The Hunter Victorious

by Rose Estes

  “In the old days—and I am speaking of days that no man remembers, before books or written word—there were such men as these who serve Otir Vaeng. They served other kings in those days, but their loyalties were fierce and unswayable. Then, as now, they would have given their lives for their allegiance. They were known as berserkers, a sort of elite bodyguard who protected the king and did his bidding in times of danger or war.

  “Before battle, they would work themselves into a frenzy, screaming and yelling, making all manner of frightening noises. This served two purposes. One, it heightened their own rage to a near manic level, turning them into unstoppable killing machines that could only be halted by death. And two, the sound of their screams was often enough to vanquish their foes without a blade being lifted, for their reputations preceded them and they were greatly feared.

  “But at such times that battle was met, these men were said to have the ability to turn themselves into wolves and bears that would tear their enemies limb from limb and devour their very flesh.”

  “But Grandfather, how can this be?” Braldt persisted. “Were they gods that they could do such a thing?”

  “They say that there were gods in those days, Odin and Thor and Freya, but these Berserkers were not gods, only men who understood the mysteries of magic. There have always been such men. At times their gifts were scorned and they were reviled as evil and hunted from the face of the earth, but always they have been with us. And they are with us still, even here on Valhalla.

  “I had thought that we had come too far for such men to exist, but I was wrong. It seems that such men and such mysteries always appeal to certain minds and in times of trouble when solutions cannot be found by rational means, they reappear to work their mischief.”

  “Do you understand how it is that they do this thing, this shape changing?” Braldt asked.

  “No,” Brandtson answered simply, “but neither do I doubt the fact that they exist.”

  Braldt shook his head and sighed, wincing slightly as the newly formed tender flesh was stretched taut. “But that does not explain why they sought me out, why they attempted to kill me. What possible danger can I be to Otir Vaeng? I am but one man, alone, without any who owe me allegiance. How can I be a threat to one so powerful?”

  “You are a threat not so much for yourself as for what you symbolize,” said Brandtson. “Otir Vaeng is a rogue, operating outside the laws that govern the known universe. He has broken many laws, spilled blood, and defied the Whole World Council. But everything that he has done was done with one purpose in mind: the survival of the Scandi nation. It is because he was so strong, so willing to risk the wrath of the rest of the universe, that we have survived and thrived as well. In doing so, he captured the hearts and the loyalties of the masses.

  “Some will argue that Otir Vaeng was a man of vision who single-handedly saved our race, but the days for such headstrong actions are long past and there are those among us who believe that he must step aside in order for us to progress. Otir Vaeng has no place in this new world. He and his followers would see a return to the old ways, using the old gods as a means of retaining their hold.

  “You, coming as you do from a world he destroyed, are a living symbol of his wrongdoing. Your mere presence is a constant reminder of his misdeeds. He is fearful that you will ally yourself with your father’s old friends, those who were opposed to his plans in the past.”

  “But I do not understand what he has to fear,” Braldt persisted. “I am but one man. What can I do to harm a king?”

  “You need do nothing but exist,” replied Brandtson, “for him to try to kill you, as this day’s work has clearly proved. He cannot allow you to live, but he cannot kill you outright, for your death would bring into question the very issues he wishes to avoid.”

  “Is there no solution, then, other than my death?”

  “You are not without friends here, as Otir Vaeng knows well. We must seek them out. I am an old man and I have supported Otir Vaeng in his endeavors, and it will be hard to turn my back on him, but I can see no other way to protect you. Now that I have found you, I will not have you taken from me, as was your father. But you must not complicate the task by placing yourself directly in harm’s way,” Brandtson chided gently.

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.… The city, it closes in around me. I am not accustomed to spending my days encased in stone and the time we spent imprisoned on Rototara makes freedom all the more precious.”

  “Be patient, Braldt. If all goes well, Otir Vaeng will be removed from power and you will be free to roam wherever you wish.”

  “The one place I wish to roam no longer exists,” Braldt said softly. “Otir Vaeng has seen to that by destroying my world. How can I ever forgive him? It does not matter if he takes my life, but to kill an entire world… that I can never forget. Nor will I sit by patiently while others fight my battles for me. By destroying my world and those I loved, Otir Vaeng has added me to the list of those who seek his downfall.”

  “You have not lost everyone you love,” Brandtson replied, feeling the depth of the young man’s anguish. “There is still Keri.”

  Braldt nodded and raised a hand to his chin, which was smooth and soft with tender new tissue. “I thank you for your healing skills. I did not want her to see me as I was. She pretends that all is well, but she carries the hurt of Rototara in her heart still. Does she know what happened?”

  Brandtson nodded. “I don’t think you give her enough credit. Keri is strong in spirit as well as in her love for you. She is scarred but not irreparably damaged. It is better for her to be involved than for you to treat her like an invalid and pretend that nothing has happened. She is tending Beast’s wounds. The creature trusts her and I am too attached to my hands after all these years to trust them within reach of his jaws.”

  “I feel that I am besieged on all sides,” Braldt muttered. “Otir Vaeng and those who follow him on one hand, and Cam, who bears little or no resemblance to the brother I once knew, on the other. All of them would like to see me dead.”

  “Yes,” agreed Brandtson. “You have more enemies than any man deserves. Never have I seen any man, Scandi or otherwise, embrace the old gods the way Cam has done.”

  “The old gods’ thirst for blood fits his mood these days,” Braldt said grimly. “His mind has come unhinged. No man valued the price of a flagon and a good time more than Carn. Now all he thinks about is religion and death.”

  Braldt turned to his grandfather and said, “I wish I could turn back time, undo all the damage that has been done. I am glad that we have found each other, but I would give anything to have things as they used to be.”

  Brandtson studied the young man, who was the last of his line and his hope for the future, and the depth of Braldt’s pain touched his heart. Nor was his conscience eased by knowing that he too had played a role in the destruction of Braldt’s life.

  “All may not be lost,” he said at length. “There are things at work, both good and bad, that you should know about. But I beg you, remain calm. No matter how upsetting you find the things you see and hear, I ask you to hold your tongue. Say nothing, no matter what happens, for our lives may depend upon your silence.”

  It was after nightfall when Brandtson came for Braldt. He was clad in a long black cloak with a hood that completely covered his white hair; even his silvery beard had been muted to a dull grayish brown. He handed Braldt an identical cloak, which swathed him from head to toe. Braldt opened his mouth to speak, to ask Brandtson where they were going and why disguises were necessary, but something in the old man’s demeanor caused him to hold his tongue.

  Beast had remained with Keri, gently sedated to keep him still while his flesh mended. His wounds were deeper than Braldt’s and he was bruised and sore as well. It was decided that it would be wiser to leave him than to have him accompany them.

  Brandtson stepped outside first, holding Braldt back until he was certain that the way was clear. The hour was late, well af
ter starfall, but time mattered little to Valhallans and it was not uncommon to find the streets and corridors nearly as crowded at midnight as they were at midday.

  Brandtson led Braldt out along the high, curving edge of the outer balustrade, the exterior walkway that circled the entire perimeter of the mountain that served as the central city of Valhalla, curling around the mountain like some giant snake from base to peak. Popular during clement weather both for the ease it provided in reaching one’s destination as well as a place to see and be seen, it was all but deserted now in the frigid depths of winterfall. The icy winds swept down from the peak which hovered above them, clad in a mantle of ice and snow which glimmered blue-white in the reflection of the distant stars.

  Braldt wrapped the thick folds of the cloak around him, swirling the bottom edge over his shoulder as Brandtson had done, and burrowed his tender chin down into the folds of the material, grateful for the protection it provided. He had been cold before. He thought back to the many nights he had stood guard at home, protecting his tribe against wild animals, slavers, or whatever dangers might appear. The cold winds had swept in off the desert, chilling the unfortunate guards to the marrow. But the cold on Valhalla was a different sort.

  The Scandis had left old earth, their home planet, congested, polluted, and dying of its inhabitants’ excesses, and had colonized the planet they named Valhalla. According to their ancient legends, Valhalla was the abode of the gods and the final resting place of all worthy warriors. They had begun their world anew with only their strength, determination, and what little they were able to salvage from earth. Those were difficult times and there had been many setbacks. But the Scandis succeeded and Valhalla took its place among the handful of established earth colonies and other civilizations that made up the Whole World Federation.

  They had overcome many problems: the fact that Valhalla had no life-forms other than vegetation, the absence of most raw materials necessary for self-sustenance, and the growth of dissident political factions among their youth. They dealt with these problems as best they could, but the single problem that had no solution was one which they could not have anticipated. The sun that shone on Valhalla was dying.

  The problem had become apparent a decade ago. The sun had emitted a furious burst of solar energy which had caused incredible damage on the planet. Hundreds of colonists had been fatally burned, as well as most of the animals that they had brought with them from earth and nurtured at great cost. When the flares diminished, it was apparent that the sun’s light was greatly dimmed. There had been numerous flares, accompanied by an equal number of dimmings, in the years that followed. Now the cold was ever-present, bearable during the all too short daylight hours but bone-piercing and mind-numbing in the long, long nights.

  Much to Braldt’s amazement, Brandtson turned aside after a short time and slid into a niche in the side of the mountain, all but disappearing from sight, thanks to his dark garb. Braldt followed his lead and tucked himself into the shadows as well. He started to speak, but Brandtson gripped his wrist tightly and Braldt saw the sudden glint of starlight on metal. A dagger? Then he heard it, the sound his grandfather had been listening for, the furtive slip of footleather on stone, silent, hurried steps and anxious whispers: “Where are they? Where did they go?”

  Brandtson answered the question by slipping silently out of his hiding place and confronting the followers. There was a sudden gasp of surprise, a grunt, the briefest of curses, and then a sigh as a body hit the cold ground. The second of the pair backed away, wielding a blade of his own, longer by far than Brandtson’s, but he had forgotten about Braldt and backed up, placing himself almost directly in front of Braldt’s hiding place. A bent elbow, the crack of bones, and the man hung heavy and motionless from Braldt’s grip. Brandtson did not hesitate for a minute but seized the second would-be assailant and flung him over the balustrade after his associate.

  “Who—” Braldt whispered. But Brandtson held his hand up for silence and, after satisfying himself that there were no more where the first had come from, doubled back on their track and swiftly made his way up the mountain.

  It was dark on the higher reaches of the slope, with nothing but starlight to illuminate the way. But the path was smooth and girded by the broad stone balustrade which protected them from the sheer drop if they had been foolish enough to venture near the edge. But ice and snow lay thick on the path and as they approached the upper elevations it became increasingly difficult to advance. For every two steps forward, they slid one foot back. The higher they climbed, the more vindictive the wind which tore at their cloaks and attacked their extremities as though it had a personal vendetta against them.

  The craggy edge of the plateau was in sight before Brandtson hesitated and looked back the way they had come, studying the path carefully and listening closely. At last he was satisfied that they had not been followed and, signaling to Braldt, edged into a narrow crevice. Braldt was perplexed but followed his grandfather’s lead and felt his way into the inky darkness. With nothing to guide him other than a sense of the older man’s presence and his fingertips trailing across the rock, he crept inch by inch into what appeared to be a narrow fissure that doubled back on itself several times. Suddenly light appeared before them, softly illuminating the way ahead of them. It was apparent that they were in a narrow passageway of sorts; the rock walls met overhead and flanked them closely on either side.

  They came to another switchback and as they turned the sharp corner, Braldt was all but blinded by the flood of light that assaulted his unprepared senses. He threw an arm up over his eyes and at the same time sensed as much as heard a sudden intake of breath and knew that they were not alone. He felt Brandtson’s hand upon his arm, a single tight squeeze of reassurance as well as warning. Slowly, blinking against the harsh light, Braldt lowered his arm and stared in shock and disbelief at the sight that met his eyes.

  3

  They were in a large cavern that rose high above them till it met in a sharp peak. The walls were rough and craggy and held blazing torches set at regular intervals. The thick black smoke that curled away from the flaming brands filled the cavern with a dense haze that blurred the edges of everything in the huge hall. But no amount of softening could lessen the shock of the sight before them.

  The enormous space was filled with many hundreds of black-robed figures, their features obscured by the enveloping cloaks, which lent an ominous air to what was already a frightening scene. Somewhere to the front and left, an unseen drummer beat out a constant tattoo that underlaid the scene like the pounding of blood in one’s ears. Their silent arrival had elicited a moment of close scrutiny by those standing nearest the entrance, but this was short-lived, as Brandtson’s imposing figure met with recognition. Braldt was careful to remain behind Brandtson, for he himself was viewed with distrust by nearly everyone on Valhalla.

  Brandtson directed Braldt to an irregularity in the rock wall which, due to its configuration, was wrapped in shadows. Braldt eased into the darkness and Brandtson positioned himself before his grandson, shielding him from sight but allowing Braldt to see all that transpired.

  The cavern sloped upward at its farthest end, and situated against the back wall was an immense thronelike chair carved from the rock and ornately ornamented with a tangle of hieroglyphics and the figures of wild animals—bears, wolves, boars, and horses, their eyes set with precious red stones that glittered in the torchlight, and with ivory fangs, tusks, and claws. The interstices between the designs had been rubbed with a black substance so that the raised figures stood out in sharp relief, the animals seeming almost ready to take life and leap from the stone.

  Set before the throne was a stone altar chiseled from the same rock, rising from the floor in a single block. Its sides were rough-cut, but the top surface was smooth and had been polished to a high gloss. Along the edge of each of the four sides a deep trough had been cut into the stone and the sight sent a cold chill of premonition up Braldt’s spine.
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  But even more frightening than the stone altar or its throne was the figure that pranced between them. It was a woman, or so it seemed. The woman wore a costume fashioned from a multitude of animal skins, their fur a contrasting mélange of different colors, lengths, and textures. Upon her head she wore the head of a wolf, its skull and upper jaw fitting down over her own, the pelt trailing down her back, the tail brushing the ground behind her. Her features were hidden, for directly beneath the shadow of the muzzle was the face of a bird. Braldt stared in shock until he was able to understand that it was merely the skin of a bird removed whole, the feathers and beak still attached and fashioned into a grotesque mask. Its feathers were glossy black with a blue-green sheen, its beak the cruel curved curl of a bird of prey. The eyes were mere slits that revealed little other than a bright glitter; breasts and loins were clad in drapes of fur.

  The shaman, if that was what she was, strode back and forth between the altar and the throne. In her hand she held a carved staff which she brandished as she spoke. Her words were barely understandable; Braldt was able to catch a word here and there, but even though the sounds were familiar, they were somehow strange. It was as though the woman were using a more ancient form of language, the roots from which their present language had sprung. But if Braldt had difficulty understanding her, he was alone, for the gathering of robed figures followed her impassioned words intently and roared back their response at appropriate intervals.