The Hunter Victorious Read online

  Fortran had tried to be patient, to give himself up to total trust in Yantra, to place his spirit in abeyance, but it was hard, if not downright impossible. For one thing, abeyance was terribly, terribly boring, all that nothingness. And Yantra never answered, no matter how nicely you implored him to do so. It was far more interesting watching the goings-on of all those different sorts of creatures. Some of them were incredibly ugly, with all sorts of protuberances sticking out of their various bodies. They would never find glory in Yantra’s eyes, for none of them had the least amount of patience or humility. Especially the one known as Braldt.

  Fortran was most taken with the alien known as Braldt, even though he was incredibly ugly—the only bit of blue anywhere on him were two tiny dots centered in his top lump! But even if he had an embarrassing lack of blueness, he was not the least bit hesitant to act on his impulses, a fact that Fortran admired very, very much. Nor did he seem to spend any amount of time ruing those same impulsive actions, and the others who made up his clique seemed to admire him greatly! It was all very puzzling.

  And then one night, just as Fortran was trying to repent yet another impulsive action which he had given way to that very day (he had opened his manifestation and absorbed a being who was most annoying and kept striking at him with a sharp pointed object, even though he had known that it would ultimately solve nothing and be considered a serious breech of conduct). The one known as Braldt had spoken to him, actually addressed him aloud and appealed to him for help! Him! Fortran! It was unimaginable! He had tried to resist, he really had, but in the end it was too hard and he had spoken back, startling the one known as Braldt, which was really quite amusing.

  He was astonished to learn that neither Braldt nor any of his clique had ever heard of Yantra, nor was Braldt very interested in learning about his musings, even though he was polite enough to feign interest. It soon became apparent that all Braldt was interested in was for Fortran and his clique to assist them in the use of physical attrition to gain their freedom. Fortran had spent a period of time in vain trying to convince Braldt that violence was not an acceptable method and that it would be wiser to give oneself up to Yantra’s will; but Braldt was not convinced.

  Fortran tried hard to resist Braldt’s importuning, but his own doubts refused to be silenced and he was terribly, terribly afraid that if he stayed gone too long, more than a hundred years, Mutar might actually give up on him and choose another! It was that which ultimately convinced him of the necessity of aiding the one known as Braldt. In fact, he gave in in record time and he experienced a heady rush of euphoria as he agreed to lend his assistance. It had been even less difficult for Fortran to convince his clique, far less difficult than he had imagined. Was it possible that they too were troubled with doubts and impulses?

  They had done as Braldt had directed them to do, removing their physical manifestations from the cells where they had been placed, moving through time, space, and bars in a manner which Braldt failed to comprehend, although the principle was really quite simple. They had joined the fray and Fortran had given himself over to impulses that he had never indulged before, quite primitive impulses such as anger and violence and trickery and happiness, positively rejoicing every time he succeeded in absorbing one of those Braldt had identified as the enemy. It was… it was—what was that word?—oh, yes, it was fun!

  Fortran was enjoying himself immensely, whirling and twirling and floating about, absorbing a guard here, sneaking up on an unsuspecting soldier there, lapping at the edges of a sword arm here, when suddenly he was nearly paralyzed by the voice of the Grand Yerk, which echoed inside him like the fall of darkest night!

  That was all that it had taken for the young rebellion to end. It had been a simple matter for the remaining guards and soldiers to approach them with trepidation, then roll them into unresisting cylinders and toss them in this dark cell far beneath the surface of the world in a portion of the dungeon where no one ever went.

  Judging from the sounds that reached them, strange things had occurred after they left the arena. There was the continued sound of battle, the sound of retreat, and then, strangely, the tramp of many feet advancing. Then there was much death and afterward, the cells above echoed with the voices of their former captors. It was most confusing.

  Fortran had tried to be patient, tried to be silent, tried to still his questions in the long boring days and nights that followed, but it was so very hard to do. He wondered if anyone remembered that they existed. What if the guards who had placed them here had all been killed? What if no one ever found them, ever, ever, ever? Fortran knew in his heart that Mutar would not wait more than a hundred years.

  And where was the Grand Yerk? And Yantra? Why did he not speak or act? Was it his will to let them lie here forever? How would that serve any purpose? The more Fortran thought about it, the more angry, impatient, and, yes, it was true, impulsive, he became until at last he could contain himself no longer. One hundred and twenty-seven days and nights after they had been tossed in this dark cell, Fortran gathered his impulsiveness to him and burst into impetuous action!

  Carn was a happy man, although the use of the word happy seemed too childish to apply to the complex emotions that filled him during his every waking moment. All his life he had felt unimportant, had suffered in daily comparison to Braldt and searched without hope for some meaning to his existence.

  He thought that he had found the answer inside the mountain when Mother Moon, the goddess he had worshiped all his life, revealed herself to him as she had revealed herself to no other. It had nearly cost him his life, that revelation, and he wore the scars still like a badge of honor. But now he knew that what he had experienced had not been the true goddess but merely a test for what was to come.

  He had passed that painful initiation and now he had been accepted into the highest ranks of the honored few, those who were permitted to know the true gods.

  There was still much that he did not understand, but Otir Vaeng assured him that all would be made clear to him soon. And as a sign of the gods’ favor, the volva had taken him to her bed and joined with him, imparting ecstasy such as he had never known before.

  The names of the gods were strangely different, Thor and Odin and Freya foremost among them, but their roles were much the same as the gods he had always known. And here, as on his own world, the gods were responsible for everything, including the fates of men. Men’s actions or the lack of them and the proper reverence toward the gods dictated the events that followed. It was the role of those such as he and Otir Vaeng and the volva to convey and interpret the will of the gods to men, their humble servants. It was a grave responsibility, but one that Carn bore with willing reverence.

  Otir Vaeng had requested his presence at first light and Carn made his way to the king’s chambers, pretending not to notice the averted eyes of those he met along the way. Fools! Could they not see beyond the shiny, disfigured flesh? Could they not see that he wore the mark of the gods?

  Carn flushed with pride as the guards stood aside and admitted him to the king’s inner chambers without hesitation. They knew!

  Otir Vaeng was seated as always in his high-backed carved chair, his chin resting on his fist, staring into the flames of the fire pit, which he did not appear to see. The prime minister, a bent, wizened gnome of a creature who clearly distrusted and disliked Carn and guarded his time with the king jealously, stood as always at the king’s left hand. Carn barely glanced at the man but was well aware of him and was determined that when Otir Vaeng entrusted him with the power that had been promised, Skirnir would be the first of many changes he would implement.

  Silence weighed heavily in the room as the king continued to gaze into the fire as though seeking an answer in the dancing flames. From time to time he would nod as if in response to some comment that only he could hear. Skirnir’s narrow, pointy face and ferretlike eyes were focused intently on the king, waiting in attendance for whatever it was that was happening.

&nb
sp; The silence was disconcerting and, as the minutes stretched longer and longer, Carn began to wonder what it was that was occurring and why he could not understand. Why was he here and what was expected of him? Skirnir seemed to have no difficulty understanding his role and this disturbed Carn even more, for it implied that the prime minister was a part of whatever it was that was occurring. Carn could not allow Skirnir to see how deeply he was disturbed and so he folded his hands and assumed a respectful stance, composing his face with a calmness that he did not feel.

  Later—Carn could not have said how much later—the king stirred from his trance, his strangely silent communion, and blinked his eyes and sighed as though waking from sleep. He twisted his head from side to side and stretched his hands and arms out to the heat of the fire pit. He sank back into his chair as though exhausted, his chin resting on his chest. Only then did he seem to take notice of Carn. For a moment his eyes clouded as if he could not remember who Carn was, but it was only for a brief moment, then his eyes focused on Carn with that glittering, unblinking brilliance that Carn found so uncomfortable.

  “Ah, brother Carn, so good of you to have come,” the king said softly, barely turning his head enough to fix Carn with his gaze. “Come closer, brother. I am weary.”

  As Carn approached the king, dread seemed to weight his limbs and it took great determination to force himself to close the distance between them. Those bright glittering eyes reminded him of nothing if not a serpent fixing its prey in a hypnotic glance before the fatal strike. He could not help but shudder inwardly and wonder if he were making a terrible mistake. Instantly he rejected the cowardly notion, casting it from his mind, denying it. Surely there was danger when one came so close to raw, naked power, but while the risks were high, so were the rewards. He raised his chin, looked straight into the king’s eyes, and advanced until he stood directly before the throne.

  Otir Vaeng allowed his gaze to rest on Carn so long that he felt his resolve beginning to shrivel; it felt as though he were being examined both inside as well as out. He could not help but wonder what the king was seeing, and he felt as though he were undergoing some sort of inspection. He hoped—no, prayed—that he was not to be found lacking.

  Carn knew that Skirnir was staring at him too and knew without looking that the man would be wearing his usual smirk, taking great pleasure in Carn’s discomfort. He was determined not to break and give Skirnir any more reason for pleasure at his expense.

  Finally the king seemed to reach some conclusion and he grunted and nodded toward a low chair placed between him and the fire. “Sit yourself down, brother Carn. Skirnir, our hospitality is sorely lacking. Please attend to our guest.”

  Carn seated himself gingerly, uncomfortably aware that the chair was oddly shortened so that his legs were sprawled awkwardly before him and he was forced to tilt his head backward to meet the king’s eyes. He was also closer to the flames than he would have wished and his body, cloaked in heavy garments, was soon drenched in rivulets of perspiration. He took the goblet of amber fluid that Skirnir handed him, and Skirnir released it almost before Carn’s scarred, stiff fingers had closed around the stem, causing him to fumble awkwardly, nearly dropping the precious crystal.

  The king frowned and then smoothed the expression away with a ready smile that did not touch his cold blue eyes. “I have been communing with the gods, my friend, and they have this night placed a great burden upon my shoulders, as well as charging me with a great honor. You too are to share in the glory.”

  Carn felt his heart begin to thump within his chest and he felt faint. Yes! It had begun, the march to glory, as he had known that it would if his faith were only strong enough! He stared at the king expectantly with a tentative smile on his scarred lips.

  “The gods have decreed that I am to wed. They wish an heir to the throne and a sacrifice as well, a worthy sacrifice to let them know the depth of our gratitude. The wedding will be a celebration such as Valhalla has never known, a feast befitting the gods, one that they will surely remember. Blood and wine shall mingle and flow down the slopes and we shall sing our praises of the gods until the mountains ring. The gods will reward us for our piety and dedication by granting us the gift of life. Immediately following the ceremony and the feasting, those whom the gods have selected as worthy of glory and life everlasting shall depart this world to dwell in the halls of the gods forever.”

  Otir Vaeng sat unmoving in his chair, as he had done throughout his entire amazing commentary. Carn stared at him in stunned disbelief. There was a certain logic in Otir Vaeng marrying, for the kingdom certainly needed an heir, although he had entertained some personal notions along those lines himself.

  As to the rest of it… well, Carn quickly reflected, he had no aversion to bloodshed as long as it was not his own. As for the feast, Carn had little interest in food these days, but a good feast would take the people’s minds off the flow of blood that the king had promised; commoners were always weak-hearted when it came to blood.

  But what did he mean about leaving this world and dwelling among the halls of the gods? It was that that troubled Carn the most. He could feel the weight of the king’s eyes upon him, waiting for his answer, and he knew without looking that Skirnir’s gaze was fastened on him as well, waiting, hoping that he would make some unforgivable mistake. Carn intended to make no mistakes.

  “Interesting,” he said smoothly, “at first hearing. I will be interested in learning the details. When will this take place?”

  “Soon.” The king waved his hand wearily, as though bored with such mundane details and seemingly satisfied with Carn’s response—or rather, the lack of it; he closed his eyes and sighed wearily. “All of it will be worked out in the days to come.”

  “And Braldt? What of Braldt?” The words were forced out almost against Carn’s will. “What role will Braldt play in your plan?”

  “Braldt? He will be the sacrifice, offered up for the pleasure of the gods as well as mine, if we ever find him.”

  Carn tried to hide the smile that came to his lips. It would not be seemly to take pleasure in the death of one’s own brother. It took several moments before the rest of Otir Vaeng’s words took hold in his mind. “Gone? Braldt’s gone?”

  “That is of little importance; we will soon have him in hand. There are only so many places to hide on Valhalla,” Skirnir said with a dismissive gesture. His eyes shone with malevolence as he said softly, “A better question would have been who the king is going to bring to bed and throne. That is the question you should have asked.”

  Suddenly Carn’s heart began to flutter and his mouth went dry. Both Skirnir and the king were watching him now, waiting for him to speak, to ask the question. But even as they waited, in his heart Carn already knew the answer.

  10

  The volva reclined lazily on her chaise longue, rejoicing in the heat of thè flames. She drank deeply from the crystal goblet, savoring the smooth, rich bloom of the crimson wine. The volva was many things, but first and foremost she was a sensuous woman who reveled in creature comforts.

  A throat was cleared impatiently. The volva smiled to herself and languidly turned her head away from the mesmerizing flames of the open fire pit. It did the king good to wait upon the whims of another; she enjoyed making him wait.

  “Impatience does not become you,” she said lazily, settling herself against her pillows and taking measure of the man who strode back and forth pacing from one wall to the next and then began again. As always, he was tense and consumed with his own seriousness, drawn so tightly that if he were plucked, he would surely hum. The thought amused her. “It is good that you are so easily entertained,” the king said bitterly. “I myself find little to laugh at these days.”

  The volva did not respond, but merely sipped from her goblet and caressed her inner thigh with long, slender, scarlet-tipped nails.

  Otir Vaeng stared at her, his eyes dark with a seething conflict of emotions. The volva saw in his glanced fury, frustratio
n, and violence all competing with desire. That was good; it was as it should be. One could not allow such men to gain the upper hand, feel secure.

  “Your plans,” she drawled casually, as though barely interested in the topic, “are they taking shape?”

  “If you can bring yourself to pay attention, there are some matters we need to discuss,” Otir Vaeng said sharply. “You do have a large stake in the outcome, you know.”

  The volva said nothing, merely smiled and shrugged as though the subject were of little or no interest.

  Rage burned brightly in Otir Vaeng’s eyes and for a moment the volva wondered if she had perhaps gone too far, for he took a half step forward and it seemed that he was about to strike her. Then apparently he thought better of it, for the light faded from his eyes and he sank into a chair, resting his forehead against his knuckles.

  “I don’t know why I do this,” he said in a low tone, almost as though speaking to himself.

  “Of course you do; don’t play childish games. You do it because you enjoy having the power to rule men’s lives. What other reason is there? Come, now, stop this nonsense. Tell me, what are your plans for the girl? What are you thinking?”

  Otir Vaeng was startled from his lethargy. There were few who dared speak to him so frankly, much less women, for whom it was widely known he had little patience. He was a man who sought no counsel but his own and was unaccustomed to explaining his actions. His eyes blazed momentarily as he struggled with his anger, but then his eyes met hers and suddenly, inexplicably, he was gripped by uncertainty. He wavered. His eyes fell.

  When he had instituted the return to the old gods, the volva had been but a ploy, a means of swaying the masses with religious fervor. But the volva needed no convincing arguments to aid his efforts, for she had long believed in the old gods and practiced the old arts, as had her mother and her mother before her. She had joined him without a murmur, but at odd moments he had the disconcerting thought that perhaps it was he who had joined her cause.