The Hunter Victorious

by Rose Estes

  Barat Krol tried to think of what he could do. He knew which way to go, but it seemed likely that the entire corridor would be filled with debris, impossible to traverse, considering the seriousness of the dwarf’s injury. Barat Krol entertained the idea of leaving the dwarf behind but immediately discarded the idea. They would go together or they would not go at all.

  He took advantage of the dwarf’s unconscious state to bind his ankle firmly with a strip of cloth which he ripped from the dwarf’s cape and strengthened with several of the thin metal strips to hold the broken joint firmly. Then, after making Septua as comfortable as possible, he began to explore.

  20

  It was all that Skirnir could do to persuade Otir Vaeng that he should continue with his plans for the marriage.

  “How can you speak of such things now?” the king asked bleakly. “What can such a thing matter, my marriage, when so many of our people are dead or dying?”

  “That is precisely the point, Majesty,” Skirnir said patiently, doing his best to contain his rage and impatience, the almost physical need to shake this sick and pusillanimous fool whom fate had cast as his superior. “Kings are not mortal but are chosen by the gods to represent them and their wishes on earth. You must be married to remind the people that there is a devine destiny, that despite the disaster the gods have not abandoned us, that they are with us still.”

  “Oh.” Otir Vaeng looked up sharply, a glint of the old fire in his eyes. He stared at his prime minister, his lips pressed into a thin taut line. “Divine destiny of the gods, eh? And what might that be? If there truly is such a thing as divine destiny, what possible purpose could these gods have had for bringing us to a dead world and then killing us off in wholesale lots? We could have remained on earth and died in our own beds had we wanted to perish.”

  “Majesty,” Skirnir said soothingly, although his heart was pounding inside his chest. It had been a long while since the king had spoken out so sharply. Skirnir had almost forgotten what it was like to be afraid of the man who in his prime had dished out death as easily as one served up a bowl of soup. “We cannot hope to understand all of the gods’ purposes, but surely this disaster has been their method of choosing from among us those who are worthy to leave, those who must make the journey to our next home.”

  “And where might that be, eh, Skirnir? Have the gods managed to find us a new home, or is that a mystery too?”

  “No, Majesty. It is not a mystery. The gods have seen fit to spare us the planet known as K7 and even now we are readying the craft for the voyage.”

  Otir Vaeng lifted his head and stared at Skirnir and then half rose out of his chair before the pain in his arm caused him to wince and fall back. “K7? But we—”

  “It still exists, Majesty. You see, the gods have favored us after all. You can see now why your marriage is necessary. The ceremony will serve to unite the people again.”

  Otir Vaeng was clearly not convinced, but now his attention seemed to drift away from Skirnir and the fire was gone from his eyes. “If you say so,” he said vaguely, and cradled his injured arm as he stared into the flames.

  Skirnir smiled to himself as he bowed low before the king, who no longer saw him. He exited the stifling room, which, even with its huge fires burning constantly, did not seem to warm the king.

  At the last moment, Otir Vaeng seemed to rouse from his lethargy and snapped out the prime minister’s name. “Skirnir, is the boat finished?”

  “Yes, Majesty, all but done,” Skirnir stammered, his heart racing at the steel in the man’s tone. It would not do to become too sure of himself. Despite his injury, the king was still a man to be feared.

  He decided then to give the people and the king what they wanted. The wedding would take place at the water’s edge beside the immense high-prowed boat that the king had insisted be built. The marriage would occur in two days’ time, but first there was the matter of the funeral for those killed in the quake, in its way as important as the wedding. Death and then the promise of birth. With a few surprises along the way.

  Despite his determination, Braldt had been unable to reach Keri’s quarters. The closer they came to the king’s chambers, the heavier the guard, fully armed and fending off the flow of crazed survivors, directing them down into the interior of the cone where rescue efforts as well as teams of healers and food lines were already being established. The coolheaded ability to impose order on chaos, the hallmark of their people, had helped them respond to the crisis.

  Braldt had no desire to take part in the rescue effort, his only interest was in finding Keri, Beast, and then Septua and Uba Mintch, but Mirna convinced him that the best and safest way for them to receive information, the best way to lay a successful plan, was to become one with the people.

  Under her direction, they blurred their features with a mixture of spit and dust and robbed two corpses for their cloaks, concealing Mirna’s bright red hair and Braldt’s distinctive features. Joining the keening throngs, they made their way to the lower levels, where they were given packets of instawarm emergency rations to satisfy their immediate hungers and thirsts. In the way of all such rations, they might have satisfied the physical needs, but the esthetics such as taste and texture were sadly lacking.

  They soon found themselves separated, once it had been ascertained that they were uninjured. Mirna was assigned to a crisis ward helping the healers and Braldt was singled out to help lift heavy objects off the injured. Their sad, bloody tasks kept them busy throughout the day and long into the night when most of those still alive had been found and given what limited treatment was available. There were still many areas which had not been heard from and had proved impossible to reach without heavier equipment, some of which was itself buried beneath tons of debris.

  The hospital was unfortunately one of those areas still to be excavated and reaching it would be difficult because the entire concourse that led to the hospital zone had broken off, preventing access of any sort. Numerous plans were conceived and then discarded as impractical or impossible.

  It was frustrating to be able to see the corridor and know that critical medicines and equipment were so close and yet so totally out of reach. Several attempts were made to climb the rough, broken rock face, but the surface was too unstable and threatened to break away at the least amount of pressure.

  Braldt had seen enough hideous injuries throughout the day to know that many would die if access could not be gained to the hospital. He was studying the face of the newly formed cliff, attempting to map out a safe route, when there was a sudden intake of breath from the crowd and excited exclamations. Braldt raised his eyes to the top of the cliff and spotted a Madrelli—Barat Krol, he thought, but the distance was too great to be certain—descending the rock face with nothing more than hands and feet to aid him. Draped across his neck and shoulders was what first appeared to be a multicolored shawl, but Madrelli did not wear clothing. As he came closer, Braldt suddenly realized that what he was seeing was a person, a little person, attached to the Madrelli’s broad back by tom strips of cloth. Septua! Braldt’s heart leapt inside his chest and began to hammer rapidly. Was the dwarf dead? No, a hand fluttered, short stubby fingers convulsed as they neared the bottom of the rock face; the dwarf was still alive.

  Braldt dashed forward to lend a hand in steadying Barat Krol as his long, flexible foot digits reached out for firm ground. Barat Krol turned at the touch, lips drawn back in an open snarl that did not fade until he recognized Braldt’s features beneath the layer of dust and grime. Only then did he allow Braldt to relieve him of his heavy burden. Braldt examined Septua anxiously and found numerous cuts and bruises as well as the seriously damaged ankle joint. The crowd pressed in close, morbidly curious about anyone less fortunate than themselves.

  “It’s the dwarf thief,” murmured one who recognized the distinctive, diminutive stature.

  Anxious to head off that train of thought, Braldt shrouded his own face deeper in the folds of the cloak and spok
e out, “Is such a thing of any import now? Surely the important thing is that he is hurt and needs care. There are no enemies at a time like this. We must set aside our differences and work together. Think what we have just seen. If this Madrelli can descend the cliff with such ease, we should not be thinking how different he is from us, but rather how much we require the service of those different abilities.”

  Braldt turned to Barat Krol and spoke to him as though they were strangers. “You are brave, good sir, to have thought of another in such a time of danger. Do the healers’ quarters still stand or have they been destroyed?”

  Barat Krol continued the charade with a straight face. “Much has been destroyed and the passages are filled with broken rock and debris, but I believe that a way could be cleared.”

  “Would you be willing to lead a party of volunteers to clear the way so that the wounded may receive proper treatment?”

  Barat Krol had been tortured by the thought of what was happening to his own people throughout the long hours it took him to clear an escape route large enough to safely remove the dwarf. Many times he had been on the verge of leaving the unconscious dwarf and investigating the fate of his own kind, but always something held him back, prevented him from leaving Septua’s side. He had cursed himself for a fool, but now he thought he saw a way to turn the situation to his advantage.

  “I will do as you ask,” he agreed, and was immediately cheered by the crowd who surrounded him. “But only,” he continued, “if your healers will extend their services to those of my people who might also have suffered injuries.”

  A pall of quiet fell across the crowd as they pondered the outrage of his words. Excited voices battered him with cries of indignation and shock, instantly infuriated at the suggestion that a Madrelli’s life might be regarded on the same level of importance as their own. They advanced toward Barat Krol with angry gestures.

  “Stop!” cried Braldt, placing himself between the Madrelli and the angry crowd. “We need them. What harm can come of treating their injuries as well as our own? Is a life not a life, no matter to whom it belongs?”

  It was obvious that this was not a popular thought and Braldt received many strange glances, but in the end they were forced to agree to Barat Krol’s proposal. Unless they were able to traverse the dangerous stretch of ground and excavate the hospital, many who lay injured would join the list of fatalities before the night was out.

  Barat Krol lost no time in making his way to the Madrelli compound, where he spoke at length to his kinfolk. At first the Madrelli were as difficult as the Scandis. They too had suffered numerous deaths and injuries, and could see no reason to further risk themselves in order to aid their masters.

  It was only with great difficulty that Barat Krol was able to convince them that such an effort would work in their own best interests. Only by appealing to several females whose children had been gravely injured was he able to persuade them at last. The children were to be among the first who were healed.

  * * *

  The effort was launched and after the Madrelli had scaled the face of the fall and hammered home a sturdy ladder and catwalk, they were joined by teams of Scandis. It was, quite possibly, the first time such a joint effort had ever taken place, Madrelli and Scandis working shoulder to shoulder voluntarily to achieve a common goal.

  Throughout the remainder of the day and into the night they worked, erecting a more permanent walkway and then clearing the clogged passageways and the operating theaters beyond. And when it was finally possible to move the first of the wounded, not one voice was raised in protest when the Madrelli young and Septua were placed at the head of the column.

  Slipping away from her duties, Mirna stood beside the sedated dwarf, his leg and foot encased in a lightweight polymer cast with numerous bone filament rods extending from one side to the other. It would be a long time, if ever, before the thief did any sneaking, Mirna thought with a grin which quickly twisted into a tearful grimace. It was hard seeing the cheery, independent thief lying so still and helpless.

  “Wot are you doin’ ’ere? Never mind, wipe them tears off yer face or I’ll smack ya.”

  Mirna looked up at the rusty croak of words and saw Septua regarding her through puffy, slitted lids, his homely face further distorted by numerous bruises and scrapes. Mirna’s face was wreathed in a joyous smile that none of the dwarf’s growls or threats were able to remove.

  Exhausted but satisfied by his long day’s work, Braldt wrapped himself in his cloak and settled down on one of the pallets that had been laid out for the vast horde of survivors who preferred to sleep in the open.

  He had positioned himself so that he could watch the door way to Keri’s chambers. Her rooms being in such close proximity to those of the king, there was no way that he could think of to reach her. But somehow just seeing the doorway, imagining her and what she might be doing, thinking, was almost enough. Braldt closed his eyes and slept.

  The blue alien known as Fortran was truly astonished—speechless, in fact, in a manner of speaking, since Fortran and the others of his kind had long ago done away with the need for spoken speech. Anything that needed to be conveyed—words, nuances, emotions—was accomplished by thought transference, which took the entire range of meaning and emotion and placed it within the being one was communicating with. It did away with such tiresome problems as language and species differences and left little room for misunderstandings. On the whole, it was a much better system than anything that had gone before.

  What had astonished Fortran so completely was the second to final step in his progression, or, to use an archaic phrase, his rite of manhood. By daring to think, to question, to defy the authority which he had grown up with, he had exhibited the first necessary quality of a sentient adult, the ability to think and act on his own even when such actions were both difficult and unpopular.

  This he had done, the first but thankfully not the last of his class to do so. It had all been a test, he was able to see that now, and being a natural-born troublemaker (as his mother pointed out proudly), it should have come as no surprise that he had been the first to rebel against the rigid order that had been imposed upon him and his fellow classmates.

  After Fortran’s emergence, others began to appear at a slow but steady rate; there were nearly a thousand of them now. More than two-thirds of their original numbers had still not emerged, however, and still remained locked in blind obedience and, it was assumed, the lowermost Rototaran dungeons.

  It was to be hoped that some of them would still find their way to enlightenment, but sadly, it was not likely. The blue aliens had long ago discovered a disappointing fact: that given the choice, most would choose the safety and anonymity of blind obedience rather than the breadth and freedom of new and uncharted pathways.

  While it was always grievous to lose so many, such a large percentage of their young, it was necessary. In an interesting correlation, if one was given to that sort of thing, it bore out the hypothesis of that ancient thinker, Charles Darwin. In their own way, it was the aliens’ method of the advancement of their species: Only the smart survive.

  The blue aliens had spent—wasted—many thousands of years attempting to pass on the lessons they had learned to their young, and found, just as countless civilizations had found before them, that the young were not interested in absorbing or embracing their parents’ dictums and knowledge. The young seemed singularly disinterested in anything save their own hungers.

  The odd exception to this unhappy fact came from a most unexpected quarter. It seemed that while the young rejected their parents’ teachings, they would search diligently through the archives of history to involve themselves with the most esoteric and bizarre of the galaxy’s theologies and philosophies.

  This presented a problem, for the aliens had long known that there were no true gods other than intelligence and conscience. This, then, was the quandary: how to present and teach the important messages of life to their young without seeming to do s
o.

  The elders conferred and decided, if their young were determined to become involved in the tangles of religion, it would be one of their own choosing. Therefore, they set themselves to the task of inventing a new religion, an interesting amalgam of all the galaxy’s religions, taking this ritual from one religion, this ceremony from another, and so on until they had a fine admixture of hocus-pocus, mysticism, and romance.

  The young were enlisted in a religious order rife with ritual and mystic messages. Concealed within the hokum, buried deeply, cloaked with convoluted verbiage, were the all-important words their elders wished them to absorb: Be intelligent, think for yourself, act with honor, speak with truth, be kind to others, yes, and even treat others as you would have them treat you. These and other equally simple but universal truths were planted in the young, unformed minds. Then all the parents and teachers could do was sit back and wait and hope that in time a true revelation would occur.

  Now that Fortran and his comrades had taken the Great Step, there was but one final step to complete before they were permitted to take their place among the respected elders of their kind: They were to perform some act, of their own choosing, which would exemplify all that they had learned, to prove that they were indeed capable of independent, intelligent, caring thought.

  This action, whatever it might be, was left to their own discretion. It could take place anywhere in the universe, as long as it did not cause damage or death to another life-form. Many of Fortran’s comrades had trouble deciding upon a direction, but Fortran had no trouble at all.

  The morning dawned clear and cold and, though there appeared to be numerous foggy coronas surrounding the sun, which some of the older women predicted meant disaster and death, Skirnir was determined to carry out the burials of the disaster’s victims.