The Hunter Victorious (31 page)

For a time there was nothing to be seen but the cold snow-covered peaks which surrounded them. Then a sharp scent came to
her, borne on a wind which seemed more moist and temperate than it had been only moments before. She lifted her face to the
wind. Yes, it was so! There was definitely a tang of salt on the wind and moisture in the air.

The procession rounded the flank of a mountain and as they began to descend the foothills down to the plains, she saw it:
a vast body of water, perhaps a lake, but most probably an ocean, for the taste of salt was heavy on the air. It stretched
as far as the eye could see. Its surface was dotted with ice and snow, some small clumps that bumped together’on the lift
of the waves, other drifts of ice the size of houses which bobbed atop the gray waters like ships.

They appeared to be making for a small bay, and tied to the shore was an immense ship, unlike anything Keri had
ever seen before. Its prow was high, nearly as high as its masts, as was its stern. Both prow and stern had been carved in
the likeness of a fierce beast, not serpent, not lizard, but a combination of both. Its head was proud and arrogant, its eyes
hard and cold. Its jaws were agape and a forked tongue and carved flames emerged between the cruel fangs. This hideous creature
was carved in wood, as was the entire ship, but was painted so realistically that Keri would not have been surprised if it
had turned its head around to glare at her. It was a frightening apparition and she was glad that it was not alive.

The rest of the ship was no less curious. Long and narrow, it was widest at the middle point, and here the gunwales appeared
to spread themselves as though some giant had reached down out of the sky, seized the prow and stern, and squeezed slightly,
forcing the middle outward. All along the sides of the ship were shields, each bearing an emblem in its center. These were
emblems that Keri had seen before: the head of a horse, an eagle with widespread wings gripping a pennant in its claws, the
head of a wolf, and that one there, a lightning bolt, a brilliant silver against a dark blue background. She knew without
being told that these were the shields, the emblems, of the various houses or clans who served the king.

The pace increased, as well as the wind, which streamed off the water bearing pennons of salty spume. Because of the angle
of their descent, Keri could see that the musicians led the procession, followed by a phalanx of guards, then the volva and
Carn, both of whom were dressed in skins and primitive amulets. Keri felt a moment’s unease at the sight of her brother, who
now even dressed like the fearsome woman who had him in her thrall. Could he not feel the emanations of evil that all but
dripped from her?

The king’s litter was next, guarded on all sides by his own
personal batallion as well as two slouching figures of the shape-changers, who presented the single largest danger to Beast,
for they matched him in size and ferocity and there were two of them to his one.

Her own litter followed that of the king, and behind her came representatives of the various houses, preceded by their flags,
although it seemed to Keri that their numbers were greatly reduced, and many of those who trailed behind their flags were
bandaged and bruised and wore grim expressions.

Behind the clans came the mass of common people who belonged to no house but were separated into noisome groups of artisans.
Only these people, necessary for their skills and bound by few social restraints, exhibited any of the joy normally associated
with such an occasion. Many, it seemed obvious by their gay demeanor, had already partaken of some form of liquid happiness.
She wished that she could feel some of their enthusiasm, even as her eyes searched the crowd for one who might be Braldt.
But of him there was no sign.

She wished that the journey could have taken longer, wished that it was but the first leg of a longer voyage. But such was
not the case and all too soon they arrived at the shoreline at the base of the great ship, which rose and fell on the waves.
It was easy to believe that it was a live creature. Keri could feel its baleful yellow eyes glaring down at her, could almost
feel its hot breath on her shoulders, feel the touch of its flames on the nape of her neck. She dared not look up lest the
strength of her fears somehow bring it to life.

A small boat was tied to the shore, anchored by a rock, and Keri and Otir Vaeng took their places on narrow seats while Carn,
Skirnir, and the volva seated themselves in the stern. Beast whined and paced at the foam-flecked shore, obviously afraid
of the water, but as the boat began to pull away, rowed by four strong oarsmen, Keri cried out to him— “Beaasst!”—her voice
betraying the depth of her fear and
despair, and forgetting his own fear, Beast leapt into the water and swam to the boat, pulling himself inside and dropping
to Keri’s feet. Pools of icy water dripped onto Skirnir’s feet and he pulled a dagger that hung at his side as though to strike
at Beast.

Otir Vaeng roused himself from the deep mood of contemplation that enveloped him and placed his good hand upon Skirnir’s arm.
Nothing was said. There was no need; the look that passed between them was more than enough. Skirnir sheathed his blade and
seemed to shrink inside himself, but his eyes, which flicked at Keri like the tongue of a serpent, were filled with dark hate.

She felt a surge of gratitude, even caring and concern, for Otir Vaeng at that moment. She studied the face of the man who
was soon to be her husband. It was a noble face, the brow high and wide, the cheekbones cleanly etched, the nose slender and
straight. His mouth was turned down with exhaustion and pain, but it was shapely and well formed. His jaw and chin were clean
and noble. Even though she knew that his apparent youth was a falsehood, his life artificially extended by the healers, Keri
felt her heart stir for this man. He had power, he had wealth, both beyond measure, he had led a long and busy life and had
controlled the lives of a nation and now a world. But for all that, what had it come to? A marriage to a woman who did not
love him, surrounded by a people he could not trust, who would kill him in a second if they could attain his power.

Though she knew that he had caused much grief and bloodshed during his lifetime, and was in fact responsible for the death
of her own world, Keri could no longer hate Otir Vaeng. As she stared at him, she felt the last of her hatred fade away, to
be replaced by sorrow for his sad and empty life.

As though reading her thoughts, Otir Vaeng opened his eyes, looked at her, and smiled gently. His eyes were soft
and warm and rested upon her with love. Keri returned his gaze with a tremulous smile of her own. He looked at her so clearly,
as though he actually saw her, with none of the absentminded air that had accompanied him so long. It almost seemed as though
he were trying to reassure her. She stared at him, bewildered. What was it that was happening? A hard knock interrupted her
thoughts. They had reached the ship.

The moment had come, the moment which Carn had
dreaded.The priests had droned on and on in the old Scandi tongue, which Carn suspected none of them understood. There were
three of them, draped in gilt and satins with high-domed hats and long, swishing robes. They carried miters and curved staffs
as well as psalm books. Their voices had intermingled, at times reciting the same lines, at others oddly at variance with
each other. There had been other languages as well: Latin, a harmonious if pompous-sounding tongue, and common Scandi, which
all of the various clans and tribes spoke.

The ceremony had dragged on forever, the priests commanding Keri and the king to recite first this bit of nonsense and then
that bit of rhetoric, none of which seemed to have any meaning under the present circumstances. Keri had knelt and dipped
in obeisance, been anointed, draped with circlets of gold and flowers, and finally a large signet ring was placed upon her
finger. It was done; she was wed to the king. Keri was now the queen of the Scandi nation. But still, it was not done.

Carn could see the tears glinting in her eyes as she turned to look at him. Her chin was tilted proudly, perhaps even defiantly,
but her lower lip trembled as it always had whenever the two of them had been forced to face the consequences of their mischief
as youngsters.

Suddenly Carn felt the years drop away: He and Keri were standing side by side, awaiting punishment for the breakage of a
valuable vase, an accident which he alone had been responsible for. But Keri had spoken out and accepted half the blame, even
though she had no part in the incident. Her lower lip had trembled exactly so then, afraid of her father’s wrath, for the
vase had been important to their mother. She had stared at him defiantly then too, commanding his silence even though she
was younger by several years.

She had borne her share of the punishment without comment or complaint and had silenced him with a look when he had haltingly
tried to stammer out his thanks. He had never understood why she had done it, but now he thought that perhaps he did. It occurred
to him for perhaps the very first time that his sister loved him.

It was a simple thought, perhaps even an obvious one, the acknowledgment of an emotion that bound most family members together.
But things had not been simple for Carn for a long time. Jealousy of Braldt had colored everything, including the knowledge
that his sister loved him despite the fact that he had turned his back on her.

Even as he admitted to himself that he had been wrong, had treated her unfairly, a wind seemed to blow through his mind, as
cold and chilling as the wind that swept across the deck of the ship. It was as though a curtain had been pulled aside, revealing
truths to him that he had long sought to hide from himself. Braldt was not his enemy. Keri had not betrayed him. It was he
who had been wrong, it was he who had betrayed them both in his heart and in his deeds.

Carn touched his brow with his fingers, feeling an ache behind his eyes that was echoed in his heart. Where had it all gone
wrong, and most of all, how was he to put it right?

Dimly, through the tumult that was occurring in his mind, he heard the volva speaking. Her voice was like a knife
cutting through the festering wound of his sickness, lancing the poison that had corrupted his thoughts. He turned to her
and seemed to see her for the first time. He was repulsed by the sight of her. Her long, dark hair, whipped by the wind, no
longer invited his fingers to tangle themselves in their strands. Instead they reminded him of a nest of vipers, their heads
questing, tongues flicking, anxiously searching for their next victim. Her eyes were crazed, her vision focused inward on
some private goal that he now knew he served as the pawn for. Her teeth were small and white like those of a child, but were
filed into points that could and did draw blood. How easily she had drawn him into her spell. He had been so willing. The
promise of power and her sexuality was all that it had taken. He had been pathetically simple. Shame swept over him in a hot
wave.

Words began to filter through, come to him, punctuating his self-loathing. Her arms were lifted to the cold heavens, which
were filled with thunderous dark clouds. She shrieked her words into the force of the winds, which were increasing in velocity,
her cloak billowing out stiffly behind her. She seemed to be calling upon Thor, calling him down, inviting him to join them,
to accept their offering.

Once the ceremony was completed, Otir Vaeng collapsed in a carved wooden chair which had been provided for him, his arm cushioned
by soft pillows, his body wrapped in furs and polyskins to hold in the heat. He seemed drained by the long ceremony and paid
little attention to the volva’s imprecations, staring out across the cold horizon as though his thoughts were a million miles
away; and perhaps they were, seeing some other horizon, remembering some other, distant, happier time.

At Otir Vaeng’s feet there rose a tall pile of timber freshly cut at his direction, perfuming the air with the sharp, clean
scent of dripping sap. Skirnir had attempted to question the order, but the king had not replied and Skirnir was not foolish
enough to countermand the king’s wishes.

Skirnir scanned the deck, attempting to see what it was that the king stared at so fixedly. But there was nothing to be seen
other than the pile of wood and the tiny cabin at the prow of the boat where a navigator might have stood in ancient days.

Skirnir might have objected to the added detail, but he had not, for he had begun to suspect what the king had in mind. He
scarcely dared to believe that he could be right. Nothing was that simple. Perhaps he was wrong; Otir Vaeng had delighted
in proving him wrong many times in the past, for the man was wily and his mind moved in convoluted patterns.

Skirnir dragged his attention away from the king. It didn’t really matter what the man was planning; he was dying, that much
was easy to see. The damned lupebeast had actually done Skirnir a favor by biting the king. Skirnir had seen many wounds during
the course of his life and knew the miracles the healers could perform, but there was only so much they could do and this
wound had progressed far beyond their ability to reverse the damage. All he had to do was watch and wait, and soon he, Skirnir
Rolgvald, son of commoners, would be king of the Scandis.