The Hunter Victorious (27 page)

He scrambled for his clothes among the fallen bedclothes and screamed at the woman. “Hurry, dress yourself, we must leave.
We must find safety.” To his amazement, the seeress merely stretched leisurely and then rose and casually strolled across
the room to warm her back before the still roaring fire.

“The gods will not harm me. I know the manner of my death. They have told me how it is that I will die: by the knife, not
by a trembling of the earth. Where is your courage, my little rabbit, eh?”

“You don’t understand!” Carn screamed, his fear all but
overwhelming him, the memory of the fiery inferno swimming before his eyes as he looked down into the flames leaping on the
hearth.

“Oh, I understand.” The volva seemed amused at his frantic actions. “Come, I thought you were the chosen one, hand-picked
by the gods for mighty purposes. Have you not told me this yourself? Why then are you afraid? Do you not believe in your gods?”

Her words stopped Carn cold. Only then did he realize that there was no fiery caldron, save in his mind. The earth shook,
yes, but the volva was right, as she always was: He was the chosen of the gods. He must believe in them, in their promise.
He could not doubt them now. The tension faded from his body; he looked down at the garment he had struggled to don seconds
before and discarded it with a laugh. He joined the volva before the fire, allowing the flames to warm his still tender flesh.
She looked into his eyes and a warm, ironic smile twitched at the corners of her lips. “So the rabbit becomes a lion, eh?”

“Let me show you,” he replied as he drew her toward him.

Septua and Barat Krol were not as fortunate as the others. Being closer to ground level, they were thus closer to the epicenter
of the quake and were among the first to suffer its devastation.

It was impossible to regain their footing even if they had wanted to do so. The jolt was accompanied by a deep, growling rumble
that emanated from the depths of the earth and seemed to swell around them, reverberating in the narrow passageway till it
drummed inside their heads.

Both Barat Krol and Septua huddled against the floor and covered their heads and ears with their hands and arms, trying
to shut out the fearsome sound. Septua thought that he might die. He had never been so frightened in all his life. Barat Krol
had experienced other quakes but never one so violent or so close; he was certain that the heart of the quake was directly
beneath him. He knew that there was nothing to do but wait… and pray.

The corridor disintegrated around them, the sanitized white panels freeing themselves from the thin strips of metal that held
them to the rock walls, the ceilings with their strips of bright halide lighting cascading down upon them in a shower of sparks
and explosions. Worse was the huge pane of glass that separated them from the operating amphitheater—this parted from its
moorings at the very first twitch and inflicted numerous cuts upon their bodies. One large section of glass hurled itself
toward them and raked across the back of Barat Krol’s arm, gouging a deep wound that immediately began to bleed. Even this
did not cause them to raise their heads.

When the earth had finally ceased to move, they were all but buried beneath the wreckage. Huge chunks of rock had rained down
on them as well, and only the fallen panels had prevented them from being killed outright. Septua’s ankle had been crushed
and several spears of bone poked through the rapidly darkening skin. Septua took one look at it when Barat Krol was at last
able to free him and then passed out cold. Unconsciousness spared him the sight of the cylinder of precious Madrelliova which
had been smashed flat by an immense rock, its contents already seeping into the gritty rubble.

“We’re both in a bad way, my little friend,” Barat Krol murmured, more to himself than to the unconscious dwarf. He looked
around in despair and saw nothing but a pale blue cascade of electrical sparks somewhere in the distance. All the lights had
been destroyed and everything was in darkness.
The air around him was thick with dust and acrid smoke and it was difficult to breathe. Somewhere he could hear the sound
of someone crying, and then even that stopped.

Barat Krol tried to think of what he could do. He knew which way to go, but it seemed likely that the entire corridor would
be filled with debris, impossible to traverse, considering the seriousness of the dwarf’s injury. Barat Krol entertained the
idea of leaving the dwarf behind but immediately discarded the idea. They would go together or they would not go at all.

He took advantage of the dwarf’s unconscious state to bind his ankle firmly with a strip of cloth which he ripped from the
dwarf’s cape and strengthened with several of the thin metal strips to hold the broken joint firmly. Then, after making Septua
as comfortable as possible, he began to explore.

It was all that Skirnir could do to persuade Otir Vaeng
that he should continue with his plans for the marriage.

“How can you speak of such things now?” the king asked bleakly. “What can such a thing matter, my marriage, when so many of
our people are dead or dying?”

“That is precisely the point, Majesty,” Skirnir said patiently, doing his best to contain his rage and impatience, the almost
physical need to shake this sick and pusillanimous fool whom fate had cast as his superior. “Kings are not mortal but are
chosen by the gods to represent them and their wishes on earth. You must be married to remind the people that there is a devine
destiny, that despite the disaster the gods have not abandoned us, that they are with us still.”

“Oh.” Otir Vaeng looked up sharply, a glint of the old fire in his eyes. He stared at his prime minister, his lips pressed
into a thin taut line. “Divine destiny of the gods, eh? And what might that be? If there truly is such a thing as divine destiny,
what possible purpose could these gods have had for bringing us to a dead world and then killing us off in wholesale lots?
We could have remained on earth and died in our own beds had we wanted to perish.”

“Majesty,” Skirnir said soothingly, although his heart was pounding inside his chest. It had been a long while since the king
had spoken out so sharply. Skirnir had almost forgotten what it was like to be afraid of the man who in his prime had
dished out death as easily as one served up a bowl of soup. “We cannot hope to understand all of the gods’ purposes, but surely
this disaster has been their method of choosing from among us those who are worthy to leave, those who must make the journey
to our next home.”

“And where might that be, eh, Skirnir? Have the gods managed to find us a new home, or is that a mystery too?”

“No, Majesty. It is not a mystery. The gods have seen fit to spare us the planet known as K7 and even now we are readying
the craft for the voyage.”

Otir Vaeng lifted his head and stared at Skirnir and then half rose out of his chair before the pain in his arm caused him
to wince and fall back. “K7? But we—”

“It still exists, Majesty. You see, the gods have favored us after all. You can see now why your marriage is necessary. The
ceremony will serve to unite the people again.”

Otir Vaeng was clearly not convinced, but now his attention seemed to drift away from Skirnir and the fire was gone from his
eyes. “If you say so,” he said vaguely, and cradled his injured arm as he stared into the flames.

Skirnir smiled to himself as he bowed low before the king, who no longer saw him. He exited the stifling room, which, even
with its huge fires burning constantly, did not seem to warm the king.

At the last moment, Otir Vaeng seemed to rouse from his lethargy and snapped out the prime minister’s name. “Skirnir, is the
boat finished?”

“Yes, Majesty, all but done,” Skirnir stammered, his heart racing at the steel in the man’s tone. It would not do to become
too sure of himself. Despite his injury, the king was still a man to be feared.

He decided then to give the people and the king what they wanted. The wedding would take place at the water’s
edge
beside the immense high-prowed boat that the king had insisted
be built. The marriage would occur in two days’ time, but first there was the matter of the funeral for those killed in the
quake, in its way as important as the wedding. Death and then the promise of birth. With a few surprises along the way.

Despite his determination, Braldt had been unable to reach Keri’s quarters. The closer they came to the king’s chambers, the
heavier the guard, fully armed and fending off the flow of crazed survivors, directing them down into the interior of the
cone where rescue efforts as well as teams of healers and food lines were already being established. The coolheaded ability
to impose order on chaos, the hallmark of their people, had helped them respond to the crisis.

Braldt had no desire to take part in the rescue effort, his only interest was in finding Keri, Beast, and then Septua and
Uba Mintch, but Mirna convinced him that the best and safest way for them to receive information, the best way to lay a successful
plan, was to become one with the people.

Under her direction, they blurred their features with a mixture of spit and dust and robbed two corpses for their cloaks,
concealing Mirna’s bright red hair and Braldt’s distinctive features. Joining the keening throngs, they made their way to
the lower levels, where they were given packets of instawarm emergency rations to satisfy their immediate hungers and thirsts.
In the way of all such rations, they might have satisfied the physical needs, but the esthetics such as taste and texture
were sadly lacking.

They soon found themselves separated, once it had been ascertained that they were uninjured. Mirna was assigned to a crisis
ward helping the healers and Braldt was singled out to help lift heavy objects off the injured. Their sad, bloody tasks kept
them busy throughout the day and long into the night when most of those still alive had been found and given what limited
treatment was available. There were still many
areas which had not been heard from and had proved impossible to reach without heavier equipment, some of which was itself
buried beneath tons of debris.

The hospital was unfortunately one of those areas still to be excavated and reaching it would be difficult because the entire
concourse that led to the hospital zone had broken off, preventing access of any sort. Numerous plans were conceived and then
discarded as impractical or impossible.

It was frustrating to be able to see the corridor and know that critical medicines and equipment were so close and yet so
totally out of reach. Several attempts were made to climb the rough, broken rock face, but the surface was too unstable and
threatened to break away at the least amount of pressure.

Braldt had seen enough hideous injuries throughout the day to know that many would die if access could not be gained to the
hospital. He was studying the face of the newly formed cliff, attempting to map out a safe route, when there was a sudden
intake of breath from the crowd and excited exclamations. Braldt raised his eyes to the top of the cliff and spotted a Madrelli—Barat
Krol, he thought, but the distance was too great to be certain—descending the rock face with nothing more than hands and feet
to aid him. Draped across his neck and shoulders was what first appeared to be a multicolored shawl, but Madrelli did not
wear clothing. As he came closer, Braldt suddenly realized that what he was seeing was a person, a little person, attached
to the Madrelli’s broad back by tom strips of cloth. Septua! Braldt’s heart leapt inside his chest and began to hammer rapidly.
Was the dwarf dead? No, a hand fluttered, short stubby fingers convulsed as they neared the bottom of the rock face; the dwarf
was still alive.

Braldt dashed forward to lend a hand in steadying Barat Krol as his long, flexible foot digits reached out for firm ground.
Barat Krol turned at the touch, lips drawn back in an open snarl that did not fade until he recognized Braldt’s features
beneath the layer of dust and grime. Only then did he allow Braldt to relieve him of his heavy burden. Braldt examined Septua
anxiously and found numerous cuts and bruises as well as the seriously damaged ankle joint. The crowd pressed in close, morbidly
curious about anyone less fortunate than themselves.

“It’s the dwarf thief,” murmured one who recognized the distinctive, diminutive stature.

Anxious to head off that train of thought, Braldt shrouded his own face deeper in the folds of the cloak and spoke out, “Is
such a thing of any import now? Surely the important thing is that he is hurt and needs care. There are no enemies at a time
like this. We must set aside our differences and work together. Think what we have just seen. If this Madrelli can descend
the cliff with such ease, we should not be thinking how different he is from us, but rather how much we require the service
of those different abilities.”

Braldt turned to Barat Krol and spoke to him as though they were strangers. “You are brave, good sir, to have thought of another
in such a time of danger. Do the healers’ quarters still stand or have they been destroyed?”