The Hunter Victorious Read online

  “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.

  “Ironic isn’t it? I, who have had more men in love with me, powerful men in high places, than one could easily count, falling for an ugly dwarf thief! An ugly dwarf thief whom I doubt would ever speak to me again. It’s almost enough to make one believe in witches and curses!”

  Braldt stared at her, wishing that he could believe her story, but it was so unlikely. Could a woman—any woman, much less a beauty such as Mirna—truly fall in love with Septua? “What is it that you like about Septua?” Braldt asked, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, still fearing that she was the bait in an elaborate trap.

  “He never lied to me. He was honest in everything he did and said.” She lifted her eyes and stared at Braldt. “I guess you can’t understand that. You’ve probably always told the truth; it’s lying that would come hard to the likes of you. But Septua and I… we’ve had to fight all our lives to get what we needed and to keep what we got. Lying is our way of life, like breathing.

  “For him to talk to me honestly, not lie… it meant something. It meant a lot. I think he was the only one who ever saw me for who and what I was and loved me anyhow. But I wasn’t ready for that because it meant that I had to take a good look at myself as well and I didn’t like what I saw.”

  “So how did you wind up here?”

  “I was of no more use to Gunnar, so he got rid of me. Free, I was a danger to him because I had learned a lot about him. I’ll be executed soon; all of us will. But if you help me get out of here, I’ll help you. I can be very useful.” Mirna’s voice grew soft and sensuous. She pressed her body against his and his flesh seemed to tingle where she had touched him. Her eyes promised pleasures unknown, and for a moment Braldt felt himself being sucked down, swayed by her persuasive power.

  “Wait.” He placed a hand against her chest and gently pushed her away. “I do not require such payment as you suggest, but if I take you with me, you must promise that you will help me and not leave me for some plan of your own.”

  “Do you know where the dwarf is?”

  “I know where he was when I was taken. If we cannot find him, I’m quite certain that he will find us. He sticks to me like dirt to a child.”

  Mirna gave him an odd, appraising look. “You do know what’s going on here, don’t you?”

  Braldt stared at her blankly. “What do you mean?”

  Mirna sighed and shook her head as though dealing with a stupid child. “They are leaving here, leaving Valhalla. All those who remain behind will die. That is why Septua is staying with you, making himself useful. He knows that you will not be one of those left behind. He thinks that if he stays with you, he will be saved as well.”

  “Yes, I know,” Braldt said. “And I suspect that our time is running out.”

  16

  Fortran floated quietly in the darkness of space. It wasn’t really dark. When one was silent like this and spread one’s aura in a manner that he was just beginning to master, there was all sorts of illumination. Thoughts came flooding in from all sides, filling his mind with information and observations he had never before experienced.

  There was real light as well, the soft, beneficent radiance of other worlds, and he basked in their reflection, drawing knowledge of those far-flung worlds as easily as if he had spun a dial. This too was new and strange and yet delightful. He almost wished that he could float forever, absorbing, expanding, growing. He spread his mind and touched Zostar 411, his closest friend, he who had so often shared the same mutinous thoughts that had plagued Fortran all of his life. Zostar had followed Fortran by a mere five seconds, startling the Grand Yerk. The others had come along one at a time, but more often in pairs or larger groups, as though it took more of them to summon the courage necessary to face the Grand Yerk’s displeasure.

  Fortran had not remained long enough to hear how they fared, for by that time he had been sent on his way to complete the final stages of his education.

  Even as he reflected upon the sudden warm golden glow of a distant star going nova, he could not help but ponder the incredible circumstances that had just transpired, which in their own way were just as explosive as that distant star.

  Who would ever have imagined that they were expected—no, perhaps expected was too strong a word—it was hoped that they would be strong enough, have learned enough, to question, to reason themselves out of the limbo in which they were trapped.

  Fortran could not help but wonder whether the Grand Yerk had had anything to do with their abduction and subsequent imprisonment on Rototara. Nor could he help but wonder whether or n
ot some of his brethren would ever emerge from their self-imposed imprisonment; their minds were too narrow, their spirits too timid to question or defy authority. He wondered if they would remain on Rototara forever or if the Grand Yerk would, relent and save them from themselves.

  Now, what was to come next—that was the exciting and at the same time frightening thing. It had been explained to him that questioning authority was but one step along the way to final maturity. Beyond rebellion there had to be another step, constructive action of a sort that would offer a creative solution to the problem one had rebelled against.

  They had nearly succeeded back on Rototara. They had seized the moment, dared to rebel in order to help their fellow prisoners overthrow their oppressors. But then, at the first word from the Grand Yerk, their courage as well as their resolve had crumbled and their rebellion died in an instant. The memory of that moment of cowardice was still painful to contemplate. He would not make that mistake again.

  Fortran thought back to the ancient times his parents had told him about. In those long-distant days, children were supposed to study for long periods of time and then take—what was that word?—oh, yes, tests, before they could advance to the next level. In a way, that was what was happening to him now. It was a test.

  Rebellion was easy, the Grand Yerk had cautioned. It was what one chose to do next that counted… to bring order to chaos, that was what mattered. Fortran had not been told what to do; that would have been too easy. It had been left to him to decide the whats, wheres, and whys.

  Fortran did not have to think long or hard about what he wanted to do. It was difficult for him to keep the strange alien, the one known as Braldt, out of his mind for any length of time. Never had he known anyone so brave, so bold, so full of action with less regard for authority or rules!

  He had learned something of Braldt’s story during their time of confinement on Rototara and he could not help but wonder what had become of Braldt and his strange companions. He wondered if perhaps there was some way in which he might be of service. Fortran closed his eyes (figuratively speaking, of course), took a deep mental breath, and then slowly began to release his consciousness, allowed it to trickle outward, like tiny rivulets of water seeking the sea, reaching farther and farther, seeking the one known as Braldt among the many worlds where he might possibly be.

  Fortran knew also that it might take a long time, knew that it was a dangerous thing he was attempting, for the thinner one’s aura became, the easier it was to penetrate and shred. It was possible to die under such circumstances. But Fortran could feel the excitement building within him and knew that no matter how long it took, no matter how great the risk, he would not give up until he had found Braldt.

  Teams of technicians had been filing aboard the Oseberg, the great ship of space that had been named after one of the most famous ship graves of antiquity. Barat Krol had watched them file out all morning, had hovered near the main entrance of the mountain in hopes of learning something. He did not have to wait long. Soon more and more workers were hurrying toward the ship, strapping their tool packs around their waists, worried expressions furrowing their brows. It appeared that the results of his midnight visit had come to light. He could only hope that they would not find everything.

  But there was worse news still to come. The more he listened, the more agitated he became. The workers had been called out for a routine inspection, but Barat Krol learned from bits and pieces of their conversation that a launch was anticipated sometime in the near future, immediately after the king’s wedding.

  Barat Krol was filled with a sense of urgency as well as a sense of despair. What could he possibly do to save himself and his people? Were they all to die on Valhalla while the Scandis survived and colonized yet another planet built with the blood and effort of their Madrelli slaves?

  Barat Krol pondered the problem. Uba Mintch had begged him not to use force, to find some peaceful solution. He revered the older Madrelli, respected his wishes, but in his heart he knew that there was no way they could be honored. There was not even enough room for all of the Scandis aboard the Oseberg; there was no way the Scandis would allow the Madrelli aboard. What was he to do?

  He wandered through the huge complex pondering his options. Violence was one choice. Kill all the Scandis and take their places aboard the ship. But much as Barat Krol hated to admit it, the Madrelli needed the Scandis too much to do such a thing. What did he know about piloting a ship, and where were they to go? Even he, who had eavesdropped and spied on the Scandis in their most secret of meetings, had not learned where they intended to go. What was their destination? There were so many worlds, but so few of them fit their needs and could support an entire population.

  Even if they could somehow steal the ship and force the Scandis to take them to the new world, Barat Krol had to admit that it would be difficult for them to colonize a world on their own. They needed each other. The Scandis needed the Madrelli, but since they thought of them as little more than pack animals, there was little reason for them to waste valuable space on full-grown creatures. The fertilized frozen ovum of a hundred million Madrelli filled two beakers (a loose-lipped lab worker had confided this bit of information shortly before Barat Krol forced him into that same freezer unit and allowed the door to shut).

  He thumped himself on the head with the heel of his palm. How could he have been so stupid? How could it have taken him this long to find the answer when it was staring him in the face all along? He would steal the beakers! Without them, there could not be any new Madrelli. The Scandis would be forced to listen to him, for he would be holding their future hostage!

  He remembered how to reach the laboratories, but the problem was that he had no business being there on his own. He was certain to be challenged. He would have to think of a way to get around the problem.

  A half hour later, he was on his way. Under his arm he carried a bundle of stolen computer printouts. Normally they would be recycled, but he had other plans for them. He kept his head down, eyes on the path, and adopted a slope-shouldered, humble gait, more in keeping with his oppressed brethren and less likely to be challenged.

  Soon he reached his destination, a room where newly woven garments were stored, garments woven by the nimble fingers of Madrelli women. He crumpled the paper into balls and scattered them around the room until the floor was buried. He crammed piles of the crinkly balls between the neatly stacked fabrics and draped lengths of material from stack to stack. When he had crumpled the last sheet of paper and tossed it on the pile, he lit a taper and placed it in the very center.

  Barat Krol hummed beneath his breath as he exited the room, carefully shutting the door behind him. It was a pity to destroy such beautiful work, but fabric could be replaced far easier than lives. He strolled down the concourse, knowing that his handiwork would be discovered before long. He just hoped that the fire would have time to seize hold.

  His wishes were granted, for he had nearly reached the bottom of the spiraling walkway before the first shouts of alarm reached his ears. He smiled and continued on his way as others rushed past him, responding to the dreaded cry.

  It took him longer to find the laboratory than he had planned, even with his unusually keen memory, for it was not meant to be visited by casual passers-by and was hidden in the depths of a labyrinth of confusing passages.

  Alarms had been ringing for quite some time when a secondary set of Klaxons began to sound. Barat Krol felt a deep sense of satisfaction. From this new chorus of alarms, he was able to ascertain that the fire had proved difficult to extinguish and appeared to have spread, for the Klaxons indicated a level two fire, one that was not contained and was spreading. More assistance was required than those who had responded to the first call. He received a few startled glances as white-coated technicians raced past him, reporting to their assigned posts against the possibility that sensitive materials were endangered. No one stopped to question his presence.

  His luck ran out soon af
ter he entered the first of the storage rooms. A short, blond woman with a shrill, annoying voice demanded to see his work order, demanded to know what he was doing there. Barat Krol was glad to show her his credentials, in the form of his fist. It descended upon the top of her head with a most satisfying thump and he was pleased to have stopped the dreadful sound so easily. She was not dead, merely unconscious, but by the time she revived, he would have found what he was searching for and vanished. He did not worry about being identified, for ridiculous as it seemed, it was a well-known fact that Scandis could seldom tell the Madrelli apart; supposedly they all looked alike.

  The second and third rooms were devoid of people, but unfortunately they were also devoid of the precious beakers. He began to worry that he would not be able to find what he was searching for; nothing looked familiar. At that moment a harsh, ominous buzzer began to repeat itself over and over. Barat Krol knew this to be a third-level warning, an appeal for all available hands.

  Barat Krol wondered what was happening, wondered if the sun had begun its final surge, the deadly flare that would precede its ultimate demise. Briefly he thought of abandoning his quest but rejected the thought even as it was formed. There was nothing he could do to help them; the only way he could help anyone was to continue what he had begun.

  Barat Krol could not have know that he was responsible for the panic that had spread throughout the entire city. The fire that had begun so quietly, so neatly contained in its own little room—the fire that Barat Krol had set as a momentary diversion—had spread beyond his wildest expectations and grown into a dangerous, life-threatening beast.

  The room where the material was stored was vented by a small air duct that channeled fresh air into the room. The air currents also discouraged the growth of a microscopic mold that weakened the fibers. The mold could not grow unless the air was both moist and motionless.