No sooner had the giant leapt down into the snow, under the stars, from the shields, to the shouting and the clashing of weapons, than a warrior thrust aside others, and confronted him. “Let us laugh with steel!” he cried, tears in his eyes. The warrior was seized by those about, and, struggling, held fast. A blade was instantly at his heart, poised there by young Vandar, the first of the Otungs who had seized up the hot meat on the table before him, and fed upon it, his eyes on his lord, Otto, who had just been acknowledged by Urta as king of the Otungs.
Otto gestured that Vandar should lower his weapon.
Otto gestured that the warrior should be released.
“Let us laugh with steel,” said again the warrior, to Otto, king of the Otungen.
Men cried out with rage for their lord had again been threatened. Had Otto not raised his hand, conveying to them that they must desist, furs would have surged about the bold fellow, the press of a hundred knives, in turn, responding to his insolence.
“Let him laugh with me!” cried Vandar.
“No, with me!” cried others.
Men looked angrily at one another.
Each would vie with each to defend to the death their liege lord.
“How is it that you so speak to your king?” asked Otto of the bold fellow.
“I want the slave girl,” said Citherix.
There was a soft, startled cry from the side where, miserable, shivering, partly bent over, her arms clutched about her, stood blond Yata, the slave of Otto. She had crept forth from the hall, and, until then, had been muchly unnoticed. Aware of eyes upon her, she knelt in the snow, putting her head down to it.
“I will give you a thousand sheep, and a thousand pigs, for her,” said Citherix.
Men cried out, amazed, at the bounty of such an offer.
“She is not for sale,” said Otto.
“Let us laugh with steel,” said Citherix.
“You must want her very much,” said Otto.
“I must have her,” said Citherix.
“But she is not yours,” said the giant.
“I will have her or die,” said Citherix.
“I do not understand,” said the giant.
“I love her,” said Citherix, angrily.
The slave, to the side, cried out, startled, softly.
There was rude laughter amongst the men and women outside the hall. “He loves a slave!” laughed a man.
“A slave!” laughed another.
“He is a fool!” said a man.
“Yes,” said another.
There was more laughter.
“I will have her or die,” said Citherix.
“As you wish,” said Otto. “Bring me my sword,” said he to Vandar.
In a moment the great sword was in his hands.
“Do you think you can best me?” asked the giant.
“No,” said Citherix.
“But yet you would laugh with steel?”
“Yes,” said Citherix.
Men cleared a space in the snow about them. It was some fifteen feet in diameter.
“Please, no, Master!” cried the slave.
“Cuff her,” said Otto.
The nearest warrior struck the slave to her side in the snow.
She lay in the snow, weeping.
“See that he has a shield,” said Otto. A shield was handed to Citherix.
The moonlight was bright, the shadows dark, the snow, where not trampled, away from the hall, away from the crowd, glistened.
The great blade struck, cutting away the upper part of the shield.
Citherix stumbled backward, slipping in the snow. Another blow cleaved away much of the left side of the shield. Citherix cast it aside and, two hands on the hilt of his sword, tried desperately to interpose it between himself and the great blade, which, with blow after blow, ringing, mighty, patient, merciless, with terrible weight, beat down upon it. Down Citherix was forced to his knees, each blow pounding his own blade down, forcing it down, driving it closer and closer to his head, his face and body. And then he was on his back, and the giant was over him, and again the great blade rang down. The arms of Citherix trembled, and shook, and ached. The hilt of his sword burned in his stung, tortured hands. Then the giant’s blade, on the last stroke, turning, not lifting away for yet another onslaught, caught Citherix’s blade under the guard, in that tiny moment just after the last pounding, ringing blow, when the grip loosened, to be instantly readjusted, retightened, for meeting the next stroke, and tore it up, away from his hands, and flung it high, and aside, over the heads of men, yards away, into the night, and the snow.
“Ah,” said men, softly, and the business was for all intents and purposes finished.
The giant raised the blade over his head.
“No!” screamed a voice, and a small body flung itself, sobbing, across Citherix, who lay in the snow, shielding him, clinging to him. “No, no, please, Master!” it cried. “Kill me, instead!”
Otto, puzzled, lowered the sword.
The blow, of course, from such a blade, wielded with the might of the giant, which could fell small trees, and cut the heads from horses, might have cut through both bodies, arresting itself only, at last, in the frozen ground. But the giant lowered the sword.
“Kneel,” said he to the slave girl, who, in terror, drew back from the body of Citherix and knelt to one side in the trampled snow. The giant, with one hand, bent her head down and threw her hair forward, exposing that small fine neck, the vertebrae of which he might have snapped in one hand.
“Very well,” said he, “it is her life for yours.”
The giant rested the edge of the blade on the back of the slave’s neck, and then lifted it, for the blow.
“No!” said Citherix, his hand extended, half rising. “No!” He turned and crawled to the slave. He, on his knees, took her in his arms, shielding her, putting his body between hers and the blade. “Let her live,” said he. “It is I who am guilty. It is I who raised steel against my king. That is treason, and the punishment for it is death.”
“That is true, milord,” said Ulrich.
“The king may kill,” said Otto. “The king may pardon. The king may do as he pleases.”
“That is true, milord,” said Ulrich.
There was assent to this among the men.
“I pardon you,” said Otto to Citherix. “Rise up. Be Otung.”
Citherix rose, unsteadily, to his feet. “Why do you pardon me, milord?” he asked.
“I have need,” said Otto, “of men bold enough to challenge kings.”
Men looked at one another.
“Only of such men,” said Otto, “would I be king.”
“What of the slave, milord?” asked Ulrich.
Otto looked down at the slave who, kneeling in the snow, shivering, put her head down.
“Sometimes,” said Otto, to the girl, “it takes a slave some time, in straps and chains, to learn who is her true master.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
Otto turned to Citherix. “Do you think you can teach her?”
“Milord?” said Citherix.
“It seems she is more your slave than mine,” said Otto.
“My slave?” said Citherix, astonished.
He looked down at the slave, who looked up at him, tears in her eyes. She smiled, through her tears, and nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of her head, so small a movement that it seemed she almost feared that it might be detected.
“I could give her to you,” said Otto, “but I would rather sell her to you.”