The Hunter Victorious

by Rose Estes

  She was a strange and slightly frightening woman, with few of the graces normally attributed to her gender. He felt fear and a sense of revulsion whenever she turned her sultry eyes upon him, the threat implied in the palpable heated aura of her sexuality. Otir Vaeng repressed a faint shudder; he could no more imagine coupling with the woman than lying down with a sleeping tiger.

  Despite his fears and suspicions, the king knew that he could not afford to alienate the seeress. His plans had advanced rapidly and things were beginning to gel. He would need her services to bring them to fruition.

  “We have taken her, and the beast. I did not want the creature, but the girl refused to come without it; she might have struggled and caused herself harm. I want no bloodshed. There will be time for that later.”

  “We can sacrifice the beast before the girl; the sight of blood will rouse and roughen their spirits, and when the knife slices through the girl’s throat and we give her to the gods, they will go mad; you can tell them anything and they will obey you.”

  “I had thought that if we gave the creature to the gods, perhaps they would be satisfied and not require the girl.” Otir Vaeng’s voice had lost its power and he turned aside as he spoke so that he did not have to look at her.

  There was a lengthy silence, during which time the volva fell very still. Her eyes bored into the king, who fidgeted and squirmed like a small child who had done wrong and been called to account. The tension grew till it shivered on the nerves before the seeress spoke.

  Her voice was glossy soft, a silky purr as she regarded the king with hooded eyes, much as a panther regards its prey. “The gods speak directly to me. They whisper in my ear, telling me their needs, charging me to fulfill them. The girl will go as a bride to the gods, untouched, pure, a suitable sacrifice; the blood of a beast will not appease them.”

  “I do not see how the gods, amorphous, ethereal creatures if they even exist, can desire anything, much less the life and flesh of a young girl!”

  The seeress smiled at him. “That is your problem, not mine.”

  Septua strolled through the crowded marketplace, wending his way through the throngs of sharp-eyed shoppers and those who came as most did, merely to see and be seen. The marketplace was the heart of Valhalla, a promenade of sorts where literally all manner of deals were done, everything from the sale of purloined goods to promises of betrothal. If you could not find what you were looking for in the marketplace, it was not to be found on Valhalla.

  It pulsed with an undercurrent of excitement that Septua found as intoxicating as any drug and almost as impossible to be without. When he was separated from the marketplace, he felt incomplete in a way that had nothing to do with the physical inequalities he had been dealt by nature. Here, as nowhere else, he was any man’s equal, and in most cases far superior.

  Septua stopped at the corner of a display of hardware, a mountain of metallic arms and legs, smooth heads with no eyes, a veritable burial mound of dead and useless robots, their delicate computerized innerworkings slain by the erratic, unpredictable emissions of the dying sun. It warmed his heart just looking upon them lying still and silent, never to move again. The robots had been a bane upon his existence, causing him no end of problems for more years than he could count. Silent, predatory, never sleeping. Their demise brought him great pleasure.

  He grinned broadly at the vendor who began to sing their praises, thinking that he had found a buyer. Septua entertained the notion of buying one or two, just for laughs, using them to hold mops and brooms and such. But then, he wasn’t much for housekeeping.

  Once more he set forth upon his way, breathing in the rich scents of the goods offered for sale: lush, golden pomonas, dripping with juice, imported at great cost from far-off Galardia; pungent sacks of stick cinnamon, worth their weight in gold, plucked from the last few precious trees of old earth; glittering arrays of weaponry, swords and daggers and all manner of deadly honed items forged and fashioned on the hearths of Rototara.

  Septua loved daggers and swords and the like. None was happier over the demise of such state-of-the-art weapons as laser pistols, stunners and beamers than he. He rejoiced over the deadly solar flares that disrupted everything that depended on computer chips and solid state circuitry to function. He had never been adept at the more sophisticated weaponry, but swords and daggers—ah, now, that was another matter. Give him a dagger, and his own natural gift of stealth and size was no longer a factor; he could compete against the largest of men and emerge the victor.

  Stealth and speed were Septua’s finest attributes, along with a shrewd and crafty mind that was capable of interpreting seemingly unrelated facts and discovering cleverly disguised schemes. This was just the sort of puzzle he was working on now. He turned over what young Brion had told him, the bare facts: the sun was dying, Otir Vaeng was assembling a core group of those who would be chosen to populate the new world, and Septua would not be among those chosen.

  The dwarf shrugged his broad shoulders, a grimace on his expressive face. He had not been among those chosen the last time they had immigrated to a new world; he would have been astonished had it been otherwise this time. All those who remained on Valhalla would die. Well, where there was a will, there was a way. When Valhalla’s sun finally winked out, he would not be among those left to freeze in the darkness.

  He mulled over the tasks that young Brion had set before him, simple enough on the surface, little challenge for one as clever as he. But there had to be more to it; it just took some figuring to find out what was the true, hidden agenda.

  Brion had said that Septua would be well paid for his services. He just didn’t know how right he was. Septua hefted the heavy pouch of coins that he had liberated from the young warrior’s possession, calculating how many of the kroner he would have to spend to find out what he needed to know. Whatever it was, the cost meant nothing in the long run, for if he did not succeed and there was no world, what need would there be for money?

  The snow had fallen without cease for two days and nights, burying what few indications of trespass there had been beneath a thick blanket of snow. It draped over the burial urns and packed solidly upon the roof of the fugitives’ lair. They were surrounded by snow on all sides and Braldt found it unnerving, for there was no definition of any sort and it almost felt as though he were adrift in a sea of smoke.

  The falling snow imparted several benefits that he had not anticipated. It served as insulation, keeping them warmer than they had been before, and the constant fall of flakes concealed the rising wisps of smoke from their tiny fire.

  The fire was not really necessary, but all of them felt the need, for there was something cheery, alive, in the crackling flames that drove away the silence and the isolation that threatened to overwhelm them. They spoke more often than usual, repeating old tales and sharing more recent memories, just so that there would be something to listen to besides the howl of the wind and the slithery swirl of snow. It was the silence, the isolation, and the fear of what was happening at home that threatened their equanimity. They were brave and courageous men, but they were men of action, unaccustomed to silence and waiting, and they fretted under the burden of forced inactivity. Thunder had no such difficulty and was content to spend most of his time wrapped deep in slumber. Braldt envied him.

  They saw no more of Skirnir, although Braldt found himself almost wishing that the grave robber would work up the courage to return, simply to break the monotony. Neither had they seen or heard from Brion or any of the others. Secretly Braldt began to wonder if something had gone wrong, if they had been found out.

  Thus, when loud and colorful curses were heard on the morning of the seventh day, Braldt was first out of the tiny shelter, hand on the hilt of his sword, ruing the stiffness that seemed to have settled permanently between his shoulder blades. Saxo and Brandtson were behind him, peering into the driving snow.

  “It’s like trying to breathe water,” Saxo grumbled in a low voice. “And I can’t s
ee a damn thing.”

  Neither, it appeared, could the unseen traveler, whose impossible obscenities could be plainly heard nonetheless. Listening intently, Braldt realized with a shock of recognition that he knew that voice, had heard those same physically impossible curses before!

  “Septua! Septua, is that you?”

  “Better my mother ‘ad become a nun than I be fool enough to come out in weather like this for any man!” came the heated reply. “Where are you? Show yourself, send up a flare, wave yer arms! Not that any of it will do any good; like as not they’ll find my poor frozen corpse someday, or— ooops!”

  There was a solid thumping noise and then silence; everything was still. “Septua?” Braldt said tentatively, taking several steps forward into the blizzard, wondering what had happened. Where had the dwarf gone? He heard a low moan somewhere off to his right and, with Saxo and Brandtson following close behind him, he waded through the deep drifts which had piled high against the wall of urns. He took another step forward and felt his footing give way as he stepped on something soft that twisted beneath him. Taken by surprise, he tried to save himself but could not and tumbled forward, sprawling facefirst in the snow.

  The snow erupted beneath him in a flurry of arms and legs and glaring eyes. It was several moments before Braldt could separate himself and the dwarf and extract them both from the clinging snow. Once Septua was righted, it was easy to see why they had caught no glimpse of him, for the snow was higher than the little man himself!

  “It weren’t so bad when I first started out,” Septua explained when at last they had carried him back to the shelter, outfitted him with dry clothes, and placed a steaming mug into his stiff fingers. “Thought I could make it, no trouble a-tall, but it kept gettin’ deeper an’ deeper till pretty soon it were ’igher than me ’ead! Kept ‘avin’ to jump up like, to get me bearins, an’ even then it were a close thing! I were like some kind of mole, burrowin’ through the snow!” The dwarf chuckled at the rueful image and honked his nose loudly into a bright square of cloth.

  “No mole would have been so clever as to have found his way here to us,” Brandtson said. “It could not have been an easy task!”

  “Phoo! No self-respectin’ mole would ’ave been so stupid, neither, to come out in weather like this!” Septua said, adding a few colorful curses on the subject of his own stupidity.

  “How is it that you did find us? Why is it that you have come?” Brandtson asked, and alerted by the steely tone in his voice, Braldt realized that he and Saxo were viewing the dwarf with hostility and distrust. Septua was at best not the most reassuring of figures, but while Braldt might question the little man’s commitment to ethics, he had no reason to question his loyalty. Still, he too was interested in learning what had brought the dwarf, who was no lover of physical discomfort, out in such a terrible storm.

  “Didn’t see no way around it,” Septua said, bathing his face in the warmth of the steaming mug, seemingly unaware of their suspicions. “I ’ad to come. It were me or no one to tell you what be ‘appenin’. ‘Tis nothin’ good.” His mobile features—the large, woeful eyes, the bulbous nose, wide mouth, and pointy little chin—were almost comical, but Braldt felt his mouth go dry at the dwarf’s words and his heart began to hammer in his chest.

  “What’s happening? Keri? Is she all right?” He grabbed the dwarf by the front of his garments and half raised him from the ground.

  “ ’Ere, ’ere, let me be,” whined Septua, scrambling to save his tea. “It weren’t my doin’!”

  “Tell me,” Braldt commanded.

  Septua made a great fuss of being offended, all but pouting as he straightened his robes, rearranged himself, and sipped his tea before he would speak. It was all that Braldt could do to keep from throttling him.

  “Went to meet Brion, but ’e weren’t there! ‘Ung around an’ ‘eard some worrisome rumors about this one an’ that bein’ arrested. ‘Ole battalions be disappearin’ just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “An’ there be all sorts o’ ugly rumors floatin’ ’round the marketplace ’bout ‘ow they was traitors an’ such like.” He raised a wide, stubby hand with fat little sausage fingers. “I know, I know, Keri.” He looked off into the whirling snow, unwilling or unable to meet Braldt’s eyes. “She be taken by the king. ’E intends to marry ’er, or so I ‘ear.”

  Braldt uttered a curse and rose to his feet as though intending to rush out into the storm, and fought off the hands that reached to restrain him. He strode out into the snow and then reappeared, lifting Septua under the arms and raising him up to look him in the eye. “Is this some sort of joke?” He shook the dwarf back and forth till Septua’s head rattled and his eyes watered. The precious mug lay unnoticed, spilling its contents into the snow.

  “ ’Ey! ’Ey! ’Tis no joke. Lemme be!” shouted the dwarf, pummeling Braldt with his fists. “Why would I come all this way to tell you a bad joke? You think I be crazy? But I knew it be worse if I din’t come, an’ let you find out on yer own!”

  Braldt scanned Septua with a searching gaze and the dwarf met his eyes with no difficulty. Slowly, Braldt lowered him to the ground and once again Septua made a great show of rearranging his clothes and shaking his head and arms as though checking to make certain that everything was still attached. “Shouldn’t ought to do that. I thought we be friends!”

  Braldt did not respond, but merely stood staring into the white distance, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Then he turned abruptly and began gathering up his weapons. Saxo was the first to realize what Braldt was up to and placed a hand on his arm. Braldt shook it off without comment. Brandtson and Septua quickly grasped what was happening and both of them moved in to dissuade Braldt.

  “You cannot return. It would be like signing your death warrant,” argued Brandtson. “They are looking for us—all of us. Have you forgotten? There is no place that is safe in Valhalla, nowhere that you could hide where they could not find you. Once they found you, you would be unable to save Keri, much less yourself, and they would force you to tell them everything you know about our plans.”

  “I wouldn’t tell them anything,” Braldt said between clenched teeth as he continued to gather up his few posessions.

  “I do not doubt your courage or your strength,” said Brandtson. “Otir Vaeng would not use weapons or the threat of pain against you, but drugs that would cause you to repeat everything you know. You would be powerless to resist. Would you jeopardize all of our lives, our only hope, on this foolish venture?”

  Braldt dropped his hands to his sides and turned to face his grandfather. “I cannot let him take Keri, and do nothing to save her. Would you have me sacrifice her? Is she to be the cost of our venture? I will not buy my life with hers.”

  “She is not giving up her life, merely marrying,” Saxo said, attempting to reason with Braldt. “Despite my own personal opinions, not everyone considers marriage to be tantamount to death.”

  Braldt was not amused. “Why would Otir Vaeng want to marry her?” he demanded of the dwarf.

  “Don’t know,” Septua replied with widespread hands. “Don’t know what’s.goin’ on. No one seems to know nothin’. It’s like them murders. Otir Vaeng says it be you, but how can that be if you be stuck way out ’ere in the snow?”

  “What murders?” demanded Brandtson.

  “Dunno. Bunch o’ dead guys. All o’ ’em ’ad somethin’ or other to do with the launch, space an’ all. All of ’em dead—five, I think.”

  “And they think we’re responsible?” Braldt asked.

  Septua nodded. “That be what the king be sayin’. An’ since yer not there to say no, he ain’t ’ad no trouble pinnin’ it on you.”

  “Maybe he’s taken Keri to force our return,” Braldt muttered as he began to pace back and forth in the small enclosure.

  “Mebbe,” agreed Septua, “but still an’ all, I think ’e plans to take ’er to wife. There be all manner of fixins goin’ on.”

  “Then he can’t be meaning to harm
her,” Braldt said, the tension easing somewhat.

  Saxo and Brandtson looked at each other with alarm—a look which Braldt was quick to notice. “What? What is it? Tell me!”

  “A wedding is not necessarily a good thing,” replied Saxo. “You see”—he cleared his throat—”in the old religion, in times of great trouble, the kings were known to petition the gods for favors—bribing them, you might say—with precious gifts, gold and fine weapons and… and…”

  “… and a beautiful young woman as their bride,” Brandtson finished for his friend. “The delegation, consisting of the king, his bride, the volva, and a mass of commoners will come here to this place bearing food and gifts. The bride will be adorned with fine clothes and bedecked with gold and precious gemstones. Amid great pomp and ceremony, they will be wed. Then a cock will be slain, a knife drawn across its throat, and its body flung across the lintel to announce the coming of the bride. Then the bride will willingly bare her breast and the volva will plunge a blade into her heart. Her body will be carried into the burial mound and given unto the keeping of the gods. If she is found to the liking of the gods, they may choose to grant the king’s petition.”

  Braldt stared at them in disbelief. “This is nonsense,” he said at length. “This whole religion is nonsense. How can anyone believe it? And Keri will never give herself willingly! We must do something to stop this!”

  “Whether the religion is nonsense or not has no real bearing,” Brandtson said heavily. “People believe what they need to believe in order to live. They are frightened. Their world is dying and they are afraid that they will die as well. If it eases their fears to believe that someone or something can be persuaded to help them, to change the future, can you blame them for wanting to believe that it is true?”

  “I can blame them if the cost is Keri’s life!” Braldt said heatedly. “And you can believe this: I will not allow it to happen!”