The Hunter Victorious (8 page)

He and Braldt had been raised as brothers, but Keri knew
that while Braldt accepted the younger man and loved him as though they were born of the same flesh, Carn had always harbored
a nagging jealousy and steadily growing bitterness. No matter what they undertook, whether it was sports or academics, hunting
or merely partying, Braldt was always better than Carn, scoring the highest scores, bagging the best game, winning the most
desirable women—it was always Braldt.

To make matters worse, Braldt never seemed to realize what the younger man was feeling. He gladly shared his game and his
women and made light of his winning scores, never realizing that the ease with which he shed his prizes merely made the losing
more bitter. Keri’s love for Braldt had only made matters worse, and now Carn included her in his hatred.

Keri could scarcely even recognize her brother. It was not so much a matter of the ruined skin and deformed features, but
the bitter nature contained within the shattered body. He had allowed his hatred of Keri and Braldt and the Madrelli to warp
him in some unfixable manner. The skin and the deformities could easily have been reversed, for the Scandis were capable of
performing medical miracles, but Carn steadfastly refused to allow them to work their magic. It was almost as though he welcomed
the taut, shiny skin that was stretched so tightly over his bones, embraced the pain as a personal stigmata bestowed upon
him as a sign of his god’s love.

It did not matter that their gods, Mother Moon and all the others, had proved to be but a creation of the Scandis; Carn’s
religious beliefs were intensely personal and unarguable. He had quite literally been baptized by fire and it would take more
than words to sway him from his beliefs.

Keri sighed again and settled next to Uba Mintch in front of the fire. Beast stirred and stretched, his wounds nearly healed.
Keri stroked him gently, urging him back to sleep.

“Where are they? What are they doing and what is to
become of us?’” she asked. “I cannot stop thinking of home. It is so hard to think that we will never see it again, to think
of everyone being… being… gone.”

Uba Mintch covered her small hand with his own immense paw. “There was no time for them to suffer. There was no pain, no fright.
It was all over in a heartbeat and they are not gone so long as we remember them; they still live in our hearts.”

Keri wanted to cry out that it was not enough to remember. She yearned to hold and be held. But Uba Mintch’s pain could be
heard in his voice and to indulge her own sorrow would only make his worse.

“What do you think will happen to us?” she asked, in an attempt to take his mind away from his grandchild, that active little
minx who had captured her heart as well. But also she asked the question because the worry was never far from her mind. She
had never felt safe on this world, despite the fact that she had been welcomed by the king himself and treated exceedingly
well. There was an underlying sense of danger that never left her, a need for watchfulness, although she could not have said
who or what she was watching for. All she knew was that they were in danger.

“Brandtson enjoys a certain degree of power,” Uba Mintch said thoughtfully, his deep, bass rumbling tones filling the small
room. “And he has a strong circle of friends among the Council of Thanes. I would like to think that while we are under his
protection, we are safe, but I have this terrible suspicion that we have all been marked for death. The king smiles but with
only one side of his face.”

“I feel it too, this danger,” Keri said softly. “What are we to do? How can we protect ourselves?”

“I was at the observatory just now,” Uba Mintch said, changing the subject with abrupt suddenness. “The night skies are clear,
perfect weather for viewing the heavens.”

Keri was startled. “What did you see?” she asked, her heart beating crazily, wondering if they had been somehow mistaken,
if their world—

“I have been up there many times, you know,” Uba Mintch replied as though he had not heard her question. “At first they did
not know what to make of me. They were suspicious, even hostile, but I convinced them of my desire to know, to learn, and
now they seem to accept me. I am even welcome.” He was silent for a long moment.

“These men are not accorded the proper amount of respect, I think. They understand more miraculous things than any shaman
or healer or king, and yet it seems that they are regarded with suspicion and dislike by most of the Scandis.”

“I believe that they hold these scientists somehow responsible for the death of their sun,” Keri said. “Or at least blame
them for not being able to find a solution to the problem.”

“I do not think any man has the power to stop death,” said Uba Mintch, “whether it be the death of a man or the death of a
world.”

“But our world was not ready to die!” Keri protested fiercely. “They killed our world! Men did this thing and it should not
have happened!”

“Maybe it did not happen,” Uba Mintch said slowly.

Wild, unreasonable hope flooded Keri’s mind. “What… what do you mean?” She clenched her hands around Uba Mintch’s arm.

“I do not know for certain. Perhaps I should not have spoken until I know more.…”

“What are you saying? Tell me!” Keri cried fiercely.

“Our world is covered with a layer of dark clouds. It is impossible to see what, if anything, lies beneath it. It could be
that the cloud of debris is all that remains, but some of the star watchers seem to think otherwise. They say that sometimes
when a massive eruption occurs naturally, rock and
dust are blown out with great force, a great enough force that it is caught by the winds and will circle the planet for years
to come.”

“Do they think… did you see…?” Keri asked, scarcely daring to hope.

Uba Mintch shook his head. “They are divided in thought: Some say yes, some say no. I could see nothing but the cloud. But
even if our world did survive, it would not be as we remember it. The star watchers say that the dark clouds will shield the
planet from the sun and it will grow cold—as cold as it is here on Valhalla, perhaps even colder. It will be permanent winter
for many, many years to come. Many things will die, among those things that were fortunate enough to survive the initial blast.”

“But it will be possible that many would live?”

“Possible,” said Uba Mintch, taking her two small hands inside his own. “It is barely possible. You and I, child… we must
pray to whatever gods we have left that there really is such a thing as a miracle.”

Otir Vaeng sat in his high-backed chair staring into the flames that warmed his personal chambers, thinking back over the
events of the evening. It was going well, he thought, as well as could be expected. When first he had begun his program to
lead the people back to the old gods, he had serious doubts that they would accept the ancient deities. He had been astonished
at the ease with which they embraced, even welcomed, the old pantheons.

He had studied all the old masters of manipulation: the Borgias, Machiavelli, Hitler, Mussolini, Churchill, Foster, and most
recently Hellserman. All had advocated the use of religion and superstition or its total abolition in order to bind the people
to have them obey one’s will. Vaeng knew that in times of turmoil and fear, people turned to supernatural deities
who might have more control over the fates than mere mortals.

The Scandi nations had been spared many of the horrors that had marched around the globe, perhaps aided by the climate, which,
though greatly warmed, was still much cooler than other less fortunate parts of the world. The rising seas had also cut them
off and isolated them from easy access except from the desperate hordes to the north. These they had been forced to discourage
with lethal measures.

Otir Vaeng had been led by his father, who was king before him, to accept the inevitable conclusion that earth must be abandoned,
that they must take to the stars and carve out a new world from the heavens if they were to survive. His father had chosen,
then, the best and the brightest among them from all the Scandi nations. The others were to follow in additional crafts. Only
Otir Vaeng and his father knew that those ships would never feel the cold breath of space upon their hulls. There was no room
for error, no food to be wasted on unnecessary mouths.

It had been hard at first, with angry words and threats of violence when it was realized that no other ships would come, for
many loved ones had been left behind. But in the end there was nothing to be done, for it was not possible, in those early
years, to make the long voyage back to earth.

They had found the new world and Otir Vaeng’s father had named it Valhalla after the old legends, for it was a place of rebirth
where their world would live once again. If any still believed in gods—and there were some who still uttered furtive prayers—it
was easy to believe that some form of divine intervention had led them to this place. There were tall hills covered with thick
stands of trees, lush valleys thick with grasses, and vast bodies of water. The climate was warm—warm enough that they were
able to shed their heavy
protective clothing. Only later, as the new world continued to cool, did they learn that the sun that shone upon it was dying,
that this world had endured a lengthy period of superheating as the dying sun expanded and that now it was contracting and
cooling. But even worse was the fact that the planet was barren of life. No fish swam in the waters, no birds winged their
way across the vast empty skies, no insect trundled, no snake writhed, no animal trod anywhere on this new earth.

They had brought such things with them, to be sure—a miniature ark, as it were, with all manner of life-forms stored in embryo
form. But they had never imagined that it would be necessary to establish an entire food chain. Fish were spawned, birds were
hatched, meat animals and beasts of burden were born, but vital links were missing and the newly created creatures either
died for lack of sustenance or were fed by human assistance. With the single exception of the grazing animals, none were able
to forage for themselves.

As the world grew increasingly colder and snow and ice began to creep down the slopes of the mountains, it had become necessary
to abandon their dwellings and colonize the hollow interior of the largest of the mountains, which Otir Vaeng christened Asgard.

A door opened at the far side of the room and Skirnir, Otir Vaeng’s prime minister, sidled to the king’s side bearing a heated
mug of the herbal tea the king drank each night to soothe his nerves and allow him two or three hours of sleep.

“What news, Skirnir?” asked the king as his fingers closed around the steaming mug.

“It is too early to say, sire,” Skirnir replied, his narrow eyes darting nervously around the room, never resting for more
than a few seconds on any one object, a disconcerting habit that still annoyed the king despite their many years
together. “The guards have been sent but as yet have not returned. I anticipate no trouble. What can two old men do against
a dozen armed guards?”

“You’re a fool to underestimate them, Skirnir, as I have told you a hundred times before. They are clever, resourceful, and
bold. Nor are they acting alone. Do not forget Braldt. He has proved himself quite adept at evading our best attempts to dispatch
him.”

“Skeggi, Mostrarskegg, Thorwald… who would have thought that he could have defeated—killed—the very best of my berserkers?
I shall miss them.” The king fell silent, peering down into the dark swirls of his mug. “Are the burial plans completed?”
he asked with a heavy sigh.

“Yes, sire. The funeral will take place six days hence. I have been thinking,” Skirnir said quickly. “I have devised a plan
that will bind many of our enemies to us, silence their opposition, and still some of the people’s concerns. It is a plan
that I do not think can fail.”

“Come, man, speak out plainly. Let’s have none of your self-serving double-talk. What is this clever plan?”

“You must take yourself a bride.…” began Skirnir, holding up his hands and backing away, his nervous eyes darting in all directions
except toward the king. “Wait, I beg you, hear me out. This is a bride like no other bride. You must wed the Duroni girl,
Keri, and you must take her to bride in the old manner as the ancient kings once did, in a ceremony filled with pomp and circumstance
and blessed by the gods. It will tie in with the funeral, don’t you see, death and rebirth, a promise for the future. It will
take the people by surprise and still many of their voices. It will buy you valuable time.”

“I have no time for marriage,” growled Otir Vaeng, but it was clear that he was intrigued by the idea.

“The people have long wished for you to remarry,” Skirnir said persuasively. “It would be a wise move.”

“But this Braldt—is she not pledged to him?”

“After tonight, there will be no Braldt. She will be alone and will turn to you as her protector.”

“Go,” Otir Vaeng said with an abrupt, dismissive gesture. “I will think on it.”

Skirnir scurried from the room, all but twisting his hands with glee. He knew the king well and knew that his plan had slithered
through the king’s vigilant guard and gained a tenuous toehold. It was all he needed. It was as good as done.