Hunter Victorious

by Rose Estes

Genres: Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Exploration; Space Opera

Synopsis

The long-awaited final entry in Estes' Hunter Trilogy fantasy series. Braldt the Hunter has survived the tortures of a savage people on a distant world, but now he is trapped on Valhalla, a doomed world of shapeshifters and evil science. Braldt must somehow overthrow the vile leaders--or his homeworld will perish.

Release date: November 29, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 272

Sample

They were gaining on him. Braldt’s breath came raggedly as he dodged behind a clump of gorse and slithered beneath an overhanging rock ledge. He pressed his forehead against his
knees, shutting his eyes against the cold blue glare of the daylight, and tried to regain his breath and his composure.


They had been following him all morning since he had left the settlement, that architectural wonder of proud, soaring towers
and cantilevered stairs that seemed to float on the cold air. At first there was nothing in the pale empty sky. Despite the
fact that he had been here on Valhalla for more than two months, he had never grown accustomed to the absence of animal life.
Valhalla was an empty planet and other than the earthling colonists who had claimed it for their own, it had no natural life
other than flora.


Which made it all the more obvious when he spotted the first raven hovering above him on the rising wind currents. Not being
of the planet, the raven could only have come from the king Otir Vaeng, he who was the enemy. In time, the black bird was
joined by three others of its kind and throughout the morning they followed Braldt as he wandered over the steep, barren hillsides.


Only after he had crossed the sharp, serrated edge of the mountain range upon which the city was built had the others appeared,
stepping out from the shadows of the rocks and matching their pace to his.



He had tried to ignore them at first, telling himself there was no law that said he was the only one allowed to walk outside
the city walls. But they did not have the appearance of men out for a casual stroll. He was the object of their interest.
Not even the king would dare to kill him so close to the city … but who was to know? queried his inner voice. He would simply
meet with a mysterious accident, tumble off a ledge and fall to his death. Brandtson, his grandfather, and Keri, the woman
he loved, might suspect foul play, but they would never be able to prove it. Then, with Braldt out of the way, it would be
all too easy to dispatch the aging statesman and the helpless girl.


The men—there were six of them—increased their speed, gaining rapidly on Braldt and drawing their swords as they came, dispelling
any lingering doubts that Braldt might have had about their intentions. Dropping his knapsack of provisions and his cloak,
Braldt had begun to run at top speed, wending his way through the treacherous landscape with all the agility he had acquired
through years of rigorous training. The followers had increased their speed as well. They plunged down the slope, their passage
made all the more dangerous by a stretch of loose scree that made sure footing impossible.


The chase had gone on throughout the day and now, as the day approached its end, they were with him still and closing fast.
It was apparent from their grim silence and their tenacity that they would be content with nothing less than his death. Six
against one—not impossible odds, but difficult.


The days ended abruptly on this world, and the sun, always dim and casting little joy, slid quickly from view each night as
though begrudging the colonists what meager warmth it had to offer. The shadows lengthened farther, magnifying each object
as it was thrown into dark contrast against the cold, stony ground.



Huddled beneath his rock ledge, grasping for breath and for some plan that would save him, Braldt heard a chorus of eerie
screams rising into the chilly air. The hair on the back of his neck rose up at the ghastly sound, human voices wailing and
screaming, growing ever more agitated. There were no words as such, just unintelligible sounds, all the more terrifying for
their lack of intelligence. The screams increased in volume and frenzy until it seemed that they could go no further without
lapsing into insanity. Braldt gripped the hilt of his sword, guessing that the men were working themselves into a killing
rage before they rushed him. Abruptly, the ululations turned to howls, long, drawn-out moaning bays that had never been uttered
by a human throat. These horrible sounds were accompanied by fierce growls and throaty, raspy roars, equally inhuman. Braldt
was shaken; he stared into the growing darkness, wondering what was happening beyond his vision.


Suddenly he heard something, a scrabbling of rock just beyond the entrance to his hiding place. He started to draw his sword
from its scabbard, but before it cleared the mouth, a long, dark snout forced its way into the narrow space and wuffed a quiet
greeting.


Relief flooded over Braldt. He was no longer alone; Beast had arrived! He had ordered the lupebeast, his loyal and constant
companion, to stay with Keri until he returned. Braldt knew that she did not like to be left alone.


But Beast had a mind of his own and, while he had a certain fondness for Keri, his heart belonged to Braldt. Somehow he had
snuck out of the city and trailed Braldt to this place. Braldt smiled grimly as he hugged the coarse-furred lupebeast to him.
The odds had just gotten better.


His enemies circled the rock where he was hiding, uttering their unnerving cacophony of shrieks and howls and roars,
never silent, never in the same place. It was impossible to sleep and, as the chill of the long night settled in around him
like an old, familiar ache, he considered his options.


One, he could remain where he was and force them to come to him. There was a certain wisdom in this method, for he was well
placed with rock at his back and sides, and he could only be reached by his opponents placing themselves in danger. But if
he could not be reached, he would also find it difficult to inflict damage without showing himself. Stalemate.


Two, he could take the offensive and attack. Thinking themselves in a position of greater strength and knowing little of his
mind-set, they would not think him likely to choose this option.


Three, he could try to create a diversion, sneak past them and return to the city, leaving them to circle an abandoned rock.

Somehow none of his choices appealed to him; but maybe a combination of tactics… Braldt pondered his fledgling plan from a
variety of angles and thought that with a degree of well-deserved luck, it might succeed.


The rock beneath which he sheltered was like many of those that littered the mountainside, fractured and porous, brittle as
well as unstable in nature. A large buildup of rocky detritus was poised on the lip of the overhang, it would require little
to set it in motion. He studied the movement of the shadows. So far it appeared that his enemies were avoiding a direct approach,
but they would soon gain confidence and close in on him. He would have to act before they did.


He signaled Beast to remain in place and worked his way to the mouth of the opening. A thin cover of scrubby brush lent scant
camouflage, but it was adequate for his purposes. He sliced the edge of his tunic with his knife and tore a long
strip of fabric free. This he tied to a bit of brush, which he then buried carefully in the rock debris poised above him.
Beast growled, impatient with the enforced silence. Braldt knew that he would gain little advantage by waiting. Giving Beast
a hand signal, he flattened himself against the frigid ground and began to inch his way forward. Beast knew the command well
and obeyed without a sound, trailing Braldt like a shadow.


Braldt went no farther than the next outcrop, this a mere sliver of rock thrust sideways through the hard earth, but it would
do. Braldt freed his sword, taking care to muffle the metal against sound and hide it from the reflection of the rising moon.
His short sword and the unraveled bit of fabric he held in the other hand. He waited until Beast had fitted himself into the
last bit of shadow and then pulled the long strip of fabric.


The resulting clatter of falling rock was everything he could have hoped for and more. Evidently his small maneuver had triggered
a larger rock slide and the dark night reverberated with the sounds of stones and boulders plummeting down the steep mountainside.
At the first sound of movement, Braldt let loose a terrible shriek, as though grievously injured and in mortal pain. This
he followed with ever-weakening groans and cries for help.


For a time nothing happened. Then the first of his enemies circled in. Even though Braldt had suspected what he now saw, he
could scarcely believe his own vision. It was a wolf! Sleek and silent as the night, the others drifted in toward the abandoned
hiding hole, their sensitive nostrils casting about for the scent of their prey. Then, even as Braldt readied himself for
their discovery, the wolves parted to make way for an enormous black bear, who batted aside the rocks as though they were
no more than the weightless heads of flowers.
His snuffling growls could be plainly heard by the astounded Braldt and Beast, and his rank scent hung heavy on the chill
air.


Their trick would be discovered soon. Still uncertain about the true nature of his enemy, Braldt knew that he had to seize
the initiative while it lasted. Uttering a fierce clan call, he hurled himself from hiding, with Beast beside him, and flung
himself into the midst of the wolves, his great sword swinging.


One fell instantly, the sword slicing through the back of its neck, all but severing its head from its shoulders. A second
was skewered through the chest and shaken loose to writhe its final death agonies under the feet of its astonished companions.
A third, taken entirely by surprise, was seized in Beast’s powerful jaws, its throat spewing hot blood. Then the moment of
surprise passed and they were on him. The two remaining wolves immediately separated, spreading out to flank him on either
side. The bear, slower to turn and comprehend the situation, reared up on its massive hind legs, towering above them, jaws
agape and dripping with foaming slaver.


Beast dropped the lifeless body and launched himself immediately, again seizing his chosen target by the throat and wrestling
it to the ground. The wolf was the larger of the two remaining, outweighing Beast by a third of his body weight, but Beast
did not fight by ordinary methods. Lupebeasts were known for their strange habit of rising up on their hind legs to do battle.
It made them an even more dangerous adversary when facing humans, for it placed the double rows of serrated fangs and powerful
jaws at face level.


Braldt had never understood the technique’s value when fighting creatures of its own size until now. After a short scuffle,
Beast succeeded in locking his jaws around the throat of his opponent. This in itself might not have been fatal, for the wolf
had merely to fall on the ground and twist its body,
allowing its weight to break Beast’s grip. But even as the wolf carried out this ploy, Beast rose on his hind legs and the
abrupt, full-weighted drop tore the throat out of his opponent. The wolf fell to the ground, scrabbling in frantic circles,
silent, unable to voice its agony, as its lifeblood gushed away.


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,” Brald. . .