The Hunter Victorious (10 page)

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.

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.

The guard sensed Beast coming toward him, a gray-brown blur of movement streaking through the air. He released Keri and stumbled
backward, throwing his hands up in front of him, but it was futile protection against Beast’s vicious teeth, designed for
ripping, slashing, and tearing. He went down under the weight of Beast’s assault and it was over almost before it began as
the lupebeast ripped the man’s throat out, severing the jugular vein with his saber-sharp teeth.

Before the guard had even realized that he was mortally wounded and his body had ceased its anguished flailing, his companions
had surrounded Beast and pointed their swords to his throat and heart.

“No!” Keri screamed, throwing herself at Beast, placing her own body between him and the bristling blades. “Don’t kill him.
I will go with you if you do not harm him.”

,”My girl, you have no choice in the matter. You will go with us no matter what we do,” Skirnir said grimly. “But in this
I will humor you.” He paused as the dead man’s companions turned to him in protest. “The king,” he said sternly, “wishes the
animal as well. Slay it if you dare to face his displeasure.” The swords lowered with hesitation, the men backing away but
still alert, holding Beast at bay. Keri wrenched free and threw her arms around Beast’s neck, ready to protect him with her
life.

“Can you control the creature?” Skirnir asked, doubt evident in the tone of his voice.

“Yes,” Keri replied, although she was far from certain. Beast could be directed and he would obey if he wished, but he was
no tame lap creature to obey man’s every whim; he obeyed none but his own wild instincts.

“Bring him, then, and prepare yourself to meet the king. But know you that if you seek to deceive us or have any thought of
escape, one or both of you will die.”

One glance at the man’s hard, cold eyes and his thin, cruel lips convinced Keri that he was speaking the truth. She could
not bear the thought of losing Beast; she lowered her head to hide the quick tears that came to her eyes. She had no alternative
but to do as Skirnir demanded. Where were Braldt and Brandtson and Uba Mintch? She tried to keep her spirits high by telling
herself that they would search her out, that they would not allow any harm to come to her, and she tried desperately to believe
that it was so.

Barat Krol faced the gathering of Madrelli whom he had awakened from sleep and struggled to control his anger. How could they
be so stubborn? Why could they not understand
what he was trying to tell them? The message, the words, were certainly simple enough. It was almost as though they chose
not to understand. But how could that be? Why would anyone choose to be a slave when they could be free?

“Listen to me,” he tried once again. The Madrelli stared back at him with little or no interest in their dull, flat eyes.
Several of the males yawned broadly and two of the younger females had already curled themselves into balls and returned to
sleep. “It is not right for any man to own another, to, enslave him and his children for his own gain. You are not animals
to be bought and sold. Your lives belong to you, not to the Scandis. You must join together and defy them, take control of
your own destiny!”

He stared at them angrily; they stared back. “But we
are
animals,” one large male said slowly. “Why are you so angry with us? Why do you say such things? Who are you? We do not even
know you.”