The Hunter Victorious (2 page)

The last wolf stood transfixed by the fate of its comrades. Its eyes glistened with hatred in the pale light of the rising
moon as it crouched at the feet of the bear, choosing its moment carefully. Braldt and the wolf began a curious ballet, sidestepping
in a wide circle, with the bear lumbering between them, its powerful paws outstretched—dancers in a macabre ballet, their
only music the keening of the wind and the pulse of blood in their ears. Beast stood over the body of his fallen foe, gore
dripping from his muzzle, his eyes glittering madly with bloodlust.

It was the bear who broke the rhythm, darting forward with incredible speed for one so large, its great paw slicing through
the air, a fetid stink rolling from its open jaws. Braldt leapt aside unharmed and managed to slash his blade into the side
of the immense creature as it rushed past, a glancing blow that drew blood but did little damage.

The wolf acted in concert with its larger ally and lunged forward, catching Braldt off balance and unprepared, its teeth locking
on his left leg, throwing him to the ground. It was on him in an instant, straddling his body, its jaws open wide and surging
toward his unprotected throat.

Braldt attempted to roll, but the wolf’s legs blocked the move and he felt its jaws scissor shut, the teeth slicing through
the flesh at the base of his jaw and the blood pouring down his chin as jagged points of fiery pain ripped down to his throat.
Bright crimson lights flashed behind his eyes, the hot burning pain the color of blood to his mind’s eye. He cried out then
in fear and pain and rage, and struck out blindly with his sword, feeling it bite deep into an unseen target. The wolf
staggered, falling heavily onto Braldt, its teeth rending his flesh further, matching Braldt’s pain with an agonized cry of
its own sounding in Braldt’s ear.

Braldt rolled, closing his mind against the pain, and felt himself fall clear of the wolf. He struggled to his feet, feeling
the steady flow of blood drenching his tunic, its heat turning chill against his body in the cruel wind. He wiped the blood
from his eyes and saw the wolf hobbling toward him, its right front leg nearly severed halfway down its length. Never taking
its maddened eyes from Braldt, it placed its weight on the mutilated leg and stumbled forward, head and neck outthrust, unprotected
for one brief instant. It was all that Braldt needed, and he slammed his blade down with all his force, striking the wolf
cleanly, feeling the steel slide between the vertebrae and lopping its head from its neck.

The head flew through the air, tongue lolling between snarling jaws, crazed eyes still staring in furious disbelief, and landed
at the feet of the bear. It rolled a short distance before coming to rest, and the bear, still bleeding from its side, dropped
to all fours and snuffled at the dismembered skull. Braldt stepped back, raising the sword, readying himself for the bear’s
attack, feeling the shivering in the back of his knees and the weakness in his arms as the blood continued to drain from his
body. He wondered if he would have the strength to fend off the bear and seek the shelter of his rock before he lost consciousness.

Even as he struggled to hold his blade aloft, he felt his strength slipping away, and he struck the ground with his knees
and then toppled over, unable to stand, though he knew that falling meant his death. He was filled with a great weariness
and the sudden realization that he was very cold. A stone loomed before his eyes, immense, although in truth it was really
quite small. He wanted to call out, to say something
before he died, but he was very tired and it seemed much too difficult a task to accomplish.

The night swam into focus then and he became aware of Beast pressed against his side, growling, his double rows of teeth glinting
in the cold light of the rising moon. The bear… The bear crouched down a short distance away, bent over its fallen comrades.
And as Braldt watched, incapable of blinking, of shutting the scene from his mind, it seemed to him that the skull of the
wolf began to move; its edges rippled, moved in the dark night, reforming themselves until the features were those of a man
instead of a beast. The bear shimmered and dropped to all fours.

As Braldt watched in disbelief, the figure of the bear wavered as though obscured by a cloud. Braldt blinked hard, wondering
if it was his vision or an apparition caused by his pain. When he opened his eyes, the bear appeared before him, but it was
a bear no longer… it was a man. The stars swam above Braldt in a sickening circle, the darkness swallowed the stars, and there
was no more.

“Berserkers. Shape-changers,” Brandtson said in a grim
tone as he swabbed his grandson’s torn flesh with a healing antiseptic that would bond the torn edges, leaving no sign of
injury.

“What are these… these things?” asked Braldt, grimacing at the sharp stinging that assailed his flesh, yet marveling that
such a miraculous healing potion existed. “Are they men or gods? How can they change their form?”

“They are men, not gods,” Brandtson replied heavily as he finished his work and sat back, studying Braldt with a critical,
yet caring eye, noting with satisfaction that the mangled flesh had already begun to heal. His large, gnarled hands rested
on his thighs and he raised one hand and touched the tip of Braldt’s chin gently. “They are men, but they use the same sort
of magic that is at work here. But instead of using it for good, rebuilding what has been destroyed, they have turned their
gift to evil.”

“I do not understand,” said Braldt, trying to follow his grandfather’s words. But as he had found with so much else on this
new world, the words frequently imparted no real meaning. Nothing he had ever experienced had prepared him for the world he
found waiting for him on Valhalla. His strength and his wits had always been his salvation. On Valhalla young children rivaled
his knowledge and even surpassed
him in many areas, and most able-bodied men were his equal in strength.

Brandtson sighed. “And why should you understand? It is a confusing concept. But I will do my best to explain.” He studied
his grandson for a moment as he considered his words, noting with pleasure the clean, sharp lines of the young man’s profile—the
high, sharply edged cheekbones, the strong chin, and the bright blue eyes—a younger version of himself. There were differences,
to be sure: Braldt’s hair was full and thick, so blond as to appear white in strong sunlight, and he was clean-shaven. Brandtson’s
hair, while still thick, was as white as the snow on the surrounding mountain peaks, as was his beard. There were other similarities
as well. Both men were tall, well over six feet, and broad of shoulder. Brandtson carried more weight than Braldt, but still,
he was powerfully built, with massive arms and thighs, the corded muscles that rested beneath his darkly tanned skin giving
testament to the fact that he was indeed ancestor to the young warrior who sat before him.

“In the old days—and I am speaking of days that no man remembers, before books or written word—there were such men as these
who serve Otir Vaeng. They served other kings in those days, but their loyalties were fierce and unswayable. Then, as now,
they would have given their lives for their allegiance. They were known as berserkers, a sort of elite bodyguard who protected
the king and did his bidding in times of danger or war.

“Before battle, they would work themselves into a frenzy, screaming and yelling, making all manner of frightening noises.
This served two purposes. One, it heightened their own rage to a near manic level, turning them into unstoppable killing machines
that could only be halted by death. And two, the sound of their screams was often enough to vanquish
their foes without a blade being lifted, for their reputations preceded them and they were greatly feared.

“But at such times that battle was met, these men were said to have the ability to turn themselves into wolves and bears that
would tear their enemies limb from limb and devour their very flesh.”

“But Grandfather, how can this be?” Braldt persisted. “Were they gods that they could do such a thing?”

“They say that there were gods in those days, Odin and Thor and Freya, but these Berserkers were not gods, only men who understood
the mysteries of magic. There have always been such men. At times their gifts were scorned and they were reviled as evil and
hunted from the face of the earth, but always they have been with us. And they are with us still, even here on Valhalla.

“I had thought that we had come too far for such men to exist, but I was wrong. It seems that such men and such mysteries
always appeal to certain minds and in times of trouble when solutions cannot be found by rational means, they reappear to
work their mischief.”

“Do you understand how it is that they do this thing, this shape changing?” Braldt asked.

“No,” Brandtson answered simply, “but neither do I doubt the fact that they exist.”

Braldt shook his head and sighed, wincing slightly as the newly formed tender flesh was stretched taut. “But that does not
explain why they sought me out, why they attempted to kill me. What possible danger can I be to Otir Vaeng? I am but one man,
alone, without any who owe me allegiance. How can I be a threat to one so powerful?”

“You are a threat not so much for yourself as for what you symbolize,” said Brandtson. “Otir Vaeng is a rogue, operating outside
the laws that govern the known universe. He has broken many laws, spilled blood, and defied the Whole
World Council. But everything that he has done was done with one purpose in mind: the survival of the Scandi nation. It is
because he was so strong, so willing to risk the wrath of the rest of the universe, that we have survived and thrived as well.
In doing so, he captured the hearts and the loyalties of the masses.

“Some will argue that Otir Vaeng was a man of vision who single-handedly saved our race, but the days for such headstrong
actions are long past and there are those among us who believe that he must step aside in order for us to progress. Otir Vaeng
has no place in this new world. He and his followers would see a return to the old ways, using the old gods as a means of
retaining their hold.

“You, coming as you do from a world he destroyed, are a living symbol of his wrongdoing. Your mere presence is a constant
reminder of his misdeeds. He is fearful that you will ally yourself with your father’s old friends, those who were opposed
to his plans in the past.”

“But I do not understand what he has to fear,” Braldt persisted. “I am but one man. What can I do to harm a king?”

“You need do nothing but exist,” replied Brandtson, “for him to try to kill you, as this day’s work has clearly proved. He
cannot allow you to live, but he cannot kill you outright, for your death would bring into question the very issues he wishes
to avoid.”

“Is there no solution, then, other than my death?”

“You are not without friends here, as Otir Vaeng knows well. We must seek them out. I am an old man and I have supported Otir
Vaeng in his endeavors, and it will be hard to turn my back on him, but I can see no other way to protect you. Now that I
have found you, I will not have you taken from me, as was your father. But you must not complicate the task by placing yourself
directly in harm’s way,” Brandtson chided gently.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea.… The city, it closes in around me. I am not accustomed to spending my days encased in stone and
the time we spent imprisoned on Rototara makes freedom all the more precious.”

“Be patient, Braldt. If all goes well, Otir Vaeng will be removed from power and you will be free to roam wherever you wish.”

“The one place I wish to roam no longer exists,” Braldt said softly. “Otir Vaeng has seen to that by destroying my world.
How can I ever forgive him? It does not matter if he takes my life, but to kill an entire world… that I can never forget.
Nor will I sit by patiently while others fight my battles for me. By destroying my world and those I loved, Otir Vaeng has
added me to the list of those who seek his downfall.”

“You have not lost everyone you love,” Brandtson replied, feeling the depth of the young man’s anguish. “There is still Keri.”

Braldt nodded and raised a hand to his chin, which was smooth and soft with tender new tissue. “I thank you for your healing
skills. I did not want her to see me as I was. She pretends that all is well, but she carries the hurt of Rototara in her
heart still. Does she know what happened?”

Brandtson nodded. “I don’t think you give her enough credit. Keri is strong in spirit as well as in her love for you. She
is scarred but not irreparably damaged. It is better for her to be involved than for you to treat her like an invalid and
pretend that nothing has happened. She is tending Beast’s wounds. The creature trusts her and I am too attached to my hands
after all these years to trust them within reach of his jaws.”

“I feel that I am besieged on all sides,” Braldt muttered. “Otir Vaeng and those who follow him on one hand, and Cam, who
bears little or no resemblance to the brother I once knew, on the other. All of them would like to see me dead.”