by Rose Estes
ALSO BY ROSE ESTES
THE HUNTER
THE HUNTER ON ARENA
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
Copyright
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1992 by Warner Books, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Questar® is a registered trademark of Warner Books, Inc.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
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First eBook Edition: December 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-57017-6
Contents
Copyright
ALSO BY ROSE ESTES
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
HUNTER AT BAY
1
They were gaining on him. Braldt’s breath came raggedly as he dodged behind a clump of gorse and slithered beneath an overhanging rock ledge. He pressed his forehead against his knees, shutting his eyes against the cold blue glare of the daylight, and tried to regain his breath and his composure.
They had been following him all morning since he had left the settlement, that architectural wonder of proud, soaring towers and cantilevered stairs that seemed to float on the cold air. At first there was nothing in the pale empty sky. Despite the fact that he had been here on Valhalla for more than two months, he had never grown accustomed to the absence of animal life. Valhalla was an empty planet and other than the earthling colonists who had claimed it for their own, it had no natural life other than flora.
Which made it all the more obvious when he spotted the first raven hovering above him on the rising wind currents. Not being of the planet, the raven could only have come from the king Otir Vaeng, he who was the enemy. In time, the black bird was joined by three others of its kind and throughout the morning they followed Braldt as he wandered over the steep, barren hillsides.
Only after he had crossed the sharp, serrated edge of the mountain range upon which the city was built had the others appeared, stepping out from the shadows of the rocks and matching their pace to his.
He had tried to ignore them at first, telling himself there was no law that said he was the only one allowed to walk outside the city walls. But they did not have the appearance of men out for a casual stroll. He was the object of their interest. Not even the king would dare to kill him so close to the city … but who was to know? queried his inner voice. He would simply meet with a mysterious accident, tumble off a ledge and fall to his death. Brandtson, his grandfather, and Keri, the woman he loved, might suspect foul play, but they would never be able to prove it. Then, with Braldt out of the way, it would be all too easy to dispatch the aging statesman and the helpless girl.
The men—there were six of them—increased their speed, gaining rapidly on Braldt and drawing their swords as they came, dispelling any lingering doubts that Braldt might have had about their intentions. Dropping his knapsack of provisions and his cloak, Braldt had begun to run at top speed, wending his way through the treacherous landscape with all the agility he had acquired through years of rigorous training. The followers had increased their speed as well. They plunged down the slope, their passage made all the more dangerous by a stretch of loose scree that made sure footing impossible.
The chase had gone on throughout the day and now, as the day approached its end, they were with him still and closing fast. It was apparent from their grim silence and their tenacity that they would be content with nothing less than his death. Six against one—not impossible odds, but difficult.
The days ended abruptly on this world, and the sun, always dim and casting little joy, slid quickly from view each night as though begrudging the colonists what meager warmth it had to offer. The shadows lengthened farther, magnifying each object as it was thrown into dark contrast against the cold, stony ground.
Huddled beneath his rock ledge, grasping for breath and for some plan that would save him, Braldt heard a chorus of eerie screams rising into the chilly air. The hair on the back of his neck rose up at the ghastly sound, human voices wailing and screaming, growing ever more agitated. There were no words as such, just unintelligible sounds, all the more terrifying for their lack of intelligence. The screams increased in volume and frenzy until it seemed that they could go no further without lapsing into insanity. Braldt gripped the hilt of his sword, guessing that the men were working themselves into a killing rage before they rushed him. Abruptly, the ululations turned to howls, long, drawn-out moaning bays that had never been uttered by a human throat. These horrible sounds were accompanied by fierce growls and throaty, raspy roars, equally inhuman. Braldt was shaken; he stared into the growing darkness, wondering what was happening beyond his vision.
Suddenly he heard something, a scrabbling of rock just beyond the entrance to his hiding place. He started to draw his sword from its scabbard, but before it cleared the mouth, a long, dark snout forced its way into the narrow space and wuffed a quiet greeting.
Relief flooded over Braldt. He was no longer alone; Beast had arrived! He had ordered the lupebeast, his loyal and constant companion, to stay with Keri until he returned. Braldt knew that she did not like to be left alone.
But Beast had a mind of his own and, while he had a certain fondness for Keri, his heart belonged to Braldt. Somehow he had snuck out of the city and trailed Braldt to this place. Braldt smiled grimly as he hugged the coarse-furred lupebeast to him. The odds had just gotten better.
His enemies circled the rock where he was hiding, uttering their unnerving cacophony of shrieks and howls and roars, never silent, never in the same place. It was impossible to sleep and, as the chill of the long night settled in around him like an old, familiar ache, he considered his options.
One, he could remain where he was and force them to come to him. There was a certain wisdom in this method, for he was well placed with rock at his back and sides, and he could only be reached by his opponents placing themselves in danger. But if he could not be reached, he would also find it difficult to inflict damage without showing himself. Stalemate.
Two, he could take the offensive and attack. Thinking themselves in a position of greater strength and knowing little of his mind-set, they would not think him likely to choose this option.
Three, he could try to create a diversion, sneak past them and return to the city, leaving them to circle an abandoned rock.
Somehow none of his choices appealed to him; but maybe a combination of tactics… Braldt pondered his fledgling plan from a variety of angles and thought that with a degree of well-deserved luck, it might succeed.
The rock beneath which he sheltered was like many of those that littered the mountainside, fractured and porous, brittle as well as unstable in nature. A large buildup of rocky detritus was poised on the lip of the overhang, it would require little to set it in motion. He studied the movement of the shadows. So far it appeared that his enemies were avoiding a direct approach, but they would soon gain confidence and close in on him. He would have to act before they did.
He signaled Beast to remain in place and worked his way to the mouth o
f the opening. A thin cover of scrubby brush lent scant camouflage, but it was adequate for his purposes. He sliced the edge of his tunic with his knife and tore a long strip of fabric free. This he tied to a bit of brush, which he then buried carefully in the rock debris poised above him. Beast growled, impatient with the enforced silence. Braldt knew that he would gain little advantage by waiting. Giving Beast a hand signal, he flattened himself against the frigid ground and began to inch his way forward. Beast knew the command well and obeyed without a sound, trailing Braldt like a shadow.
Braldt went no farther than the next outcrop, this a mere sliver of rock thrust sideways through the hard earth, but it would do. Braldt freed his sword, taking care to muffle the metal against sound and hide it from the reflection of the rising moon. His short sword and the unraveled bit of fabric he held in the other hand. He waited until Beast had fitted himself into the last bit of shadow and then pulled the long strip of fabric.
The resulting clatter of falling rock was everything he could have hoped for and more. Evidently his small maneuver had triggered a larger rock slide and the dark night reverberated with the sounds of stones and boulders plummeting down the steep mountainside. At the first sound of movement, Braldt let loose a terrible shriek, as though grievously injured and in mortal pain. This he followed with ever-weakening groans and cries for help.
For a time nothing happened. Then the first of his enemies circled in. Even though Braldt had suspected what he now saw, he could scarcely believe his own vision. It was a wolf! Sleek and silent as the night, the others drifted in toward the abandoned hiding hole, their sensitive nostrils casting about for the scent of their prey. Then, even as Braldt readied himself for their discovery, the wolves parted to make way for an enormous black bear, who batted aside the rocks as though they were no more than the weightless heads of flowers. His snuffling growls could be plainly heard by the astounded Braldt and Beast, and his rank scent hung heavy on the chill air.
Their trick would be discovered soon. Still uncertain about the true nature of his enemy, Braldt knew that he had to seize the initiative while it lasted. Uttering a fierce clan call, he hurled himself from hiding, with Beast beside him, and flung himself into the midst of the wolves, his great sword swinging.
One fell instantly, the sword slicing through the back of its neck, all but severing its head from its shoulders. A second was skewered through the chest and shaken loose to writhe its final death agonies under the feet of its astonished companions. A third, taken entirely by surprise, was seized in Beast’s powerful jaws, its throat spewing hot blood. Then the moment of surprise passed and they were on him. The two remaining wolves immediately separated, spreading out to flank him on either side. The bear, slower to turn and comprehend the situation, reared up on its massive hind legs, towering above them, jaws agape and dripping with foaming slaver.
Beast dropped the lifeless body and launched himself immediately, again seizing his chosen target by the throat and wrestling it to the ground. The wolf was the larger of the two remaining, outweighing Beast by a third of his body weight, but Beast did not fight by ordinary methods. Lupebeasts were known for their strange habit of rising up on their hind legs to do battle. It made them an even more dangerous adversary when facing humans, for it placed the double rows of serrated fangs and powerful jaws at face level.
Braldt had never understood the technique’s value when fighting creatures of its own size until now. After a short scuffle, Beast succeeded in locking his jaws around the throat of his opponent. This in itself might not have been fatal, for the wolf had merely to fall on the ground and twist its body, allowing its weight to break Beast’s grip. But even as the wolf carried out this ploy, Beast rose on his hind legs and the abrupt, full-weighted drop tore the throat out of his opponent. The wolf fell to the ground, scrabbling in frantic circles, silent, unable to voice its agony, as its lifeblood gushed away.
The last wolf stood transfixed by the fate of its comrades. Its eyes glistened with hatred in the pale light of the rising moon as it crouched at the feet of the bear, choosing its moment carefully. Braldt and the wolf began a curious ballet, sidestepping in a wide circle, with the bear lumbering between them, its powerful paws outstretched—dancers in a macabre ballet, their only music the keening of the wind and the pulse of blood in their ears. Beast stood over the body of his fallen foe, gore dripping from his muzzle, his eyes glittering madly with bloodlust.
It was the bear who broke the rhythm, darting forward with incredible speed for one so large, its great paw slicing through the air, a fetid stink rolling from its open jaws. Braldt leapt aside unharmed and managed to slash his blade into the side of the immense creature as it rushed past, a glancing blow that drew blood but did little damage.
The wolf acted in concert with its larger ally and lunged forward, catching Braldt off balance and unprepared, its teeth locking on his left leg, throwing him to the ground. It was on him in an instant, straddling his body, its jaws open wide and surging toward his unprotected throat.
Braldt attempted to roll, but the wolf’s legs blocked the move and he felt its jaws scissor shut, the teeth slicing through the flesh at the base of his jaw and the blood pouring down his chin as jagged points of fiery pain ripped down to his throat. Bright crimson lights flashed behind his eyes, the hot burning pain the color of blood to his mind’s eye. He cried out then in fear and pain and rage, and struck out blindly with his sword, feeling it bite deep into an unseen target. The wolf staggered, falling heavily onto Braldt, its teeth rending his flesh further, matching Braldt’s pain with an agonized cry of its own sounding in Braldt’s ear.
Braldt rolled, closing his mind against the pain, and felt himself fall clear of the wolf. He struggled to his feet, feeling the steady flow of blood drenching his tunic, its heat turning chill against his body in the cruel wind. He wiped the blood from his eyes and saw the wolf hobbling toward him, its right front leg nearly severed halfway down its length. Never taking its maddened eyes from Braldt, it placed its weight on the mutilated leg and stumbled forward, head and neck outthrust, unprotected for one brief instant. It was all that Braldt needed, and he slammed his blade down with all his force, striking the wolf cleanly, feeling the steel slide between the vertebrae and lopping its head from its neck.
The head flew through the air, tongue lolling between snarling jaws, crazed eyes still staring in furious disbelief, and landed at the feet of the bear. It rolled a short distance before coming to rest, and the bear, still bleeding from its side, dropped to all fours and snuffled at the dismembered skull. Braldt stepped back, raising the sword, readying himself for the bear’s attack, feeling the shivering in the back of his knees and the weakness in his arms as the blood continued to drain from his body. He wondered if he would have the strength to fend off the bear and seek the shelter of his rock before he lost consciousness.
Even as he struggled to hold his blade aloft, he felt his strength slipping away, and he struck the ground with his knees and then toppled over, unable to stand, though he knew that falling meant his death. He was filled with a great weariness and the sudden realization that he was very cold. A stone loomed before his eyes, immense, although in truth it was really quite small. He wanted to call out, to say something before he died, but he was very tired and it seemed much too difficult a task to accomplish.
The night swam into focus then and he became aware of Beast pressed against his side, growling, his double rows of teeth glinting in the cold light of the rising moon. The bear… The bear crouched down a short distance away, bent over its fallen comrades. And as Braldt watched, incapable of blinking, of shutting the scene from his mind, it seemed to him that the skull of the wolf began to move; its edges rippled, moved in the dark night, reforming themselves until the features were those of a man instead of a beast. The bear shimmered and dropped to all fours.
As Braldt watched in disbelief, the figure of the bear wavered as though obscured by a cloud. Braldt blinked hard, wondering if it
was his vision or an apparition caused by his pain. When he opened his eyes, the bear appeared before him, but it was a bear no longer… it was a man. The stars swam above Braldt in a sickening circle, the darkness swallowed the stars, and there was no more.
2
“Berserkers. Shape-changers,” Brandtson said in a grim tone as he swabbed his grandson’s torn flesh with a healing antiseptic that would bond the torn edges, leaving no sign of injury.
“What are these… these things?” asked Braldt, grimacing at the sharp stinging that assailed his flesh, yet marveling that such a miraculous healing potion existed. “Are they men or gods? How can they change their form?”
“They are men, not gods,” Brandtson replied heavily as he finished his work and sat back, studying Braldt with a critical, yet caring eye, noting with satisfaction that the mangled flesh had already begun to heal. His large, gnarled hands rested on his thighs and he raised one hand and touched the tip of Braldt’s chin gently. “They are men, but they use the same sort of magic that is at work here. But instead of using it for good, rebuilding what has been destroyed, they have turned their gift to evil.”
“I do not understand,” said Braldt, trying to follow his grandfather’s words. But as he had found with so much else on this new world, the words frequently imparted no real meaning. Nothing he had ever experienced had prepared him for the world he found waiting for him on Valhalla. His strength and his wits had always been his salvation. On Valhalla young children rivaled his knowledge and even surpassed him in many areas, and most able-bodied men were his equal in strength.
Brandtson sighed. “And why should you understand? It is a confusing concept. But I will do my best to explain.” He studied his grandson for a moment as he considered his words, noting with pleasure the clean, sharp lines of the young man’s profile—the high, sharply edged cheekbones, the strong chin, and the bright blue eyes—a younger version of himself. There were differences, to be sure: Braldt’s hair was full and thick, so blond as to appear white in strong sunlight, and he was clean-shaven. Brandtson’s hair, while still thick, was as white as the snow on the surrounding mountain peaks, as was his beard. There were other similarities as well. Both men were tall, well over six feet, and broad of shoulder. Brandtson carried more weight than Braldt, but still, he was powerfully built, with massive arms and thighs, the corded muscles that rested beneath his darkly tanned skin giving testament to the fact that he was indeed ancestor to the young warrior who sat before him.
