The Hunter Victorious (21 page)

He shut out the vision of the fjords, thick and brownish yellow with refuse and the corpses of the deepest dwellers who had
succumbed at last, their bodies bursting as they rose to the poisoned surface. He refused to remember the naked slopes, rising
to the skies, all remnants of green long since vanished, only the bare skeletons of trunks and branches silhouetted against
the contaminated earth. These were memories he did not choose to view.

And now as never before, he found himself thinking of what was to come. On earth he, as the majority of others, had rejected
formal religion, for it was difficult to believe in gods who would allow such death and utter desolation to befall those who
lived their lives according to the proscribed tenets and doctrines.

Yet, voyaging through space, experiencing the immensity of the universe, watching the earth as it grew smaller and smaller
and finally vanished, feeling the fear of death and the exhilaration of discovering a new world, it was impossible to believe
that all of it was just an accident. It was impossible to believe that it had all just “happened.” Yet it was also
impossible to believe in the old, established religions, for none of them seemed to have any relevance after experiencing
the immensity of the universe.

Strangely, as strongly as they had cast aside their belief in religion on earth, there was now an even stronger compulsion
among the Scandis to believe in something other than themselves. It was then that the old gods had reemerged. Otir Vaeng and
the volva had recognized the need and resurrected them, Odin and Thor, Freya, Loki, and all the others. And somehow those
older, more primitive gods seemed far more appropriate than those that had supplanted them. It was easier to believe in a
god who presided over the chaos of the elements than a god who rewarded faithful belief with cruelty and death.

The old gods had foretold of the coming destruction of the world and just such a thing had occurred on earth. They had also
foretold the end of an age and the emergence of a new race of men and gods who would repeople the world in the age that would
be. It was apparent to Otir Vaeng that that was exactly what was happening. Things were ending, on earth and now here, on
Valhalla. Those who survived the death of this age would people the new world that was yet to come.

Now, as he approached his own final ending, Otir Vaeng began to wonder what was to come. He and the volva had resurrected
the old gods, it was true, but was it also not true that they had always been there? It could be argued that nature had repaid
the people in full, taken its revenge upon them for raping the earth. And Loki, that god of mischief, must be enjoying himself,
having a great belly laugh at the mess they had made of their lives and their world.

He wondered if there truly was an afterlife. The thought was comforting, being welcomed into the Great Hall which
he now envisioned somewhere in the vast darkness of space, taking his place among all the other warriors and lifting a horn
of mead.

If his mind had been clearer, Otir Vaeng might have marveled or at least had a moment of ironic laughter at the ease with
which he had discarded three thousand years of established religion, shedding it like a too-small skin. He might also have
chuckled at the ease with which he embraced a religion which he himself had reestablished as a mere soporific to satisfy the
masses. But he no longer enjoyed that clarity of vision which had enabled him to rule for such a long time. In the end, as
he approached his death, Otir Vaeng was not a king, he was merely a man.

Dying though he might be, he had no intention of leaving the world with things undone. The gods wished it so; they whispered
in his ear when he slept, and now, more often, when he was awake. Sometimes, when the pain and the drugs wrapped him in their
grip and tugged him between them, it was hard to know if he was awake or asleep; things seemed to blur more and more often.
But he knew what it was that he had to do. And he would not, could not, die until it was finished.

There was great excitement among the astronomers, those who still remained at the observatory. Using their most powerful telescopes
as well as a variety of mass analyzers, they had come to the conclusion that the planet known to them as K7 had not been destroyed
as they had first assumed.

There had been a massive explosion—that much was certainly true, for the entire planet was cloaked by a dense cloud of fine
particular debris. At first it was thought that the dark clouds were all that remained of the planet, for Leif Arndtson had
sworn that he had set all the charges that would bring about its destruction.

But then, amazingly, the spectrographs and other delicate analyzers began chattering out their long lists of figures—figures
that were not consistent with total annihilation. Now their readings were conclusive. There had indeed been a dreadful, cataclysmic
explosion of epic proportions, but the planet itself was still intact.

Many of them had talked with the old Madrelli Uba Mintch and learned of the existence of the great volcano. Further inquiry
had informed them that it was inside the core of this same volcano that young Arndtson had set his explosive charges. Incredible
as it might seem, it now appeared that the explosion had merely triggered the eruption of the volcano. While some doubted
that a volcano could shroud an entire planet, there were others who had facts to prove that it had happened before on earth.

Now there was no longer any doubt. For the past several days, their spectrographic equations had raised their hopes, and then,
this very morning, the clouds had parted briefly and permitted them a glimpse of the world itself.

There had been cheering and laughter and finally tears. There was no way of knowing what the surface of the planet was like
and what damage had been done by the explosion. It was possible, even probable, that the cloud of debris had cut the world
off from the sun, turning it into a frigid, lifeless world similar to the one they currently inhabited.

But that would be too cruel a joke for even Loki, that god of mischief and deceit, to play upon them. More than likely, the
entire planet had not been affected, only parts. Surely the sun had been able to pierce the thick black clouds in some places,
allowing life to continue.

The old Madrelli had fallen silent during their speculations and too late they realized that his entire tribe had lived at
the base of the volcano. The odds were very much against their survival. He had nothing more to tell them and after a time
he left. They had enjoyed him—he was refreshing, quite different than the smelly, raffish creatures they were accustomed to—but
they were also relieved to see him go, for his depression threw a pall over their newfound happiness. They would have to tell
the king, but for the moment they held the knowledge to themselves.

There were many worlds in the universe, it was true, but those suited to life as they knew it were few and far between and
all of them had been colonized long ago. The existence of K7 meant that they had found a world to immigrate to, a world to
call their own. They would not die.

It did not occur to those scientists that if the world had survived, so then had the inhabitants who were foolish enough to
think of it as their world.

Braldt flexed his arms for the hundredth time and felt the futility of the action in the ache in his muscles. No matter how
hard he expanded his muscles, the bands did not loosen the slightest bit. They adjusted to his every move, never growing larger,
but shrinking tighter and tighter each time he inhaled or relaxed. It was hard to breathe now, and there was a constant buzzing
in his ears, an accompaniment to the burning behind his eyes.

He was not alone. There were others who shared his confinement, a sad assortment of Scandis who for one reason or another
had run afoul of the establishment. Most of them had avoided him as though he were contaminated, but one woman had seemed
overly curious and even now was leaning casually against the wall, staring at him with speculative eyes.

She seemed to come to some conclusion and strolled over to him. She leaned forward and prodded him with a long, painted fingernail.
He met her eyes, which were a deep sea-green, fringed with improbably thick red lashes. There was a light sprinkling of freckles
over the bridge of her nose and
across her cheeks which might have given her a childish or wholesome appearance, but didn’t. Her skin was fair and pale, almost
translucent, and seemed as though it had been dusted with starlight, for it glistened softly in the dim light. Her hair was
no less unusual, a deep shade of auburn, thick and silky and magnificent, fairly inviting one’s fingers to twine themselves
in their mass. As distraught as Braldt was, the woman’s beauty all but struck him numb. He stared up at her like a small,
thunderstruck child.

The woman sighed, obviously used to the response, and shook her head with aggravation. “Look, do you want to get out of here?”
she whispered, her brilliant eyes fixed intently on Braldt’s face. He could only stare up at her and nod.

The woman studied him, her eyes bright with speculation. She nodded, more to herself than to Braldt. “All right, if I help
you get out of those things, will you help me? Take me out of here when you go?”

Braldt nodded, wondering how she could free him, for even though she was tall and broad of shoulder, it seemed impossible
that she could free him when even he could not.

“Promise? Give me your solemn word? Swear on your mother’s head?” Again Braldt nodded his agreement.

The woman sighed again and muttered beneath her breath as she busied herself with the ever-tightening bands. “… world where
I don’t have to depend on men… always want something…” Then, much to Braldt’s astonishment, the bands loosened and fell away.
He took a deep breath, filled his lungs. His eyes closed as he savored the blessed relief and knew that he would never take
such a simple action for granted again. Once again the woman prodded him with a sharp fingernail. “You going to sleep?”

Braldt opened his eyes and smiled at the woman. “My name is Braldt.”

The woman shrugged, obviously unimpressed with Braldt
or his name. “Yes, I know who you are, I know all about you. Shall we leave, or shall we stay and exchange biographies?”

Braldt was puzzled by the woman’s attitude and stung by the sharpness of her words. And how was it that she knew who he was?
A sudden suspicion came to him, an echo of Septua’s sad tale. “Mirna?”

The woman’s full mouth quirked sharply in a wry smile. She gave a parody of a curtsy.

“What are you doing here?” Braldt asked in amazement, stunned to have found Mirna, the woman Septua had given everything he
owned to possess, only to lose her to Gunnar Bakkstrom, the captain of the guards, in a plot of treachery and deceit. According
to Septua, the woman had milked him of everything he had accrued in a lifetime of thievery and then betrayed him to the captain
of the guards. Yet if that were true, why was she here?

For a moment Braldt considered the fact that she might have been placed here to trick him, to find out all he knew and gain
access to their plans. But then he looked at the woman more closely, saw the broken and chipped nails, the filthy edges of
the gossamer robes, the layer of dirt on the flawless skin, and knew that such a woman would never have agreed to such conditions.

The woman seemed to read his thoughts, for her chin raised defiantly and she stared him full in the eyes, her own eyes glittering
brightly with anger and suppressed tears. “You want to know why I’m here? I can see by your eyes that you know who I am. Well,
I will tell you, if that will get you moving.” She was silent for a long moment. She looked away and raised her chin still
higher. Her fingers drummed on her thigh and she seemed to collect herself.

“I make no apologies. None. I am a woman alone. I’ve been on my own since I was twelve and I learned quickly
how to take care of myself. The lessons were hard. Others might have chosen to die… but I wanted to live, no matter what it
took.

“Among the lessons I learned was the simple fact that if I do not take care of myself, no one else will. Oh, perhaps they
will for a time, but it always ends and then I am alone again. I made myself a promise long ago that I would never be hungry.
I would never be poor. I would never be afraid. Do you understand that?” She turned to look at him and her eyes were fierce,
burning with an intensity that Braldt could not disbelieve.

She did not continue until he nodded his understanding. “At first Septua, the little one, he was no different than all the
others, fair game. In fact he was easier than most because he really fell hard. He said he would do anything for me.

“When Bakkstrom first approached me, I saw a chance to win big, take everything from the dwarf and earn a commission and goodwill
from the captain as well. It seemed like the chance I had been waiting for, the chance to be on my own for good, without being
at the beck and call of some man. It worked just the way it was supposed to. The dwarf protested at first, was afraid to break
into a Thane’s apartments, but in the end I convinced him. It was easy.

“What was hard was the look he gave me when they sentenced him. I laughed and snuggled up to the captain and pretended that
I did not care, but those damned eyes have haunted me every night, filled my dreams and preyed on my nerves till I thought
that I would go mad. Who could have guessed that I would develop a conscience at this late date?” She laughed bitterly.

“And I worried about that damned dwarf, worried that he was getting himself killed. I was always at Gunnar, asking him if
he’d heard anything from Arena, if Septua was still
alive. I guess that somewhere in the back of my mind I was trying to figure out a way to get him back before he was killed.

“I tried to work on Gunnar, but now that I cared about someone, it changed me and I seemed to lose something in return. Gunnar
sensed the difference, almost like a wolf scenting a sick and vulnerable creature. He cast me off as easily as I have cast
off hundreds of men in my time. I was weak, soft, and no longer of any interest to him.