The Hunter Victorious

by Rose Estes

  Septua must have been thinking along similar lines, for he tugged at Braldt’s cloak and pointed at the upper rung of the fence, where half a dozen or more pelts were hanging. Braldt understood immediately. Septua scurried over to the side of the pen and pulled down two skins. They were stiff with the cold and bent double. It took a good bit of careful flexing before the frozen fleeces could be draped over their backs. Even then it was necessary to tie the pelts to their arms and legs and around their necks with woolly strips trimmed from the edges; otherwise the pelts fell off after a few steps.

  By the time the pelts were secure, the sheep had lost their fear of the strange intruders and merely glanced at them with the disdainful look one reserves for madmen or children who are misbehaving in public. This was all to the good, for when Braldt and Septua were finally ready to make their move, several sheep decided that going indoors was also a good idea and pushed ahead as well as behind them as they passed through the swinging wooden flap.

  Their precautions were well founded, for it was immediately apparent that there was a guard posted over this lowly entrance. Fortunately for them, his intellect was not greatly superior to that of his charges and he barely glanced over at the influx of sheep as the two intruders entered the mountain stronghold.

  They found themselves in a pen that was the mirror image of the one outside. Rock walls composed two sides of the pen. The third side was a tall metallic device with numerous dials and levers and a wide trough at the bottom which sheep licked even though it was obviously empty. “Feeder,” Septua said cryptically. The feeder formed the third wall of the enclosure, which left them only one possible avenue of exit—the one with the guard.

  They wandered around the far edges of the pen, beginning to sweat under the heavy pelts and inhaling their own less than fragrant aroma as they whispered back and forth, trying to decide upon a plan. Septua was all for waiting until the guard fell asleep, as it seemed he might do, before they made their move. Braldt was far too impatient to put his faith in such a vague possibility.

  They were still arguing about what to do when a large ewe who had been eyeing them with distrust suddenly decided that she did not like their looks. Emitting a deep baahh, she lowered her head and came at them, catching Septua in the ribs and tossing him several feet in the air. Braldt’s heart all but stopped and he reached for the hilt of his sword, even though it gave him a most unsheeply profile.

  Fortunately, the guard had been busying himself with his rations and merely looked up with irritation, grunted “Here, stop that, you stupid cow!” and flung a rock, which missed the culprit completely and bounced off Braldt’s wool-covered head. All of the sheep began to bleat and mill about aimlessly and Braldt could do little else but scramble along, helping the winded dwarf to his hands and knees. The ewe trotted up for a second bash at Septua, a malevolent look in her large brown eyes. Braldt, still feeling the ache of the well-flung missile, growled at the sheep and fixed her with a look of naked hostility. The sheep bleated and leapt aside, skittering away with head held high as though she had suddenly remembered far better things to do.

  The guard, satisfied that his fluffy charges would not attempt to kill or maim each other for the next several minutes, addressed himself to the contents of his meal ration. Braldt and Septua took advantage of the man’s interest in his food to draw closer.

  He was a large man, taller than Braldt and much heavier. With the guard’s attention focused elsewhere, they were able to approach without being noticed. Reaching up, Braldt seized the guard’s leg with both hands, pulled him down into the mass of sheep.

  Even though he had been taken by surprise, the guard put up a good fight, and if he had not been disadvantaged by Septua’s flair for dirty tricks, his strength might have won the day. Just as he was opening his mouth, perhaps to yell for reinforcements, the thief shoved a clod of sheep dung into his mouth, effectively silencing him until Braldt was able to knock him out. They left him among his flock, securely bound and gagged and wrapped in both fleeces. Unless one entered the pen and examined the animals closely, he resembled nothing so much as a slumbering sheep.

  Before they bound him, they stripped the guard of his clothes, which Braldt exchanged for his own. A quick wash in the sheep’s water trough and a wipe-down with a handful of rough hay removed most of the stink from him as well. The dwarf was the problem. There was no way he could have worn the guard’s immense clothing. He dabbed at the stains on his knees and proclaimed himself fit to travel.

  Braldt knew that there was no sense in arguing with the dwarf, who could be as stubborn as he was hardheaded, so he picked him up without comment and stripped the stinking clothes from his flailing limbs as one might strip the husk from an ear of corn. This accomplished, he dropped the struggling dwarf into the water tank and refused to let him out until he had scrubbed himself pink.

  The angry thief glowered at Braldt and snarled a wide variety of curses in an even wider number of languages, all of which Braldt ignored. “Get dressed,” he said, tossing Septua the guard’s voluminous cloak. “We haven’t got time for this. Smarten up. They would have smelled you coming long before they saw you.”

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Septua asked in barely civil tones.

  “We have to assume that they’ll be looking for you—Septua, the dwarf thief,” Braldt explained patiently. “Every one of the guards will be watching for a dwarf male. The only thing we can do to alter your appearance is make you a woman or a child. You decide.”

  In the end, much to Septua’s disgust, even he had to agree that few children would choose to wear a cloak indoors, and his baldness would give him away immediately. They cut off the excess length of the cape to make a tunic of sorts and wrapped a ruff of sheep pelt around his head so that it peeked out beneath the edges of the cape’s hood. Unless one looked very closely, the dwarf could pass for a gray-haired old granny. Satisfied, if not content with their disguises, they left the animal pens and followed a corridor which the dwarf assured Braldt would lead to the main concourse.

  No sooner had they turned into the corridor than they came face to face with a contingent of fully armed guards, who challenged them instantly and demanded that they produce their identification.

  14

  Barat Krol had talked with Uba Mintch at length, telling him of his frustrations, his difficulty in speaking with the resident tribe of Madrelli. “I just don’t understand why they can’t seem to comprehend the danger they’re in,” he said as he paced back and forth in the small chamber that had been assigned to them.

  Uba Mintch watched the young male and wondered what else was on his mind. He was too agitated; something else was troubling him. He thought about asking Barat Krol directly, but immediately decided against it. Barat Krol was hot-tempered and impetuous, too young for such heavy responsibilities as had been placed upon him. But with Batta Flor’s death, there had been no one else. Barat Krol would learn self-restraint in time… if they were given the time.

  “Do not judge them so harshly,” Uba Mintch cautioned. “They have not been given the same opportunities that we have.”

  “What opportunities do you speak of?” Barat Krol said bitterly. “The opportunity for self-rule until our masters decide to blow us and our world into dust? Sometimes I wonder which of us is more unfortunate. Their ignorance is their protection.”

  “I know that it is difficult to view the matter without emotion, but try to set aside your anger and view the larger picture,” Uba Mintch said when the younger male ran out of words. “We owe the Scandis a great deal.” He raised a hand to silence Barat Krol. “From their viewpoint, it is their right to do whatever they choose with us. No! Listen to me! Who is to say where responsibility begins and ends?

  “At first we were no more than animals. Our brains were no better developed than those of intelligent dogs. But we had one advantage, one gift of nature that elevated us, separated us from all the other beasts: We had opposable thumbs. It doesn’t so
und like much, but that single difference was the reason that the Scandi biogenetic engineers chose us and not dogs to bless with the gift of intelligence.

  “We were taken from the wild and our genes were manipulated and augmented to produce the beings we have become today. When necessary, our diets were also augmented so that our bodies grew apace with our new intelligence. We were able to think and reason and solve problems whose existence we had never before even imagined. We became the strong right arm and brain of the Scandis, succeeding and failing, living and dying, on hostile planets with deadly environments to accomplish their deeds.

  “They learned from our mistakes and altered our genetic makeup still further until we evolved to this point, a species capable of creating their own civilization, independent and self-ruled.”

  “Don’t you understand what you have said?” Barat Krol burst out, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “Think about your words. By your own admission, they have used us like laboratory animals! We’re no more than experiments to them, possessions! They don’t think of us as living, thinking beings with the right to freely exist. We’re possessions that merely happen to be alive!”

  “I understand precisely what I have said,” Uba Mintch said gently. “Do not allow your emotions to overwhelm you. You are right, they do view us as possessions. But who is to say that they are wrong? One owns pets, does one not? Even we Madrelli have been known to harbor singing birds and small furry creatures in our own homes. In the beginning we were no different. Intelligence, the ability to even imagine the concept of freedom and self-rule, came from the Scandis. They birthed us; they are our creators, our parents. We owe them a great debt for the gift of intelligent life.”

  “That debt, if there ever was one, was paid in full with the blood of all those Madrelli who died under their knives in the laboratory, who gasped for clean air on poisonous planets, who were blown to dust with our world. We have paid the price and now we are free. And our less fortunate brothers must be freed as well. We must discover how to share this dubious gift with them. I will not rest until it is done. Nor will the Scandis discard us like cast-off garbage when they take their leave of this world.

  “You must decide where your loyalties lie, Uba Mintch—to the Scandis or to your own people. I have revered you and followed you without question all of my life, but here is where we must part. If you are not with me in this, then I have no choice but to consider you the enemy.”

  Uba Mintch stared at the young Madrelli as he considered his words. There was much truth in what he said. He thought of all those who had died, including his son and, with the extinction of his world, all those he had personally held dear. The price was indeed dear. He lowered his head. “I am not the enemy,” he said softly. “I am with you. Tell me what you would have me do.”

  “… make me come lookin’ for you like some kind o’ child! Keepin’ the captain waitin’! What were you thinkin’ about?” Quick as a flash, as soon as Septua caught sight of the approaching guard, he had reached up and seized Braldt by the nose and pulled him down so that his face was hidden from view. He began speaking in a loud, shrill, womanish voice, badgering the astonished Braldt in an unceasing diatribe about his many supposed vices. As they came closer to the equally astonished contingent, Septua twisted Braldt still further till his nose all but touched his knees. Braldt’s eyes watered from the pain. When he got his hands on the dwarf… !

  “What be you lookin’ at?” screeched the dwarf, halting directly in front of the sergeant of the guards. Braldt could do nothing but look at the man’s shoes and curse silently.

  “Identification?” the man said, the word spoken almost apologetically in the face of the dwarf’s invective.

  “Got no time for such nonsense. This one ’ere be wanted by Captain Bakkstrom hisself! Gone an’ wagered an’ lost all ’is wages to that worthless lout what minds the sheep. I’d wager them sheep ’as got bigger brains than the two ’o them. What the captain will do ain’t ’alf as bad as what I ’as in mind.…”

  The dwarf rattled on and on, jerking Braldt forward by his nose as he spoke, sounding incredibly like a shrewish wife. Despite himself, Braldt cried out in pain as the sensitive cartilage was bent and pulled. He batted ineffectively at his tormentor. Much to his astonishment, he saw from teary eyes the feet of the guards part before them, shuffling aside to allow the shrill harridan to pass. Braldt felt his face flush with embarrassment and shame even as he told himself that it was but a clever ploy.

  Septua kept up the tirade until the guards had been left safely behind. Only then did he release Braldt from the painful position. Braldt staggered about for a moment, wiping his streaming eyes and clutching his throbbing nose. “Wads thad really nedcessary?”

  “Got us past ’um, din’t it?” the dwarf replied cheerfully. Braldt could only hold his nose and glare. He had to admit, it had been an unusual and effective deceit. “Dodn’t eber do thad agaid,” he growled.

  Septua only smiled, then led the way briskly forward. “Com’mon. Let’s get out o’ ’ere before they decides to go congratulate the winner!”

  It was still early and there were few people up and about other than the vendors who sleepily went about the morning routine of setting out their wares. Since there had been no new shipments in recent months, due to the severity of solar activity, there were fewer commodities offered for sale and prices on available merchandise had risen even higher than usual. The air in the marketplace was grim and few had any interest in the odd pair that hurried past.

  Moving swiftly, they made their way up the broad thoroughfare that spiraled up the inner walls of the ancient volcanic cone. The small blue dot that was the open sky was far above them. The marketplace, filling the center of the hollow core, receded as they climbed steadily higher.

  Doorways, painted numerous different colors, although red seemed the predominant choice, lined the inner wall. These were the entrances to large apartments, the quarters of persons with some degree of importance. Those of lesser importance were situated along narrow corridors that intersected the rising concourse and were often no more than tiny cubicles carved out of the porous rock. They continued to climb the circular terrace, which grew increasingly steeper the higher one rose.

  “Where we be goin’?” Septua panted, hop-skipping to keep up with Braldt’s longer stride.

  “Keri. I have to see her,” Braldt replied tersely.

  Septua did his best to convince Braldt that such a thing was foolishness, that the girl would undoubtedly be well guarded by the king’s men. But Braldt would not listen. Muttering and cursing about hardheads, the dwarf followed as fast as his short legs could carry him.

  Braldt reached the narrow corridor that led to Keri’s quarters and without knocking opened the door and stepped through, calling her name softly. He crept to the low couch, which was mounded with blankets, and reached out to gently shake her shoulder. The mound stirred, twisted in the down-filled covers, and turned. Braldt pulled the cover down from her head, murmuring sweet nonsense.

  Too late he saw the thatch of blond-white hair, too late he sensed the presence of others in the room. Drawing his sword, he whirled, only to find himself facing six fully armed men with swords at the ready. He spun back toward the bed to discover a large, wide-shouldered, broad-chested man rising with a wide grin on his face. It was the captain of the guards, Gunnar Bakkstrom.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t I appeal to you?” He advanced on Braldt, driving him back against the waiting swords, a mirthless grin spread on his lantern-jawed face. “I told the king that you would come. All we had to do was wait. I thank you for proving me right.”

  “Where is she?” Braldt asked hoarsely. “What has been done with her?”

  “I know, I know, tell you or you’ll kill me if it takes the rest of your life.” Bakkstrom dismissed Braldt’s unsaid words with a flick of his fingers. “Interesting, a product of the Bronze Age spouting B-grade movie material. It would seem that clichés cut acro
ss even galactic lines.”

  Braldt stared at him without comprehending the man’s words. He thought about throwing himself at the man; there was a chance that he could seize him and use him as a living shield. But he could feel the prick of swords at his back and even though the man was blathering on nonsensically, he still looked quite capable of wielding his sword. Still, he had to do something. He could not allow himself to be taken without a fight.

  “Please, I have no aversion to spilling your blood. It means nothing to me.” Gunnar Bakkstrom placed the tip of his sword beneath Braldt’s chin and sighed, shaking his head from side to side. “It’s amazing, really. I can read the thoughts as they plod through your tiny brain. Do not fight. It is foolish and futile. You may do so if you wish, but I promise you that you will die. Or you may lay down your weapons and I will lead you to your lady. The choice is yours.”

  The man fixed him with a lazy, bored smile. His eyes were icy cold and spoke eloquently of his indifference. He could kill Braldt with as little thought as one used to kill a fly. Braldt did not fear death, but he had no wish to throw his life away.

  Plastered against the corridor wall, Septua heard Braldt’s sword clatter to the floor and Bakkstrom’s low chuckle of amusement. It twisted in his gut like a sickness as he crept away. from the entrance and scuttled into the nearest labyrinth of corridors as quickly as his shaking legs would carry him. That laugh. It echoed in his worst nightmares, although he had heard it often enough in his waking hours.

  Bakkstrom had not found it necessary to bring reinforcements when he trapped Septua breaking into the High Thane’s apartments. He had laughed then. He had laughed again when Septua was sentenced, banished to the arena on Rototara, stripped nearly naked, and wrapped in metal bands, his arms pinned to his sides, unable to move. Septua had felt the eyes of the curious on him then, staring at his squat, misshapen form, and he had felt the years of hatred well up in him. He hated them all with their smirking faces and tall, straight bodies. He hated red-haired, green-eyed Mirna, who had said that she loved him and then betrayed him to the captain of the guards. And most of all, he hated Gunnar Bakkstrom.