by John Norman
The critical distance for the vi-cat tends to range from ten to twenty yards. Outside this range, if it is not hunting, and man, in any event, is not its common game, man and beast can usually pretend to ignore one another. The man turns aside, and the beast slinks away, into the high grass, as though it had not seen the man. Within this range, closer than ten to twenty yards, the particular distance tending to depend on the disposition, even the indolence, of the beast in question, this game of man and beast is not played. Within the critical distance the beast tends to approach, and investigate, and, from this point, things tend to rapidly and often unpleasantly escalate. It will also, often, without warning, charge within this distance. It might also be noted that even outside the critical distance it is important to avoid obvious eye contact with the beast. Once the beast knows it has been seen it is almost, oddly, as if a matter of honor had become involved, and that retreat would somehow result in a loss of face. This interpretation seems somewhat anthropomorphic, but the serious question is not whether or not it is anthropomorphic, but whether or not it is correct. It may be, you see, that a concept of honor is not unique to rational species, but that its rudiments, or such, lie much farther down the phylogenetic scales of different animal kingdoms. A sense of rightness, of fittingness, and such, may not be an invention of rational species but, in a sense, an inheritance of such species, later interpreted, naturally enough, in conceptual terms. It might be proposed, of course, that the animals which recognized themselves seen, or challenged, and responded aggressively, tended to replicate their genes, and that more casual organisms, indifferent to intruders, tolerant of strangers, and such, tended to be eliminated. But, if this is the case, this would seem to suggest merely that the rudiments of honor, or such, have been themselves selected for. This is not incomprehensible, of course. For example, it seems clear that the blind mechanisms of natural selection have produced, and perhaps inevitably, what is commonly taken to be their antithesis, thought, intentionality, consciousness, planning and reason. Civilization may be an inevitable precipitate of the jungle. Certainly within itself it bears the traces of dark origins. Indeed, there is some speculation that civilization is not a successor to, nor a replacement of, the jungle, but merely a transformation of the jungle, merely another of its many faces. And the jungle, too, you see, is not really a chaos, but, in its way, a highly articulated structure, with its habits and patterns, its history, its proven, tested, developed ways, its relationships, its ranks, its distances, its hierarchies.
The eyes of the man and beast met.
The man dove for the hilt of the blade, emergent from the snow, as the beast, snarling, scrambled over the trembling, shaking body of the expiring horse.
The man threw himself to the snow, scratching within it, and the beast was on him, pawing away the snow, biting at the half-buried back.
"Do not interfere," said the leader of the Heruls to his fellows.
Their mounts, their sides heaving, blood frozen about the jaws, like threads of ice, their breath like fog bursting from their mouths and nostrils, were now under control.
The vi-cat tore away the back of the man's coat, shaking it. It seemed puzzled.
The figure rolled to the side in the snow and leapt upon the vi-cat from the side, his arms about its neck, and the cat, enraged, reared up, lifting the man a yard from the snow. The man clung to its neck, his head down, at the base of the animal's neck, down, away from the massive, turning head, and fangs. The beast sought futilely to reach him with its forepaws, the curved claws, four inches in length, extended, brandished, then flung itself down in the snow, rolling, and one could not see the man, and then one could, as, again and again, he was first submerged in the snow, and then again, body and hair a mass of snow, torn upward into view. The beast, roaring, tried to scrape him away, against the horse, now dead. The beast then stopped, and gasped, startled. It shook its head, and the man was flung to one side and the other. The man, as he could, tightened his grip. He could not slip his arms beneath the forelegs of the beast, and up then, behind the back of the neck, given the size of the beast. In such a way might a smaller animal's neck be broken. Such things were learned, though with an intended application to men, in the school of Pulendius, on Terennia. Then the beast threw itself to its side in the snow, squirming down, to the frozen soil. Then, slowly, pressing itself against the ice, it, with its mighty bulk, began to turn itself, inch by inch. The man, in his garments, with his own bulk, could not then turn with the animal. He was wedged between the body of the beast and the soil, like cement, and the beast, inch by inch, was turning, moving in the grip of the man, bringing its jaws about, inch by inch, closer to the man's head.
The vi-cat, gasping in the snow, continued to turn, inch by inch.
The man released the beast's throat and scrambled to his feet in the snow, and the beast, too, scrambled up.
The beast stood there for a moment, sucking in air, blinking, snow about its eyes, looking for the man.
The man reached to the great sword and had it in his hand, half lifting it as the beast charged, and the man was struck from his feet, the sword lost, and the beast had stopped. Then it backed away, puzzled. It eyed the man, and licked at its own blood.
The man, bleeding, recovered the sword.
He lifted it unsteadily, half to the ready, and the beast was upon him, again, charging and snarling.
A yard of the blade disappeared into the chest of the beast.
A blow from the right paw of the beast smote the man at the side of the head, and he was struck to the side, and the blade, to which he clung, slid sideways in the animal, and, as the man fell to the snow, the blade, still in his grasp, was mostly out of the body.
The beast backed away, a foot or two, which movement slipped the blade further from its body, and, at the same time, drew it away from the hands of the fallen man. Then the beast shook itself, as though it might be shedding water. The blade was flung to the side.
"The Otung is dead," said one of the Heruls.
The beast returned to the still warm body of the horse, and its feeding. Its own blood mingled with that of the horse. There was little sound then except the breathing of the horses of the Heruls, and the feeding of the vi-cat.
The figure struck down in the snow staggered to its feet. It felt about for the great sword. It had it again in its hands.
Blood was now coming from within the lungs of the vi-cat, and it gushed forth from its mouth and nostrils, and, as it fed, it drank its own blood.
The man staggered toward the vi-cat with the blade raised, but fell into the snow before he could reach it.
The vi-cat died feeding.
"The Otung is dead," said a Herul.
"He would be worth running for the dogs," said another.
"He is dead," said the Herul who had first spoken.
"I do not think so," said the leader of the Heruls. "Tie him. Put him on the sledge."
Olar and Varix, who were Basung Vandals, were put in the traces of the sledge, to draw it.
The horse whose leg had been broken was killed, with a blow of the ax of Varix.
In a few moments the three Heruls left the trampled, bloody snow.
They did not bury their fellows, but left them, as was their common wont, for the beasts of the plains.
They cut some meat from the dead horses, for provender on the trip back to the wagons and herds.
They also skinned the vi-cat, for such a pelt was of great value. Indeed, from such a pelt might be fashioned the robe of a king.
…CHAPTER 20…
"He is awakening," she said.
"Do not hurt me," she said.
The blond giant's hand had grasped her wrist. His brow was wet, from the cloth with which she had wiped it.
He released her wrist.
"Leave," said a voice, that of a Herul, who was sitting back, in the shadows.
Not speaking, she gathered her pan of warm water, and, with the cloth and sponges, and a whisk of her l
ong skirt, hurried away.
It was a woman of his own species, or seemed so. Heruls kept such, he knew, for labor, and diversion. The giant did not object, as they were females.
"She is the daughter of an Otung noble," said the Herul.
The giant moved his legs a little. The clasp of the chains was then evident.
"You have been unconscious for four days," said the Herul.
"You are old-for a Herul," said the giant.
"You are surprised?" asked the Herul.
"Yes," said the giant.
Heruls kill the old and the weak, the stupid, the lame, the deformed.
"I am still hardy," said the Herul. "If I am to be killed, someone must do it. I have killed four. They will let me alone now, I think, for a time."
"You are a warrior," said the giant.
"I have ridden," admitted the Herul. "Would you like to have her, tonight?" he asked.
"Yes," said the giant.
"She is a slave," said the Herul. "Do not fail to use her as such."
"I will not," said the giant.
"You are in the wagon of my friend," said the Herul. "It was he who captured you, who brought you in. He was the leader of a party of seven, three only of which returned."
"Who are you?" asked the giant.
"It does not matter," said the Herul.
"What is to be done with me?"
"You must regain your strength," said the Herul. "I will have broth brought to you, and, in a day, curds, and then, later, meat."
"Mujiin is proud of you," said the Herul.
"Who is Mujiin?" asked the giant.
"He who captured you," said the Herul.
"What is your people?" asked the Herul.
"I have no people," said the giant.
"You are an Otung," said the Herul.
"I am chieftain of the Wolfungs," said the giant.
"I do not know that tribe," said the Herul.
"It is a tribe of the Vandal nation," said the giant.
"One knows the Vandals, of course," said the Herul, "-the Otung Vandals, the Basung Vandals, and such."
"Its remnants were banished to a far world, Varna," said the giant.
"How is it that you are on Tangara?" asked the Herul.
"I am commissioned captain in the imperial auxilia, " said the giant, "entitled to recruit comitates, comites, companions, a comitatus, a military company, for service under the imperial standard. I seek Otungs for this purpose."
"Strange," said the Herul.
"Why?" asked the giant.
"Little love is lost between the empire and the Otungs," said the Herul.
"Nor," said the giant, "between the empire and the Heruls."
"True," said the Herul.
"There were two men who were captured on the plains," said the giant. "What was done with them?"
"They drew you here, on a sledge," said the Herul. "Then they were bound, and their throats were cut, and they were fed to the dogs."
The giant regarded him.
"They had not fought," said the Herul.
The giant lay back on the rude, low couch.
"To be sure," said the Herul, "they crossed the Lothar, and that must have taken courage.
"I can remember when Basungs fought," said the Herul.
"They were then Vandals, Basung Vandals," said the giant.
"Yes," said the Herul.
"What of the Otungs?" asked the giant.
"We broke them, long ago, and have denied to their fugitive remnants horses, and the plains. They are not permitted to come forth from their forests, except at times to trade with us, honey, pelts, produce from their small plots, such things, for leather, hides, glue and horn, and excess trade goods, which we, by similar exchanges, have obtained from merchants of Ifeng."
"Venitzia?"
"That is the Telnarian name for the place," said the Herul. "There is a good spring there."
"Why do you not go into the forests and kill them?" asked the giant.
"We are horsemen," said the Herul. "In the forests it is very dangerous for us. We do raid in them, afoot, sometimes, for sport. It was in such a raid, two years ago, that we captured Yata, and others, while they were bathing."
"Yata?"
"The slave," said the Herul. "It was but a moment's work to bind and gag them, wrap them securely in camouflaged blankets and tie them on narrow frameworks of poles, which frameworks we then drew after us, reaching, two days later, the edge of the forest. Once there, where our horses were waiting, we untied their ankle cords, put them in coffle, and marched them, under the knout, to the wagons. They marched quickly, and well."
"I do not doubt it," said the giant.
"We take others," said the Herul, "as they fall to us; some are captured in raids, as were Yata and her maidens; some are caught outside the forests, herding pigs, gathering herbs, and such; some are given to us as tokens of good will; some are sold to us; some are received in trade, such things. But these are usually not high women, and many are only beautiful, unwanted daughters."
"You take only the beautiful ones?"
"Of course," said the Herul. "For we may have to dispose of them in Venitzia later. We reject the others. But we do not take all the beautiful ones, as we wish to leave them enough beauties to breed, that more beauties may be regularly produced."
"You seem interested in me," said the giant.
"I am curious about you," said the Herul.
"Why?"
"You remind me of someone," said the Herul, "someone I saw once, long ago, one to whom I once lifted my lance."
"An Otung?"
"Yes."
"Who are you?"
"It does not matter," said the Herul.
The Herul rose up. He approached the couch. He looked down upon the blond giant.
"May I touch you?" asked the Herul.
The giant did not move.
The right tentacle of the Herul uncoiled itself and its tip rested on the right forearm of the giant. The giant detected a movement within the tentacle.
"Ah!" said the Herul.
The tentacle withdrew.
The giant looked up at the Herul.
"It is as I thought," said the Herul.
"What?" asked the giant.
"Nothing," said the Herul.
"What?" asked the giant.
"We have met before," said the Herul.
"No," said the giant.
"You are from the festung village of Sim Giadini," said the Herul.
"How could you know that?" asked the giant.
"That is not important," said the Herul.
"We have met?"
"Yes."
"I was very young?" said the giant.
"Yes," said the Herul, "you were very young."
"I do not think the Heruls keep male prisoners, or slaves," said the giant.
"You are right," said the Herul.
"What is to be done with me?"
"You will see," said the Herul. He then turned away, and went to the door of the broad, roomlike wagon. "I will have broth brought to you," he said.
"By Yata?" asked the giant.
"Yes," said the Herul.
"She is to remove her garments while serving me," said the giant.
"Of course," said the Herul.
…CHAPTER 21…
The giant plunged through the snow, naked, the baying of the dogs behind him.
Five had been set upon him, the size of ponies.
He had had the start of a full hour.
That hour is best spent not in trying to cover as much distance as possible, for the difference of a few miles is immaterial in such matters, the dogs on the run, tireless, in the pack, but rather looking for a defensible place, an outcropping, a stand of trees, a hillock, such things. But the plain in this place, save for swirled drifts, seemed level and barren.
But somewhere, somewhere in this snow, and desolation, concealed by gentle contours, perhaps those of some high drift, there must be stones,
or irregularities, or faces of rock, or pools in which water might be trapped. In the summer animals were abundant here. There must be water for them, in pools, or streams now frozen, lost under the snow.
But all seemed bleak.
It was impossible not to leave tracks, and in the clear, cold, windless air his scent would follow him, almost as though it were a trail of heat, almost as though it were a wash of color, lingering, gentle in the disturbed snow, soft in the still air, marking, as though with paint and banners, his passage.
He was breathing heavily.
His feet were terribly cold.
If he should stop moving he did not doubt but what they would be soon useless, and frozen.
He could not double back to the wagons. Horsemen had followed him, with knouts, making that impossible.
Then they had turned back.
Then the dogs would have been released.
It would not be dark for five hours, and the dogs were surely only minutes away.
He scratched under the snow, searching for a stick, a rock, anything which might be used as a weapon. His fingernails were torn on the frozen soil.
Drifts lay about.
He moved on.
He looked back. He could see five dots on the plain, in the snow, moving, hastening in his direction.
He had been brave. Mujiin, his captor, had thought so. He had been given thus this chance for life. Too, the dogs needed exercise. Bets were being taken at the wagons, on which animal would first return, which animal then would presumably have been the first to have had its fill, which animal then would, presumably, have been the first to reach the quarry.
The sky was a winter sky, dark and overcast.
There was not enough sun to melt snow, to make possible the building of a shelter, the building of a wall, of some sort of fortress, through the entrance of which only one animal at a time might enter.
The snow was useless, like powder.
It came to the thighs of the giant. He had to force his way through it.
Such snow, if virginal, particularly where it had drifted, must form an impediment to the movement of the dogs, even as it did to himself, but, as of now, of course, his own body had broken a passage behind him, which facilitated the pursuit of the dogs. He had, in effect, broken the trail to his own body.
