The Hunter Victorious

by Rose Estes

  “A clever idea!” Brandtson agreed. “Yes! I like it!”

  Braldt and Saxo were less enthusiastic. “My books… my pictures…” Saxo murmured unhappily.

  “Keri…” Braldt began. “She must be told! It would not be fair to let her think that we are dead.”

  Brandtson turned to the two dissenters. “Think what you are saying,” he said sternly. “If all your favorite books and important possessions disappear and Keri fails to react with the appropriate amount of grief, how well do you think the story of our deaths will be accepted?”

  “But Keri…” Braldt began.

  “… is young and strong and will survive this momentary cruelty,” Brandtson said firmly, and even Braldt was forced to accept the wisdom of his words.

  “You cannot stay here; it is too dangerous. If they even suspected… this is one of the first places they would look,” said one of the older men.

  “Then where—” asked Brion.

  “I know a place,” Braldt said, startling them all, a cocky smile playing on his lips. “A place that no one would ever dare to think of.”

  “What are you saying? Where can we go that would be safe?” Brandtson asked. “I can think of nowhere that would be free from their eyes.”

  “One cannot live off of this land,” said Saxo in disgust. “There are no fish in the waters, no birds in the air, no creatures in the wild. For all of earth’s problems, I miss it still.”

  “I know a place that would do,” Braldt insisted. “A place where we would be safe and well fed for as long as we must stay out of sight.”

  All eyes turned to him.

  “The burial mound,” Braldt said in answer to the unspoken question, only to be met with horrified looks and gasps of shock.

  “I know what you are thinking, but that’s exactly why it is the perfect hiding place,” he said hurriedly, in an attempt to convince them. “Think about it for a minute. No one goes there if they can avoid it, there is a large store of food, and it is protected from the elements. Where on Valhalla could possibly be safer?”

  The men looked at one another with dismay written on their rugged features, their discomfort obvious.

  “Braldt is right,” Saxo said decisively, raising his hand as a multitude of voices spoke out opposing the plan. “For all of the reasons you speak of. It is such an outrageous thought, no one would ever suspect that we have dared to shelter there. Come, we must be gone before morning’s light. There is no time to lose. Let us be on our way.”

  It was decided that they must take the outer path once more, for now more than ever they could not risk being seen. If they vanished without a trace, it was just possible that their enemies would think them dead. None of them wanted to go back out into the cold again, but they dared not risk the inner route, for even at this early hour there was the chance of meeting some wandering soul early to rise or late to bed.

  They gathered what supplies they felt would be needed, robbing the beds of their blankets and men of their extra clothing, for even within shelter they would need to conserve their body heat. One of the men left and returned with a compact package of foodstuffs and a gurgling jug of brandy to keep their spirits warm as well.

  All too soon their preparations were done and there was nothing left but for Saxo to stuff a growling Thunder back inside his vest and to say their farewells. They clasped hands, murmured words of thanks and pledges of loyalty, and once more slipped out into the howling gale that hurled itself against the mountainside.

  The trail down to the base of the mountain was quickly traveled, with the winds buffeting them from all sides and assaulting them with pellets of ice that stung like fire whenever they touched bare skin.

  Braldt and Brandtson took turns forcing their way into the wind, breaking the trail through the several feet of snow that covered the ground. Fortunately, their path did not expose them to much open ground, where they would have been all the more in danger from the sheets of hail. They made their way through a narrow gorge which was lined by walls of stone, the bases of cliffs whose peaks could not be seen in the roaring gale. But while they were protected from the driving hail, the high walls channeled the screaming winds, which funneled down upon them with an icy intensity that made all that had gone before seem like a pleasant outing on a summer’s day.

  Braldt was never able to remember much of that agonizing journey, other than the overwhelming darkness, the howling of the wind, and the deep, bitter, bone-numbing cold. When at last Brandtson shook his arm and tugged him off the trail, he had long since given up any thought other than placing one foot before the other and making certain that he did it again, and again, and again.

  He lurched after Brandtson, barely even raising his eyes to see where they were going, for he knew that there would be nothing to see other than the white of snow and dark of night. It came as a shock when he finally realized that they were actually stopping. Wearily, he lifted his head from his chest and wiped the accumulation of snow and ice from his brows and lashes, blinking to bring things into focus.

  Everything was dark—there was little or nothing to be seen—and while his ears were still filled with the roaring of the wind, it was no longer beating against his body with the same fierce intensity.

  They had entered a narrow defile which branched off the main trail. Here the stone walls were closer, barely wide enough for four men to walk abreast. Dawn was approaching and their way was dimly lit by a pale, watery light which was making slow headway against the heavy darkness. The storm still beat above their heads, but it was distant and could not reach them in this sheltered lee. Before them there rose two immense rock plinths deeply carved with the same figures of animals and sun discs that had adorned the sacrificial altar. Between the two rocks, braced in some unseen manner, was a broad stone lintel, also deeply carved, and hung with a curtain of ice. Beyond the lintel, all was dark.

  Now that their goal was in sight, Braldt felt a shiver run down his spine, a shiver that had nothing to do with cold. He had denied his fear and chided the others for theirs, but now that they were here, he felt uncertain and somewhat anxious. What if the old stories were true? Did the spirits of the dead really linger about their final resting place and did they have the power to harm the living? Would the spirits be sympathetic to their plight or ally themselves with their king even in death? Did spirits have the ability to think new thoughts? Braldt’s thoughts were jumbled; he had never spoken to a spirit or known anyone who had, although stories of such encounters were legion. Well, they had come this far. There was nothing to do but go on.

  It was obvious that Brandtson and Saxo shared his concerns, for their steps slowed as they approached the entrance to the tomb. It was dark beyond the plinths and they could see nothing. They looked at one another and saw their fears reflected in each other’s eyes. It was enough to make one smile, and that was almost enough to break the bands of fear.

  “I’ll go first,” said Braldt with a courage that he did not feel. “It was my idea.”

  “No, we’ll all go together,” said Brandtson. “Saxo and I are too old to be afraid of ghosts.”

  “Speak for yourself,” grumbled Saxo. “It never hurt anyone to be respectful of that which has yet to be explained.”

  “Oh, come on, old man—are you saying that you still believe in ghosts and boogies?”

  Saxo drew himself upright to his full height, which was still a full head shorter than Brandtson. “I’m just saying that we still don’t know all the answers about what happens after death and it cannot hurt to have a little respect for the dead!”

  “I agree,” Braldt said quickly, not wanting to see dissension among their slim ranks. “The dead are entitled to sleep without being troubled by the disrespect of the living. Nor will we bring them anything but our honor.”

  His words silenced the two older men, who ceased their quarrel and fell silent as they stepped through the dark portal.

  As their eyes grew accustomed to the thick gloom, they
were able to make out the features of the place that was to be their hideaway. It was a natural cul-de-sac, a blunt ending of the narrow arroyo, the plinths and lintel creating a narrow neck in the passage. It was no more than thirty yards deep and at the farthest end there was a loose jumble of fallen stone. At its widest point, it was no more than ten yards across. It was hard to judge accurately, for the entire space was filled with large earthenware jugs, literally scores of them with stone lids, piled one on top of the other and rising higher than their heads.

  The jars, all deep brown in color, were ornamented with bright symbols, some crude and simplistic, others complex and beautifully executed. There were bright suns and wolves and outlines of long ships equipped with many oars, as well as a variety of symbols which Braldt could not decipher.

  “Gunnar Harraldson,” said Saxo as he pointed to a jar that stood beside him. “Remember him, Brandt? He died that first winter. Got lost in a snowstorm. We didn’t find him till spring thaw.”

  Braldt could not help but shudder. He took a step forward, his hand outstretched to touch the bright symbols, but Brandt-son struck his hand aside before he could do so. “Best not to disturb the sleep of the dead,” he said, his eyes averted.

  “But sir, there is naught here but empty bones,” Braldt protested. “If the dead do indeed slumber, surely it would not be here in this place.”

  “The dead reside in Valhalla, or so our stories say,” Brandtson said, looking to one side, still unwilling to meet Braldt’s eyes. “Who can say what is really so? Much of what the legends foretell has already come to pass. I fear that before the story is done, much more will come true.”

  “Come, old friend,” said Saxo, “surely you do not believe that the dead will rise again in Valhalla and come together again at the end of the world. That is a story for children!”

  “Do not jest about such things, Saxo,” Brandtson growled. “I am no child, far from it. Yet you cannot deny that many things, far too many things that match the old stories, have occurred, to be marked up to mere coincidence. We may be forced to hide here, but I say that we must leave the bones of the dead undisturbed.”

  “But sir, we will starve to death if we do not freeze first,” Braldt protested. “What good will it do to shelter here if we die? Many of these dead were your friends when they walked the earth. Would they deprive you of the means to survive?”

  “Braldt is right, old friend,” added Saxo, placing his arm around Brandtson’s shoulders. “Think for a moment: Gunnar Harraldson was openly declared against Otir Vaeng. In fact, there was some talk that his death was not the accident it was said to be. Gunnar was an experienced survivalist; when did you ever know him to lose his way, even in a snowstorm? He would be the first to urge us to help ourselves.”

  “There is truth to your words,” Brandtson said at last. “I have often pondered the circumstances of his death. He was a good friend and would not begrudge us in our time of need.”

  Braldt sighed with relief as he wrapped his cloak more tightly around him, for even in this sheltered nook, out of the direct force of the wind, it was still bitterly cold.

  The heavy stone lid was removed from the top of the burial urn and the jar gave up its contents. First there was a rich cloak, deep carmine in color and woven of some fine artificial material created for the sole purpose of retaining the body’s heat. This Saxo handed to Braldt without even hesitating. Next there was a sack of dried meats and another of mixed, roasted grains, nuts, and dried fruits. There was a layer of reeds and wrapped in pale silks were the bones of Gunnar Harraldson. These were removed with reverence and placed to one side so that the remaining contents could be gathered up. When the jar had been emptied, they had acquired two more warm and weatherproof garments, a silver square no larger than one’s smallest finger which produced fire whenever it was needed and would burn forever, and a variety of foodstuffs and serving devices fashioned of precious metals.

  Braldt, wearing the warm cloak, began to rearrange the burial urns, stacking them in a semicircle against the wall of the cliff in a way that provided a shelter from the wind. It took some doing to gather enough wood to build a fire. Fortunately, the urns and some of the other materials necessary for the ceremony were carried to the site on long wooden poles, and these provided material for a fire, with a large pile left over for future use.

  While he was moving back and forth, Braldt stumbled numerous times over what he took to be stones or boulders. One such misstep sent him sprawling and when he got to his feet, he found that he had uncovered the frozen body of a cock, its bright red and black and green feathers coated with a layer of ice. He stared at it for a long moment and then brushed the snow aside, revealing more than two dozen such pitiful bodies. All had had their necks severed.

  He showed one such body to Saxo, who was already busy emptying yet another burial urn. “Oh, yes! Of course!” cried Saxo as he stuffed Thunder’s head back inside his vest. “How could I have forgotten? They are cast over the lintel in honor of Odin! There should be enough here to feed us for days. The cold will have kept them fresh.” Brandtson shuddered, but Braldt lost no time in erecting a brazier, where a number of the frozen birds were soon dripping and sizzling over the coals.

  By the end of the first day, they were well prepared to survive for an indefinite period of time. The jars had been arranged so that they were sheltered while still exhibiting an untouched outward appearance. A layer of wood and rushes separated them from the cold ground and a raised sleeping platform had been thickly strewn with furs and warm blankets. They had a variety of foodstuffs as well as a goodly number of frozen cocks and rabbits, sacrificed in Odin’s name. There was also a pile of gemstones and precious metals, awesome in their beauty but useless for survival. More importantly, there was a large number of weapons, for no man could go to meet the gods without his arms.

  These included several gem-encrusted swords and daggers which suited Braldt nicely, but more to Saxo and Brandtson’s liking were the laser pistols and stun guns, which displaced air upon emission and sent out powerful shock waves, capable of stunning one’s target into instant submission.

  These weapons were considered obsolete, having been long surpassed by more advanced technology, but many of the newer weapons were affected by the solar flares and resulting magnetic and electrical disturbances, which often rendered them unreliable.

  Unable to depend on their state-of-the-art weaponry, many of the men of Valhalla, including the king’s own guard, had returned to weapons such as swords and daggers, which had long served no purpose other than ornamentation and ritual costuming. They soon discovered, much to their amazement, what Braldt had long known—that, wielded competently, swords and daggers were as capable of producing death as any of the sleek, modern weapons.

  The use of ancient weapons had staged an astonishing recovery. Now it was considered chic, the in thing to do, and no young warrior would consider being seen in public without a blade gleaming at his side. Braldt was amused by their affectation, but pleased as well, for swords and daggers were weapons he was familiar with as well as highly skilled using. Of the newer weapons, he knew less than nothing. There was so much that he did not know, it was a good feeling to be the Scandis’ equal at something.

  The three men settled themselves for the night, wrapped snugly in their blankets and furs, watching the flames of the tiny fire, each lost in his own thoughts, wondering what was happening in the world they had left behind.

  8

  Keri was wakened from her restless slumber by Beast’s throaty growls. His eyes were like two gold beacons gleaming in the early morning light. She started, her head rising from the pillow, knowing that Beast was not prone to casual noise-making; if he growled, it was for a good reason. She felt beneath her pillow for her dagger and clutched the hilt tightly as she silently rose from the bed. Beast pressed against her thigh and stared intently at the door.

  She reached for a robe, but even as her hand closed upon the sheer, silky
fabric, the door to her room burst open and armed men poured into the small chamber.

  She stepped back, but the bed pressed against her legs; there was nowhere to go. She raised the dagger before her, a grim look on her face, her eyes narrowed, her expression giving notice to the slowly advancing men that. she would not hesitate to use the weapon. Beast added his ominous growls, revealing his frightening fangs and double rows of teeth.

  “Now, now, there is no need for violence.” Skirnir sidled into the room, carefully positioning himself behind the armored bulk of a guard. “The king merely wishes your presence and begs you to attend him as soon as is convenient.”

  “Does the king normally invite people to visit him at this early hour and are his invitations always tendered by armed guards who do not bother to knock on a door before breaking it open?” Keri asked heatedly, not for a moment fooled by Skirnir, whom she loathed.

  “Heh, heh. The king is such a busy man, so very busy, time holds little or no meaning for him as it does for ordinary folk. Surely you understand. Come, my dear, do not be difficult. Come. along nicely and present yourself to the king without all this tiresome trouble.”

  “This isn’t trouble,” Keri said defiantly, gripping her weapon all the more tightly. “I’ll show you real trouble if you come one step closer. If the king really wants to see me, he can do so in a proper manner.”

  “The king is not accustomed to obeying the whims of women,” Skirnir said with a sneer, daring to venture out from behind the guard. “You will come with us, now!” His fingers flicked forward and instantly the guards advanced on Keri and seized her before she could do more than swipe at them with her blade. She nicked the arm of the guard on her right and he cursed as blood flowed, soaking his robes. But he did not release her. She screamed, more in anger and frustration than in fear, and that seemed to trigger Beast, for he launched himself at the injured guard, instinctively going for the most vulnerable prey.