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  LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

  “That which is begun may be ended, by death or by default. There is no dishonor in default, nor is death necessary. He is the winner who is left standing at the end of the contest.”

  Braldt and Batta Flor rose to their feet and began to circle, arms held apart from their bodies, eyes probing, searching for the first sign of weakness.

  The lupebeast made his first move, a lightning slash that was finished before Braldt even sensed the movement, leaving a welter of crimson stripes across his belly. Braldt wiped the blood, feeling the rough scar tissue bequeathed to him by Batta or.

  Once again they began to circle, only this time, Braldt was careful to keep a greater distance between himself and his opponent

  Braldt slipped in close behind Batta for and brought his hands up in front of the lupebeast’s arms and linked his hands behind the creature’s neck, exerting a steady downward pressure. But the deadly hold did not even phase his opponent

  Batta Flor turned to face Braldt and gathered him up in an embrace, hugging him tightly to his chest.

  Braldt felt his feet leave the ground, saw Batta Flor’s face whirl beneath him, heard a bone snap in his arm and knew that his death was fast approaching…

  THE

  HUNTER

  Copyright

  POPULAR LIBRARY EDITION

  Copyright © 1990 by Warner Books, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Popular Library ®, the fanciful P design, and Questar ® are registered trademarks of Warner Books, Inc.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: November 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-57015-2

  This book is dedicated

  to the memory of

  Joe Orlowski,

  Master gamer, fellow dreamer

  and a fine friend.

  Contents

  LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  BRALDT THE HUNTER

  1

  The chase had gone on too long. It seemed to Braldt that the lupebeats were growing craftier and more difficult to kill in recent years. Braldt had been tracking this one—from the depth and spread of its tracks a large, heavy male—for five dawnings and six moonsets, ever since he had discovered what was left of the kill.

  Braldt closed his eyes briefly as though to shut out the sight of what would be fixed forever in his memory. No amount of blinking would erase the memory of that bright splash of dark blood staining the smooth sandstone upon which the torn bodies lay, the bodies of Hafnor and Solstead, his two elderly friends whose habit it was to sit on the rocks during the heat of the morning, absorbing the welcome warmth into their brittle bones. Their presence would be missed at the Council meetings, but Braldt knew that he would miss Artallo far more.

  Braldt clenched his jaw and squinted down at the tracks, now merely faint imprints in the red dirt. He was determined that he would not lose them, and that he would have revenge on the beast who had robbed him of Artallo’s friendship with one scything sweep of its immense curving incisors.

  There had been little left of the bodies, the flesh gnawed from the bones, even that of the skull, and the bones themselves had been ground between powerful molars and cracked to extract the last bit of sweet, white marrow. Artallo had been granted leave following the morning’s exercises and he had been seen in the company of the two older men as they left the camp. Solstead had been his grandfather.

  There had been little left but the torn and blood-drenched robes. There had also been the ring that held the robe at the shoulder, the ring that Braldt had given to Artallo when he had passed the last of the tests and joined the warrior ranks. Even the ring, which now rested on Braldt’s third finger, bore the deep imprint of the lupebeast’s teeth.

  Braldt had been sent for as soon as the bodies were discovered, but he had been alerted by the outcry and the wailings of the crowd and had arrived on his own. Little remained other than the torn and blooded robes and broken bones. What clues there might have been had been destroyed by the footprints of those who had discovered the scene.

  Braldt had ordered the horrified onlookers away and had studied what was left, trying to harden his mind against the grief that threatened to overwhelm him.

  Artallo had been the very best of the young men. The best that Braldt had ever seen. His reflexes were sharper and quicker than others and his strength a match for that of Braldt himself. They had shared an uncommon meeting of minds; to look into Artallo’s eyes was like peering into his own soul.

  Braldt had watched the younger man’s progress over the years and guided his training, hoping that when he passed the final tests he would be allowed to have the youngster at his side. It would be good to be two, rather than one. But now, that hope was gone.

  Braldt shook himself back to the present and stared around him, studying the harsh terrain. The tracks of the beast had headed due south following the kill and had never deviated in the days that followed. He had followed those tracks though the undulating plains that were home to his clan. The land had grown sere and the vegetation sparse as they passed the Guardian Stones that marked the boundary of their lands, the point beyond which no man might venture without risking the vengeance of the gods. The land had given way to the soft red dust of the lifeless desert basin. Only the slavers ventured here, perhaps beneath the notice of the gods, and, in such cases as this, the warrior protectors.

  Still the tracks continued on, the creature who made them always staying far enough ahead to remain unseen. Now the clinging sands gave way to rougher terrain, the beginnings of the saw-toothed mountains that rose sharply in the distance. The imprint of the beast’s toes could be clearly seen as the hated creature dug in for greater purchase. Here, the four long claws had punctured the soil and here was a scraped rock as the beast scrambled up the face of a small outcrop.

  Artallo had been sharp of hearing and swift and strong, with short sword and dagger at his waist, yet the sword had been sheathed and the dagger still in its waist loop when Braldt had examined the bloody remains. So swift and so cunning was the lupebeast, Artallo had had no time to protect himself or his two elderly companions.

  Braldt did not intend to meet that same fate.

  The rocks rose up on either side of him now and were drawing close, forming a narrow defile, a perfect place of ambush for predators. Braldt caught the scent of water borne through the rocky channel by a short-lived burst of cool air. The floor of the cut had been deeply grooved by the passage of those seeking water. There was no doubt in Braldt’s mind that it was a site well known by predators and victims alike, the precious water an irresistible lodestone drawing them in, the gauntlet of predators the price to be paid.

  The sun beat down on Braldt’s head and shoulders from its zenith. It was the time that predators and victims alike were lying up in whatever bits of shade could be found,
waiting for the cool shadows of evening. Dawn and dusk were the prime times for danger, and there was always the night. It seemed likely that the lupebeast’s lair was somewhere among the rocky crags that abounded in these rugged outcroppings. Braldt did not think that the lupebeast would be seeking food, for its belly was still heavy with meat, but still, there was always an abundance of creatures on the prowl and the lupebeast was not the only danger to be considered.

  Turning aside from the narrow passage, Braldt sheathed his dagger and sought for finger- and toeholds in the smooth rock face. He would not go meekly into that defile like another meat animal going to slaughter; he would take to the rocks himself, for was he too not a dangerous predator?

  Climbing the face of the rock proved more difficult than Braldt had anticipated, and he cursed the nimble agility of the beast that put his own abilities to shame. When measured from the nose to the base of its tail, an adult lupebeast stood at least six heads taller than a full-grown human male. Its two long, curved incisors were considered its most dangerous aspects, but Braldt also had great respect for the double rows of sharply ridged molars that lined its jaws and were capable of cracking a man’s skull as though it were no more than an eggshell. Its teeth curved backward, which had the effect of setting them like fish hooks once they had fastened on flesh. They could be removed, but only at great cost. The mouth of a lupebeast was a filthy thing, with bits of rotting meat caught between the teeth themselves, and the slightest bite always produced a festering infection that frequently maimed even if it did not kill.

  The beast had the odd habit of walking upright when it suited its needs. Others, more superstitious than Braldt, whispered that lupebeasts were the ghosts of warriors who had dishonored themselves in battle and were forced to wander the world in animal form until they themselves were killed. Braldt had always been careful not to show his disdain for such thinking, for it did not do to insult one’s comrades, but the lupebeast did not need such animistic baggage to make it more fearful; it was a worthy opponent, all on its own.

  Grunting with exertion, Braldt dug his fingertips into a thin hairline crack and pulled himself up, scrabbling for a foothold. Inch by torturous inch, he crawled up the sheer face of the rock, cursing the lupebeast every step of the way. His body dripping with sweat, muscles corded with effort, he dragged himself over the edge of the precipice and found himself to be slightly more than two man heights above the narrow trail. The rocky plateau was marked by the imprint of claws, silent testament to the predators who made it their stalking ground. Here they would lie in wait, choosing their victims as they passed below and setting up the hunt that would so often end in death.

  Plucking his dagger from its waist loop and drawing his short sword as well, Braldt began to stalk the lupebeast. The victim would become the hunter.

  The rock was smooth and gave no hint to the passage of the lupebeast, nor could Braldt be sure that the scrapes he had seen were those of the creature he sought. But he could not allow doubts to assail him now. The beast had headed directly for this place and here he would be found.

  Braldt crouched behind an upswept pinnacle, one of the many fanciful designs that the cutting winds had sculptured out of the soft red rock, and studied the landscape before him, his keen eyes of so startling a shade of blue picking out the sites that a lupebeast might choose for its lair.

  The rock was like a red ocean, frozen in midmove, undulating surfaces here, sharp peaks of waves there, and deep swells and hollows in between. Possible hiding places were legion with gold and yellow and amber striations in the rock melding with dark shadows and real sinkholes, confusing the eye still further. The place would be a nightmarish deathscape for those who did not know its secrets.

  Braldt isolated two likely lair sites, although he did not anticipate being so fortunate as to find his quarry so easily, and plotted his course across the treacherous terrain, knowing that any number of other beasts could be lying up in the shadows, waiting out the worst of the heat before the onset of dusk.

  Keeping low to the ground, Braldt slunk toward the two dark openings in a craggy outcrop and did his best to present no clear glimpse of himself. Briefly, he entertained the thought of waiting until nightfall, but then discarded the idea. If darkness was beneficial to him, it would aid the night creatures even more. Best to make his move now when the day’s heat had them slumbering in their chambers.

  A sharp hiss at his side drew his immediate attention and revealed a red-banded rock viper coiled and ready to strike, its tiny, hate-filled eyes glittering like bits of black crystal. Braldt’s hand shot out and seized the snake immediately behind its head, immobilizing it, its mouth gaping wide and the hot sunlight shimmering on the clear drops of fluid that clung to the tips of the five fangs. Knowing that even a single drop could fell him on the spot were it to touch his skin, Braldt snapped the snake’s neck with his thumb and dropped it to the ground with distaste. He wanted to hack it to bits with his sword, yet he knew that he could little afford the telltale sound.

  Silently he crept on, alert now for the red-banded rock viper as well as its many deadly relations. Another pinnacle loomed up before him and its shadow sheltered a sleeping merebear surrounded by the bones and hooves and bits of fur from its last meal.

  Braldt slipped past the creature, willing to permit it to live in order to accomplish his task. He was not deceived by the childlike posture of the beast, twisted in its sleep with hind paws and rounded belly upturned, its head turned to the side, and its muzzle wrapped in its forepaws. Its soft dense fur and short stature gave it the appearance of a cuddly child toy, but Braldt knew that even though the pads and toes of the paws were pink and babyish, the retractable claws were sharp enough to sever his head from his shoulders, and should it be awakened, there would be nothing cuddly in the red death rage that would fill its eyes. The merebear was a fierce and relentless predator and Braldt was glad that it was not his quarry.

  Two omnicats, slinky bodies twined around each other, peered at him over a ledge to his left and then withdrew hastily, spotted ears plastered flat against their broad flat skulls, hissing hatefully as their amber eyes narrowed to slits. And then they were gone with only a white tufted flick of a tail to show where they had been.

  Braldt reached the mouth of the first cave that was taller and wider than he had originally realized. The stink of the carrion cat hung heavy on the hot air and Braldt knew that no other creature would share its quarters. A great accumulation of its offal was strewn before the opening, a disgusting but effective boundary marker to its territorial claim. Mixed in the dung itself and everywhere in between were the grisly remains of past meals, everything from beetles to bullocks. Carrion cats would and did eat anything that moved.

  The second opening, some distance away and upwind from the carrion cat, gave no clue as to its occupant, but Braldt was not so foolish as to enter in order to learn its identity.

  He quartered the area, hoping to pick up some tracks or a scat, even loose bits of fur, anything that might tell him what lay inside the dark opening. Finally, on the sharp rocks that formed the irregular opening, he found bits of black fur that clung to both sides as well as the uppermost curve of the rock that was a full arm’s length above his head.

  Braldt backed off swiftly, knowing that the cave housed one of the most dangerous of all beasts, the dread nightshadow, said to be a cross between a cat and some larger beast, but none knew for certain for no one had ever lived through a nightshadow attack and returned to tell the tale.

  The sun was falling swiftly off to his right and shadows were creeping over the rock, precursors of the darkness that was soon to follow, and the lupebeast still eluded him. The cold, calculating portion of his mind told him to retreat and to do so quickly before the denizens of the rock wakened for their evening’s hunt. But the hot flame of rage that had fed his desire for revenge since discovering Artallo’s body argued otherwise. He knew that if he left off now, he would never find the lupebeast, and it
would merely vanish and Artallo’s death would be unavenged.

  Braldt did not possess Solstead’s calm logic, nor. Hafnor’s ability to separate out everything that was not important, leaving only the kernel of the matter. Braldt was first and foremost a hunter, a killer, a warrior, and faced with the wisdom of retreat, he chose otherwise, preferring to die rather than relinquish his revenge.

  He used the shadows to his advantage, slinking from one dark patch to another, disturbing a meandering rock vole that peered at him vaguely with minuscule eyes, rising up on its hind legs to wave hairless pink paws at him while scenting the air with its long, sensitive probing nose. Scenting danger at last, it dropped to all fours and hurried away, waddling comically and squealing softly to itself.

  Braldt smiled, imagining the tale it would tell its mate, then chided himself for not killing the vole. Small as it was it would have provided a mouthful of energy. But the small, dim voles and their earthen cousins had provided him with many moments of cheer when he was young and alone with little cause to smile and he could not bring himself to harm them. They had far too many other enemies who were willing to feed on their soft defenseless bodies for him to add himself to their numbers.

  The ledge had been rising steadily underfoot and now it rose up before him, suddenly steep and unscalable, and swept toward the edge of the precipice. He was left with nowhere to go except back the way he had come, or across the defile, if he could make the leap.

  Braldt had no wish to return, for the plateau would be thick with animals wakening and ready for the hunt. It did not seem that he could scale the ledge, for exposed to the constant wash of the winds, it was smooth and unbroken without handholds or footholds. Nor did it seem that he could cross the defile for it was more than two man lengths wide at this point, certainly farther than he could jump.

  As he was pondering the problem, the red orb of the sun fell behind the shoulder of the ledge; the shadows lengthened and darkness descended with the finality of death.