The Captain th-2

by John Norman

  “No,” said Otto. “One would not feel sorry for her then.”

  “Then she herself would be only a slave,” said Julian.

  “Yes,” said Otto.

  “Behold, milord,” called Huta. “I dip within the consecrated blood, the blood of truth, the plain cloth, innocent of all design and preparation, and call upon the ten thousand gods of Timbri, if it be their will, to vouchsafe us a sign.”

  She thrust her white-clad arms, to the elbows, into the container of blood, plunging the cloth into the liquid, then she straightened up, her sleeves scarlet with blood, but holding the cloth beneath the surface of the blood, it now stirred about her submerged wrists. “Vouchsafe us a sign, O gods of the Timbri!” she cried. Then she drew the cloth from the liquid and held it up, first to the dais, then turning, showing it to the crowd on all sides. Men cried out with awe. Women screamed.

  “Aiii!” cried Otto.

  The cloth bore upon its surface, outlined in blood, the sign of the Ortungs.

  “The auspices have been taken,” announced Huta.

  “Come forward,” Ortog called to Otto, who stepped before the dais, followed by Julian.

  The priestess Huta handed the cloth, it bearing the sign of the Ortungs, to another priestess, who folded it carefully, and carried it away.

  “You are Otto, claiming to be chieftain of the Wolfungs,” said Ortog.

  “I am Otto, chieftain of the Wolfungs,” said Otto.

  “Let him be chieftain,” whispered the clerk to Ortog. “He must be chieftain, for the matter to be proper.”

  “I salute you,” said Ortog, lifting his hand, “chieftain of the Wolfungs.”

  “I am chieftain of the Wolfungs,” Otto said. “Salute me,” said Ortog.

  “I salute you,” said Otto, lifting his hand, “Ortog, prince of the Drisriaks.”

  “And king of the Ortungs,” said Ortog.

  “And king of the Ortungs,” said Otto.

  There was then much cheering in the enclosure, the raising of weapons, the clashing of them. Pistols, too, and rifles, were fired into the air. It seemed even, far off, that there was, too, the sound of gunfire.

  “We do not need your recognition to be what we are, a sovereign tribe of the Alemanni peoples, the Ortungs,” said Ortog.

  “In any event,” said Otto, “you have it.”

  “Long live the Ortungs!” cried an ambassador.

  “Long live the Ortungs!” cried others.

  “You have what you wanted,” said Otto. “Now I would have what I want, that the predations of the Ortungs against the Wolfungs cease.”

  “‘Predations’?” asked Ortog.

  “The Wolfungs are tributary to the Ortungs,” said the clerk.

  “That the Ortungs renounce all claim to the Wolfungs as tributaries,” said Otto.

  “But we are fond of the Wolfungs,” said Ortog, grinning.

  “Especially of their women,” called a man from the side.

  There was laughter.

  “This matter rests,” said Otto, “as I understand it, on the outcome of the challenge.”

  “Agreed,” said Ortog.

  “It is you who will meet me?” inquired Otto.

  “No,” said Ortog.

  “You will choose weapons, then, and a champion, as is your right,” said Otto.

  Once before Ortog and Otto had met in combat. It had occurred on a square of sand, in a small arena, one improvised in a section of the Alaria’s gigantic hold. Otto was then a gladiator, being groomed by Pulendius, master of the school of Pulendius, and his trainers, for matches in major arenas.

  The experience was not one which Ortog was eager to repeat, nor was it one which he could, in justice, have been expected to repeat.

  Ortog was a king, not a pit killer. It was no dishonor for an unarmed, naked man to decline to enter the lair of a vi-cat. Even Abrogastes, his father, lord of the Drisriaks, fierce and terrible, would not be expected to accept such an invitation. Such a thing would not be courage, but insanity.

  Too, there were some risks to which a king, if only in virtue of his responsibilities, should not subject himself.

  “The arrangements will be explained to you by my advisor and confidante, Huta, of the Timbri,” said Ortog.

  There was laughter.

  “What is one, and what is many?” inquired Huta.

  “I do not understand,” said Otto.

  “Are the stars many?” asked Huta.

  “Yes,” said Otto.

  “But they are all stars, are they not?” asked Huta.

  “Yes,” said Otto.

  “Thus they are also one,” said Huta.

  “I do not understand,” said Otto.

  “Is the principle of individuation, of oneness, one of form or matter?” she asked.

  “I do not understand,” said Otto.

  “Many can be one, and one can be many,” she said.

  “I do not understand her speech,” said Otto. “Perhaps she is very wise.”

  “Or mad, or clever,” said Julian.

  “Bring forth, milord, the champion,” said Huta.

  “Bring forth the champion,” said Ortog.

  From back, from among the men, a large, simple, slow-moving fellow, blond and blue-eyed, was led forth by the arm. He was very large, and broad-shouldered, but soft, and carried no weapons. His eyes were glazed. He did not seem clearly aware of what was about him.

  “He is drunk, or drugged,” said Julian.

  “Choose another champion,” said Otto.

  “Behold, the champion!” said Ortog, and gestured, again, to the side.

  Another such fellow, seemingly identical to the first, was led forth.

  “They are the same,” said Otto, puzzled.

  “Twins,” said Julian.

  “Bring forth the champion!” called Ortog, again.

  Another such fellow was conducted forth.

  “I am to fight three?” asked Otto.

  But again, and again, the call for the champion was issued. Then, at the end, as the crowd stood quiet, uneasy, there were brought before the dais ten such fellows, seemingly somnolent, narcotized. Men supported some of them.

  “It is called cloning,” said Julian. “It is a process whereby genetic identicals may be produced.”

  “There is the champion,” said Huta, pointing to the ten men before the dais.

  “That is ten champions,” said Julian.

  “It is one,” said Huta. “They are one!”

  “Ten!” said Julian.

  “Were you given permission to speak, thrall?” asked Huta. Let his tongue be cut out!” she cried to Ortog.

  “No,” said Ortog.

  “They do not seem to be fighters,” said Otto.

  “They are not,” said Ortog.

  “They are drunk, or sick,” speculated Otto.

  “Drunk, or drugged,” said Julian.

  “They will not be quick,” said Otto.

  “They do not need to be,” said Ortog.

  “Surely I am to fight them all, at the same time?” said Otto.

  “You will meet them one at a time,” said Ortog.

  “I do not understand,” said Otto.

  “Do you not fear he will win, milord?” inquired the clerk.

  “No,” smiled Ortog.

  “Does milord intend to surrender so lightly his rights to the property and women of the Wolfungs?” asked Ortog’s shieldsman.

  “Not at all,” said Ortog.

  “The king of the Ortungs is generous,” said Otto. “But I beg his indulgence, and request that he put before me a true fighter, a suitable champion, if he wishes, his finest warrior.”

  “I am he,” said Ortog. “How else is it that I have rings to give?”

  “Then meet me,” said Otto, puzzled.

  “No,” said Ortog.

  “I do not wish to slay drunken, or drugged, men,” said Otto.

  “Why have these champions been drugged?” asked Julian.


  “That the champion be not too much aware of what is occurring,” said Ortog.

  “I do not understand,” said Otto.

  “Bring forth the device,” said Ortog.

  “Do not do this thing, my brother!” cried out Gerune.

  “Be silent, shamed woman,” he snarled.

  “She spoke without permission,” said Julian.

  “She is free,” said Otto.

  “If she were roped at my feet, as a slave,” said Julian, “she would not have dared to speak.”

  “No,” said Otto, “but then things would be quite different.”

  “Yes,” said Julian.

  “Bring forth the device!” called Ortog.

  The apparatus was brought forth.

  Far off, it seemed there sounded a cry, perhaps that of a bird. The wind snapped the yellow silk which, with its poles, formed the wall of the enclosure.

  “Hold his arms!” cautioned Ortog.

  Four men seized Otto, and held him fast. Two others restrained Julian.

  Huta’s laugh rang out merrily in the enclosure.

  It appeared at first a complicated device, but it was not really so. Two chairs, facing one another, with a heavy metal backing behind the head of each, were linked together beneath a small tablelike platform, on which, on an adjustable stand, its base fixed in the platform, was something which looked like a horizontal pipe, or tube. Feeding into this tube, vertically, entering it at the center, rather at the breech at the center of the horizontal tube, was another tube.

  “Put them in the chairs,” said Ortog.

  There was a murmur of anger from the men about.

  Otto shook away those who would hold him and sat in one of the chairs. There were caliperlike grippers attached to the heavy metal backing, behind the head. He placed his head, unbidden, between these calipers, or pincers. They did not restrain his head, but merely positioned it. One could leave them only by moving forward, or downward, not to the side. Their purpose was to prevent any reflexive movements to the side.

  “No!” cried Julian.

  “Silence, thrall,” said Huta.

  The first of the large, soft, somnolent individuals was placed in the seat opposite Otto.

  “The charge,” said Huta, “is entered into the vertical tube, at this point. The tube is precisely made, as are the charges. The drop is a fair one, insofar as such things can be tooled, to the thousandths of an inch. There is, in so far as can be assured, exactly the same chance that the charge will fall to the left as to the right, exactly the same chance that it will enter the barrel to the left as the barrel to the right.”

  “I understand,” said Otto.

  “Do you wish to be tied in the chair?” asked a man.

  “No,” said Otto.

  “You can reach the trigger?” asked a man.

  “Yes,” said Otto.

  “If you do not wish to participate, you have lost the challenge,” said another man.

  “Abandon the challenge,” urged Julian.

  “I do not,” said Otto.

  “It is too late to abandon the challenge,” said Ortog.

  “The Ortungen are without honor!” cried Julian.

  “Your ransom is doubled!” said Ortog.

  “Do not interfere, my friend,” said Otto, “if you would again see your worlds.”

  The pipe was being adjusted now.

  The man opposite Otto was tied in the chair, not because he was unwilling to take that place, as he had little understanding of what was transpiring, but rather in order to hold him in position.

  “Do you understand what they are doing?” Julian asked Otto.

  “Yes,” said Otto.

  “Your skills, such as they may be, and if you retain any, are herewith neutralized, completely,” said Ortog. “The outcome is a matter of chance.”

  “Of probabilities,” said Julian, angrily.

  “He does not need to cooperate,” said Ortog. “If he wishes, he may leave the chair, and be quickly, mercifully, put to death.”

  “There is one chance in two that you will die on the first firing,” said Julian. “The chance of escaping the first firing is one in two; the chance of escaping two firings in a row is one in four; the chance of escaping three firings in a row is one in eight; of four, one in sixteen; of five, one in thirty-two; of six, one in sixty-four; of seven, one in one hundred and twenty-eight; of eight, one in two hundred and fifty-six; of nine, one in five hundred and twelve; of ten, one in one thousand and twenty-four.”

  “I am ready,” said Otto.

  “You cannot even count so high, my friend,” said Julian, despairing.

  “I know what a thousand is,” said Otto. “I think I know. It is a great many.”

  “You could have put him against dwarfs, or women!” raged Julian.

  “Like the leaves of a tree, like the stones on a beach,” said Otto.

  Let those who are familiar with mathematics congratulate themselves on their knowledge of a simple number, such as a thousand, but let them, too, aside from marks on paper, and procedures of counting, and such, see if they can visualize that number, say, a thousand leaves or a thousand stones. Are they visualizing a thousand, truly, or nine hundred and fifty, or a thousand and ten?

  “Dwarfs are amusing,” said Ortog. “And one would surely not wish to waste women in such a manner. They have much more pleasant uses.”

  “Milord!” cried Huta, in horror.

  Her priestesses and acolytes gasped, too, some placing their hands to their breasts. They exchanged wild glances. Such women are vowed to chastity.

  “It is a high number, surely,” said Otto.

  There was one trigger for the apparatus. It was mounted on a small, movable box, which we may refer to as the trigger box, or housing. This box rested on the table. From it, an insulated cord ran to the base of the stand.

  “Forgive me, Lady Huta,” said Ortog.

  The pipe was adjusted on the stand. It was arranged in such a way as to be level with, and focused toward, the center of Otto’s forehead. The barrel of the pipe, its muzzle, was somewhat lower on the fellow across from Otto. It was centered there just above the bridge of the nose. This was because Otto was the taller man. The muzzle, on each side, was about four inches from the faces of the men.

  “Place a charge,” said Huta.

  One of the men who had been assisting the priestesses removed a spheroid from a box and dropped it into the vertical tube.

  “You may fire first,” said Ortog.

  “Is there any advantage in firing first?” asked Otto.

  “None,” said Ortog. “The trigger fires the device. One does not know where the charge is.”

  “Let him fire first then,” said Otto.

  “Wait, milord!” called Hendrix, from the side. “This is not the way of the Drisriaks, nor should it be the way of the Ortungs.”

  “This is not a matter of steel, of a duel in which glory may be sought, a cutting with knives, the thrust of the blade, the sort of thing of which songs are made!” cried another man.

  “It has been decided,” said Ortog.

  “It is a mockery of honor!” cried another.

  “All has been arranged,” said Ortog, angrily.

  Overhead, but muchly unnoticed, there was a flight of birds, hurrying to the west.

  “I will be the champion of the Ortungs!” called Hendrix.

  “And you would die!” said Ortog. He himself, on the Alaria, had once crossed blades with the seated blond giant. He had not cared to do so again.

  “I am swift,” called Gundlicht, stepping forward, “Let me fight him, in the ways of honor.”

  “Yes!” called others.

  “Me!” called another.

  “No, I!” cried another.

  “He would kill any of you,” screamed Ortog.

  “How can it be?” cried a man.

  “Can you not see the breeding, and the blood, in him?” inquired Ortog.

  “Let the match begin!” c
alled Huta.

  “He is an Otung!” called Ortog.

  Otto did not move.

  The men were stilled for an instant.

  “Of royal blood!” cried Ortog.

  “I am a peasant, from the festung village of Sim Giadini,” said Otto.

  Julian regarded Otto wildly.

  “I am sure of it!” said Ortog.

  “They are a race of warriors, the fiercest of the Vandal peoples!” said a man.

  “They were destroyed by the empire!” said another.

  “The Alemanni are the greatest of all the peoples!” cried a man.

  “Yes, yes!” shouted others.

  Julian’s mind raced.

  These cries, and the stirring of the crowd, its murmuring, and unease, tended to obscure even the sounds of the wind at the yellow silk.

  “Let the match begin!” called out Huta.

  “Yes,” said Ortog. “Let the match begin!”

  “No, milord,” begged his shieldsman.

  “It has been arranged by the priestess Huta,” said Ortog.

  “Please, milord!” begged a man.

  “It has been decided,” said Ortog.

  “Milord!” protested another.

  “Who is king of the Ortungs?” asked Ortog.

  “Ortog is king of the Ortungs,” said a man.

  “Let the match begin,” said Ortog.

  “Let the match begin,” said men.

  “Press the trigger!” said Huta.

  Her words were addressed to the man fastened in the seat opposite Otto.

  “The trigger! The trigger!” cried Huta.

  “Here, this,” said one of the men who had been assisting the priestesses. He took the trigger housing, on its cord, running to the stand, and put it in the hands of the fellow opposite Otto.

  “Wait,” said another man, he who had also been assisting the priestesses. He thrust up, and back, the head of the man opposite Otto, indeed, he held his head in place by the hair, pulling it back, that it would be properly positioned within the caliperlike grips attached to the shielding at the back of the seat.

  “Press the trigger,” said the first man.

  “Trigger?” asked the lethargic form in the chair across from the chieftain of the Wolfungs.

  “This, this,” said the first man.

  “I am the champion?” asked the man across from Otto.

  “Yes, you and the others, they are all the champion,” said the man who had literally thrust the trigger housing into the fellow’s hands.