The Hunter Victorious (3 page)

“Yes,” agreed Brandtson. “You have more enemies than any man deserves. Never have I seen any man, Scandi or otherwise, embrace
the old gods the way Cam has done.”

“The old gods’ thirst for blood fits his mood these days,” Braldt said grimly. “His mind has come unhinged. No man valued
the price of a flagon and a good time more than Carn. Now all he thinks about is religion and death.”

Braldt turned to his grandfather and said, “I wish I could turn back time, undo all the damage that has been done. I am glad
that we have found each other, but I would give anything to have things as they used to be.”

Brandtson studied the young man, who was the last of his line and his hope for the future, and the depth of Braldt’s pain
touched his heart. Nor was his conscience eased by knowing that he too had played a role in the destruction of Braldt’s life.

“All may not be lost,” he said at length. “There are things at work, both good and bad, that you should know about. But I
beg you, remain calm. No matter how upsetting you find the things you see and hear, I ask you to hold your tongue. Say nothing,
no matter what happens, for our lives may depend upon your silence.”

It was after nightfall when Brandtson came for Braldt. He was clad in a long black cloak with a hood that completely covered
his white hair; even his silvery beard had been muted to a dull grayish brown. He handed Braldt an identical cloak, which
swathed him from head to toe. Braldt opened his mouth to speak, to ask Brandtson where they were going and why disguises were
necessary, but something in the old man’s demeanor caused him to hold his tongue.

Beast had remained with Keri, gently sedated to keep him still while his flesh mended. His wounds were deeper than Braldt’s
and he was bruised and sore as well. It was decided
that it would be wiser to leave him than to have him accompany them.

Brandtson stepped outside first, holding Braldt back until he was certain that the way was clear. The hour was late, well
after starfall, but time mattered little to Valhallans and it was not uncommon to find the streets and corridors nearly as
crowded at midnight as they were at midday.

Brandtson led Braldt out along the high, curving edge of the outer balustrade, the exterior walkway that circled the entire
perimeter of the mountain that served as the central city of Valhalla, curling around the mountain like some giant snake from
base to peak. Popular during clement weather both for the ease it provided in reaching one’s destination as well as a place
to see and be seen, it was all but deserted now in the frigid depths of winterfall. The icy winds swept down from the peak
which hovered above them, clad in a mantle of ice and snow which glimmered blue-white in the reflection of the distant stars.

Braldt wrapped the thick folds of the cloak around him, swirling the bottom edge over his shoulder as Brandtson had done,
and burrowed his tender chin down into the folds of the material, grateful for the protection it provided. He had been cold
before. He thought back to the many nights he had stood guard at home, protecting his tribe against wild animals, slavers,
or whatever dangers might appear. The cold winds had swept in off the desert, chilling the unfortunate guards to the marrow.
But the cold on Valhalla was a different sort.

The Scandis had left old earth, their home planet, congested, polluted, and dying of its inhabitants’ excesses, and had colonized
the planet they named Valhalla. According to their ancient legends, Valhalla was the abode of the gods and the final resting
place of all worthy warriors. They had begun their world anew with only their strength, determination, and what little they
were able to salvage from earth. Those were
difficult times and there had been many setbacks. But the Scandis succeeded and Valhalla took its place among the handful
of established earth colonies and other civilizations that made up the Whole World Federation.

They had overcome many problems: the fact that Valhalla had no life-forms other than vegetation, the absence of most raw materials
necessary for self-sustenance, and the growth of dissident political factions among their youth. They dealt with these problems
as best they could, but the single problem that had no solution was one which they could not have anticipated. The sun that
shone on Valhalla was dying.

The problem had become apparent a decade ago. The sun had emitted a furious burst of solar energy which had caused incredible
damage on the planet. Hundreds of colonists had been fatally burned, as well as most of the animals that they had brought
with them from earth and nurtured at great cost. When the flares diminished, it was apparent that the sun’s light was greatly
dimmed. There had been numerous flares, accompanied by an equal number of dimmings, in the years that followed. Now the cold
was ever-present, bearable during the all too short daylight hours but bone-piercing and mind-numbing in the long, long nights.

Much to Braldt’s amazement, Brandtson turned aside after a short time and slid into a niche in the side of the mountain, all
but disappearing from sight, thanks to his dark garb. Braldt followed his lead and tucked himself into the shadows as well.
He started to speak, but Brandtson gripped his wrist tightly and Braldt saw the sudden glint of starlight on metal. A dagger?
Then he heard it, the sound his grandfather had been listening for, the furtive slip of footleather on stone, silent, hurried
steps and anxious whispers: “Where are they? Where did they go?”

Brandtson answered the question by slipping silently out of his hiding place and confronting the followers. There was
a sudden gasp of surprise, a grunt, the briefest of curses, and then a sigh as a body hit the cold ground. The second of the
pair backed away, wielding a blade of his own, longer by far than Brandtson’s, but he had forgotten about Braldt and backed
up, placing himself almost directly in front of Braldt’s hiding place. A bent elbow, the crack of bones, and the man hung
heavy and motionless from Braldt’s grip. Brandtson did not hesitate for a minute but seized the second would-be assailant
and flung him over the balustrade after his associate.

“Who—” Braldt whispered. But Brandtson held his hand up for silence and, after satisfying himself that there were no more
where the first had come from, doubled back on their track and swiftly made his way up the mountain.

It was dark on the higher reaches of the slope, with nothing but starlight to illuminate the way. But the path was smooth
and girded by the broad stone balustrade which protected them from the sheer drop if they had been foolish enough to venture
near the edge. But ice and snow lay thick on the path and as they approached the upper elevations it became increasingly difficult
to advance. For every two steps forward, they slid one foot back. The higher they climbed, the more vindictive the wind which
tore at their cloaks and attacked their extremities as though it had a personal vendetta against them.

The craggy edge of the plateau was in sight before Brandtson hesitated and looked back the way they had come, studying the
path carefully and listening closely. At last he was satisfied that they had not been followed and, signaling to Braldt, edged
into a narrow crevice. Braldt was perplexed but followed his grandfather’s lead and felt his way into the inky darkness. With
nothing to guide him other than a sense of the older man’s presence and his fingertips trailing across the rock, he crept
inch by inch into what appeared to be a narrow fissure that doubled back on itself several times. Suddenly
light appeared before them, softly illuminating the way ahead of them. It was apparent that they were in a narrow passageway
of sorts; the rock walls met overhead and flanked them closely on either side.

They came to another switchback and as they turned the sharp corner, Braldt was all but blinded by the flood of light that
assaulted his unprepared senses. He threw an arm up over his eyes and at the same time sensed as much as heard a sudden intake
of breath and knew that they were not alone. He felt Brandtson’s hand upon his arm, a single tight squeeze of reassurance
as well as warning. Slowly, blinking against the harsh light, Braldt lowered his arm and stared in shock and disbelief at
the sight that met his eyes.

They were in a large cavern that rose high above them till
it met in a sharp peak. The walls were rough and craggy and held blazing torches set at regular intervals. The thick black
smoke that curled away from the flaming brands filled the cavern with a dense haze that blurred the edges of everything in
the huge hall. But no amount of softening could lessen the shock of the sight before them.

The enormous space was filled with many hundreds of black-robed figures, their features obscured by the enveloping cloaks,
which lent an ominous air to what was already a frightening scene. Somewhere to the front and left, an unseen drummer beat
out a constant tattoo that underlaid the scene like the pounding of blood in one’s ears. Their silent arrival had elicited
a moment of close scrutiny by those standing nearest the entrance, but this was short-lived, as Brandtson’s imposing figure
met with recognition. Braldt was careful to remain behind Brandtson, for he himself was viewed with distrust by nearly everyone
on Valhalla.

Brandtson directed Braldt to an irregularity in the rock wall which, due to its configuration, was wrapped in shadows. Braldt
eased into the darkness and Brandtson positioned himself before his grandson, shielding him from sight but allowing Braldt
to see all that transpired.

The cavern sloped upward at its farthest end, and situated against the back wall was an immense thronelike chair carved
from the rock and ornately ornamented with a tangle of hieroglyphics and the figures of wild animals—bears, wolves, boars,
and horses, their eyes set with precious red stones that glittered in the torchlight, and with ivory fangs, tusks, and claws.
The interstices between the designs had been rubbed with a black substance so that the raised figures stood out in sharp relief,
the animals seeming almost ready to take life and leap from the stone.

Set before the throne was a stone altar chiseled from the same rock, rising from the floor in a single block. Its sides were
rough-cut, but the top surface was smooth and had been polished to a high gloss. Along the edge of each of the four sides
a deep trough had been cut into the stone and the sight sent a cold chill of premonition up Braldt’s spine.

But even more frightening than the stone altar or its throne was the figure that pranced between them. It was a woman, or
so it seemed. The woman wore a costume fashioned from a multitude of animal skins, their fur a contrasting mélange of different
colors, lengths, and textures. Upon her head she wore the head of a wolf, its skull and upper jaw fitting down over her own,
the pelt trailing down her back, the tail brushing the ground behind her. Her features were hidden, for directly beneath the
shadow of the muzzle was the face of a bird. Braldt stared in shock until he was able to understand that it was merely the
skin of a bird removed whole, the feathers and beak still attached and fashioned into a grotesque mask. Its feathers were
glossy black with a blue-green sheen, its beak the cruel curved curl of a bird of prey. The eyes were mere slits that revealed
little other than a bright glitter; breasts and loins were clad in drapes of fur.

The shaman, if that was what she was, strode back and forth between the altar and the throne. In her hand she held a carved
staff which she brandished as she spoke. Her words were barely understandable; Braldt was able to catch a word
here and there, but even though the sounds were familiar, they were somehow strange. It was as though the woman were using
a more ancient form of language, the roots from which their present language had sprung. But if Braldt had difficulty understanding
her, he was alone, for the gathering of robed figures followed her impassioned words intently and roared back their response
at appropriate intervals.

To the right of the altar stood a broad circular stone basin set upon a carved stone base. The figure of a snake wound its
way around the pillar, its head resting, mouth agape, on the rim of the basin. Its eyes were also set with glittering red
stones, its long curved fangs fashioned of ivory or bone, and between the open jaws gushed a steady flow of fire which fed
a pyre contained within the stone basin.

The shaman approached the conflagration, her words growing more and more frenzied, a bit of slaver appearing unnoticed at
the corner of her mouth. As she neared the fire, she took from her garments a fur pouch which Braldt had not noticed before.
Her hand dipped inside the sack and withdrew, holding several small items which she dropped into the fire one at a time, muttering
incantations that seemed ritualistic from the tone of her voice as well as the echoed response from her rapt audience.

A twig was dropped. The fire shot blue sparks; the crowd roared its response. A bit of moss fell and the fire burned yellow.
The crowd yelled louder. A stone plummeted into the heart of the pyre and the flames turned green. The black-robed throng
shrieked their answer. And then the woman turned to one side, her arm outstretched, pale white, slender, a delicate tracery
of blue veins visible beneath the skin, the first sign of vulnerability, of humanness, about the terrifying figure.