The Hunter Victorious Read Free

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 surpassedhim 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 vanquishtheir 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