The Hunter Victorious

by Rose Estes

  Though she knew that he had caused much grief and bloodshed during his lifetime, and was in fact responsible for the death of her own world, Keri could no longer hate Otir Vaeng. As she stared at him, she felt the last of her hatred fade away, to be replaced by sorrow for his sad and empty life.

  As though reading her thoughts, Otir Vaeng opened his eyes, looked at her, and smiled gently. His eyes were soft and warm and rested upon her with love. Keri returned his gaze with a tremulous smile of her own. He looked at her so clearly, as though he actually saw her, with none of the absentminded air that had accompanied him so long. It almost seemed as though he were trying to reassure her. She stared at him, bewildered. What was it that was happening? A hard knock interrupted her thoughts. They had reached the ship.

  22

  The moment had come, the moment which Carn had dreaded.The priests had droned on and on in the old Scandi tongue, which Carn suspected none of them understood. There were three of them, draped in gilt and satins with high-domed hats and long, swishing robes. They carried miters and curved staffs as well as psalm books. Their voices had intermingled, at times reciting the same lines, at others oddly at variance with each other. There had been other languages as well: Latin, a harmonious if pompous-sounding tongue, and common Scandi, which all of the various clans and tribes spoke.

  The ceremony had dragged on forever, the priests commanding Keri and the king to recite first this bit of nonsense and then that bit of rhetoric, none of which seemed to have any meaning under the present circumstances. Keri had knelt and dipped in obeisance, been anointed, draped with circlets of gold and flowers, and finally a large signet ring was placed upon her finger. It was done; she was wed to the king. Keri was now the queen of the Scandi nation. But still, it was not done.

  Carn could see the tears glinting in her eyes as she turned to look at him. Her chin was tilted proudly, perhaps even defiantly, but her lower lip trembled as it always had whenever the two of them had been forced to face the consequences of their mischief as youngsters.

  Suddenly Carn felt the years drop away: He and Keri were standing side by side, awaiting punishment for the breakage of a valuable vase, an accident which he alone had been responsible for. But Keri had spoken out and accepted half the blame, even though she had no part in the incident. Her lower lip had trembled exactly so then, afraid of her father’s wrath, for the vase had been important to their mother. She had stared at him defiantly then too, commanding his silence even though she was younger by several years.

  She had borne her share of the punishment without comment or complaint and had silenced him with a look when he had haltingly tried to stammer out his thanks. He had never understood why she had done it, but now he thought that perhaps he did. It occurred to him for perhaps the very first time that his sister loved him.

  It was a simple thought, perhaps even an obvious one, the acknowledgment of an emotion that bound most family members together. But things had not been simple for Carn for a long time. Jealousy of Braldt had colored everything, including the knowledge that his sister loved him despite the fact that he had turned his back on her.

  Even as he admitted to himself that he had been wrong, had treated her unfairly, a wind seemed to blow through his mind, as cold and chilling as the wind that swept across the deck of the ship. It was as though a curtain had been pulled aside, revealing truths to him that he had long sought to hide from himself. Braldt was not his enemy. Keri had not betrayed him. It was he who had been wrong, it was he who had betrayed them both in his heart and in his deeds.

  Carn touched his brow with his fingers, feeling an ache behind his eyes that was echoed in his heart. Where had it all gone wrong, and most of all, how was he to put it right?

  Dimly, through the tumult that was occurring in his mind, he heard the volva speaking. Her voice was like a knife cutting through the festering wound of his sickness, lancing the poison that had corrupted his thoughts. He turned to her and seemed to see her for the first time. He was repulsed by the sight of her. Her long, dark hair, whipped by the wind, no longer invited his fingers to tangle themselves in their strands. Instead they reminded him of a nest of vipers, their heads questing, tongues flicking, anxiously searching for their next victim. Her eyes were crazed, her vision focused inward on some private goal that he now knew he served as the pawn for. Her teeth were small and white like those of a child, but were filed into points that could and did draw blood. How easily she had drawn him into her spell. He had been so willing. The promise of power and her sexuality was all that it had taken. He had been pathetically simple. Shame swept over him in a hot wave.

  Words began to filter through, come to him, punctuating his self-loathing. Her arms were lifted to the cold heavens, which were filled with thunderous dark clouds. She shrieked her words into the force of the winds, which were increasing in velocity, her cloak billowing out stiffly behind her. She seemed to be calling upon Thor, calling him down, inviting him to join them, to accept their offering.

  Once the ceremony was completed, Otir Vaeng collapsed in a carved wooden chair which had been provided for him, his arm cushioned by soft pillows, his body wrapped in furs and polyskins to hold in the heat. He seemed drained by the long ceremony and paid little attention to the volva’s imprecations, staring out across the cold horizon as though his thoughts were a million miles away; and perhaps they were, seeing some other horizon, remembering some other, distant, happier time.

  At Otir Vaeng’s feet there rose a tall pile of timber freshly cut at his direction, perfuming the air with the sharp, clean scent of dripping sap. Skirnir had attempted to question the order, but the king had not replied and Skirnir was not foolish enough to countermand the king’s wishes.

  Skirnir scanned the deck, attempting to see what it was that the king stared at so fixedly. But there was nothing to be seen other than the pile of wood and the tiny cabin at the prow of the boat where a navigator might have stood in ancient days.

  Skirnir might have objected to the added detail, but he had not, for he had begun to suspect what the king had in mind. He scarcely dared to believe that he could be right. Nothing was that simple. Perhaps he was wrong; Otir Vaeng had delighted in proving him wrong many times in the past, for the man was wily and his mind moved in convoluted patterns.

  Skirnir dragged his attention away from the king. It didn’t really matter what the man was planning; he was dying, that much was easy to see. The damned lupebeast had actually done Skirnir a favor by biting the king. Skirnir had seen many wounds during the course of his life and knew the miracles the healers could perform, but there was only so much they could do and this wound had progressed far beyond their ability to reverse the damage. All he had to do was watch and wait, and soon he, Skirnir Rolgvald, son of commoners, would be king of the Scandis.

  The moment had come. The volva had reached a feverish pitch, calling upon the gods, importuning them to accept the gift and return their beneficence to the land.

  Her words were met with a howl of wind that swept down from the roiling clouds, their swollen underbellies black and heavy with the threat of rain or snow. She turned to Carn and her eyes drilled into his, attempting to overwhelm his fragile sanity with the sheer force of her maddened mind.

  She snatched a dagger from her belt and forced his fingers around the hilt, a bone, polished to a rich gleam by the caress of centuries of reverent hands. The blade was long and thin, honed to a state of near transparency over the ages.

  Her fingers locked around his, clenching them tight till the knobs of the bone handle pressed painfully into his flesh. Her touch was feverishly hot, her eyes burning into his, commanding him wordlessly to do her bidding. He felt drugged, his mind numbed, his will slipping away from him like the storm tide pulling away from the shore. His fingers wrapped around the bone shaft of their own volition and he felt himself turn toward Keri, his feet devoid of sensation as though they obeyed another mind, supported another’s body. A part of him remained isolated fro
m the factotum that obeyed the volva’s will, seemed to view himself from afar and yet was powerless to rebel or intervene.

  He turned to Keri and they looked into each other’s eyes. She was aware of the knife in his hand but never lowered her eyes as another might have done. It was clear from the way she raised her chin that she knew what he intended to do. He saw the tiny knife she held clenched in her hand yet knew that all she would have to do was speak and he would be powerless to harm her.

  That portion of him which remained free of the volva’s grip screamed silently for her to speak, cried for her to say the words that might break the spell. But she remained silent, holding his eyes with her own, a link as hypnotic as that of the volva’s. It seemed to draw him toward her and the knife came up, his nerveless fingers meeting his shoulder, his taut muscles trembling with the need to unleash the waited action.

  The screaming wind seemed to echo the torment of his soul and his anguished mind. Carn felt as though he were going mad. The volva was screaming again, her words indistinguishable from the violence of the rising storm. He felt as though she too were an implacable force of nature, one that he could not dare to stand up against, one whose power was far greater than his own frail will.

  Tears fell from Carn’s scarred eyes, fell unnoticed upon the twisted flesh of his face, and he took a step toward Keri, hating himself, hating what he had become, praying that she would use the knife she held. But still she did not move, only stared at him with love and fear and steadfast courage in her eyes.

  And then he was beside her and as he raised the knife for the killing blow, the ship was slammed sideways by a massive wave. He stumbled sideways, off balance, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a blur of movement. Keri was thrown off balance as well and the connection between them was severed. Carn’s arm struck the side of the king’s chair and the knife was dislodged, knocked from his grip, and went clattering along the deck. The spell was broken. He made no attempt to retrieve the blade, but stared at it, drained of all emotion as well as strength.

  The volva seemed to realize instantly that she had lost her hold on him. She screamed in fury, a wild, inhuman sound that was snatched away by the howling wind. She dived for the knife. Carn knew what she was going to do. He threw himself forward, reaching the blade a brief instant before her fingers closed around it. He raised the knife and smiled at her gently. She sagged briefly, believing that she had regained her hold upon his body as well as his soul. Even as he smiled to reassure her, he brought the knife down, not upon Keri, who was sprawled helplessly beside him, but into the volva’s body, straight down into the soft flesh of her breast. The knife passed through the woman’s flesh as easily as through paper. Her eyes opened wide in disbelief and her mouth opened wide. A gout of blood stained her teeth and colored the lips crimson before dripping down her chin and falling upon the blade that had stolen her life. She reached for him with shaking, nerveless fingers and he moved back so that she could not touch him, for he feared her still.

  She died with the disbelief still written in her eyes, the unspoken curse still on her lips, the knife lodged firmly in her chest. Carn stared down at her as she stared up with unseeing eyes into the ominous sky. He was chilled. Cold, so very, very cold. He tugged the knife free of the flesh he had known so intimately and stared at the dripping blade.

  He looked then at Keri, who was attempting to rise from the heaving deck. Her eyes were filled with confusion as well as compassion. She reached for him as though forgiving him, urging him silently to take her hand. Carn smiled at her softly, her forgiveness a deeper pain than he had ever known. He knew the depth of his betrayal, knew that even if she could forgive him, he could never forgive himself. He had been willing to sacrifice his sister, Braldt, those who had loved him, for his own warped ambitions.

  He heard her call his name as he turned the blade upon himself, an act of courage greater than any he had ever known before. He was surprised to feel the lance of icy pain that pierced him. It was cold, yet burning at the same time; it was not what he had expected. It seemed a foolish thought. Keri was screaming. Her voice seemed to come from far away. He looked up at her, surprised to note that he was lying on the deck. He did not recall having fallen. He tried to smile at her, to tell her that it was all right, but no words came to his lips.

  A great calmness descended upon him. He could see the wind tearing at the naked masts, see the ropes straining under the force of the rising gale, sense the rise and fall of the deck beneath him, but he could feel nothing. He wished that he could comfort Keri, could tell her that it was the right thing to have done. Perhaps she would know it in time.

  Through the dim and distant light, he saw Braldt and Skirnir struggling over Keri and then Beast was there and an eerie howling was echoing in his ears. It was curious that he could not feel any emotion other than relief. He felt as though he had completed a long and difficult journey and if he only closed his eyes, Mother would be there to welcome him home.

  Otir Vaeng watched the proceedings with a sense of weariness that matched Carn’s. He had spent his life maneuvering others, manipulating them to his will to attain, achieve and protect his power, and now none of it seemed to matter.

  Even before Carn closed his eyes, his blood mingling with that of the volva’s and spreading in dark pools across the deck, Otir Vaeng had bent forward and touched the fire starter to the pile of dry kindling that formed a dense layer under the mountain of wood. He no longer felt the pain of his arm, which had by now filled his body with deadly poisons.

  He knew that he had come to the end of his life, and strangely, it no longer mattered. He had known it was done as soon as the Beast had bitten him. It seemed oddly fitting that that should be the method of his death, a creature from a world that he had caused to die for his own gain.

  He had spent much time reviewing the events of his life during the course of the last weeks and knew that it had all been foolishness based on pride and greed. He had done much that was good, but little that would be remembered if any of his people survived the coming catastrophe.

  He had never thought of himself as a coward, and in choosing the time and manner of his death, he thought that he could meet it bravely. He had no desire to rot away, suppurating with approaching death and whining for release.

  He had never believed in gods or an afterlife either, despite the fact that he had imposed such beliefs upon his people with an iron will. Now, as death drew near, he found himself welcoming it, wishing for it with the fervor he had once held for his only loves. He wondered if there truly were gods and whether the spirits of those he had once loved, those few who had truly loved him, would be there.

  He had thought the voyage to the stars, the founding of a new world, to be the greatest adventure he had ever undertaken, ever hoped to experience, but now he knew that this was a far greater adventure that he was about to embark upon, death.

  The fire had seized hold now. Flames rose, crackling and snarling around him. The heat felt good upon his chilled and aching body. But there were other sounds as well. He dragged himself back from the gathering clouds and forced himself to concentrate on what was happening around him. He resented the intrusion, the need to return, but there was still something holding him, something he had to do.

  Keri, the girl. Otir Vaeng stared at Keri, attempting to comprehend what it was that he was seeing. His mind was still occupied with thoughts of what was to come and it was difficult to resolve the images he was seeing. Braldt—that was the man’s name. He had thought that he was dead, but here he was struggling with Keri, trying to pull her away from Carn’s body. The flames were perilously close.

  Braldt heaved her to her feet and then suddenly she was clinging to him! Otir Vaeng looked down upon her tear-streaked face and saw with amazement that some of her tears, some of her grief, were for him! He had little strength, precious little to spare, but he forced his lips into a smile and raised his fingers to touch her face. It was all the time that he was grante
d. Braldt seized her and clutched her to his chest. For a brief moment, his eyes met those of the king, and Otir Vaeng read compassion, understanding, and, even more importantly, respect in Braldt’s eyes. Braldt nodded to Otir Vaeng, the benediction of one king to another, and then he was gone, with Beast at his heels.

  The shape-changers were all that remained. Otir Vaeng nodded to one of them and the dour, dark creature understood his unspoken command. Stepping to the stern of the boat, he brought a great ax down upon the thick hawser which held the ship to the shore. It parted with a twang and the ship leapt forward, its prow slicing through the waves, headed for the dark horizon.

  Braldt and Beast struggled through the pounding surf which crashed upon the stony shore. Ahead of them, Skirnir, wet and dripping, his robes clinging to his skinny legs, fought his way through the raging water. Anxious hands reached out to grab Braldt and Keri, to pull them to safety out of the grip of the undertow that sucked at their legs and threatened to devour them in the icy gray waters. No one hurried to Skirnir’s aid and it was by sheer determination that he managed to reach the shore.

  They were wrapped in polyskin cloaks and Keri’s sodden finery was stripped from her as water turned to ice upon contact with the bitterly cold winds. But Keri seemed unaware of the ministrations and concern that were being lavished on her. Her eyes followed the rapidly vanishing ship.as it rose and fell upon the storm-tossed waves. The fierce forbidding visage of the monster carved upon the prow looked back at her until it disappeared in a drift of smoke.