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Authors: Rose Estes

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Furthermore, even though Braldt was but the rankest novice in the matters of science and technology, it seemed highly unlikely
that murdering any number of people, sacrificing
them to the whim of gods whose very existence was doubtful, would alter the fact that Valhalla’s sun was dying. Even to his
unschooled mind it did not seem logical that one action would have any affect on the other.

Braldt had assumed that they were returning to their own apartments, but to his surprise Brandtson turned aside long before
they reached the lower slopes. Fumbling beneath his cloak, he unlocked and then flung open a heavy door that was fitted flush
with the smooth flank of the mountain.

It was warm and dry inside the dark corridor and blissfully silent after the howling assault of the weather. Braldt sagged
gratefully against the wall, only then aware of the fact that the blood was pounding in his face, and his extremities were
numb and unfeeling.

Brandtson did not hesitate but made his way through the narrow chamber, and Braldt stumbled after, wondering where they were.
The entranceway ended before still another door, which hissed with the release of pressurized air as it was opened.

Braldt shut his eyes against the bright glare that greeted them. Tears poured down his face as he blinked, adjusting himself
to the light. Brandtson led him to a chair which was softly cushioned. To his wearied body it felt like sinking into a mound
of feathers.

When at last he was able to make out the details of his surroundings, he saw that he was in an astonishing room unlike anything
he had ever seen before. Brandtson handed him a heavy earthenware mug filled with a thick brown liquid that emitted a curl
of delicious-smelling steam.

Braldt sipped gratefully at the hot brew and his senses were instantly flooded with delight. The brew was unlike anything
he had ever tasted. It was sweet and thick and somehow conveyed a feeling of comfort, a sense of well-being. Braldt wondered
if it was magical. “What is this?” he asked.

“Good, isn’t it?” Brandtson replied with a smile as he hoisted his own mug in a toast. “It’s called cocoa, comes from earth.
Saxo’s addicted to the stuff, his only real vice. He has enough to last him for the rest of his life. He spent a fortune on
it, but then why shouldn’t he? All his children are dead, killed by Otir Vaeng. He has no one else to spend his marks on but
himself.”

“Will he not mind that we are helping ourselves to his supplies?” Braldt asked. “If it is that precious, I would not want—”

Brandtson waved him to silence. “I added my marks to Saxo’s. Perhaps it is childish, but I find it oddly comforting myself.…
Reminds me of my youth. You know I was raised on old earth. Valhalla has its merits, but it will never be home.” Brandtson
cradled his mug in his gnarled hands and savored the aroma of the rising vapor, his eyes gazing into the distance, viewing
the memories of the distant past.

Braldt was quiet, drawing pleasure from the warmth of the room, the soft comfort of the chair, and the newly discovered taste
treat of the oddly named “co-co.” He was curious as to why they were here in Saxo’s quarters and other questions rose to his
mind as well, but he knew that Brandtson must have had his reasons for coming to this place, and when he was ready to share
those reasons with Braldt, he would. Braldt closed his mind to the questions that rose unbidden and allowed his eyes to wander
around the amazing room.

There were six chairs in all, and all of them were thick of cushion, soft and inviting and covered with natural fabric as
opposed to man-made synthetics, in colors that had once been bright and cheerful but had worn with age to muted shades of
burgundy and blue and green. Several were ornamented with bits of carved wood that served no real purpose other than to enhance
their beauty. Here on Valhalla, where stark
utilitarianism was the norm, the furniture—the entire room, for that matter—was very unusual.

The floor beneath their feet was covered with numerous rugs, both large and small, cushioning the hard stone floor. These
were a wide variety of colors and patterns which should have produced a feeling of discord but somehow seemed appropriate.

There were no lights such as Braldt had seen elsewhere in the city, cold globes of white light that Brandtson had labeled
electricity. Saxo’s chambers were illuminated by numerous lamps of a type familiar to Braldt, filled with oil, the flaming
wick contained within a glass chimney which imparted a warm, ruddy glow over all.

There were numerous other pieces of furniture scattered around the room: tables, shelves, hassocks, desks, even some manner
of musical instrument, large and bulky and strangely shaped. All of these items were made of wood, also unusual on a world
that seemed to value articles made out of hard, cold, unnatural materials. The wood was dark and gleaming, and it was obvious
that it had been lovingly tended for many, many years.

Every flat surface was covered with objects, Braldt guessed the collection of a lifetime of mementos. There were pictures
of people dressed in odd clothing smiling out at a room on a world whose soil they had never trod. There were bits of rock
and shining crystalline formations, a glass globe the size of Braldt’s fist filled with water and containing a tiny house,
people and green triangular trees dotted with snow.

There were many objects whose use or meaning Braldt could not comprehend, but the most amazing items in the room were things
that Brandtson called books. According to Brandtson, no one used books anymore, for they were considered obsolete, replaced
by computers, holograms, word
speak, and several other use-specific items. But Brandtson still possessed a small number of books and Braldt was fascinated
by the pictures and the idea that the small peculiar marks could convey meaning. Saxo’s shelves were lined with books, many
of them covered with leather and imprinted with ornate gold letters.

As Braldt’s eyes traveled over the room, he was startled by a sudden heavy presence landing in his lap. He half rose, his
hand going for his blade, the cup of cocoa nearly spilling. He looked down and saw a furred creature with huge green eyes
struggling to keep its balance by the painful use of numerous hooked claws.

“Sit! Sit!” Brandtson chuckled loudly and, realizing that he was in no danger and feeling rather foolish, Braldt settled back
in his chair, grimacing as he tried to remove the claws from his flesh.

“What, what is it?” he asked as he and the furry thing regarded each other with wary mutual distrust.

“A real live Norwegian Forest cat,” Brandtson said with a chuckle. “Sorry, forgot to warn you about him. His name’s Thorwald
Trokenheim, or Thunder for short.”

The animal stared at Braldt blandly, its lids half closed, hooding the startling green eyes, allowing him to manipulate its
paws without comment. Now that he realized that he was not under attack and that the animal had meant no harm, Braldt was
able to study it with a bit more objectivity. It was a handsome animal, nearly three feet long from the tip of its pink triangular
nose to the end of its huge, plumelike tail. It was thickly furred, the coat heavy enough to keep it warm even in this cold
climate. The head was broad and heavy, with clumps of long, fine whiskers at the side of the muzzle that reminded Braldt of
a mustache. The upright ears were guarded by tufts of fur which would guard them from the
elements. There was a thick, heavy ruff of fur around the animal’s neck and tufts of fur stuck up between its toes. The fur
itself was most unusual, striped gray, silver, and black on the surface and more than two inches in length, it was underlaid
by a second shorter coat, which was fine, soft, and downy in texture, almost impenetrable.

The creature had endured Braldt’s examination stoicly and now, seeming almost to smile to itself, settled down on Braldt’s
lap, tucking its feet beneath it, and as its eyes closed, it began to emit a deep, contented rumbling sound. Once again Braldt
was startled and drew back slightly. The creature opened one eye briefly and gave Braldt a sideways glance that all but said,
Oh, be still and let me sleep.

Brandtson had been watching the silent exchange with a wide grin and regarded his grandson, who was still viewing Thunder
with goodly amount of ginger apprehension.

“Quite a compliment. Thunder doesn’t take to just anyone,” he observed.

“Wonderful,” Braldt replied dubiously. “What did you say it is?”

“A cat. A Norwegian Forest cat. Do you not have cats on your world?”

“We
had
many cats on our world,” Braldt said sadly, his hand rising to stroke the cat almost without realizing what he was doing.
“But none quite like this, none that lived in our homes. Is this common to your people?”

“At one time, no home was complete without a cat or a dog,” replied Brandtson, “but as earth began to die, there were too
many people and too little food to sustain all the mouths. The pets were among the last to go in the more civilized nations,
but when people were forced to decide between their pets and their children, cats and dogs joined the long list of animals
that had already been driven to extinction.
There are probably no more than a score of these cats left in the world. Thunder has been with Saxo for more than a decade.
In his way he can be as fierce as your lupebeast.”

“Why does Saxo have him?” asked Braldt.

“Ask him yourself,” replied Brandtson as a door swung open on the far side of the room and Saxo entered. Instantly Thunder
leapt gracefully from Braldt’s lap and strode to the old man, winding back and forth between his feet, rubbing his head against
his legs with the plumelike tail erect, the rumbling sound now greatly amplified. Saxo set aside his cloak, bent down, and
scooped the animal into his arms. For a long moment, man and animal butted heads with gentle affection and communed quietly.
Braldt had no need to ask why Saxo would want such an animal. The love and loyalty between the two was clearly evident and
its own ample reward.

“Well, Braldt, what did you make of that bit of nonsense?” asked Saxo as he sank into a chair and gratefully acknowledged
Brandtson as he handed him a steaming cup of cocoa. Thunder curled into a huge furry ball in the middle of Saxo’s lap, wrapped
his tail over his head, and promptly went to sleep, his contented rumbling undiminished.

“It… it was frightening, if he truly meant what he said,” Braldt replied slowly. “Would Otir Vaeng really set such a thing
in motion?”

“Certainly. Have no doubt about that. Otir Vaeng has ruled for many, many years, and he has not done so because he hesitated
to act.”

“But I don’t understand,” Braldt argued. “The majority of those who will die will be your own people. I am an outsider, as
are Keri and Uba Mintch, and there may be others whose presence I am unaware of, but we are but a small minority.”

“You don’t understand,” Saxo said patiently, looking
down at Thunder and stroking the soft fur reflectively. “This return to the old ways is nothing but a ploy. If it were not
religion, it would be something else. This just happens to suit his needs.”

“You see, Braldt,” said Brandtson, “our sun in dying. Sooner or later, but most probably sooner, this world will die just
as surely as old earth did.”

“Yes, I understand that much,” said Braldt. “But why is it necessary to kill large numbers of people? It seems to me that
everyone will be needed to find a solution to the problem.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Saxo said with a sigh. “You see, there are
too many
people. Once again, we must leave our world behind, find another planet to call home. There are many, many planets in the
universe, but few of them possess the qualities which we require to sustain life. We are already strained to the limit, trying
to produce enough food for those who, exist on Valhalla. If we are to migrate to another world and survive, it will not be
possible, or even desirable, to take everyone.”

Braldt stared at the two old men, hearing but scarcely believing the words. “Do you mean to say that Otir Vaeng is using this
religion as a cover for eliminating all of those people he does not wish to take to the new world?”

“That is precisely what we are saying,” said Brandtson.

“But that is ridiculous!”

Saxo and Brandtson stared at him without comment.

“Otir Vaeng has been reviving the old gods for just that purpose,” Saxo said at length. “It is a test, of sorts. All those
who follow it are in essence paying him allegiance, accepting his guidance. Those who oppose the gods are declaring themselves
against him.”

“But that is not what it means,” cried Braldt. “It merely means that they do not agree with his choice of religion. What
or whom did they worship before Otir Vaeng brought back the old gods?”

“Most worshiped and believed in little,” replied Brandt-son, “although there were those who still clung to a number of more
established earth religions. Technology and science were the death knell of most organized religions after the year 2000.
The more we learned about the universe and the more difficult life became on earth, the easier it was to disbelieve in the
old gods, for what merciful and all loving god would allow his followers to die in such agonizing ways?”

“The unanswerable question of the centuries,” murmured Saxo.

“But it makes no sense,” Braldt protested. “The sun will not die for many years to come. Nor has Otir Vaeng found another
planet to migrate to. Why, he could use every single pair of hands. It is insanity to even think of killing so many people!”

“You do not understand the logistics of such a move,” Saxo said patiently. “It is not like moving a family or a village or
even an entire city from one location to another. When one leaves a planet and colonizes another, each person has been carefully
chosen for the skills he or she possesses. There is slim margin for error. Who knows what the conditions of the new world
will be? Who knows how long it will take to set up a food chain that will provide for all? Every mouth is a liability.”

BOOK: The Hunter Victorious
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