The Hunter Victorious (29 page)

She threw her cape back over her shoulders, ignoring the bitter cold that lanced through insulated polyskins as though they
were tissue. It could now be seen that she wore no more than her usual garb, a rough affair of skins that covered her from
shoulder to mid-thigh. Skin boots, hair side out, rose to her knees. That was all she wore. Anyone else would have frozen
solid, yet the seeress showed no evidence of discomfort.

About her neck, waist, and wrists were a dangle of tiny thin bones, long, glistening teeth, great hooked ivory claws, the
rattle of a snake, a hooked scorpion’s tail, and the vicious serrated beak of a predator bird as well as its talons. Cheap
amulets of death and fear, they performed their purpose well; more than a few of the crowd averted their eyes, spat on the
ground, or crossed themselves against evil.

Skirnir smiled. He had to admit that the woman performed her duties to perfection. She had the people in the palm of her hand.
None would doubt her words. The only thing that troubled Skirnir was the fact that the woman seemed to actually
believe what she said and did. That was not part of the plan. Skirnir shrugged. If it helped her in her job, so what? A method
actress.

The man Carn was a bit of a worry too. He had fallen under the volva’s spell, as Skirnir knew he would. The woman’s aura of
sexuality and evil were too powerful to be denied. He knew. He could only hope that when the time came for Carn to perform
his allotted role, he would not balk.

The volva raised her hands and the crowd fell silent. She closed her eyes and began to recite in the old tongue, one that
rang ancient yet familiar chords inside them, one whose words were familiar yet somehow unknown. The words had the feeling
of rightness as though only they should be uttered in this hallowed home of the dead.

The volva finished her invocation and lowered her arms. She reached into the sack that hung from her belt and drew forth a
chicken, a black cock with bright red comb and wattle. It glared at the astonished crowd with malevolent golden eyes, its
scaly yellow legs clawing futilely at the air.

The volva spoke of birth and life, their brief time upon the earth. She invoked Freya’s name as well as those of the gods
and goddesses of life. “We are promised that if we live our lives in accordance with the wishes of the gods and do their bidding,
then in death we will join them in the halls of the dead and feast with them throughout eternity. In Loki’s name we call upon
the gods to heed us. We live and die according to their all-seeing wisdom. Hear us, gods, we are come unto your gates and
beg admittance. We knock upon your door and ask you to accept our noble dead. Accept our gift and add it to those already
on the banquet table, forever renewing.”

Without further words, she held the cock on high and, as though responding to her command, it began to crow loudly, its cries
echoing through the narrow defile, notifying the gods as to its presence. In one swift move, the volva reached up
and slit the cock’s throat. Then, as dark blood spurted from its severed neck and showered down upon her uplifted face, she
hurled the dying bird up and over the plinth that capped the gateway and into the darkness that lay beyond. The bird’s plumage
caught the rays of the sun and gleamed like polished obsidian with flashes of green and red, and then it was gone, into the
place of death as well as life everlasting.

The crowd released its breath in a single exhalation as the cock disappeared into the burial ground. There were more words
then, words to remind them of their mortality, words that traditionally brought them comfort and assured them of their place
among the honored dead when their days were done.

Usually the words spoke of eternal joy and feasting at the tables of the gods for those who had just taken the first step
on that final voyage. But those were not the words that they heard now. Instead the volva read the long list of the names
of the dead. The crying began anew. When the list was finished, she stood and regarded them with flashing eyes.

“The gods are not pleased.” Her words threw a pall over the crowd. The crying ceased instantly and the sobbing of the wind
could be heard as it keened over their heads. “The gods are not pleased,” she repeated, fixing them with her unblinking stare.
“These dead will not seat themselves alongside the heroes in Valhalla. Nor will they lift goblets of ale to their lips or
sing the songs of victory everlasting. Their spirits will forever roam unclaimed; they will know no peace. They will writhe
in torment forevermore.”

A great moan went up from the crowd. “Why?” came the question, more a wail than a word.

It was what the volva had been waiting for. “They are not pleased, the gods. They have shown their displeasure; it was but
a sign. More deaths, more desolation, more ruin will follow if we do not heed them!”

Her voice had risen to a shriek and the mass of mourners flinched as though they had been struck, and indeed the thought of
their dead being deprived of eternal reward, as well as the fear of further disaster, was almost too much to be borne. They
were not a weak people, but the volva’s threat was as terrible a threat as excommunication or damnation had been to Christians
in an earlier age.

“Walter! Walter!” a woman screamed, tears wetting her withered cheeks as she clutched her heart and collapsed on the downtrodden
snow.

“Stop! Do not touch her!” the volva’s voice rang out, a sharp command not to be ignored. “She is the next but will not be
the last.”

Those standing nearest the woman saw that her chest no longer rose and fell; it was as though the volva had smitten her dead
with her words. A space cleared around her fallen form as the people drew back in fear.

Suddenly the volva’s eyes rolled back in her skull. Only the whites were visible. She staggered and nearly fell. Her head
fell forward until her chin struck her chest and it lolled as though without strength or control. She swayed and her hands
dangled limply at her sides, the bloody knife dripping on the snow. Then slowly she stiffened, her head raised, looked out
upon the horrified throng with sightless eyes. Her mouth opened and she began to speak. But her voice was not her own, and
the words were formed by one unfamiliar with the tongue.

“Kill the intruders! Kill those who are responsible for the deaths of your kin. Do not allow these deaths to go unpunished.
Revenge! Vengeance! Death to the unbelievers!”

The words were loud and booming and masculine and issued from the volva’s wooden lips in stentorian tones. The final words
were not spoken but screamed, and when they faded away the volva tottered and then collapsed on the snow.
Only Carn and Skirnir knelt to aide her. The others would rather have died themselves than to have touched her. But movement
of any sort appeared to be impossible, for they were locked in the grip of total fear, still mesmerized by the volva’s words.
Or were they her words?

“It was Thor,” muttered one of the women. “What did he mean?”

“He meant that we have to kill the unbelievers. That’s what he said,” said a voice from the depths of the crowd.

“What unbelievers?” asked another.

“The Madrelli!” shouted a small man who stood on the sidelines, and he drew his sword and tried to push his way through the
crowd.

“Those who come from other worlds!” added another voice. “We have to kill them all or we’ll die too!”

Braldt, who had taken his place with Barat Krol and the Madrelli, had watched the entire performance with interest. Perhaps
because they were not his gods, not his heritage, it was easier to doubt, to see the sham, the performance created by the
volva. That it was a sham he had no doubt. He did not know how it had been done. Perhaps the volva had learned to deepen her
voice, to make herself sound like a man.

Or perhaps, Braldt thought with sudden certainty, it had been Carn, who had been standing behind the volva throughout the
entire proceedings. Even as Braldt pondered the purpose of the volva’s trick, the clash of steel ringing against scabbards,
the sight of knives being drawn and hostile eyes turning against the Madrelli told him what her purpose was. She sought a
means to drive the separate groups apart, to cause hatred and dissension and death. He drew his own blade and stood before
the unarmed Madrelli, prepared to inflict as much damage as possible.

The crowd began to advance toward them. Behind him, Braldt could all but feel the rise of the Madrelli rage, that
terrible madness that came upon them in times of battle. A few of the females sought to calm the males, but their fury was
very nearly a physical force and once it was set in motion it was not easy to regain control.

A great voice interrupted the action, a huge, booming roll of laughter that rolled over the crowd. “Who dares to speak for
the gods? What puny mortal is so foolish as to put words in Loki’s mouth?”

“Stupid children,” sighed a second ghostly voice, pitying rather than angered.

“Children who play at dangerous games!” roared the first voice, sending the mass of mourners stumbling backward in fear, Scandis
pressed against Madrelli, forgetting their earlier animosity, forgetting that only minutes earlier they had been ready to
fight to the death. “Who are they to dare to speak for the gods? This pitiful twitch of the earth was nothing beside our true
wrath.”

“Listen, fools!” commanded the voice, and there were none who would have dared to do otherwise. Only Braldt dared to suspect
who was responsible for this “voice” of the gods, and he was not about to say or do anything to deflate the ploy.

“The souls of your dead are already seated beside their glorious ancestors. The sweetness of mead flows down their throats;
nevermore will they thirst. The flesh of the cock fills their stomachs; nevermore will they hunger. The heat of the fires
warms their flesh; nevermore will they feel the bite of the cold. They are wrapped in the fellowship of those who have gone
before them and the love of the gods. Now go, and do not displease us with such mockery again or your souls will wander the
void forever.”

And then, miraculously, a cock, its black plumage gleaming red and green in the rays of the sun, flew through the gateway
and landed on the trampled snow where its life’s
blood had flowed only moments before. It threw back its head and crowed and there was no doubt that it was alive.

Braldt would dearly have loved to explore the darkness beyond the gates, to discover the secret of the voices and the living
bird. But there was no way that he could have done so. Already the entire crowd had turned en masse and was rushing back the
way they had come as fast as their feet could carry them. The laughter of the “gods” echoed through the narrow gorge and spurred
them on their way. Braldt grinned wryly and then set out after the terror-stricken procession.

Braldt was seated beside Septua, who was propped up on
a vast pile of pillows. Mirna constantly fussed with the coverlets and pillows, plumping and rearranging them as though by
doing so she might earn a kind word from the dwarf, who displayed only irritation and disdain toward her.

“I’m certain it was Brandtson and Saxo,” Braldt said in a low tone, having just related the entire tale of the morning’s amazing
events. “At least they’re alive.”

“What a gag. Whisht I’d been there to see it!” That woman, tho’, what mischief be she up to? An’ that there Carn, ’e may be
yer brother an’ all, but it don’t sound like ’e’s playin’ on the same side!”

“I know,” Braldt said solemnly, turning to Barat Krol, who was there at the dwarf’s insistence. “What do you make of it?”

“It’s simple,” the Madrelli replied bitterly. “She is trying to kill us off.”

“Ayuh,” agreed the dwarf, “ ’an everyone else she can get rid of.”

“But why?” asked Braldt.

“Because there are too many of us to leave this place,” answered Barat Krol. “She wants to whittle the numbers down.”

“Where is there to go?” asked Braldt, perplexed.

Barat Krol and Septua exchanged a glance.

“What?” Braldt demanded, realizing that they possessed some bit of information that was unknown to him.

“Our world,” Uba Mintch said at length. “The world they call K7. It is not destroyed, but exists still.”

Braldt could do nothing but stare at him. He felt his eyes fill with moisture and his hands trembled. “It exists?” he whispered
huskily. “How can you know this? How can it be true?”

“We have had certain access to information from the observatory,” Barat Krol said as he examined the backs of his hands, the
smooth fur suddenly requiring his intense concentration. “It seems that the explosion did not succeed in destroying the world,
but merely rearranged it, you might say.”

“Mirim, Auslic!” Braldt said, half rising. “I must find a way to tell Keri that her parents are still alive!”

“No!” Barat Krol and Septua both spoke at once. Septua grimaced as his still tender flesh tugged against the bone filaments
and then sank back upon his pillows, nodding to Barat Krol to continue.