“Stop!” cried Pulendius, in alarm.
One of the guards rushed to the barbarian, holding his fire pistol to his temple.
The barbarian held Hinak from behind, his arms under Hinak’s, his hands clasped behind the back of Hinak’s neck, pressing slowly forward, and down.
With a grunt the barbarian released his hold, and Hinak went forward, on his knees, in the sand.
In another moment surely his neck would have been snapped.
Hinak rose up, and hurried away. Grateful he was to leave the sand alive.
“The barbarian has defeated a professional fighter,” said the woman in the pantsuit, wonderingly.
“By some trick of wrestling, not with weapons,” said the minor officer to her right.
At that moment there was a soft cry of surprise from many in the tiers. The officer of the court, as well, felt her body move backward, swaying back, just a little, on the tier.
“The ship is accelerating,” said the minor officer.
“Am I not victorious?” asked Ortog.
Janina looked up at Ortog. Her small hands were pressed against the pipe to which she was chained.
“Oh, the contest is not yet done,” Pulendius assured him.
The officer of the court noted how closely the steel encircled Janina’s small wrists. They were small cuffs. The officer of the court realized, suddenly, they had been made for women. They would fit her as well as Janina. The collar was about Janina’s throat. Had she been in such a collar she could have slipped it no more than the slave.
Ortog threw back his head and laughed knowingly.
“Why did you not kill him?” asked the young naval officer.
“I choose whom I kill,” said Ortog.
The question of the young officer had made it clear to those who might be perceptive in the tiers that the barbarian was not intended to survive the evening. Perhaps he might then have availed himself of the satisfaction of destroying one enemy, perhaps in the same moment that the trigger on the fire pistol could have been pulled.
“Ambos!” called Pulendius, irritably. This fighter was from the world, Ambos, and was known professionally by that name. This was not uncommon in the arena, naming the fighters for worlds, or cities, or animals, or appearance. He was the fellow who had been successful in the last mock match, that with what were intended to represent the two-headed spears of Kiros. We do not know his real name. One account gives it as ‘Elbar.’ More importantly, for our purposes, he had once wrestled professionally on Ambos, before applying to the arena masters.
Ambos came forth.
“Kill him,” said Pulendius, indicating the barbarian. He then stepped back. There was to be no mock adjudication of holds, of breaks, and such, in this match.
Ambos, of course, had watched the previous match, and had noted the fate of Hinak. The barbarian was clearly not a trained wrestler, but he was unusually strong, and that made him dangerous. Ambos had no intention of taking him lightly.
“Close! Finish him!” said Pulendius.
But the two men, together in the center of the ring, only thrusted, feinted, and reached for holds.
“Finish him!” said Pulendius.
Suddenly the two men grappled, locked together, swaying back and forth.
“Finish him!” cried Pulendius.
But to the horror of Pulendius and those in the tiers the barbarian, slowly, by sheer strength, drew Ambos from his feet, and then slowly turned him, and placed his back over his knee, his hands pressing down, the knee as the fulcrum, the spine a doomed lever, subjected to terrible force at each termination, surely in a moment to snap, surely incapable of withstanding such pressure.
But then the barbarian let Ambos, gasping, wild-eyed, slip to the sand.
The barbarian rose to his feet.
“Am I not victorious?” he asked.
“You did not kill him,” observed the young naval officer.
“I did not choose to do so,” said the barbarian.
Ambos was helped from the sand by two of Pulendius’s men.
“And whom would you choose to kill?” asked the young naval officer.
“One worthy,” said the barbarian, his arms folded.
“Me?” asked the young naval officer, quietly, amused.
The barbarian turned about and lifted his arm. He pointed at the gladiator with whom we have been hitherto acquainted, he who had been raised in a small festung village, that of Sim Giadini, he who had been behind Pulendius, and to his right, on the evening of the captain’s table, he who had looked upon the officer of the court, who was even of the blood, as though she might be naught but a common slave, one such that she might be purchased in any market, and thence put to the common purposes of slaves.
“He!” said the barbarian.
“Why?” asked the young officer, puzzled.
The barbarian was silent.
“Who is he? Who do you think he is?” asked the young officer, leaning forward, keenly interested.
Again the barbarian refused to respond.
“Where are you from, fighter?” asked the young officer of the gladiator.
“From the festung village of Sim Giadini, milord,” said the gladiator. He also identified the world, but we think it best, again, at this point, in order not to anticipate, to withhold its name. It was, however, we recall, one of the claimed worlds within the imperial system.
“No,” said the barbarian. “No.”
“It will be with weapons!” said Pulendius, angrily.
“Let him live,” called a man.
“He has been victorious!” called another. “Free him!”
Pulendius looked angrily toward the source of such cries.
“Kill him!” cried a woman.
“Kill him!” cried the woman in the pantsuit.
“Kill him!” cried another woman, a young woman. The officer of the court saw that it was the salesgirl, she from the ship’s shop, from whom, earlier that day, she had made certain purchases. She had not noticed her in the tiers before. She was terribly embarrassed, now, to see her there. After all, she knew the nature of those purchases. Had the salesgirl seen her here, had she looked at her? Would she have wondered if she, from Terennia, had such things on, beneath the “same garb,” beneath the “frame-and-curtain.” But of course she did. But would the salesgirl suspect that? How embarrassing! Too, what right had the salesgirl to be here, such a person, a mere employee of the line, at an entertainment for passengers! How embarrassing, the whole business!
“Let him live!” cried a man.
“Kill him!” cried the woman in the pantsuit.
“Kill him!” cried the salesgirl.
“It will be with weapons, and we shall choose!” said Pulendius.
“The barbarian is finished now,” said the minor officer to the woman in the pantsuit.
“The short sword, without buckler,” said Pulendius.
“Excellent,” said the minor officer.
Suddenly, again, there was an unsteadiness on the tiers, and some soft cries of surprise. One of the guards went down to one knee, his balance briefly lost, and then, again, stood.
“A change in course,” explained the minor officer to the woman in the pantsuit.
To be sure, the change in course was one rather abrupt for such a ship.
“We have a dog to set on you,” said Pulendius.
There was laughter from some of his men.
“Dog!” summoned Pulendius.
The gladiator, he with whom we have been hitherto acquainted, stepped forward, over the wooden ring, onto the sand.
Women gasped, for the figure was a mighty one, that of he who had now come onto the sand, well into the light.
“I am Ortog,” said Ortog, announcing himself to the gladiator, as he had not to the others, “prince of the Drisriaks, king of the Ortungs.”