Namer, slipped away later, that he might inform the Heruls of what had occurred.
The chieftains of the Heruls were not pleased to learn that the Otungen had lifted one upon the shields, even a stranger, for year kings are not lifted upon the shields, but only other sorts of leaders, such as lords of clans, chieftains, commanders of battle groups, and such, and kings.
Too, they were disturbed to learn that the stranger had brought to the hall the pelt of a white vi-cat.
Such things were not permitted to year kings.
To be sure, he who had been lifted upon the shields did not have the medallion and chain, which had seemingly been lost.
In a sense then, though he might be king, he was not to be feared as might have been a king who wore both the mantle of the white vi-cat and the ancient medallion and chain of the Otungen. The medallion and chain might unite not only the clans of the Otungen, but the other tribes, as well, of the Vandal nation.
Urta, bowing, withdrew from the council of the Heruls. They did not put him to death, but gave him golden darins, from Venitzia.
An old Herul warrior, whose name was Hunlaki, one of the far riders and hard fighters of that warlike nomadic people, might, if urged, or pressed, have been able to supply some informed speculation as to the possible whereabouts of the medallion and chain, but he was not of the high council of the Heruls, and he had not, in his own knowledge, an understanding of its significance, even though, once, years ago, after a campaign against Basungs, it seems quite possible that he may have held it in his hands. The high council knew its meaning, as Hunlaki did not. Hunlaki, on the other hand, might have had some sense of its fate, and whereabouts, as did neither the council nor the Otungen. To be sure, memory tends to be fallible, and the incident, if it had occurred, had occurred long ago.
It seemed quite clear to the Heruls that the Otungen had elected a king who was not a year king, but, against their wishes, and their clearly expressed ordinance and policy, in some sense, a true king, even if one lacking the medallion and chain. Accordingly they decided to move against the Otungen.
We do not know, exactly, why the stranger took the hero’s portion at the feast of the king naming.
He may have taken the hero’s portion that the strife amongst the Otungs might be thusly resolved, that their lack of unity and the plight of their rivalries might be abolished, or at least, for a time, assuaged. Too, he may have adopted this course of action simply as an instrumentality conducive to the recruitment of men, comitates, comites, companions, a retinue, for a mercenary company. Ostensibly, at least, such seems to have been his original purpose in approaching Otungs. Others see some sensing of an obscure reality in the matter, a sensing of fittingness, a response to a prompting of blood or instinct, thusly not so much that he saw an opportunity, in a time of confusion, uncertainty, and chaos, to seize a kingship, as that it seemed to him fitting that he should do so, that it, in some sense, was his, that it belonged to him. To be sure, this possibility is perhaps too uncertain and too disturbing to be accepted as a hypothesis. Others see the matter merely as a warrior’s dark jeu d’esprit, brief, terrible, and celebratory, no more than a momentary, exultant gesture, or game, or festival, of blood and steel, and some, even, that it was merely that he was indeed hungry, and had decided to feed, in his uncouth, boorish manner, and that one event had led to another. We do not know the truth of the matter. Perhaps there are many truths, and they are woven somehow together, to form the tapestry of existence, the subtle, somber, some bright, some dark, threads, or cords, of reality. In historical studies it is often hard, trying to peer back into the mists of time, to ascertain even the deeds of men; how much harder it is then to look into their hearts. Too, it is a sobering thought, but it is well to remember that those hearts may be quite different from our own. Our beliefs, our values, our worlds, may not be the beliefs, values, or worlds of others. Doubtless we would find it difficult to enter the experience of the serpent, the wolf, the hawk, the vi-cat. Perhaps, too, then, we would find it difficult to enter into the experiences of men which may be quite different from ours, experiences perhaps more akin to those of the serpent, the hawk, the wolf, and the vi-cat, to those of predators, to those of beasts, than they are to ours. But, doubtless, even so, there is a kinship. It seems likely that nothing which is human can be utterly alien to us. Each of us, doubtless, carries in our heart many things. In historical studies it is not impossible to find the present, and ourselves.