The Hunter Victorious

by Rose Estes

  Bakkstrom soon realized that this was no normal contest of strength and wills. Nor was Braldt the usual easily vanquished, easily intimidated opponent. How had the man slipped his bonds? He felt Braldt’s hands around his throat and for the first time, a cold thread of fear lanced through Gunnar’s bowels as it occurred to him that it was actually possible that he might lose! Now allegiance to king and duty vanished, replaced by the much stronger allegiance to life itself.

  The cells of the prison emptied around the struggling figures unnoticed, as the doors, secured by powerful magnetic bonds, broke their seals, the electric currents interrupted by the more powerful currents of the earth. The prisoners wasted no time in vacating the area, more than willing to take their chances on falling rock and the dancing ground.

  They would have done better to remain in the prison, for it alone had been-hewn from the rock with no embellishments, no high-vaulted ceilings and loose, heavy objects that could maim and kill. Most of those who escaped soon met with death. Those who were fortunate enough to survive soon realized that there was really nowhere to escape to.

  As the feeling slowly returned to Bakkstrom’s arm, he used whatever came to hand to fend off the crazed Braldt. He had not been able to reach his knife before Braldt seized him, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing him in a bear hug that all but paralyzed him. He could feel the oxygen leaving his lungs. As the light began to explode in little red dots behind his eyes, he brought his head forward with incredible force, slamming it against the bridge of Braldt’s nose. Blood gushed from Braldt’s nostrils and he staggered back, the pressure of his arms releasing for but a moment.

  It was all that was needed. Bakkstrom broke Braldt’s stranglehold on his body and drove his head into Braldt’s throat, pushing him back against the far wall, anticipating the peculiar cracking sound of the trachea as it was crushed, followed by the harsh, desperate gurgle, the struggle for breath that would never come.

  While they were still a foot from the wall, the floor moved yet again, this time wrenching itself in the opposite direction, and the walls moved as well, seemingly torn in several different directions. Actually, there was a slight fault, a fracture in the rock, invisible to the naked eye, that ran perpendicular through the rock which had been hollowed out to form the prison. When the first tremor struck, a hairline crack raced around the room, defining the area of weakness. When the second jolt hit, the crack opened, widening visibly. With each succeeding tremblor, it ground back and forth and up and down like a massive set of hungry jaws, the crack growing larger and larger until finally it separated totally, one edge grinding against the other, overlapping like a monstrous overbite.

  As the rock shifted, cracks blossomed and grew, spreading this way and that, stretching in all directions. Tiny falls of dust began to trickle down upon the combatants and went unnoticed. Mirna, however, was quick to take note and looked up to see the labyrinth of cracks widening and shaking loose the bits of stone they encompassed. She was quick to realize the implications.

  It appeared that Bakkstrom was winning for the moment, but Mirna was a pragmatist and had no desire to await the outcome sitting quietly on the sidelines while the room and, for all she knew, the world crumbled around her. Fair contests had never held much fascination for her, and so without a moment’s hesitation she picked up a convenient chunk of rock which had fallen near her left foot and brought it down upon the back of Bakkstrom’s skull. Bakkstrom’s eyes rolled up into his head and his body went limp.

  Braldt staggered toward her, his eyes still clouded with a murderous rage. For a moment Mirna thought he would strike her. She stepped back warily. Braldt shook himself like an animal shedding water. Reason returned to his eyes as he looked at her and at his fallen enemy, and then, as a chunk of rock fell at their feet and shattered, he seemed to grasp what was happening around them. Without speaking, he seized Mirna by the wrist, pausing only to relieve Bakkstrom of his knife before exiting the swiftly disintegrating prison.

  Outside, all was chaos. They made their way through a series of antechambers which were used for the business of the state. Reams of papers and overturned chairs and desks littered the floors. Machines with brightly lit screens and a variety of knobs and buttons hissed and crackled and buzzed. Some dangled from thick cords and others had severed their connections, which now writhed across the floor like giant deadly snakes, spitting electrical current. The dead were everywhere, crushed beneath immense rocks, electrocuted by their own machines, or trampled beneath the feet of their fellow workers. Even the stoic Mirna was visibly shaken as they passed the silent and occasionally not so silent bodies.

  It was better once they reached the circular concourse, the inner artery that wound its way around the interior of the cone. Here the damage was less severe, although in places chunks of the thick railing had broken away, carrying parts of the floor with it and raining down on the central area, killing and maiming those who still remained below.

  It was darker than usual and a heavy veil of dust hung in the air like a cloud across the sun, obliterating what little of the pale sunlight penetrated the broken crown of the mountain. The dim light, backlit here and there by the occasional fire, threw eerie shadows against the walls, outlining the drama that took place before it. It looked like a black and white line drawing of some ancient horror, Christians being thrown to the lions, or a slaughter of innocents—if it had not been for the screams. The sounds of death were everywhere, surrounding them in horrid intensity, impossible to escape.

  As Braldt and Mirna entered the rampway, they came to an abrupt halt, stunned by the destruction that lay before them. For a moment neither of them could move. Then Mirna took hold of Braldt’s arm and began to tug him to the left, upward and toward the open air. Only then did Braldt gain control of himself. He resisted Mirna’s pull easily.

  “Come,” she urged. “We’ve got to go, got to get out of here before it happens again!”

  “Keri.” He said only the one word, but it was enough to bring Mirna to the brink of despair as she pulled on his arm, trying to stop him as he turned in the opposite direction, down, toward the heart of the destruction.

  “No, don’t you understand?” she said, weeping. “Can’t you see, they’re all dead. No one could have lived through that. It’ll happen again; it’s not done. We don’t have to die. We can live if we get out now. Why can’t you see that?”

  He looked down at her tear-streaked face, her beauty marred by her extreme fear. “You go,” he said gently. “I must find Keri. I cannot leave without her. Go. I wish you well.”

  Mirna stared after him as he turned and began to thread his way through the falls of stone and tangle of dead bodies. Her fears raged inside her. Fiercely independent as she was, she was no match for the forces that opposed her now. Man might bend to her wishes, but never nature. The thought of being alone was even more terrifying than the thought of what lay below. Sadly, fearfully, Mirna caught up with the huge man who stalked the dark corridor, and prayed that his strength and courage were greater than her own.

  Keri was seldom alone these days as events moved swiftly around her. She knew that she was the focus of much of what was being said and done, but no one would tell her exactly what was happening.

  Strangely, the king no longer frightened her as he had in the beginning. Rather, he seemed a sad and lonely being for all his might and power. She did not doubt for a moment that he had done many evil things in his life; you could read it in his eyes and in the deep lines carved in his face. But somehow it was gone, that evil, and all that remained was the sadness and the grief that was its legacy.

  Otir Vaeng and Skirnir had taken their leave of the adjoining chambers, gone to yet another of the endless meetings. Although they had not been allowed to see as much of each other as she would have liked, by some bit of luck Uba Mintch was allowed to remain in her chambers as Skirnir escorted the king to his meeting. They were alone, save for one of the hated shape-changers, who, as always, gua
rded the door.

  This man, who had no name that Keri knew of, frightened her badly. He bore a bright red weal across the bridge of his nose and cheekbone. His ear had also been severed and his features were curiously unbalanced. He fingered the ruined ear often and stared at her with an unblinking, glittering hatred. She avoided his gaze whenever possible.

  Keri and Uba Mintch huddled together before the small fire that burned in the grate and spoke of happier times. Keri regaled him with tales of Braldt and Carn as youngsters and fondly recalled the many instances of mischief that they had gotten into. Uba Mintch spoke in turn of his long-dead mate, of her beauty and kindness. The shape-changer, crouched in the doorway, hand on the hilt of his blade, growled his displeasure at their words, or perhaps their memories of happiness.

  When the ground began to shake, it was Uba Mintch who was the first to react, having experienced many such incidents at his home on the flank of the restless volcano. He pulled Keri to her feet and dragged her to the deep doorway that connected her rooms with those of the king. The shape-changer instantly leapt into the center of the room, drawing his sword as he came, certain that they were attempting to escape. He had barely taken two steps toward them when a huge section of the ceiling came crashing down without any warning, and fell directly upon the shape-changer.

  Keri screamed and despite the fact that he was her enemy and frightened her beyond words, she would have rushed to his aid had Uba Mintch not wrapped his furry arms around her and prevented her from leaving the protection of the doorway. As the tremor intensified, they crouched down and Uba Mintch used his body to shield her from the rain of rocks that pelted the room.

  Only when the last tremor had faded away did he allow her to go to the man. He was pinned beneath a gigantic slab of rock, far too heavy for them to move, with only his head and shoulders and one hand protruding. He twisted his head to look up at her and the burning eyes searched her own. She extended a trembling hand to do something, stroke his brow, when the air began to ripple and shimmer. Impossibly, the man’s head began to quiver, and then before her horrified eyes, it changed. It elongated, the head itself stretching out longer and thinner, and still the burning eyes held her transfixed. The air seemed to grow thicker and then the man’s head grew angular and lean, and fur appeared and covered the terrible visage.

  Keri shut her eyes to. remove the terrifying sight and when she opened them, the transformation was complete. What had been a man was now a wolf, but in some horrible way they were one and the same. The same glittering, hate-filled eyes still glared out at her, only now they were yellow instead of brown. The scar remained, crossing the bridge of the creature’s muzzle, deeper and more disfiguring than on the man. The ear was lopped in half, the remaining portion raw and festering.

  The horrible creature glared at her, only at her, and its long claws scrabbled and clacked against the floor as it attempted to free itself from the huge weight. Its long red tongue lolled between sharp, glistening teeth and it snarled at her, a promise of its undying hatred, as though it blamed her in some way for the pain it was suffering.

  Suddenly there was a gray blur of movement streaking past her. Beast! All but forgotten in the quake, Beast had never taken his eyes off the shape-changer. Trained not to assault humans unless commanded to do so, Beast had no such compunctions against four-footed enemies, and at the first threat to Keri, he seized his opportunity. Unburdened by human ethics, Beast had no problem in attacking a trapped enemy; what mattered was winning.

  The battle was short but fierce. Despite the fact that its lower body was pinned beneath the rock, the wolf still possessed razor-sharp teeth and fearsome claws capable of disemboweling a careless opponent. But Beast was swift and had powerful jaws and claws of his own, and the battle soon began to go against the hapless wolf.

  Perhaps realizing that it could not hope to win, the creature began to transform, to change back to human form. Already, even as the air began to ripple, its paw crept down to the hilt of its sword. But Beast had no intention of allowing his enemy to escape, and he lunged forward, jaws agape, and seized the throat of the wolf. A terrible howl erupted from the creature. The air ceased its shimmering and, with a final shaking wrench, Beast ripped the throat out of the wolf.

  A spray of hot blood drenched Keri and spurted into the air as the life blood pumped from the fatal wound. There was a final gasping sigh as the furred head fell back upon the floor. As it died, the air wavered once again, and as it cleared there appeared the head of a man, the dead eyes still bright with hatred, the lips drawn back in a snarl. Beast threw back his head and howled in triumph. Keri sank to the floor, one hand pressed against her chest. Braldt had told her of these men who were not men, but in all truth she had not believed him.

  Uba Mintch gathered her to him, cradling her head upon his huge, shaggy chest. Keri sobbed into the gray, grizzled fur, huge gulping sobs like those of a child. “I want to go home,” she cried, feeling foolish at her words but no longer caring, speaking what was in her heart. “I want to go home.” Uba Mintch shushed her gently as he rocked back and forth and patted her, trying to ease her pain. “Come,” he said. “We must leave this place. It is not safe.”

  “I want to go home,” Keri repeated softly. “I want to go home.”

  When the earth began to shake, Carn leapt from the volva’s bed, the silken sheets still tangled around his legs. For one fearful moment, he was back in the nightmare of the fiery caldron where the gods had first revealed themselves to him in all their terrible splendor.

  Slowly, his senses cleared. His eyes told him that he was in the volva’s bedchamber, not inside the burning mountain. But still the ground shook beneath his feet and he brushed a trembling hand across his scarred brow, tasting the oily residue that so often furred his tongue these days, and wondered if the volva had caused this to happen. She was still reclining on her silks, seemingly unconcerned with the violent movement that was destroying the room around them. Perhaps he was only imagining it. A book struck him on the shoulder and he raised a hand to fend off the tall, narrow case that had once contained it. No, he was not yet mad: It was real, it was happening.

  He scrambled for his clothes among the fallen bedclothes and screamed at the woman. “Hurry, dress yourself, we must leave. We must find safety.” To his amazement, the seeress merely stretched leisurely and then rose and casually strolled across the room to warm her back before the still roaring fire.

  “The gods will not harm me. I know the manner of my death. They have told me how it is that I will die: by the knife, not by a trembling of the earth. Where is your courage, my little rabbit, eh?”

  “You don’t understand!” Carn screamed, his fear all but overwhelming him, the memory of the fiery inferno swimming before his eyes as he looked down into the flames leaping on the hearth.

  “Oh, I understand.” The volva seemed amused at his frantic actions. “Come, I thought you were the chosen one, hand-picked by the gods for mighty purposes. Have you not told me this yourself? Why then are you afraid? Do you not believe in your gods?”

  Her words stopped Carn cold. Only then did he realize that there was no fiery caldron, save in his mind. The earth shook, yes, but the volva was right, as she always was: He was the chosen of the gods. He must believe in them, in their promise. He could not doubt them now. The tension faded from his body; he looked down at the garment he had struggled to don seconds before and discarded it with a laugh. He joined the volva before the fire, allowing the flames to warm his still tender flesh. She looked into his eyes and a warm, ironic smile twitched at the corners of her lips. “So the rabbit becomes a lion, eh?”

  “Let me show you,” he replied as he drew her toward him.

  Septua and Barat Krol were not as fortunate as the others. Being closer to ground level, they were thus closer to the epicenter of the quake and were among the first to suffer its devastation.

  It was impossible to regain their footing even if they had wanted to do so. The jolt w
as accompanied by a deep, growling rumble that emanated from the depths of the earth and seemed to swell around them, reverberating in the narrow passageway till it drummed inside their heads.

  Both Barat Krol and Septua huddled against the floor and covered their heads and ears with their hands and arms, trying to shut out the fearsome sound. Septua thought that he might die. He had never been so frightened in all his life. Barat Krol had experienced other quakes but never one so violent or so close; he was certain that the heart of the quake was directly beneath him. He knew that there was nothing to do but wait… and pray.

  The corridor disintegrated around them, the sanitized white panels freeing themselves from the thin strips of metal that held them to the rock walls, the ceilings with their strips of bright halide lighting cascading down upon them in a shower of sparks and explosions. Worse was the huge pane of glass that separated them from the operating amphitheater—this parted from its moorings at the very first twitch and inflicted numerous cuts upon their bodies. One large section of glass hurled itself toward them and raked across the back of Barat Krol’s arm, gouging a deep wound that immediately began to bleed. Even this did not cause them to raise their heads.

  When the earth had finally ceased to move, they were all but buried beneath the wreckage. Huge chunks of rock had rained down on them as well, and only the fallen panels had prevented them from being killed outright. Septua’s ankle had been crushed and several spears of bone poked through the rapidly darkening skin. Septua took one look at it when Barat Krol was at last able to free him and then passed out cold. Unconsciousness spared him the sight of the cylinder of precious Madrelliova which had been smashed flat by an immense rock, its contents already seeping into the gritty rubble.

  “We’re both in a bad way, my little friend,” Barat Krol murmured, more to himself than to the unconscious dwarf. He looked around in despair and saw nothing but a pale blue cascade of electrical sparks somewhere in the distance. All the lights had been destroyed and everything was in darkness. The air around him was thick with dust and acrid smoke and it was difficult to breathe. Somewhere he could hear the sound of someone crying, and then even that stopped.