The Hunter Victorious (20 page)

It was still early and there were few people up and about other than the vendors who sleepily went about the morning routine
of setting out their wares. Since there had been no new shipments in recent months, due to the severity of solar activity,
there were fewer commodities offered for sale and prices on available merchandise had risen even higher than usual. The air
in the marketplace was grim and few had any interest in the odd pair that hurried past.

Moving swiftly, they made their way up the broad thoroughfare that spiraled up the inner walls of the ancient volcanic cone.
The small blue dot that was the open sky was far above them. The marketplace, filling the center of the hollow core, receded
as they climbed steadily higher.

Doorways, painted numerous different colors, although red seemed the predominant choice, lined the inner wall. These were
the entrances to large apartments, the quarters of persons with some degree of importance. Those of lesser importance were
situated along narrow corridors that intersected the rising concourse and were often no more than tiny cubicles carved out
of the porous rock. They continued to climb the circular terrace, which grew increasingly steeper the higher one rose.

“Where we be goin’?” Septua panted, hop-skipping to keep up with Braldt’s longer stride.

“Keri. I have to see her,” Braldt replied tersely.

Septua did his best to convince Braldt that such a thing was foolishness, that the girl would undoubtedly be well guarded
by the king’s men. But Braldt would not listen. Muttering and cursing about hardheads, the dwarf followed as fast as his short
legs could carry him.

Braldt reached the narrow corridor that led to Keri’s quarters and without knocking opened the door and stepped through, calling
her name softly. He crept to the low couch, which was mounded with blankets, and reached out to gently shake her shoulder.
The mound stirred, twisted in the down-filled covers, and turned. Braldt pulled the cover down from her head, murmuring sweet
nonsense.

Too late he saw the thatch of blond-white hair, too late he sensed the presence of others in the room. Drawing his sword,
he whirled, only to find himself facing six fully armed men with swords at the ready. He spun back toward the bed to discover
a large, wide-shouldered, broad-chested man rising with a wide grin on his face. It was the captain of the guards, Gunnar
Bakkstrom.

“What’s the matter? Don’t I appeal to you?” He advanced on Braldt, driving him back against the waiting swords, a mirthless
grin spread on his lantern-jawed face. “I told the king that you would come. All we had to do was wait. I thank you for proving
me right.”

“Where is she?” Braldt asked hoarsely. “What has been done with her?”

“I know, I know, tell you or you’ll kill me if it takes the rest of your life.” Bakkstrom dismissed Braldt’s unsaid words
with a flick of his fingers. “Interesting, a product of the Bronze Age spouting B-grade movie material. It would seem that
clichés cut across even galactic lines.”

Braldt stared at him without comprehending the man’s words. He thought about throwing himself at the man; there was a chance
that he could seize him and use him as a living shield. But he could feel the prick of swords at his back and even though
the man was blathering on nonsensically, he still looked quite capable of wielding his sword. Still, he had to do something.
He could not allow himself to be taken without a fight.

“Please, I have no aversion to spilling your blood. It means nothing to me.” Gunnar Bakkstrom placed the tip of his sword
beneath Braldt’s chin and sighed, shaking his head from side to side. “It’s amazing, really. I can read the thoughts as they
plod through your tiny brain. Do not fight. It is foolish and futile. You may do so if you wish, but I promise you that you
will die. Or you may lay down your weapons and I will lead you to your lady. The choice is yours.”

The man fixed him with a lazy, bored smile. His eyes were icy cold and spoke eloquently of his indifference. He could kill
Braldt with as little thought as one used to kill a fly. Braldt did not fear death, but he had no wish to throw his life away.

Plastered against the corridor wall, Septua heard Braldt’s sword clatter to the floor and Bakkstrom’s low chuckle of amusement.
It twisted in his gut like a sickness as he crept away. from the entrance and scuttled into the nearest labyrinth of corridors
as quickly as his shaking legs would carry him. That laugh. It echoed in his worst nightmares, although he had heard it often
enough in his waking hours.

Bakkstrom had not found it necessary to bring reinforcements when he trapped Septua breaking into the High Thane’s apartments.
He had laughed then. He had laughed again when Septua was sentenced, banished to the arena on Rototara, stripped nearly naked,
and wrapped in metal bands, his arms pinned to his sides, unable to move. Septua had felt the eyes of the curious on him then,
staring at his squat, misshapen form, and he had felt the years of hatred well up in him. He hated them all with their smirking
faces and tall, straight bodies. He hated red-haired, green-eyed Mirna, who had said that she loved him and then betrayed
him to the captain of the guards. And most of all, he hated Gunnar Bakkstrom.

That hatred rose up in him again, along with the fear, as
the dwarf lost himself in the dark corridors, running without thought wherever his feet took him. If Braldt was right, if
they were looking for him, it was only a matter of time before they hunted him down and killed him. He stopped then and leaned
against a door, gasping for breath. Maybe he would die; it didn’t really matter so much. There was no way he could help Braldt
now, but he could do one thing. He could make certain that Gunnar Bakkstrom never laughed again.

Barat Krol fought to keep the elation from his face. Could
it be true? Could he actually be making progress at last? Time and time again he had visited the Madrelli compound, a stinking,
crowded dormitory where males and females, adults and young were housed. There was absolutely no privacy. Every function of
their lives, from copulating to elimination, was open to view, their own and that of anyone else who cared to watch.

He had tried to make them see the inequity of their lives, but he had never made any headway. They simply did not care to
listen. Then he thought about incentives. True, it was a shoddy trick, but there was so little time to spare and so much at
stake, at this point he would have seized upon any ploy that would work.

And work it had. He had plundered a storeroom and stolen several sacks of sugar, which the Madrelli loved and seldom received.
Using the sweets as an incentive, he had bribed them to listen to him and grudgingly agree to do as he asked, but only after
he had promised them a continuing supply of the forbidden sweet.

What he had asked was that they allow him to inject them with the drug that had elevated his own tribe’s intelligence to a
level equal to that of the Scandis themselves. As yet he had no real idea how he would go about doing such a thing; he
had no knowledge of where the drug was kept, nor even if there was an adequate supply on hand to inject everyone. He could
only guess at the effect it would have on them, for they had never been given the drug before.

Barat Krol had wrestled with the ethics of what he intended to do, asking himself if his actions would make him no different
than the Scandi scientists who had manipulated Madrelli minds and bodies for so many centuries. He did not have the time to
give the drug in carefully metered doses, increasing the amounts slowly, allowing the Madrelli days, months, years to adjust
to their development.

He was fighting for their very survival, whether they realized it or not. If it earned him their hatred, at least they would
be alive to hate. He could only hope that such a large concentrated dose would not have an adverse effect. There was no way
of knowing. He had not dared to tell Uba Mintch of his plans, knowing that the old one would never agree.

He handed out the cubes of sugar, smiling at the way the young ones seized it, seeing the naked joy and greed on their faces,
and feeling happiness mixed with worry at what he was about to do.

Events began to move with a momentum of their own. Otir Vaeng’s doctors had managed to stop the infection from advancing,
but they had not been able to destroy it. Although they had not shared their concerns, they feared that it was but a matter
of time before the infection overcame their newest drug.

They did not dare inform the king, for he was in no mood to be philosophical or forgiving about their failure. Others had
departed this world as well as other worlds for displeasing the king, and failing to save his life was certain to earn his
displeasure! Then too there was always hope and prayer. The
doctors hoped and prayed harder than ever before in their lives that they were wrong and that the king would somehow miraculously
survive.

His hand and arm were a hideous sight of suppurating flesh. Dark blood and thick, yellowish pus mingled and dripped continuously.
He could not bear the weight of bandages which would have served no real purpose except to hide the gruesome limb from view.
It only took one glance to know how serious the situation really was.

Otir Vaeng was not stupid. He had to realize how grim the outlook. But he was strangely calm; even the frequent outbursts
which so terrorized his court had ceased. He was often lost in his thoughts and did not seem to hear when spoken to.

It might be thought that those who attended the king, those who had suffered the most from his unreasonable rages, might have
drawn comfort from his strange quietude. Instead, it troubled them; as with a persistent pain that suddenly vanishes, they
could not help but wonder when it would return or what would replace it.

Nor would they have been reassured if they could have read his mind, for after a long, long scientifically extended lifetime,
Otir Vaeng was tired of his life. As his mind floated on currents of pain that the drugs could not adequately mask, it seemed
to him that his rotting arm was a visible symbol of his entire life.

The pain, so clear and sharp that sometimes it quite literally took his breath away, was more real and true than anything
he had felt in many a year. As much as it hurt, he savored his agony and wondered when he had ceased to feel. He could not
even remember. It had been a very, very long time since he had genuinely loved or felt true happiness. He could not even remember
the last time he had felt such an emotion.

There was something very sad in that. Moisture welled in Otir Vaeng’s eyes and he realized with a sense of shock that he was
crying! He could not even recall the last time in his long, long life that such a thing had happened, and that made him even
sadder.

A part of him recognized what was happening and tried to force his mind back into its accustomed grooves. After all, he was
the king. There were important matters to be tended to, decisions to be made, plans to be laid. But somehow none of it seemed
to matter anymore. He just didn’t care.

He wondered if this was how the end would come, awash in a sea of indifference. Strangely, even that did not seem to matter.
He found his wandering thoughts focusing in two directions, backward and forward. Memories of his earliest years surfaced
most often, for he had been happy then, loved and loving in return, unaware of the long years of intrigue and worry that were
soon to come.

He plucked small, shining moments from his memory and held them like a glowing lamp to warm his heart and mind. He conjured
up the face of a woman who had genuinely loved him, cared for he himself and not his power or his wealth. He excluded the
memory of her expulsion from his court, for she was not suitable for marriage and too great a political liability to remain.

He thought of a young boy, the bright, laughing eyes and squeals of excitement as he first discovered the delicious fear of
tempting the curling waves of the ocean. He remembered the tiny arms that had wrapped themselves around his neck, the sticky
hands. He remembered the sweet, powdery smell of the child, the whispers of shared secrets, and the looks of trusting love.

He shut his mind against the flood of memories that crowded in, demanding to be heard. Those same trusting eyes
had grown calculating and cold; the hands, small no longer, wrapping themselves around the hilt of a blade that the child,
now a man, would gladly have thrust into his heart.

He dreamed about earth as it had been before the temperatures and the seas rose, before the dying began. Clean, cold air,
so cold it caused one’s teeth to ache. The sun glinting off the snow on the peaks of the mountains, shining so brightly that
tears came. The fjords, still dark blue, nearly black, pure and freezing cold, lancing between the verdant mountain slopes
like probing fingers anxious to feel the land. And the scent of the firs! It was a scent that he would never forget and never
cease to yearn for. So sharp and acrid, so pungent and heady, more satisfying than the most expensive perfume.