The King

by John Norman

  The noble of the Gri was flanked by two cohorts.

  The giant now crouched behind the heavy iron spit, it on its rack, a foot above the ground, its metal now twice scarred from the blade of Rolof.

  Before him was the noble, and his two fellows, and three blades.

  He did not take his eyes from the steel. The giant's eyes were terrible. From his throat there came a rumbling, growling noise.

  "Sheath your weapon!" called Urta to Rolof.

  "I sheath my weapon for no man," said Rolof. "I am king!"

  The huge hands of the giant felt for, and closed upon, the long, thick, weighty, still-warm spit on its rack.

  Before him were Rolof, and two of the Gri, behind him, glowing, bright with heat, deep with coals, was the fire pit. Its heat was fierce upon his back and legs.

  The hands of the giant were upon the spit. The spit had held the weight, unbending, of the great boar, which, ungutted, had weighed better than four hundred pounds. Two men had turned the spit in its mounts. Rolof raised his sword.

  With a cry of rage the giant rose up. The spit, like a snake, striking, was not even lifted from the rack, but shattered free, bursting, scattering wood.

  The man to the giant's right had no time even to scream, for the spit, a yard from its end, caught him beneath the left ear, breaking the neck, half tearing the head from the body. Rolof and his fellow were struck to the side by the same blow, and fell, rolling, to the floor. The giant kicked aside the remnants of the rack. Rolof scrambled back. The man to the giant's left was struck on the return of the spit, and his arm, the elbow smashed, running with blood, hung like rope to the side. He put up his left hand to fend the next blow, but the crook in the spit's handle, tearing back through the fingers, struck him in the throat, crushing it back, breaking cartilage, inches. Rolof reached for his lost blade. The giant lifted and plunged the portion of the spit handle, two feet long, parallel to its shaft, down twice, once through the jaw and mouth of the man, then on his back, breaking teeth and bone, and driving through tissue, and, then, more carefully, through the forehead, until it stopped, inches deep, in the dirt floor of the hall. Rolof now had his sword in hand but backed away from the giant, who was now regarding him eagerly, terribly, who now held the huge spit, drawn free, its length well beyond the reach of even the great blade, holding it as one might have held the peasant's weapon, one hand at the center, the other below, the long staff.

  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.

  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, hi
s 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."

  "Anything!" cried Citherix.

  "One pig," said Otto. "I want her clearly to understand her value."

  "Done, milord!" cried Citherix.

  "To him, slut," said Otto.

  Yata hurried on her knees to Citherix, and, laughing and crying, performed obeisance before him, and then, putting herself to her belly in the snow and holding to his ankles, one after the other, pressed kisses upon his snowy boots.

  "I thought you hated me," said Citherix.