Free The Hunter Victorious by Rose Estes Page B

idea.
    “The people have long wished for you to remarry,” Skirnir said persuasively. “It would be a wise move.”
    “But this Braldt—is she not pledged to him?”
    “After tonight, there will be no Braldt. She will be alone and will turn to you as her protector.”
    “Go,” Otir Vaeng said with an abrupt, dismissive gesture. “I will think on it.”
    Skirnir scurried from the room, all but twisting his hands with glee. He knew the king well and knew that his plan had slithered
     through the king’s vigilant guard and gained a tenuous toehold. It was all he needed. It was as good as done.

7

    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