The Hunter Victorious (9 page)

There was a moment of dangerous confusion inside the
dark corridor. The ringing clang of weapons being hastily drawn, the harsh, labored breath of men who fear that death will
strike them down within the next few heartbeats. A tremulous, gruff challenge was uttered and Saxo quickly responded with
the appropriate words. The sudden relief that filled the air was nearly palpable. A light flared, flooding the narrow stone
corridor with a cold brightness.

“Good Lord, man, you nearly got yourselves killed!” said one of the two defenders of the corridor. “Why did you wait so long
to speak?”

“Cold,” Saxo said between clenched teeth. “Followed.” He all but swooned then, bracing himself against the rough wall to keep
from falling. The man with the light cursed and leapt to his aid, gripping the older man firmly and leading him toward the
door at the far end of the hall. “Brion, help them; be quick about it!”

Braldt shook off the offer of help, for feeling was slowly returning to his numbed limbs. The one called Brion turned then
to Brandtson and offered the older man his arm. Brandt-son raised his hand to protest as well, but it was easy to see that
he was near collapse. His face was as white as his beard and he sagged with fatigue.

“Come, sir, let this fellow lead us to warmth and safety,” Braldt said as he took Brandtson’s arm and drew him forward,
following Saxo’s disappearing form. Brandtson was too exhausted to argue and-when Brion took his sword from his stiff fingers,
he did not protest.

The warmth of the room that lay on the far side of the door assaulted their senses. They all but reeled under the force of
the heat and collapsed into waiting chairs.

It was some time before they had recovered enough to speak. Warm drinks were brought to them, their cold wraps removed and
replaced with heated blankets, their fatigue and frightening brush with the dangerous elements met with understanding and
silent compassion.

Only Thunder had escaped with little or no damage other than to his pride, protected and warmed as he was by Saxo’s own body
heat and the heavy layering of outer garments. Once Saxo’s cloak was removed, Thunder’s head popped up, severely startling
young Brion. Thunder flattened his ears against his head and hissed nastily as though blaming the young man for all the indignity
that he had suffered, then removed himself from Saxo’s vest and stalked angrily away to settle in front of the fire and busy
himself licking his tail.

Finally they recovered enough to speak and share, with the six men who waited patiently, the events of the night. A moment
of heavy silence filled the small room, which Braldt could now see was little more than a barracks room filled with bunks
and blankets, a single heavy wooden table, and a number of sturdy chairs.

One of the men shook his head and sighed. “So it has come to this. What can we do to stop him? How can we oppose him? There
are so many of them and so few of us.”

“We are few, but we are not powerless,” said Brandtson. “Those whom Otir Vaeng regards as expendable will surely not agree
with his decision, nor will they agree to be killed or left behind to die. They themselves are a weapon which we must use
against Otir Vaeng.”

“Revolution?” Brion asked in a shocked tone. “You would have the people rise up against the king?”

“Do you like the idea of death better?” Braldt asked harshly. “This man, this king of yours, is a killer, a coldhearted murderer;
even now he is plotting the death of his own people, those who look to him with trust. Has he not caused the death of an entire
world and all its people for no reason other than the profit he can extract from its remains? This is not a man who deserves
your loyalty.”

“But he is the king!” Brion protested.

“He is a murderer who does not deserve the title of king,” Braldt said coldly, already tired of the conversation and wondering
why Brion could not see the truth of the matter.

“How would we go about reaching the populace, spreading the word of what the king has in mind, without getting ourselves killed?
If tonight is any indication, he will not waste any time in searching out those whom he has targeted as his enemies. You are
certain that you were pursued? There cannot be any other explanation?”

“None other,” Brandtson replied heavily. “They were out to kill us. If we had not remembered the summer road, we would have
been dead by now.”

“You were lucky that you were not blown off the side of the mountain,” said another. “With no protection, out in the open
like that… it’s a miracle you survived.”

“Time is of the utmost importance,” Braldt muttered, more to himself than to the others. “We must be heard before Otir Vaeng.
I know of one who might be of use to us—a dwarf, one Septua by name. He is a clever rascal, a thief by profession and a born
survivor. I doubt that he would be included in the king’s list of desirables. If the price is right, I’m sure we can recruit
him.”

“Then there is Jocobe,” said another. “He can work from
within the council. Otir Vaeng suspects him but cannot prove anything.”

“I can move among the guard,” said another. “Many of them are unhappy with the king’s rule.”

Excited voices filled the room as ideas and plans began to take shape.

As the night wore on, Braldt found himself jerking back to wakefulness, blinking gritty lids to hold back the exhaustion that
threatened to overtake him. His brain felt thick and woolly and he could think of nothing more to say.

“You realize, of course, that it is no longer safe for you to remain here,” said one of the older men. Braldt was startled
out of his slumber.

“It would be better if they thought that you died out there tonight. We could fix it so it appeared that you fell to your
deaths, tumbled off the summer road. It is quite believable and it would allow you to vanish and work against them unhampered
by pursuit.”

“A clever idea!” Brandtson agreed. “Yes! I like it!”

Braldt and Saxo were less enthusiastic. “My books… my pictures…” Saxo murmured unhappily.

“Keri…” Braldt began. “She must be told! It would not be fair to let her think that we are dead.”

Brandtson turned to the two dissenters. “Think what you are saying,” he said sternly. “If all your favorite books and important
possessions disappear and Keri fails to react with the appropriate amount of grief, how well do you think the story of our
deaths will be accepted?”

“But Keri…” Braldt began.

“… is young and strong and will survive this momentary cruelty,” Brandtson said firmly, and even Braldt was forced to accept
the wisdom of his words.

“You cannot stay here; it is too dangerous. If they even
suspected… this is one of the first places they would look,” said one of the older men.

“Then where—” asked Brion.

“I know a place,” Braldt said, startling them all, a cocky smile playing on his lips. “A place that no one would ever dare
to think of.”

“What are you saying? Where can we go that would be safe?” Brandtson asked. “I can think of nowhere that would be free from
their eyes.”

“One cannot live off of this land,” said Saxo in disgust. “There are no fish in the waters, no birds in the air, no creatures
in the wild. For all of earth’s problems, I miss it still.”

“I know a place that would do,” Braldt insisted. “A place where we would be safe and well fed for as long as we must stay
out of sight.”

All eyes turned to him.

“The burial mound,” Braldt said in answer to the unspoken question, only to be met with horrified looks and gasps of shock.

“I know what you are thinking, but that’s exactly why it is the perfect hiding place,” he said hurriedly, in an attempt to
convince them. “Think about it for a minute. No one goes there if they can avoid it, there is a large store of food, and it
is protected from the elements. Where on Valhalla could possibly be safer?”

The men looked at one another with dismay written on their rugged features, their discomfort obvious.

“Braldt is right,” Saxo said decisively, raising his hand as a multitude of voices spoke out opposing the plan. “For all of
the reasons you speak of. It is such an outrageous thought, no one would ever suspect that we have dared to shelter there.
Come, we must be gone before morning’s light. There is no time to lose. Let us be on our way.”

It was decided that they must take the outer path once more, for now more than ever they could not risk being seen. If they
vanished without a trace, it was just possible that their enemies would think them dead. None of them wanted to go back out
into the cold again, but they dared not risk the inner route, for even at this early hour there was the chance of meeting
some wandering soul early to rise or late to bed.

They gathered what supplies they felt would be needed, robbing the beds of their blankets and men of their extra clothing,
for even within shelter they would need to conserve their body heat. One of the men left and returned with a compact package
of foodstuffs and a gurgling jug of brandy to keep their spirits warm as well.

All too soon their preparations were done and there was nothing left but for Saxo to stuff a growling Thunder back inside
his vest and to say their farewells. They clasped hands, murmured words of thanks and pledges of loyalty, and once more slipped
out into the howling gale that hurled itself against the mountainside.

The trail down to the base of the mountain was quickly traveled, with the winds buffeting them from all sides and assaulting
them with pellets of ice that stung like fire whenever they touched bare skin.

Braldt and Brandtson took turns forcing their way into the wind, breaking the trail through the several feet of snow that
covered the ground. Fortunately, their path did not expose them to much open ground, where they would have been all the more
in danger from the sheets of hail. They made their way through a narrow gorge which was lined by walls of stone, the bases
of cliffs whose peaks could not be seen in the roaring gale. But while they were protected from the driving hail, the high
walls channeled the screaming winds, which funneled down upon them with an icy intensity that
made all that had gone before seem like a pleasant outing on a summer’s day.

Braldt was never able to remember much of that agonizing journey, other than the overwhelming darkness, the howling of the
wind, and the deep, bitter, bone-numbing cold. When at last Brandtson shook his arm and tugged him off the trail, he had long
since given up any thought other than placing one foot before the other and making certain that he did it again, and again,
and again.

He lurched after Brandtson, barely even raising his eyes to see where they were going, for he knew that there would be nothing
to see other than the white of snow and dark of night. It came as a shock when he finally realized that they were actually
stopping. Wearily, he lifted his head from his chest and wiped the accumulation of snow and ice from his brows and lashes,
blinking to bring things into focus.

Everything was dark—there was little or nothing to be seen—and while his ears were still filled with the roaring of the wind,
it was no longer beating against his body with the same fierce intensity.

They had entered a narrow defile which branched off the main trail. Here the stone walls were closer, barely wide enough for
four men to walk abreast. Dawn was approaching and their way was dimly lit by a pale, watery light which was making slow headway
against the heavy darkness. The storm still beat above their heads, but it was distant and could not reach them in this sheltered
lee. Before them there rose two immense rock plinths deeply carved with the same figures of animals and sun discs that had
adorned the sacrificial altar. Between the two rocks, braced in some unseen manner, was a broad stone lintel, also deeply
carved, and hung with a curtain of ice. Beyond the lintel, all was dark.

Now that their goal was in sight, Braldt felt a shiver run down his spine, a shiver that had nothing to do with cold. He
had denied his fear and chided the others for theirs, but now that they were here, he felt uncertain and somewhat anxious.
What if the old stories were true? Did the spirits of the dead really linger about their final resting place and did they
have the power to harm the living? Would the spirits be sympathetic to their plight or ally themselves with their king even
in death? Did spirits have the ability to think new thoughts? Braldt’s thoughts were jumbled; he had never spoken to a spirit
or known anyone who had, although stories of such encounters were legion. Well, they had come this far. There was nothing
to do but go on.

It was obvious that Brandtson and Saxo shared his concerns, for their steps slowed as they approached the entrance to the
tomb. It was dark beyond the plinths and they could see nothing. They looked at one another and saw their fears reflected
in each other’s eyes. It was enough to make one smile, and that was almost enough to break the bands of fear.

“I’ll go first,” said Braldt with a courage that he did not feel. “It was my idea.”

“No, we’ll all go together,” said Brandtson. “Saxo and I are too old to be afraid of ghosts.”

“Speak for yourself,” grumbled Saxo. “It never hurt anyone to be respectful of that which has yet to be explained.”

“Oh, come on, old man—are you saying that you still believe in ghosts and boogies?”

Saxo drew himself upright to his full height, which was still a full head shorter than Brandtson. “I’m just saying that we
still don’t know all the answers about what happens after death and it cannot hurt to have a little respect for the dead!”

“I agree,” Braldt said quickly, not wanting to see dissension among their slim ranks. “The dead are entitled to sleep without
being troubled by the disrespect of the living. Nor will we bring them anything but our honor.”

His words silenced the two older men, who ceased their quarrel and fell silent as they stepped through the dark portal.

As their eyes grew accustomed to the thick gloom, they were able to make out the features of the place that was to be their
hideaway. It was a natural cul-de-sac, a blunt ending of the narrow arroyo, the plinths and lintel creating a narrow neck
in the passage. It was no more than thirty yards deep and at the farthest end there was a loose jumble of fallen stone. At
its widest point, it was no more than ten yards across. It was hard to judge accurately, for the entire space was filled with
large earthenware jugs, literally scores of them with stone lids, piled one on top of the other and rising higher than their
heads.