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Authors: Rose Estes

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Even as Braldt was contemplating this small bit of evidence that the creature was a woman, she turned back to the fire
and in her outstretched hand there was a rabbit. It was a large rabbit, white in color, with red eyes that shone bright with
terror. It hung suspended from her closed fist, its weight borne fully by its ears. It struggled in the woman’s grasp, fighting
against some sensed danger. A high, thin squeal burst from its mouth, startling in its resemblance to the cry of a child.

The shaman spoke, the crowd answered, and even as Braldt watched in disbelief and horror, the woman opened her hand and released
the rabbit, dropping it into the heart of the flames. The rabbit screamed and twisted in midair, clawing helplessly, and then
it was gone, swallowed whole by the flames, which seemed to reach out for it, bulging as they wrapped themselves around its
plump body. The flames grew dark, black as night, though the core was visible still, white-hot and pulsing like a living heart.

The mass of robed figures roared loudly, the sound filling the stone chamber and echoing back and forth against the walls
till it seemed that he could feel the reverberation in his bones. The shaman raised her staff above her head and screamed.
The crowd screamed back. And then it was done. The woman lowered her arm and as the last whisper of sound drained away, she
staggered and then fell into the waiting arms of the throne.

Braldt watched in stunned silence, not even needing the cautionary touch from Brandtson to remind him to hold his tongue.
The crowd stirred expectantly; a sense of anticipation could clearly be felt in the air.

There was a stir of movement in the front of the hall and a murmur of voices; Braldt strained to see. Carved wooden staffs
could be seen rising above the heads of the crowd, and as they passed, the robed figures bowed low in obeisance. There could
only be one person on Valhalla who would exact such subservience. Braldt felt suddenly cold. It could be no one but Otir Vaeng,
the king.

Braldt could see him clearly now. Otir Vaeng, king of Valhalla. He was a tall man, taller than Braldt himself, with broad
shoulders and narrow waist and hips, lean to the point of emaciation. His hair was the bright yellow gold of the sun, as was
the beard, which followed the line of his jaw and ended in a sharp, forward-jutting point. He was in the habit of stroking
this beard often, perhaps unaware of his obsession, and it was due to his constant ministrations that the beard preceded him
like the prow of a ship. His nose was narrow and pinched, beaked at the bridge and turned down like a bird of prey. His cheekbones
were slanted and angular, rising sharply as though they might slice through the skin that was stretched taut over them. His
eyes were a cold, brilliant shade of pale blue, like precious gems. His eyebrows and lashes were so pale as to be invisible,
and this made his eyes appear even more piercing and demanding.

He stared out at the silent crowd, stroking his beard, saying nothing until the silence grew so intense as to be discomforting.
Only when it had stretched to a breaking point. when Braldt’s nerves cried for some action, some word, did the king speak.

“You have heard the volva,” he said in a low voice which required utter silence so that he could be heard. “The gods have
spoken. Freya herself has told the volva what must be done if we are to save ourselves from doom.

“We have brought the wrath of the gods down upon ourselves because we have failed to honor them. We chose to walk apart from
them, placing our faith in new gods, science and technology, and those gods and their followers were what killed the earth.
We too will perish and vanish forever if we do not return to the old ways and honor the old gods, as is their due.”

“What… what would the gods have us do?” asked an
older man situated in the front of the crowd, his quavering voice betraying his nervousness.

“The volva has told us what must be done,” replied a second voice, a voice all too familiar to Braldt. He straightened with
shock and leaned forward to see what he could scarcely believe. A second figure moved to stand at the king’s side and Braldt
stumbled back against the wall, weak with shock. Carn! What mischief was this that allied his adopted brother with the king
of Valhalla, he who had caused the death of their planet and everyone and everything that had been dear to them? Carn spoke.

“The volva has spoken; the seidr, the divination ceremony, has told us what we needed to know. The gods have spoken through
her to us and told us their wishes.”

“We must kill the outsiders, kill the unbelievers,” said the king, his voice a mere whisper of sound, but clearly heard in
the silent hall. “The unbelievers must die. Only then will the gods return their favor to we who have believed in them and
been faithful down through the long centuries when the false gods ruled the earth. The sun will shine on us once more and
we will thrive and prosper only if our belief is strong.”

“Is he serious?” Braldt whispered. Brandtson made an abrupt cutting motion, signaling him to silence. Braldt frowned and settled
back into the shadows to listen.

“But this one, this Carn, is an outsider,” cried a voice from the midst of the crowd. The crowd pulled aside as though unwilling
to be singled out by the king, to be suspected of disagreeing with him.

But Otir Vaeng merely smiled, a grimace that held no intent of humor. “Carn is an outsider, that is true, but his belief in
the old gods is strong and true.”

“How can this be so?” challenged the voice from the crowd. The king turned to see who had dared to defy him and
his eyes glittered as the crowd drew back, revealing a heavyset older man, white-haired and bent in stature but not in resolve.
He took no notice of the crowd’s fear, but leaned on a stout cane and stared at the king. “How can this Carn believe in our
gods?” he questioned in a reasonable tone. “He is not even from our world. One can scarcely imagine as to how he knows of
our gods, much less puts his faith in them.”

“Do you challenge my word, Saxo? I am your king; if I tell you something is so… it is so.”

“You are my king, this I do not deny,” replied the old man. “And I have followed you these many years even when my heart and
mind were troubled by our course of action. But what we have done in the past was necessary for our survival. This… this superstitious
claptrap that you are reviving, setting in motion, is dangerous and I urge you to think about what it is that you are doing.”

The mass of dark-robed figures pulled back farther, widening the gap between themselves and the old man, not wanting to seem
as though they were any part of what he was saying. All eyes focused on the king, who stroked his beard and smiled coldly.

“Superstitious claptrap, you say, Saxo? Do you then not believe in Odin and Freya and Thor? Do you dare to deny their existence?”

“Come, come, Otir. Do not think that you can frighten me with that tone of voice,” Saxo said with a wearied motion of his
hand. “You forget that I have known you since you crawled on the floor, your diaper dragging behind you. You cut your teeth
on the hilt of my sword. Your father and I were lifelong friends and I his counsel general. You think to threaten me? I am
too old for such threats and too old for this religious nonsense. What do you hope to accomplish with it? You have the loyalty
of the people, although whether from fear or from lack of other options, I cannot say. Why do you
need to implement this foolishness and what role does this outsider play in your game?”

A vein throbbed at the corner of Otir Vaeng’s temple and his teeth were bared as he tugged fiercely on his beard. For a moment
it seemed that he would strike the old man down or run him through with his sword, so great was his anger. Then Carn stepped
forward and placed his hand on the king’s arm, shaking him slightly as he whispered in his ear. Otir Vaeng shook his head,
and Carn continued to speak with urgency. Finally the king nodded and stepped back. Carn stepped forward and addressed Saxo
as well as the rest of the gathering.

“It is true, I am not one of you. I am an outsider. Until recently, I did not even know of your existence, much less the existence
of your gods. I come from a world that is far away in distance as well as in knowledge. All my life I have searched for a
greater meaning for my life … for all life. I thought I had found it on my own world, but all it brought me was pain and suffering.”
He gestured toward his horribly scarred face and hands, which had been burned by exposure to the intense heat of a volcano.

“I Came to Valhalla by accident, or so I believed, but now I know that it was fate that delivered me here, fate that has brought
me knowledge of Odin and Freya, Loki and Thor. These are the truths I have been searching for all my life.

“I have learned that a man cannot live without the guidance of the gods and disaster waits for those who are godless. Nor
will the gods hesitate to strike down those who do not believe in them. The gods saved me and destroyed my world because I
was the only true believer. You
must
follow your gods and obey their wishes or you and your world will meet the same fate as my world. I may be an outsider, but
I am a believer.”

Carn’s mutilated face was crimson with the passion of his words and his eyes glittered with feverish intensity. His hands
opened and closed into fists as he spoke, and it was clear that he believed every word he uttered.

“Would that your faith was so strong, Saxo,” Otir Vaeng said softly as he placed his arm around Carn’s shoulders and shook
him gently, a gesture that spoke of friendship and trust and more. “Take care that you do not bring the wrath of the gods
down upon yourself.” The threat was implicit and the old man said nothing more, merely stared sadly at the man who was his
king.

“The volva has spoken,” said Otir Vaeng, his hand sweeping toward the woman on the throne. “The wishes of the gods are clear.
We must rid ourselves of outsiders, of disbelievers, of those who are not worthy of Valhalla. Hunt them out from among us.
Only then will we and our world be safe.”

Braldt started suddenly as Brandtson gripped his hand and silently drew him out and away, back the way they had come, unseen
by those around them who pressed forward and were voicing their agreement in loud tones, anxious to prove their loyalty to
their king.

Once they had turned the corner of the narrow corridor, Brandtson gripped Braldt even more tightly and together they fled
from the madness behind them.

4

Braldt and Brandtson hurried down the side of the mountain
, anxious to be gone before the gathering broke up. Although it was almost a certainty that everyone would use the interior
path to avoid the bitter cold, it was possible that some would choose the outer balustrade. Brandtson had taken a great risk
in bringing Braldt with him, for Braldt was the one who Otir Vaeng most wanted dead. Brandtson did not think that Braldt would
accept the seriousness of the situation unless he heard the king’s words with his own ears.

Braldt followed his grandfather, all but oblivious to the bone-biting cold and the driving sleet which made the slippery path
all the more dangerous. He had known that Otir Vaeng was his enemy, but this madness was beyond belief. Men who changed their
shape at will and became wild animals, priestesses sacrificing animals to fire, and now an exhortation to kill all those who
did not believe as they did! What it amounted to was the open sanction of murder of hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent
people.

Braldt’s mind was awhirl with confusion, but one thing he was sure was that if there really were gods, it seemed oddly providential
that their wishes always seemed to coincide with the desires of those in power. He had seen it on his own world, the manipulation
of the people by the priests, and on Rototara, where the numerous gods belonging to various
civilizations often clashed in their desires. And now here again on Valhalla.

Perhaps there were a multitude of gods who belonged to the multitudes of races, but if that were so, the religious netherworld
must be a crowded place, and how did those gods interact with each other? The Duroni believed in the gods of nature, believing
that each natural element was controlled by its own deity.

The Rototarans, a reptilian race who spent the greater portion of their lives in hibernation, believed in a shadowy deity
whom they referred to as “the True God.” Braldt had little or no understanding of the Rototaran god, but from what little
he did know, he was certain that it was not the same god as the Duroni worshiped.

Another race of beings from some distant point in the galaxy believed in a god by the name of Yantra, whose long list of musings
guided the lives and actions of its followers.

But, according to Otir Vaeng, it was Freya, Thor, Loki, and Odin who were the only true gods and he would use them to incite
his people to bloodshed and wholesale massacre of those he had deemed the enemy.

Braldt and Keri were at risk, that much was obvious. It would be wise to leave Valhalla before they were killed. But how?
Where could they go? Their own world had been destroyed by the Valhallans and Rototara was now firmly held by its own people,
who would surely kill Braldt and Keri if they were foolish enough to return. Braldt now knew that there were many other worlds
in the universe, but even if there had been a way to get there, who was to say that they would not be exchanging one set of
dangerous circumstances for another?

BOOK: The Hunter Victorious
10.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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