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Authors: Rose Estes

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He felt himself hoisted to his feet and he tried to stand, staggering from side to side on numbed feet and legs that felt
as though they belonged to someone else. Slowly, he became aware of the fact that his back was burning and it was painful
to move. His cloak hung in tatters around him, the heavy fabric torn and shredded with great gaping holes that let in the
cold. One elbow was throbbing insistently and a hip and shoulder felt as though they had lost serious arguments with rocks,
although he had no specific memory of such incidents. Slowly, the world stopped revolving around him and the noise that was
buzzing in his ears separated into words—words that had meaning.

Someone clapped him on the shoulder and shook him gleefully. He tried to share the joy, but it hurt too much.

“Ha! We did it!” Brandtson chuckled as he hugged first Braldt and then Saxo. Braldt stumbled forward and leaned up against
what he was now able to discern was another balustrade, while Saxo and Brandtson clutched each other in a bear hug and hopped
up and down, dancing joyously at their successful escape.

“What I wouldn’t have given to see the looks on their faces!” Brandtson cried as he shook his old friend gently and smiled
at Thunder, who was less than pleased with the antics of the two elder statesmen.

“Remember when we used to do that at home, Brandt?” Saxo said with a chuckle, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Remember
how mad our mothers were? As I recall, we both had our bottoms warmed for ruining our storm gear, but it was worth it. None
of these youngsters have ever done such a thing, nor would they have expected it of us!”

“Neither did I,” Braldt said under his breath, though now that the venture was over and done with and they were still alive,
he had to admit a new feeling of respect for the two oldsters.

“Where are we?” he asked, interrupting the cheerful flow of conversation, for he had begun to shake, although whether from
the cold or delayed reaction to the experience he could not have said. “Should we not be thinking about leaving before they
figure out what we have done and work up the courage to follow us?”

“It’ll never happen.” Saxo chuckled and the two men burst out laughing anew. “You either have to have one foot in the grave
already or be completely crazy to do such a thing. We’re quite safe for the moment.”

Braldt decided not to mention that he did not possess either quality himself, contenting himself with asking, “How can you
know that they will not come at us from another direction?” It was becoming difficult to speak because his teeth insisted
on clattering and banging together.

Finally Brandtson seemed to recognize the fact that Braldt was somewhat the worse for wear and, cursing himself and Saxo for
ten types of old fools, he helped Braldt over the balustrade and together the three of them broke a trail. It was clear that
the path had not been used for some time. The
layers of snow and ice had melted and frozen many, many times and as they broke through with every step, the multitude of
icy crusts sliced through their leggings until their legs were coated with a chill layer of their own blood.

There was no sheltering bulk of the mountain on either side, only waist-high balustrades which left them totally at the mercy
of the freezing winds which battered them from all directions. All sign of levity was gone now as they put their heads down
against the wind and forced their way forward. The pitch of the path was extremely steep and, had it not been for the knee-deep
drifts which plucked at their legs and seemed most reluctant to let them go, they might have taken several nasty falls.

At long last, the path took a sharp turn, doubling back against itself, and now the wind was at their backs, propelling them
forward. It seemed forever before they stumbled against yet another balustrade and the three of them crawled over the wide
stone ledge with legs that had lost all feeling and could barely support them. Here was the welcoming bulk of the mountain,
and the cruel wind fell away to a whisper.

Both Saxo and Brandtson seemed to know where they were going, to have some destination in mind, for which Braldt was grateful:
The sooner they got in out of the cold, the better. They slowed their pace and Saxo ran his fingers over the face of the mountain,
searching for something. They crawled along, looking for whatever it was, until Saxo let out a joyful cry and the two men
began tugging against something that seemed determined not to move.

It was a door, unused and immobile, fused by the ice and the cold until it was nearly a part of the mountain. Braldt joined
in, using the tip of his blade to hack away at the ice, aching in every joint and growing ever more desperate with cold and
fatigue. At last, groaning and creaking in icy protest, the door gave way to their blows and opened before them to
reveal a velvety darkness and warmth that embraced them like a lover’s embrace.

Ragnar Ollesson hurried down the outer trail, wrapping himself warmly in his heavy cloak. He chided himself for being a fool
as the bitter wind struck him. It would have been wiser to have taken the inner path, protected from the vagaries of the weather,
but he had wanted to be alone, to think about the words he had heard that night. It would be too easy to be swayed by the
enthusiasm of his companions. Here, alone, he would be able to think.

Ragnar Ollesson had given Otir Vaeng his pledge of allegiance many years before and although he had often had cause to regret
his unswerving loyalty, one had to admit that Otir Vaeng had brought them through some difficult times. They had survived
and that was all that really counted. Or was it? There had been times when he had nearly spoken out, cast his vote against
Otir Vaeng in the Council of Thanes, but always, in the end, he had voted with the king. And what had happened to those who
had opposed him? All were dead, or as good as dead. It always seemed a coincidence, but few would argue that those who defied
the king either died or found themselves stationed on remote outposts far from the seat of power.

With the notable exception of Brandt Brandtson. He and his circle of associates had been taking a stand against the king recently
and they were still alive. But Brandtson was old and powerful, securely entrenched in the council with his own circle of power;
it would be hard to dislodge him and should he die or disappear, none would think it an accident. Otir Vaeng had not achieved
the throne by being stupid; he knew that Brandtson was beyond approach and would not attempt to attack him openly.

Ragnar’s thoughts circled this evening’s business uneasily, remembering the flames as they were mirrored on the
seeress’s naked flesh. In his mind he knew that she was only a woman like any other, but in his heart the mere thought of
her carried a wave of cold fear. She was dangerous, no less dangerous than the king. If she pointed at you with a bone, you
might just as well fling yourself off the side of the mountain, for she had marked you for death. All your friends would shun
you for fear of being marked as well, and death would come sooner, rather than later. It was rumored that she made use of
poison rather than the darker magics as she would have one believe, but what did it really matter? Dead was still dead.

Ragnar Ollesson shivered, and not from the cold, as he hurried down the side of the mountain, longing for the welcome warmth
of his fire and the heavy weight of his down-filled blankets. If he allowed himself to think about it, there was much about
the king’s plan that he did not like. Was it really necessary to slaughter all those who could not be brought to a new world?
His mind cringed from the thought of the bloodshed to come. He squirmed uneasily as he realized that he and his family were
safe from such a purge. As chief programmer of the interstellar computers, he was far too valuable to discard.

He bit his lip and tried to avoid thinking as the decision was made almost without conscious decision. Really, there had never
been any doubt about it; he had little courage and no stomach at all for bloodshed and pain, especially when it was his own.
Then there were the children to consider. Was it really fair to even think of opposing the king when there were the children
to think of? Immediately he felt better.

He began to chide himself for having taken this cold, dangerous route when he could have been warm and safe inside. He hurried
down the treacherous slope, nearly falling on a smooth stretch of ice. Then it happened; his feet
slid out from under him and he fell heavily to the ground and slid a short way, coming to rest against a strange bulwark of
piled snow. He put out a hand to steady himself as he got to his feet, wondering for a moment how and why such an obstacle
came to be in the middle of the path. Perhaps it had fallen from the upper slopes. He raised his head to look.

There was a sense of movement, a darkness against the even darker sky, a large shadow that obliterated the sight of the stars
and filled him with a sudden sense of unreasoning terror. He felt a hand upon his shoulder and for a brief second he relaxed,
thinking that one of his friends had thought to frighten him. He grinned, thinking of the laughter at his expense that would
surely follow the telling of this tale and he opened his mouth to speak.

And then, as the hand tightened on his shoulder, he felt another hand seize his chin and a bolt of icy fear lanced through
his bowels. He knew then in some intuitive manner that this was no friend and that he would never laugh and joke about what
would happen next. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of grief for those he loved and an overwhelming sense of regret that merged
neatly with the cold/hot tremor of agony that coursed down through his neck and body.

The body that had been Ragnar Ollesson slumped heavily to the icy ground, the blue eyes open and staring up at the stars,
which were once more clearly visible. As he lay there, the life force slipping from his unfeeling body, he was glad that he
could see them and he wondered to himself that perhaps the fear of pain and courage was far worse than the actual deed itself.
Slowly, the stars dimmed and vanished.

6

Keri sat before the window in the darkened room, strok
ing the sleeping lupebeast and staring out into the dark night. The stars seemed much closer and brighter here. Sometimes
it felt as though one could reach out and touch their cold, shimmering brilliance. Perhaps it was because they were different
stars, shining down on a different world, so different from the stars she had wished upon as a child.

She smiled ruefully to herself at the thought of the naïve child she had been, such a very short time ago. Never would she
have imagined, much less believed, that there were other worlds besides her own—many, many worlds with multitudes of races,
all quite different from her own. In her naïveté she had believed her world and her people to be alone in the universe, and
the goddess they worshiped to be the one true god. She sighed again, as much in sorrow at the loss of her world as at the
loss of her own innocent beliefs. It had been a much simpler, safer life then. Knowledge was painful.

She felt a heavy weight rest gently on her shoulder, then squeeze it with compassion. She covered the hand with her own, feeling
the rough coarse hair beneath her fingers, and smiled up into the darkness. “Your hand is cold. Have you been out?”

“Now, what would I be doing out in such weather?” Uba Mintch asked with a throaty chuckle. “This old man feels the
chill of this world even indoors. No, I leave the roaming to Braldt and younger bloods.”

“You talk as though you are an ancient graybeard,” Keri chided with affection as she rose and crossed to the hearth, where
a kettle of herb tea was brewing.

She poured two large mugs and moved to turn up the light until Uba Mintch stopped her with a motion of his hand. “Leave it,
child, I find the firelight soothing. Sometimes I can almost believe that I am home and convince myself that the baby will
soon be tugging on my leg, demanding attention. Did I tell you that she was walking quite well before I left? Getting into
everything, she was.…”

The sorrow was thick in the old Madrelli’s voice and he cleared his throat several times and looked away. Keri moved to his
side and settled a heavy blanket around his shoulders, then stroked his head with the tips of her fingers. A heavy weight
lay upon her heart, as well as a lump in her throat that refused to be swallowed. Tears sprung to her eyes as she tried resolutely
to shut out the painful memory of her own family.

She knew all too well what Uba Mintch was feeling. She and Carn and his band of followers were all that remained of their
people, the Duroni. Uba Mintch had fared less well, for no more than a dozen Madrelli had survived the death of their world.

Carn had been accepted with open arms by the king of Valhalla, for Carn was all too ready to believe that Otir Vaeng was some
sort of deity. Nothing he had seen had convinced him otherwise, and nothing Keri or Braldt said swayed him from this conviction.
Keri and Carn had never been exceptionally close, but now it was as though she were a stranger to him, perhaps even an enemy.
Carn avoided her whenever possible and shut his ears to her words when she spoke.

BOOK: The Hunter Victorious
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