The Hunter on Arena (22 page)

It was then that the disaster happened. The mountain growled and shook itself—a mere twitch really compared to some of the
tremors that had gone before—but it was enough to bring down the roof of the tunnel. Four of the men were killed outright,
several others badly injured. There was no hope of digging through the fall, for it appeared to be solid rock and they had
no equipment. They discussed setting a charge but the thought of all that unstable rock just waiting to be dislodged dissuaded
them, for they could not be certain that they could control a fall once it had started.

Even more frightening was the thought of the charge behind them, already activated and ticking down toward total annihilation.
They had backtracked and found another tunnel, one that seemed to lead in the direction they needed to go, but they had been
wrong. They took several turns, none of which appeared on the schematic and then the ground opened beneath their feet with
no warning and they fell into the stifling darkness, crashing into hidden rocks, breaking bones, splitting skulls, and losing
lights and crucial life-saving equipment.

Then there were but five of the original party left alive and all of the survivors were injured in one way or another. They
had but a single light left among them and even though they could see another light burning on the slope above them, no one
had the courage to retrieve it.

Their map was gone as well. They staggered along, helping one another until they came to the bottom of the rock fall and found
the outer wall of another corridor. They had used rocks to batter their way through it, terrified all the while that their
light would fail and they would be left in the dark until the final blossom of light that would accompany the moment of their
deaths.

The joy they felt at breeching the wall was only surpassed by that with which they greeted the sight of the dim, flickering
light and the flow of fresh air. They had forced their way through the hole in the wall and literally stampeded forward without
any thought for formation or their years of training, so great was their desire to be out of the treacherous tunnels. Turning
a sharp corner, they
had run headlong into a large party of natives, all of them armed to the teeth.

So totally were they taken unaware that they were surrounded before they could even think of defense, had they still possessed
the weaponry and the wits to do so, which was doubtful.

The natives, a dark-skinned, handsome people, were led by a hideously deformed man whose skin was ruched and eroded as though
it had melted and hardened not once but several times. He had no hair on his head or face and the shiny skin on his eyelids
was stretched taut, giving him an ominous, sleepy look.

There had been no hope of communication; the natives were in a surly, militant mood. They carried swords and spears made of
some inferior metal and they certainly looked like they knew how to use them and would do so if given the least provocation.
They jabbered among themselves in some unintelligible language and hurried Leif Arndtson and his men along the tunnel in the
opposite direction from which they had come, deeper into the mountain, and if the advancing degree of heat was any indication,
closer to the volcano. Not at all the way they wanted to go.

Leif attempted to communicate with their captors, to tell them what was going to happen. He would have been willing to take
them through the transmitter with him in order to save himself and his men, but at the first sound of his voice, he was viciously
clubbed in the mouth. He could feel the sharp, broken ends of his teeth rubbing against his swollen lips and his mouth was
filled with the
coppery taste of his own blood. He had not tried to speak again.

They had been hurried along the corridor at a fast pace. It was then that he had become aware that the natives were looking
about them in a furtive manner that did not seem to have anything to do with the shaking of the earth. Far from it, in fact,
for when the mountain shook, the scarred man stopped, opened his arms wide, and spoke with respect and awe, not fear.

He wanted desperately to ask the tectonic men how long the charge had been set for, but when he was able to turn and look
back he found that neither of the experts was with them. He did not know when the men had been lost.

Black despair filled his heart and he trudged through the tunnels almost without caring. Now even if they found themselves
back at the mouth of the volcano, they would be unable to defuse the charge for none of them had the skills. It seemed certain
they would die.

Then the inconceivable had happened, as though any of this had made any sense. Turning yet another corner, they had literally
bumped into an even larger party of armed Madrelli!

Both groups had stood electrified for a brief, thunderstruck moment as though neither could believe their eyes. Then the true
insanity began, with natives and Madrelli raging against each other in the narrow corridor with Leif and his men standing
helpless in between.

It was an odd sort of battle, almost a shadow play, and might have been very entertaining had he not been a participant. The
mountain had begun to rumble and shake
once again. The noise was so loud that nothing else could be heard. Eyes flashed, mouths gaped, lips formed silent, comic
words, and arms and legs seemed to move in slow motion as the lights flickered on and off, on and off.

At first Leif had thought that he and his men might possibly sneak away during the heat of battle, but that thought was soon
squelched for things went badly for the natives from the very first. They were heavily outnumbered and could not stand up
to the superior strength and longer reach of the Madrelli.

These were Madrelli unlike any others he had ever known before. They were not the placid, docile creatures he had directed
on many a menial course. Rather, they were taller and stronger than usual and had adorned themselves with elaborate headbands
set with handsome stones and bits of feather. They looked regal and fierce and warlike. Leif Arndtson felt his broken teeth
and tasted the blood of his wounds and could not bring himself to speak.

He had lost track of the time since then. All he knew was that they had reversed themselves once again. They had passed the
hole in the wall a long time ago. The lights had failed and they had traveled through darkened corridors which did not seem
to slow the Madrelli at all.

Leif Arndtson did not know where they were or how much longer they had to live. He thought that they might be somewhere near
the control room for they had climbed several levels and the heat had diminished greatly even though the seismic activity
had not.

Leif Arndtson lay in the darkness, the weight of his
cowardice troubling him far more than the pain of his wounds or even fear of death. Then he heard a sound that struck to the
very heart of him. It was the sound of crying; soft sobs that Leif knew came from young Thorson who was to have been married
in a fortnight. Somehow, the sound of someone else’s grief strengthened him, and when the Madrelli came for him, jerking him
to his feet after their brief rest, he was determined to speak.

Brandtson stared down at the scrap of material he
held in his hand and frowned, wondering what to make of it. For a brief moment he wondered if it were some odd prank although
he was many, many years past the age when he and his friends had indulged in such activities. And, if it were a joke, well,
it was a cruel one.

Even after all these years, the mere thought of his son was enough to clench his heart into a fist of pain. He had had such
hopes for Bracca. Seldom was there one as brilliant and gifted as his son had been; even allowing for an old man’s pride,
it was true.

He had tried to tell the council that the young man would calm down in time, that the agitation for social reform was harmless
and could be controlled. In vain did he suggest it was a positive note that the young man concerned himself with affairs of
state rather than showing no interest at all as was the case with so many of their children. But his fellow Thanes had barely
acknowledged his arguments and their stiff faces and worried eyes revealed their true feelings.

The Thanes of Valhalla had good reason to be concerned over the actions of their young. For many long centuries, they and
those who had gone before them had
been involved in a struggle for life. First, on old earth with the planet dying around them, there had been serious competition
for the materials and food that made life possible. Only the strongest and most ruthless had survived those difficult days
as the planet grew increasingly warmer, the seas became lifeless bodies of pollution, and the acid rains killed off most forms
of plants and wildlife.

In the generations that followed, the much diminished Scandinavian nations had come together to protect what little they had
left against the more aggressive and desperate hordes to the north. They had united as never before and forged a tight-knit
community based on a single tenet, survival.

When it became obvious that it would take earth many thousands of years to heal, if such a thing could even be done, the Scandis
had decided to leave earth, to search the stars for a new world.

The problems had been overwhelming: technology, financing, and the ability to adapt to strange, new conditions. All of it
had been hard, almost beyond bearing; many had not been able to make the transition. But in the end, the Scandis did it.

The new planet had been claimed from the heavens and they had started building a new world, a way of life, an entire civilization
from scratch. And succeeded.

They had done what was necessary, taken what they needed for survival by force, by the sweat of their brow, and finally by
sheer guts, building a mining conglomerate that could make them rich enough to never worry again.

Who among them could have imagined that all of it, all the centuries of backbreaking, hard work, of fighting tooth and nail
for the right to survive, could be turned around and brought to ruin within a single generation, not by their enemies but
by their own children. But that was exactly what had nearly happened. It was the most bitter of pills.

In the span of one lifetime, their children had turned their backs on all the generations of deprivation and struggle that
had gone before them. They had availed themselves of the comforts that their parents provided without asking or caring where
they had come from or what they had cost. They took everything, all the hard-won gains for granted and took them as their
due.

Insult followed injury as the youngest generation not only rejected its parents’ and leaders’ values, but actively set about
undermining them and bringing them down.

The Thanes had reacted harshly, rightly or wrongly seeing the youngsters’ words and actions as a condemnation of their very
existence. They had forbidden the young people the right to form any group that did not have Council approval and of course
none of their groups received such approval.

Brandtson thought about those years of travail and the unhappy years that had followed with a heavy heart. Where had they
gone wrong? Perhaps if they had not reacted so harshly, but had allowed the young men and women the opportunity to talk freely,
perhaps things would have been different.

Their stern actions had gained them nothing and had lost them everything. The best and brightest of the
younger generation had turned militant, vanished underground to oppose them at every turn. The others, those who were left,
were merely walking bodies with none of the fire and courage of their ancestors. These were the vapid, young faces that filled
the tiers of the arena on game days. These were the empty young minds that had never experienced the thrill of danger themselves
but were willing and anxious to experience it vicariously, by having others spill their blood and endanger their lives for
their amusement.

It made Brandtson sick to see what they had become. More and more he found it difficult if not impossible to remain on Rototara.
More and more often he found himself in agreement with the angry young rebels for there was much about their world that could
do with change. But he was too old to bring about such changes and if he were to suggest it, he would lose what power he had
left in the Council. Nor would the young ones accept him as their advocate for he was both old and a Thane as well.

Increasingly he thought about taking himself off to some desolate spit of land along the edge of the inland ocean, building
a high-prowed boat such as the old books pictured and leaving his life behind. He was an old man and few would miss him, except
one whom he had never known.

This was what had held him to life for so long. He summoned up the image of young Braldt, the son of his son—he who looked
so much like Bracca that it was like reliving those distant days again. It had been hard watching the young life emerge on
that distant planet, hard to
relinquish the vital care and loving to another when he so yearned to provide it himself. But knowing that the young Braldt
was safe and well-loved was almost enough to still the pain.