“Perhaps they are,” Herkimer suggested. “We really have no artifact by which to judge their scale.”
“True enough,” Magnus admitted. “I’m assuming that the Vikings are of normal size for human beings—somewhere between five and six feet tall. If they are, the giants are nine feet tall on the average. I suppose they need such thick legs to support all the weight that goes with that extra height.”
“Still, we are only assuming,” the computer reminded him. “For all we know, the ones you call Vikings may be only two feet tall.”
“Well, yes,” Gar admitted. “But they have the proportions of normal men, and if they were shorter, they should also be more delicate—so I’m betting they’re of normal size. Oh, I and by the way, yes, I know they aren’t really Vikings.”
The Vikings of Terra’s past had been ordinary Scandinavian citizens at home who had gone raiding the shores of richer countries to supplement their incomes—or, in some cases, for their whole incomes. A great number of Norwegians, Swedes, and Danes stayed home and farmed—but when they went to war, they wore the same armor and carried the same shields and weapons as the Vikings did.
“They do dress like medieval Scandinavians,” Herkimer admitted, “and most people associate horned helmets, beards, and war-axes with Vikings.”
“Yes, you’d almost think they had stepped off the screen of a dramatic epic,” Magnus said. “Of course, they’re probably very ordinary farmers and tradesmen at home, not medieval pirates. They’ve simply been called up for war.”
There certainly was no sea in evidence, except for the coastline hundreds of miles to the south. Only one central area of a small continent had been Terraformed; the rest was desert or tundra. This battle had taken place on the eastern border of the land, assuming that the mountain range on the photographed map before Magnus was indeed a border. “Zoom out,” he told Herkimer, and as the giants dwindled in the viewscreen, the Vikings came back into sight. Sure enough, they were out of the foothills where they had fought the battle and into the meadows and marshlands beyond, carrying their dead and wounded.
“The mountains do seem to be the borderland,” Herkimer said. “I think we can infer that they are the giants’ homeland.”
To the east, the giants finally broke their formation and , brought out stretchers to carry home their dead.
“They must have scouts in the last foothills near the flatland, and some way of signaling back to the army,” Magnus guessed. “How many lost their lives in this skirmish, Herkimer?”
“Ninety-eight, counting the dead on both sides,” the computer reported. “Judging by the severity of their wounds, I estimate that sixteen more will die within a few days.”
Magnus scowled, the sunlight of discovery and investigation dimmed by the shadow of death. “I wonder how frequent these battles are?”
“We found this one by only an hour’s search,” Herkimer replied. “Probability analysis indicates an almost constant state of border clashes.”
“Yes,” Magnus said, brooding. “If they were rare, the odds of chancing upon such a battle would have been extremely small. At least their wars seem to be confined to small battles.” Then agony seared through Magnus, and the dream fled.
Awareness returned in the form of the racking ache in his head. Then a sudden sharp pain exploded in his side, and a voice commanded, “Up with you, now! I saw you twitch! You’re awake!”
The accent was strong, but it was still Terran Standard. That was bad; if the language hadn’t drifted much from its origin, it meant that the government was strict, harsh, and stonily conservative. Magnus struggled to rise, but the effort made the pain spear from temple to temple, and he fell back with a groan, thinking, Concussion…
The sharp pain jabbed at his side again, and the voice shouted, “Up, I said! By Loki, you’ll do as you’re told, or you’ll die for it!.”
Anger overrode the pain, and Magnus forced his eyes open. Light tore at his brain, and he squeezed his eyelids to slits as he rolled, trying to ignore the agony in his head and the nausea in his stomach, looking for his tormentor.
The man stood above him with a yard-long wooden stick capped with a metal point—for all the stars, a cattle prod! “Up!” he bellowed. “Into the field with you!” He jabbed again. “That for your arrogance, walking down the road in broad daylight like a real man! Into the field with you, half-giant, and learn your place!”
Through the raging in his head, all Magnus could think was, Half?
Then he remembered what he had seen from orbit—from orbit, safe in Herkimer’s cozy, luxurious lounge.
Magnus pored over one photograph, then compared it with another and another. “There’s a pattern here.”
“Of what sort?” the computer asked. Its injured tone had to be Magnus’s imagination; Herkimer couldn’t really be feeling miffed that Magnus had discovered something that it hadn’t. In fact, Herkimer couldn’t be feeling, period. It was a machine.
“Some form of slavery,” Magnus said. “In every picture showing people working, the real drudgery is being done by the biggest and the smallest.”
“Stronger people would naturally do the heavier work,” the computer noted.
“It isn’t always heavy.” Magnus leafed through the pictures. “They’re chopping wood, drawing water, mucking out pigpens, that sort of thing. The medium-sized women are feeding the chickens, sweeping the steps, and tending the gardens. The medium-sized men are making barrels, driving wagons, forging iron implements—crafts and trades. The big ones and the small ones do the unskilled labor. More medium-sized men are watching them with sticks in their hands.”
The computer was silent a moment, then answered, “I have correlated all the pictures we have taken, including close-ups of photographs we had not previously examined in detail. Your analysis holds.”
“Some sort of slavery? Or a caste system?” Magnus shook his head. “We need more information.”
Well, he was getting that information now, and there didn’t seem to be much doubt about the slavery. What a fool he had been to leave that nice, safe spaceship just because he thought other people were being oppressed!
The prod goaded him again, and the overseer roared, “Up, monster! Or I’ll stab you half to death!”
The tide of anger almost overwhelmed Magnus—but people were most definitely being oppressed, and his own mistreatment was proof of that. He fought down the anger and stumbled to his feet. By sheer bad luck and his own stupidity, he had fallen into the perfect situation to study their suffering—and to take a look at this society from the inside. He could play the obedient slave until he had a clear idea of what was going on. Then he could escape—he had no doubt of that; for a projective telepath, it only took thinking sleepy thoughts at the guards.
Though he might stop to beat up this particular overseer a bit on the way out…
Looking down, he was amazed to see that he wore the same sort of worn gray tunic and leggins as the field slaves. “What did you do with my clothes!”
“Gave ‘em to somebody who deserves ‘em,” the overseer grunted. “His wife will cut them down for him, never you fear. Half-giants have no business wearing such finery!”
Finery? The cloak and tunic had been of stout, close-woven wool, good hardy black travelling clothes, and the boots had been carefully scuffed and worn, but still sound and waterproof. Instead, he wore sandals, scarcely more than soles strapped to his feet.
“I am Kawsa, overseer to Steward Wulfsson,” the smaller man snarled. “You’ll have cause to remember my name, you great hulk, and my prod too! Now get moving, or you’ll wish you were dead!”