The Hunter Victorious (18 page)

Despite the drawbacks, the Scandis might have attempted to remain on Valhalla locked safely within their hollow mountain,
but it was not possible. Long before the sun shed its last feeble ray of light, the planet would have become buried beneath
a thick sheath of snow and ice. Not only would they lack a sun, but an atmosphere as well. Life would be impossible to sustain.
If they were to survive, they had no choice but to leave Valhalla.

Where to go, assuming they could escape the fickle flares. There were those among the Council of Thanes who favored a return
to earth; after all, those ills were well understood and it was always easier to deal with known evils than new,
uncertain problems. That suggestion was finally defeated by the mention of some of the ruthless methods which the Scandis
had used to facilitate their departure from earth. They had left many enemies behind and all too few friends. They would not
be welcomed on earth.

Rototara was another option; but then, they had ruthlessly exploited the planet, eliminating or imprisoning the native population.
Unfortunately, they had not realized that, periodically, the majority of the reptilian population went into deep hibernation,
awakening and emerging with the arrival of semi-decadential rains.

The awakened reptiles were massive, powerful, and militant, determined to take back their world from those who had defiled
it. Not all of the Scandis had been fortunate enough to escape the awakening rampage. No one knew how long the reptiles were
likely to remain out of hibernation; little was known about their life cycle. There were those who argued that they merely
mated and then either died off or returned to a state of hibernation until the next rains. But it was all theory; no one could
say for certain what they would find if they returned to Rototara, and none of those who had actually been there and witnessed
the reptilian wrath were anxious to risk it a second time.

There were other inhabited planets and artificial life stations to choose from, but these were Federation-controlled and no
matter what their choice, they would be governed by the rules and rulers of others; it was not a pleasant thought.

Their options had appeared to be limited in number and all of them bleak when the astronomers first came up with their startling
discovery; it had seemed impossible, at first, that Braldt’s planet, known on the star charts as K7, had somehow survived
the explosion that was to have blown it to bits. The cloud of debris, which they had hoped to mine of its valuable
rhodium, filled the space that the planet had once occupied. Only recently, readings and subsequent calculations had seemed
to indicate that the planet still existed! It had not been possible to actually view the planet, for it was effectively shielded
by a dense, dark cloud.

How was such a thing possible? On the face of it, it seemed most unlikely, but then a number of theories—wildly hopeful, even
absurd theories—were advanced. Among the least ridiculous was the possibility that the charges Leif Arndtson, the leader of
the expedition to destroy the planet, had (1) failed to detonate or (2) been consumed by the volcano itself. Poor Leif Arndtson,
who had wanted nothing more than to succeed in his mission, was now torn between defending the success of his mission and
praying that it had failed.

A second, more logical theory, which was gaining support as the data became available between solar flares, seemed to indicate
a massive volcanic eruption. There were those, of course, who doubted that any act of nature could do such an immense amount
of damage, but those who knew their ancient history pointed to the legendary eruption in the Mediterranean Sea which had totally
destroyed an island and gave rise to the persistent myth of Atlantis. There was also the devastating eruption of Mount Vesuvius
in Italy, and Krakatau in Java, not to mention Mount St. Helens in 1988 and the final death throes of Vesuvius in 2039, which
put an end to all life in southern Italy.

Clouds of volcanic debris circled the globe for years following the worst of those eruptions. So severe was the ultimate destruction
of Vesuvius that the temperature of the entire world was lowered for more than ten years, which had played a significant role
in the ultimate demise of earth.

Uncertain of their data and torn by internal bickering, the small coterie of scientists were uncertain of what course of
action they should follow. A goodly number wanted to inform the king of their findings and urge him to direct their launch
efforts to K7.

But an equally large number argued otherwise, for they had experienced the wrath of the king and were not anxious to urge
him to a course of action of which they were less than certain. What if there was nothing beneath that cloud of dust but dust?
And even if there was a planet, maybe it had survived the initial blast only to die due to lack of sunlight. A terrible bit
of irony, to escape one dying planet only to arrive on another.

Braldt could stand the inactivity no longer. He was a man
of action, accustomed to solving his problems with deeds. He could not envision what good could come of such laying about.
Brandtson and Saxo argued that lying low would relieve some of the tension on the city and divert attention from their compatriots.
This lessening of hostilities would permit them to continue with their plan.

But Braldt could not ignore the fact that many of their coconspirators had been arrested and it was quite possible that the
plan had already been compromised. Even worse, they had had no communication with the city since Septua’s arrival. And what
about Keri? That thought, more than any other, worried Braldt constantly. What would she think of him for deserting her, leaving
her alone with no friends other than Uba Mintch and Beast?

It was the thought of Keri that decided him at last. He gathered a few weapons and donned the warmest clothes he could find
before stroking a watchful Thunder and bidding a silent farewell to the sleeping Saxo and Brandtson. He could only hope they
would understand. Septua was a snoring lump huddled under a mound of blankets and furs.

The snow had abated and the night was clear and brittle cold. The stars sparkled in the black sky and truly seemed close enough
to touch. There was no sound other than the soft skitter of snow being blown across the tops of the glittering
drifts. And the crunch of footsteps. Braldt stopped for a moment and listened. The footsteps stopped as well, yet it seemed
that the sound continued for the slightest bit longer than it should have. Braldt walked on until he found what he was looking
for, a small arroyo that entered on the left. He stepped into the shadows of the gully and continued to tramp his feet in
the deep piled snow, treading ever more softly to simulate distance.

The ploy worked as he had hoped, for a small figure scurried out of the darkness, leaping and hopping to utilize the trail
he had broken. The tension faded. Braldt leaned back against the wall of the arroyo and assumed a casual stance. “Looking
for me?” he asked softly.

Septua slid to a halt, nearly falling headfirst into a drift. His hand was on his dagger, his lips drawn back in a snarl,
when his eyes fixed the location of Braldt’s voice and he saw who had spoken. Immediately his posture became humble and apologetic.
“Didn’t want to get left behind. Thought you might need me. You doesn’t know the city like I does.”

Braldt thought about it. It was true. Septua knew the ins and outs of the city like the features of his own face, but those
facial features were equally well known to those who might be seeking him. Still, there had been no indication that he was
being sought. Perhaps the dwarf could be of use.

“Why are you so anxious to return?” Braldt asked, for Septua was not known for his courage or eagerness to face danger.

The dwarf hung his head and looked aside, unwilling to meet Braldt’s eyes. He mumbled something under his breath.

Braldt leaned forward, curious now in spite of himself. Gone was the brash, belligerent attitude that typified the little
man. Braldt would almost have sworn that he was blushing! Suddenly Braldt understood.

“It’s Mirna, isn’t it? That double-dealing wench! She’s got her hooks into you again.”

“It ain’t like that, really!” Septua leapt to her defense despite the fact that the self-serving Mirna had betrayed him in
the past and would undoubtedly do so again if the circumstances warranted it.

“Right,” Braldt said dryly. He studied the dwarf for a long moment. “We take care of business first and then you can attend
to personal matters—but no short cuts, no foolish risks. Understood?”

“I don’t wanna get caught no more ’n you do,” the dwarf muttered, then brightened considerably. “If I help you, you’ll come
wit’ me whilst I talk to Mirna?”

Braldt hesitated, but it seemed only fair, and he had to admit to being curious about a woman who could turn the self-reliant
dwarf thief into helpless mush. He nodded his agreement and Septua’s face stretched into a wide grin.

The odd pair set off at a brisk pace, Braldt in the lead, breaking a path in the heavy snow, and Septua hopping along behind.
Shortly before dawn they reached the base of the mountain that was home to the population of Valhalla. There had been few
words exchanged during the long trek, all energy being conserved for the difficult trail. Now that the peak of the mountain
was in sight, a huge dark craggy bulk silhouetted against the pale light of the coming dawn, they huddled together for a conference.

“The guard be tightened ever’where,” Septua whispered, obviously aware of the fact that voices carry exceptionally well in
the silence of the night. “We don’t dare try goin’ in any o’ the main gates.”

“Should we try to scale the flank of the mountain and find our way in from one of the outer doors?”

“No, lemmee think a minute.” The dwarf chewed his
lower lip and his brow furrowed in concentration. “Sheep pens,” he proclaimed after a long moment of troubled thought. “We’ll
go in through the sheep pens. No one would ever think to watch ’em!”

Braldt was dubious, but held his silence. The little man might have many faults, but stealth and cunning were his stock in
trade. In this, Braldt would have to trust him.

The sheep pens announced their presence by smell long before they appeared in sight, a rank, gamy stench that lay on the air
like a heavy blanket. The sheep, with their thick, tangled coat of oily wool, were among the few creatures who were able to
thrive in Valhalla’s arctic cold. As long as their feed held out, they would survive. The fact that they provided meat, milk,
and wool and could live in less than ideal conditions also meant that they were valuable enough to be included in future galactic
migrations.

They were enclosed in a large circular pen of rough-cut timber abutting the flank of the mountain. A small round opening had
been chiseled into the face of the mountain and fitted with a simple wooden swinging door which allowed the sheep to move
indoors and out at will. No guards were posted, which Braldt found a strange oversight, but Septua shrugged it off. “What
they got to worry ’bout? Ain’t no ’uman enemies on this ’ere world an’ there be no natural predators left to bother ’em. If
there be any guards, they be inside, not standin’ out ’ere in the weather like us dummies.”

Braldt nodded; the dwarf’s words were logical. But still a nagging worry remained. They slipped into the pen and made their
way through the flock, frozen dung crunching beneath their boots and the rancid stench thick in their nostrils.

The sheep were nervous and uneasy at their presence, jostling one another and bleating their distress. Wide eyes rolled and
heads tossed as they pawed the ground. Braldt could feel their hysteria growing by the second; it gathered in the air
like a living thing. He crouched low to the earth without any real thought except that of removing himself from their vision.
Septua followed his lead and, strangely enough, the sheep quieted, with only those nearest the human invaders snorting and
leaping aside.

“Dumb. They be real dumb,” whispered the dwarf. “If they can’t see us, it’s like we were never here.”

On hands and knees they crept through the milling flock. The earth, protected by the tightly packed herd and constantly churned
by their sharp hooves, was not completely frozen, and soon Braldt’s and Septua’s lower extremities were covered with a pungent
layer of feces. Oddly, this familiar scent seemed to reassure the sheep and, other than garnering a few suspicious and puzzled
glances, the pair was able to make their way to the swinging door without further problem.

Braldt eyed the hinged door with apprehension. If there was a guard posted inside the sheep pens, the door to the outside
would be closely watched. He was not anxious to stick his head through to investigate—not if one was as fond of his head as
he was.

Septua must have been thinking along similar lines, for he tugged at Braldt’s cloak and pointed at the upper rung of the fence,
where half a dozen or more pelts were hanging. Braldt understood immediately. Septua scurried over to the side of the pen
and pulled down two skins. They were stiff with the cold and bent double. It took a good bit of careful flexing before the
frozen fleeces could be draped over their backs. Even then it was necessary to tie the pelts to their arms and legs and around
their necks with woolly strips trimmed from the edges; otherwise the pelts fell off after a few steps.