by Rose Estes
To the right of the altar stood a broad circular stone basin set upon a carved stone base. The figure of a snake wound its way around the pillar, its head resting, mouth agape, on the rim of the basin. Its eyes were also set with glittering red stones, its long curved fangs fashioned of ivory or bone, and between the open jaws gushed a steady flow of fire which fed a pyre contained within the stone basin.
The shaman approached the conflagration, her words growing more and more frenzied, a bit of slaver appearing unnoticed at the corner of her mouth. As she neared the fire, she took from her garments a fur pouch which Braldt had not noticed before. Her hand dipped inside the sack and withdrew, holding several small items which she dropped into the fire one at a time, muttering incantations that seemed ritualistic from the tone of her voice as well as the echoed response from her rapt audience.
A twig was dropped. The fire shot blue sparks; the crowd roared its response. A bit of moss fell and the fire burned yellow. The crowd yelled louder. A stone plummeted into the heart of the pyre and the flames turned green. The black-robed throng shrieked their answer. And then the woman turned to one side, her arm outstretched, pale white, slender, a delicate tracery of blue veins visible beneath the skin, the first sign of vulnerability, of humanness, about the terrifying figure.
Even as Braldt was contemplating this small bit of evidence that the creature was a woman, she turned back to the fire and in her outstretched hand there was a rabbit. It was a large rabbit, white in color, with red eyes that shone bright with terror. It hung suspended from her closed fist, its weight borne fully by its ears. It struggled in the woman’s grasp, fighting against some sensed danger. A high, thin squeal burst from its mouth, startling in its resemblance to the cry of a child.
The shaman spoke, the crowd answered, and even as Braldt watched in disbelief and horror, the woman opened her hand and released the rabbit, dropping it into the heart of the flames. The rabbit screamed and twisted in midair, clawing helplessly, and then it was gone, swallowed whole by the flames, which seemed to reach out for it, bulging as they wrapped themselves around its plump body. The flames grew dark, black as night, though the core was visible still, white-hot and pulsing like a living heart.
The mass of robed figures roared loudly, the sound filling the stone chamber and echoing back and forth against the walls till it seemed that he could feel the reverberation in his bones. The shaman raised her staff above her head and screamed. The crowd screamed back. And then it was done. The woman lowered her arm and as the last whisper of sound drained away, she staggered and then fell into the waiting arms of the throne.
Braldt watched in stunned silence, not even needing the cautionary touch from Brandtson to remind him to hold his tongue. The crowd stirred expectantly; a sense of anticipation could clearly be felt in the air.
There was a stir of movement in the front of the hall and a murmur of voices; Braldt strained to see. Carved wooden staffs could be seen rising above the heads of the crowd, and as they passed, the robed figures bowed low in obeisance. There could only be one person on Valhalla who would exact such subservience. Braldt felt suddenly cold. It could be no one but Otir Vaeng, the king.
Braldt could see him clearly now. Otir Vaeng, king of Valhalla. He was a tall man, taller than Braldt himself, with broad shoulders and narrow waist and hips, lean to the point of emaciation. His hair was the bright yellow gold of the sun, as was the beard, which followed the line of his jaw and ended in a sharp, forward-jutting point. He was in the habit of stroking this beard often, perhaps unaware of his obsession, and it was due to his constant ministrations that the beard preceded him like the prow of a ship. His nose was narrow and pinched, beaked at the bridge and turned down like a bird of prey. His cheekbones were slanted and angular, rising sharply as though they might slice through the skin that was stretched taut over them. His eyes were a cold, brilliant shade of pale blue, like precious gems. His eyebrows and lashes were so pale as to be invisible, and this made his eyes appear even more piercing and demanding.
He stared out at the silent crowd, stroking his beard, saying nothing until the silence grew so intense as to be discomforting. Only when it had stretched to a breaking point. when Braldt’s nerves cried for some action, some word, did the king speak.
“You have heard the volva,” he said in a low voice which required utter silence so that he could be heard. “The gods have spoken. Freya herself has told the volva what must be done if we are to save ourselves from doom.
“We have brought the wrath of the gods down upon ourselves because we have failed to honor them. We chose to walk apart from them, placing our faith in new gods, science and technology, and those gods and their followers were what killed the earth. We too will perish and vanish forever if we do not return to the old ways and honor the old gods, as is their due.”
“What… what would the gods have us do?” asked an older man situated in the front of the crowd, his quavering voice betraying his nervousness.
“The volva has told us what must be done,” replied a second voice, a voice all too familiar to Braldt. He straightened with shock and leaned forward to see what he could scarcely believe. A second figure moved to stand at the king’s side and Braldt stumbled back against the wall, weak with shock. Carn! What mischief was this that allied his adopted brother with the king of Valhalla, he who had caused the death of their planet and everyone and everything that had been dear to them? Carn spoke.
“The volva has spoken; the seidr, the divination ceremony, has told us what we needed to know. The gods have spoken through her to us and told us their wishes.”
“We must kill the outsiders, kill the unbelievers,” said the king, his voice a mere whisper of sound, but clearly heard in the silent hall. “The unbelievers must die. Only then will the gods return their favor to we who have believed in them and been faithful down through the long centuries when the false gods ruled the earth. The sun will shine on us once more and we will thrive and prosper only if our belief is strong.”
“Is he serious?” Braldt whispered. Brandtson made an abrupt cutting motion, signaling him to silence. Braldt frowned and settled back into the shadows to listen.
“But this one, this Carn, is an outsider,” cried a voice from the midst of the crowd. The crowd pulled aside as though unwilling to be singled out by the king, to be suspected of disagreeing with him.
But Otir Vaeng merely smiled, a grimace that held no intent of humor. “Carn is an outsider, that is true, but his belief in the old gods is strong and true.”
“How can this be so?” challenged the voice from the crowd. The king turned to see who had dared to defy him and his eyes glittered as the crowd drew back, revealing a heavyset older man, white-haired and bent in stature but not in resolve. He took no notice of the crowd’s fear, but leaned on a stout cane and stared at the king. “How can this Carn believe in our gods?” he questioned in a reasonable tone. “He is not even from our world. One can scarcely imagine as to how he knows of our gods, much less puts his faith in them.”
“Do you challenge my word, Saxo? I am your king; if I tell you something is so… it is so.”
“You are my king, this I do not deny,” replied the old man. “And I have followed you these many years even when my heart and mind were troubled by our course of action. But what we have done in the past was necessary for our survival. This… this superstitious claptrap that you are reviving, setting in motion, is dangerous and I urge you to think about what it is that you are doing.”
The mass of dark-robed figures pulled back farther, widening the gap between themselves and the old man, not wanting to seem as though they were any part of what he was saying. All eyes focused on the king, who stroked his beard and smiled coldly.
“Superstitious claptrap, you say, Saxo? Do you then not believe in Odin and Freya and Thor? Do you dare to deny their existence?”
“Come, come, Otir. Do not think that you can frighten me with that tone of voice,” Saxo said with a wearie
d motion of his hand. “You forget that I have known you since you crawled on the floor, your diaper dragging behind you. You cut your teeth on the hilt of my sword. Your father and I were lifelong friends and I his counsel general. You think to threaten me? I am too old for such threats and too old for this religious nonsense. What do you hope to accomplish with it? You have the loyalty of the people, although whether from fear or from lack of other options, I cannot say. Why do you need to implement this foolishness and what role does this outsider play in your game?”
A vein throbbed at the corner of Otir Vaeng’s temple and his teeth were bared as he tugged fiercely on his beard. For a moment it seemed that he would strike the old man down or run him through with his sword, so great was his anger. Then Carn stepped forward and placed his hand on the king’s arm, shaking him slightly as he whispered in his ear. Otir Vaeng shook his head, and Carn continued to speak with urgency. Finally the king nodded and stepped back. Carn stepped forward and addressed Saxo as well as the rest of the gathering.
“It is true, I am not one of you. I am an outsider. Until recently, I did not even know of your existence, much less the existence of your gods. I come from a world that is far away in distance as well as in knowledge. All my life I have searched for a greater meaning for my life … for all life. I thought I had found it on my own world, but all it brought me was pain and suffering.” He gestured toward his horribly scarred face and hands, which had been burned by exposure to the intense heat of a volcano.
“I Came to Valhalla by accident, or so I believed, but now I know that it was fate that delivered me here, fate that has brought me knowledge of Odin and Freya, Loki and Thor. These are the truths I have been searching for all my life.
“I have learned that a man cannot live without the guidance of the gods and disaster waits for those who are godless. Nor will the gods hesitate to strike down those who do not believe in them. The gods saved me and destroyed my world because I was the only true believer. You must follow your gods and obey their wishes or you and your world will meet the same fate as my world. I may be an outsider, but I am a believer.”
Carn’s mutilated face was crimson with the passion of his words and his eyes glittered with feverish intensity. His hands opened and closed into fists as he spoke, and it was clear that he believed every word he uttered.
“Would that your faith was so strong, Saxo,” Otir Vaeng said softly as he placed his arm around Carn’s shoulders and shook him gently, a gesture that spoke of friendship and trust and more. “Take care that you do not bring the wrath of the gods down upon yourself.” The threat was implicit and the old man said nothing more, merely stared sadly at the man who was his king.
“The volva has spoken,” said Otir Vaeng, his hand sweeping toward the woman on the throne. “The wishes of the gods are clear. We must rid ourselves of outsiders, of disbelievers, of those who are not worthy of Valhalla. Hunt them out from among us. Only then will we and our world be safe.”
Braldt started suddenly as Brandtson gripped his hand and silently drew him out and away, back the way they had come, unseen by those around them who pressed forward and were voicing their agreement in loud tones, anxious to prove their loyalty to their king.
Once they had turned the corner of the narrow corridor, Brandtson gripped Braldt even more tightly and together they fled from the madness behind them.
4
Braldt and Brandtson hurried down the side of the mountain, anxious to be gone before the gathering broke up. Although it was almost a certainty that everyone would use the interior path to avoid the bitter cold, it was possible that some would choose the outer balustrade. Brandtson had taken a great risk in bringing Braldt with him, for Braldt was the one who Otir Vaeng most wanted dead. Brandtson did not think that Braldt would accept the seriousness of the situation unless he heard the king’s words with his own ears.
Braldt followed his grandfather, all but oblivious to the bone-biting cold and the driving sleet which made the slippery path all the more dangerous. He had known that Otir Vaeng was his enemy, but this madness was beyond belief. Men who changed their shape at will and became wild animals, priestesses sacrificing animals to fire, and now an exhortation to kill all those who did not believe as they did! What it amounted to was the open sanction of murder of hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent people.
Braldt’s mind was awhirl with confusion, but one thing he was sure was that if there really were gods, it seemed oddly providential that their wishes always seemed to coincide with the desires of those in power. He had seen it on his own world, the manipulation of the people by the priests, and on Rototara, where the numerous gods belonging to various civilizations often clashed in their desires. And now here again on Valhalla.
Perhaps there were a multitude of gods who belonged to the multitudes of races, but if that were so, the religious netherworld must be a crowded place, and how did those gods interact with each other? The Duroni believed in the gods of nature, believing that each natural element was controlled by its own deity.
The Rototarans, a reptilian race who spent the greater portion of their lives in hibernation, believed in a shadowy deity whom they referred to as “the True God.” Braldt had little or no understanding of the Rototaran god, but from what little he did know, he was certain that it was not the same god as the Duroni worshiped.
Another race of beings from some distant point in the galaxy believed in a god by the name of Yantra, whose long list of musings guided the lives and actions of its followers.
But, according to Otir Vaeng, it was Freya, Thor, Loki, and Odin who were the only true gods and he would use them to incite his people to bloodshed and wholesale massacre of those he had deemed the enemy.
Braldt and Keri were at risk, that much was obvious. It would be wise to leave Valhalla before they were killed. But how? Where could they go? Their own world had been destroyed by the Valhallans and Rototara was now firmly held by its own people, who would surely kill Braldt and Keri if they were foolish enough to return. Braldt now knew that there were many other worlds in the universe, but even if there had been a way to get there, who was to say that they would not be exchanging one set of dangerous circumstances for another?
Furthermore, even though Braldt was but the rankest novice in the matters of science and technology, it seemed highly unlikely that murdering any number of people, sacrificing them to the whim of gods whose very existence was doubtful, would alter the fact that Valhalla’s sun was dying. Even to his unschooled mind it did not seem logical that one action would have any affect on the other.
Braldt had assumed that they were returning to their own apartments, but to his surprise Brandtson turned aside long before they reached the lower slopes. Fumbling beneath his cloak, he unlocked and then flung open a heavy door that was fitted flush with the smooth flank of the mountain.
It was warm and dry inside the dark corridor and blissfully silent after the howling assault of the weather. Braldt sagged gratefully against the wall, only then aware of the fact that the blood was pounding in his face, and his extremities were numb and unfeeling.
Brandtson did not hesitate but made his way through the narrow chamber, and Braldt stumbled after, wondering where they were. The entranceway ended before still another door, which hissed with the release of pressurized air as it was opened.
Braldt shut his eyes against the bright glare that greeted them. Tears poured down his face as he blinked, adjusting himself to the light. Brandtson led him to a chair which was softly cushioned. To his wearied body it felt like sinking into a mound of feathers.
When at last he was able to make out the details of his surroundings, he saw that he was in an astonishing room unlike anything he had ever seen before. Brandtson handed him a heavy earthenware mug filled with a thick brown liquid that emitted a curl of delicious-smelling steam.
Braldt sipped gratefully at the hot brew and his senses were instantly flooded with delight. The brew was unlike anything he had ever ta
sted. It was sweet and thick and somehow conveyed a feeling of comfort, a sense of well-being. Braldt wondered if it was magical. “What is this?” he asked.
“Good, isn’t it?” Brandtson replied with a smile as he hoisted his own mug in a toast. “It’s called cocoa, comes from earth. Saxo’s addicted to the stuff, his only real vice. He has enough to last him for the rest of his life. He spent a fortune on it, but then why shouldn’t he? All his children are dead, killed by Otir Vaeng. He has no one else to spend his marks on but himself.”
“Will he not mind that we are helping ourselves to his supplies?” Braldt asked. “If it is that precious, I would not want—”
Brandtson waved him to silence. “I added my marks to Saxo’s. Perhaps it is childish, but I find it oddly comforting myself.… Reminds me of my youth. You know I was raised on old earth. Valhalla has its merits, but it will never be home.” Brandtson cradled his mug in his gnarled hands and savored the aroma of the rising vapor, his eyes gazing into the distance, viewing the memories of the distant past.
Braldt was quiet, drawing pleasure from the warmth of the room, the soft comfort of the chair, and the newly discovered taste treat of the oddly named “co-co.” He was curious as to why they were here in Saxo’s quarters and other questions rose to his mind as well, but he knew that Brandtson must have had his reasons for coming to this place, and when he was ready to share those reasons with Braldt, he would. Braldt closed his mind to the questions that rose unbidden and allowed his eyes to wander around the amazing room.
There were six chairs in all, and all of them were thick of cushion, soft and inviting and covered with natural fabric as opposed to man-made synthetics, in colors that had once been bright and cheerful but had worn with age to muted shades of burgundy and blue and green. Several were ornamented with bits of carved wood that served no real purpose other than to enhance their beauty. Here on Valhalla, where stark utilitarianism was the norm, the furniture—the entire room, for that matter—was very unusual.
