by Rose Estes
11
Otir Vaeng was worried. Too many things were going wrong.
First and foremost there was the matter of Braldt and the two old men, Saxo and Brandtson. How could they have disappeared so completely? There was an entire world to hide in, that was true, but they had had no advance warning and no time to gather the necessary provisions that would enable them to remain at large. He tried, as Skirnir suggested, to imagine them lying cold and stiff beneath the blowing snows, but an alternate picture kept imposing itself—that of the three of them sitting warm and snug around a roaring campfire, lifting mugs of wine, toasting their success and laughing at him. It ate at him constantly, chewed at his innards like a paranoid tapeworm.
When he could make himself think of anything else, he was confronted by other bleak thoughts. The murders. Someone was methodically killing those most vital to the upcoming launch. To date, five—no, now it was six specialists had been slain. The flight was still possible—others would take their place—but the flight would be far more dangerous without the benefit of the senior technicians’ expertise.
The remaining experts had been sequestered in safe quarters under heavy guard and were escorted to and from their work.
It would take an army to break down the defenses guarding the remaining technicians. But still, he would feel much better if the maniac could be found. Skirnir was in charge of ferreting out the assassin and the man had ways that had always proved effective in the past.
Then there was the girl, Keri, and her brother Carn. Both had proved difficult. Otir Vaeng had expected the girl to protest, but he had thought that Carn would be more amenable even though he did not know the complete scenario.
Otir Vaeng closed his eyes and sighed, realizing that Carn would eventually have to be eliminated. His head throbbed. There was a deep ache behind his eyes and he was tired all the time. The weariness was bone deep and had nothing at all to do with sleep. Would there ever be an end to this business? It had been such a long time since anything was simple.
For the first time, Otir Vaeng wondered if it was all too much… if it was worth it. It was a startling thought. He had been reared to be king, had lived all his life with intrigue, deception, and death, and never had he questioned or even doubted the means to the end, much less whether or not the goal was worth achieving. Now, for the first time, Otir Vaeng was consumed with doubts.
Then there was the girl. Keri. He sighed again and looked at his hand, which he had done a hundred times in the last hour. He had gone to speak to the girl—to calm her fears. But before he could speak, the cursed lupebeast had attacked him. He had thrown his arm across his face and throat, and had been badly bitten, chewing and tearing at his hand like a chunk of meat. Keri had pulled the beast away as his other hand clawed at his sword. But the damage had already been done. No amount of medication seemed to halt the infection or reverse the damage. In fact, the hand looked worse than it had only an hour ago. The entire hand was swelled to three times its normal size, the skin stretched taut and shiny over the swollen flesh. He could feel it throb with every pulse of his heart and it ached damnably no matter how he positioned it. The flesh surrounding the wound itself was ragged and torn and had turned black around the edges. Yellow pus oozed from it and soaked the bandages. Angry red lines radiated up his wrist and streaked his arm.
The doctors had little to offer except more antibiotics that seemed to do little or no good and the ridiculous suggestion that he soak his hand and arm in very, very hot water to draw the poison out.
The situation was absurd. They had made so many miraculous advances in medicine and healing, yet they were helpless to halt a simple infection. A fever raged in his body as his immune system attempted to fight the invading organisms. It was almost enough to make him laugh, if it hadn’t hurt to do so—the thought that a primitive animal from a conquered world could accomplish what a lifetime of enemies had been powerless to accomplish: his death.
Skirnir and the doctors had been quick to deny that this was even a possibility, but he had seen the gleam of fear in their eyes and the furtive glances when they thought he did not notice. The bacteria contained in the beast’s mouth, coating its jagged double rows of fangs, was virulent in the extreme and did not seem to respond to the strongest of vaccines. Despite their bluff assurances, the doctors were very worried.
It was easy to see that what they were afraid of was what he might do to them; none of them really cared about he himself, despite their lip service to the contrary. More and more, Otir Vaeng had come to realize as never before just how alone he really was. His wife had died long ago. Theirs had been a loveless, political marriage and she had not chosen to extend her life artificially as he had done.
Only recently had he begun to brood, wondering if life with him had made her so unhappy that death seemed preferable. Now, years and years after her bones had turned to dust on old earth, he found himself wishing that he had it to do over again. Despite their efforts, they had had no children. Early in the marriage she had loved him, but he had been far too busy with his various intrigues to devote any real amount of time and caring and eventually her love had died.
Oddly, the girl, Keri, was the only one who really seemed to care, and the wound had been her fault in the first place. He tried hard to conjure up a rage, but could not. He found himself wishing, not for the first time, that there was some way to circumvent the volva’s plans. There was something about the girl that appealed to him, caused him to look at things as he had not seen them in many a long year. For all of her brave exterior, Keri was so fresh and clean and innocent of the horrors of life that he found himself wanting to protect her, to spare her from the harsh realities.
Ah. Otir Vaeng shook his head and grinned in wry amusement. It was certainly a sign of age, this feeling of an old man for a young woman. Otir Vaeng cradled his hand against his chest and sat down in his chair to rest—Justfor a minute, he thought, just for a few minutes.
Keri paced back and forth in the chambers where she was now sequestered. They were plush and comfortable, outfitted with everything she might have wanted, including a closet full of magnificent clothes, far more beautiful than any she had ever owned. But the luxuries that surrounded her were not enough to keep her mind off her problems.
Back and forth she paced, with Beast lying in front of the fireplace, muzzle resting on his outstretched paws, following her with his eyes.
“You miss him too, don’t you?” she said, and Beast whined as though he had understood her words. “Where do you suppose they are? Are they all right?” Beast looked at her with soulful eyes and whined again. There was a sudden commotion at the door and it swung open, then slammed abruptly shut as Uba Mintch stumbled across the threshold, barely catching himself from falling.
Keri hurried across the room and threw herself into the old Madrelli’s arms, holding onto him tightly. He placed his huge shaggy arms around her and gently smoothed her dark curls away from her forehead with an immense black paw.
At one time—not so long ago, actually—Keri would have considered Uba Mintch an animal and cringed from his touch, but now he and Beast were her only comfort in this frightening world. She permitted herself the luxury of a few tears and just for a moment allowed herself to feel safe. There was something about the great bulk of the old Madrelli that generated a feeling of safety and protection. At last she placed a hand on his chest and drew away, wiping her eyes and sniffling a little. She gave him a wan smile.
Uba Mintch chucked her under the chin much as her own father might have done, and this threatened to start the tears flowing again. “No time for tears, child. There is much to be done, much to be said. Dry your eyes and sit by me, here by the fire. These old bones cannot get enough heat to keep them warm on this cold world. Here, sit here by me.” He patted the thick shag rug located directly in front of the fire.
Before Uba Mintch seated himself, he gave the room a cursory search, peering behind pictures and feeling the undersides o
f furniture. Keri knew that he believed the room and their conversation was under constant surveillance, although she found it hard to believe that anyone would be interested in what she might say or do. Uba Mintch had never found anything to support his belief, but he remained convinced that it was true, and all of their conversations took place in front of the fireplace after an armload of wood had been added. The resulting crackling and spitting as the fire reached the tiny pockets of water contained in the wood were enough to muddle the most sensitive monitoring.
“I believe them to be alive,” the Madrelli said in a very low voice, and grabbed Keri’s hands before she could react. “I talked to young Brion not ten minutes before the king’s guards came for him. We can only hope that he is strong enough to resist them.”
“But I have heard that…” Keri’s voice dwindled away and Uba Mintch knew that she was referring to the fact that no one could stand up to the king’s interrogation, for it was done with drugs that extracted all knowledge despite a man’s best resolve.
“I too have heard the stories,” Uba Mintch said heavily, “but there are other ways of keeping one’s silence if the stakes are high enough.” Keri looked at him with horrified understanding.
“Where are they? Are they truly safe?”
“The less you know, the safer you’ll be. You cannot relate what you do not know. I will tell you only that they were able to get away from the city and that they are safe and well provisioned. There was a plan, but now that Brion and the others have been taken, I do not know what will happen.”
“Can we not do something to help?”
Uba Mintch looked at her with fondness. “My dear, you seem to forget that we are little better than prisoners ourselves. We would never be able to leave this place, and even if we were able to do so, our presence would bring nothing but danger down upon those we wish to protect. The best thing we can do for them is keep our distance.”
“Then, how—”
“I had thought that perhaps that dwarf, or maybe Barat Krol. But both of them seem to have disappeared. I cannot find either of them.”
“Septua, yes, he would do it if the price was right,” Keri said, twisting a heavy gold bracelet set with rubies and emeralds that Otir Vaeng had given her. Such a thing would certainly catch the dwarf’s fancy and she would part with it without a moment’s hesitation.
“They say the king is in a fury about Braldt and the others. He has turned the place upside down looking for them; not one chamber has escaped search. The volva has accompanied the guard and has pointed her bone at more than a few who were not even suspect.”
“Pointed her bone?”
Uba Mintch took her hands in his as he explained. “If the volva points her bone at you, you are as good as dead. It means you’re guilty of whatever she chooses to accuse you of. They take you away and, often as not, you are the sacrifice at the next paean to the gods.
“I hate that woman,” Keri said vehemently. “Why does Carn allow her to use him? Can he not see what she is doing?”
“I do not understand your brother; he is a very angry young man and much of what he does is not predicated on reason, but emotion.”
“It is as though he has turned his back upon us. Braldt was a brother to him—they laughed and fought and played together since they were children. They loved each other. How can he forget that?”
“There is a sickness inside your brother, a disease that no medicine can put right. He is jealous of Braldt and I imagine that he has been jealous all his life. You may be right: It is possible to love and hate someone at the same time. But something has tipped the balance. At this moment he hates Braldt, and any love he may have felt has been overwhelmed by this black jealousy.”
“It’s my fault. If I had not fallen in love with Braldt and then forced them to take me with them, none of this would ever have happened. They would still be friends.”
“Don’t take this burden of guilt onto yourself,” cautioned Uba Mintch. “Your feelings for Braldt may well have had something to do with Carn’s emotions, but I suspect it had more to do with the fact that Auslic, your high chief, chose Braldt to succeed him as ruler, rather than Carn.”
Keri looked into his eyes and nodded. “You are probably right. Carn has always thought that it would be he who was chosen, for the position was his by birthright. Braldt was not even one of us; it must have been a terrible blow. I never really thought about it.”
“You can be certain that Carn has thought about little else.”
“But why the volva? She is a terrible woman. What can she possibly want with Carn?”
Uba Mintch replied dryly, “I’m certain that Carn views his being chosen by her as an honor. As to what she wants of him, well, we will just have to wait and see. I admit, I have no more understanding of her motives than you do.”
“Beast bit the king, you know,” Keri said, changing the subject abruptly.
“What? No, I had not heard. How? Why?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he thought that the king was trying to hurt me, he’s been on edge ever since they brought us here. He’s obeyed me, but barely. In truth, I’m surprised that he hasn’t gone for someone before this.”
“I suppose it was not fatal,” Uba Mintch said in a hopeful voice that was a feeble attempt at humor.
Keri stared at him with her huge brown eyes magnified by tears.
“What have I said, my dear? I did not mean to upset you. It was but a poor joke!”
“It was a terrible bite. The king reached out to give me this”—she raised her arm so that the Madrelli could see the jeweled bracelet—”and before I could stop him, Beast went for him— If he hadn’t thrown his hand up— Oh— it was horrible! I could hear the bones snap, and the blood! Oh! There was blood everywhere!”
Uba Mintch stared down at Beast, who looked up and met his gaze with a self-satisfied quirk to his muzzle as though he understood full well the subject under discussion. The fearsome double rows of jagged teeth which had caused so much damage were easily viewed, for as the lupebeast had matured, the double rows of fangs had grown as well. Now, just short of maturity, the beast had reached his full size and his teeth, always impressive, extended slightly beyond the jaws in a ferocious overbite, meshing in a manner that could not be unlocked by any amount of struggling. Uba Mintch thought the king lucky that he had come away with his hand still attached to his body. “I am surprised that he did not kill Beast.”
“He could have done so,” Keri agreed, “but I clung to his arm and begged him not to. Had the guards been in the room, I do not think Beast would be alive today. As it was, I persuaded him to release the king. I did my best to stop the bleeding, but it was very bad. I have not seen him since and I have heard that he is very ill.”
“It could not have happened to a more deserving soul,” Uba Mintch said with satisfaction, despite Keri’s grief.
“He has always been very nice to me,” she said in defense of the injured king.
“Then, my dear, from what I hear, you are the only person on several worlds who is able to say that. Should he indeed die, you will be the only one to mourn him.”
The Madrelli crept toward the great silver vessel, slipping from one bit of cover to the next. For all his great size, he was very agile and could move like a shadow if it was necessary.
The snow still swept down with great force, scouring everything that dared exposure with flakes that burned and stung upon contact. He was close enough that he could hear, the slithery whispers as the snow struck the sleek hull of the spacecraft and caressed the metallic skin.
Huge arc vapor lights shed pools of bright bluish white light on the craft and all around the perimeter. Barat Krol halted at the very edge, studying the scene, taking in the huddled forms of the guards crouched over a small fire at the far edge of the area, trying to stay warm rather than walk the perimeter as they had been charged to do.
He could sympathize with them, for it was wicked weather, a deeper, more bitter col
d than he had ever experienced. It had been necessary for him to don one of the survival suits that the guards wore to protect them from the cold.
It had been difficult finding a suit large enough to fit him and even harder still persuading the man inside to part with it. At this moment, that man lay staring up at the dark sky, his neck tilted at a strange angle, a puzzled look still clouding his unseeing eyes.
The king had finally acknowledged that they were under attack and had thrown a cordon of protection around the remaining technicians. Barat Krol would have preferred to eliminate them all, but one did what one could. He was surprised that there were so few guards stationed around the vessel. Were they really so confident of their own power that they could ignore the fact that there were those who opposed them? If so, all the better for his purposes.
He studied the snow-swept landscape and moved to a point opposite the guards’ shelter, where the spacecraft itself blocked their line of view. Here would be his best approach. He had watched the guards’ careful promenade on nights when the snow had not beat down with such relentless force and saw that they were most careful to walk only the outer most perimeter. From this he deduced that there were traps or pressure points to be avoided.
There were also a number of laser beams lacing the open space, but the dead guard had thoughtfully provided him with a pair of night vision goggles that enabled him to see the deadly beams of light that could now be carefully avoided. The goggles were far too small and squeezed his head like a vise, but he endured the discomfort, knowing that it was necessary.
Barat Krol was not accustomed to dealing with such advanced weaponry, but sabotage was another matter. He had been part of the original party and one of the three survivors of those who had sabotaged and brought a halt to the Scandis’ mining of his world. That had been his first lesson in the fine art of sabotage, and since then he had grown even more adept.
He had gathered an armload of ice chunks. One at a time he fashioned large, heavy snowballs, each with a lump of ice buried in its center. These he carefully lobbed, tossing them over the dangerous beams on a zigzag course which he had chosen. If even one of the beams were broken or a single pressure point activated, the game would be over. It seemed as though the gods were watching over his actions, for not once did his missiles touch down on a pressure point.
