Children of Chaos

twelve

ORLAD ORLADSON

threw off his covers and was on his feet before the last note of reveille faded. Shivering. He heard groans and grumbles from adjoining stalls.

The sun was not yet up, and he could barely see the bunk he had just left. In contrast to its prolonged and bloody sunsets, Nardalborg's dawns were dramatic. The sun's coronal glory rose into a night sky full of stars that refused to fade until the ineffable disk itself came burning up over the Ice. For a few moments the world was monochrome white—glittering white castle set in stark white moorland; there was never a night without frost or snow at Nardalborg. Only when the sun itself showed above the horizon did the sky reluctantly begin to turn blue.

This was the day he must march out and face the world; face down the other nine, he and his little flank of runts. He was alone in his stall. A stall it was, with a drape across the front, a shelf, a few hooks, just a blanket and sleeping rug on the floor. This was how cadets and probationers were billeted. Last night there had been celebrations and women's voices in his neighbors' stalls. Normally there would be no lack of willing female companionship for a new runtleader, perhaps even for a Florengian runtleader, if such a thing could be imagined, but Orlad kept clear of women. They offered too many opportunities for hurt. When he had won his brass collar and shown the men what he could do, then he would show their women also.

Donning a Werist pall without help was no small matter. Start by tossing one end back over the left shoulder, long enough to reach the kidneys. Drape the rest across the chest, wrap it around to cover the back, then the left hip, privates, right hip, buttocks; bring it up across the back, under the left arm, and over the right shoulder. If it had been judged correctly, the end should come to the kidneys, level with the other. All correct so far. Then—moving gingerly because this was when it might collapse—take up the sash and tie it around the waist in a half-knot. That should hold everything in place. Theoretically. There remained the problem of moving at all under what felt like an ox's weight of wool. When the quartermaster had dropped the baled cloth across his eagerly outstretched arms last night, Orlad had staggered under the sheer weight of it. He had spent half the night practicing by starlight, and now the time had come for him to go forth garbed as a Werist, instead of a scabby civilian in tunic and leggings with a rope around his neck. The years of chafing were over.

To have come in first was the stuff of dreams. Gzurg would never give praise without cause, and he had praised the Nardalborg training highly. To be approved by a Hero such as the legendary Gzurg, to be trained by Heth, and to swear one's oath to the great Therek, the Vulture himself—all these were lifelong honors, humbling starts to a career. But to be first was best of all. Ten new cadets. Nine runts and one runtleader. Nine leather collars and one chain.

Gzurg had warned Orlad what was coming, but no one else had known. Everyone had been struck dumb. Later, of course, they had cheered Snerfrik! They hadn't seen that the more they rattled the rafters for the man who had come second, the more they had really been honoring First. There had been no other surprises until the end, when Waels had sneaked in under the bar as number ten. His name had been greeted mostly with puzzled silence, until someone had explained, "Pusmouth." Oh, yes, Pusmouth ...

Orlad inspected himself with his hands and decided the folds across his chest were rumpled. Determined not to make his first appearance as runtleader in a poorly wrapped pall, he stripped, spread the absurd garment on the floor and began folding it again for another attempt. Feet and voices went by in the corridor.

"How much authority does a runtleader really have?" he had asked Gzurg.

"As much as he can take; no more than he can hold." The old rogue's laugh had displayed all sixty-four teeth. "You, son, had better draw some lines in the sand very quickly and defend them to the death. Preferably someone else's death."

Only on his fourth attempt was Orlad satisfied—and almost out of time. A Werist! A pall-draped, chain-collared Werist! Cadet Orlad, in stripes of orange (for the Vulture's host), green (for the Nardalborg Hunt), and white for cadet. After so many years of yearning and trying, he was at last dressed as he had longed to be. The white would go soon enough. He had sworn the oath; now he belonged to the god.

A pall was a very drafty garment. He felt certain it would all drop to the floor at any minute and leave him naked, but that was its purpose—Werists assuming battleform had no time to waste struggling with clothes. He felt ridiculous, but that, too, must pass in time. He was stiff and bruised from the tests, which had been even more grueling than he had expected, and badly short of sleep, but all these were part of the process. The cut on his arm where he had drawn blood for his oath was healing well. He felt great.

Runtleader Orlad stepped into his sandals, pushed aside the curtain, and strode forth. Half the curtains were still closed, and he could even hear snores from some of the stalls he passed, but most of the men billeted in this dorm were nothing to do with him. If any of his flank were late for roll call, then he would take action. He was almost at the door when a curtain slid aside and out came Pusmouth. Good timing!

Orlad stopped. "Death to your foes, Runt Waels."

Pusmouth nodded hastily. "My lord is kind."

"Not lord." Orlad practiced a Werist frown and was pleased to see the kid flinch.

"My leader is kind." Waels waited cautiously to hear what was wanted. No one knew much about him. He was one of a trio of probationers sent up from Tryfors to participate in the tests. He had seemed so young and unassertive that the oddsmakers had given him little chance, but last night when the other two Tryfors boys slunk out with the jeers of the entire Nardalborg Hunt howling about their ears, he had remained. His nickname came from a wine-colored birthmark covering the lower half of his face. His gossamer beard could not hide it yet and probably never would.

"Stand by that window," Orlad said. "Turn around. Good job. Looks perfect. Now me. Is my ass hanging out?"

Today the runts would formally pair up and from then on each man would be responsible for his buddy in a dozen ways, including inspecting the hang of his pall.

"My leader is kind. If I may ..." Pusmouth made a minute adjustment to the hang of Orlad's pall. "I believe that is better, leader."

"Thanks." They fell into step along the corridor. Orlad was not one for small talk, but a leader should know his men and he had no experience of Pusmouth. "Congratulations. Feels good, doesn't it?"

"... Very ... leader. And congratulations to you, Runtleader Orlad. If I may say, from what I saw in the tests, you amply—"

"You may not say. No sandal-licking! I don't need to be told I'm good, whether I am nor not."

"My leader is kind."

They left the dormitory building and walked into ankle-deep slush and a wicked wind that wanted to test their skill at tying palls. They sped up, leaning into the blast. A group from gold pack passed them, nodding and smiling to acknowledge the new runts. The first shock must be wearing off.

"So why did you hesitate when I congratulated you?"

"I do not recall hesitating, Runtleader."

"Yes you did. You're thinking you were tacked on as a spare, weren't you? Odd man out? Tryfors trash?"

Pusmouth stared straight ahead into the wind, eyes watering, cheeks flaming almost as red as his birthmark, lips turning bluish. After a moment's thought he said, "The idea of spare did occur to me, Runtleader. It is only a legend, I am sure."

They were almost at the mess door.

"How often does it happen at Tryfors?"

"There have been a few cases."

"Here," Orlad said, "it has happened eight times in the last ten years." Eight out of twenty cadet classes had suffered a mortality in training. Some of those might have been genuine accidents, but there was a whispered tradition that the last name on the list tended to be unlucky. "I suspect that we may be due for a ninth, but you are in much less danger than I am."

"You were first!" Pusmouth looked startled as he held the door for his superior to enter.

"A Florengian runtleader? You know that no Florengian has ever survived Werist training at Nardalborg?"

Waels grinned. "Because no Florengian has dared try?"

Orlad went by without answering. He sensed no threat in this boy, perhaps even some compatibility—hideous birthmark meets skin too brown.

The mess hall was big and high, but today's wind was disposing of the smoke. Today the overlarge windows offered expansive views of the moor and a temperature close to freezing, but most of the year windows were kept shuttered in Nardalborg. Men from red pack departing the mess made some jocularly insulting remarks about the low class of vermin that were being let in these days. Orlad did not bother to smile.

Inside, most men sat on stools at long tables, eating and arguing. There must be a runts' table somewhere. There was also a cutting table, where men just stood and tore at raw flesh. That was not yet his idea of breakfast, although he knew it soon would be. He headed for a counter laden with bread, cheese, fruit, and vegetables.

Pusmouth automatically followed his leader Orlad. That was a strange concept for a lifelong outcast, that nine men were now expected to obey his orders. Expected, but not required. A warrior who spoke back to his flankleader risked death or close to it, but a cadet could appeal to higher authority. Gzurg had warned him. As much as he can take; no more than he can hold.

Even Gzurg had admitted that runtleader was a tough assignment. When a Hero was promoted, he was set over strangers. A new flankleader was moved to a new flank, packleader to a new pack, huntleader to a new hunt, and sometimes even a hostleader to a new host. But a runtleader was merely first in his class. It would be hard to promote the first-among-equals idea if the class could not see a Florengian as an equal. He had his chain collar and about a year on most of them, two years on some. That was all. The real authority belonged to Huntleader Heth, a hard, humorless man who played no favorites. Would the huntleader back him up or cut the ground out from under his sandals?

By the time Orlad had filled a basket, he had located the runts' table by locating Snerfrik. In a hall full of huge men, Snerfrik stood out. Or sat out, to be exact. He was half a head taller than almost anyone, and he lacked nothing in breadth—give him ten years as a Werist and he would be a true giant, like Satrap Therek. That was why he had been the favorite to win the leader's chain. He had certainly been the favorite in the wrestling test, but Orlad had thrown him, and that joy was a close second to coming in first.

He headed for the table, saw his approach being noticed. Would they rise for him or snub him? His dander began to bristle as he planned possible responses. No, it was too early for line-drawing. Deliberate insubordination before he had even opened his mouth would be rank mutiny.

Stools scraped back. Every man was standing at attention by the time he reached his place. But five men along each side meant twelve in all, a full flank, and Orlad realized that he had forgotten to include Vargin and Ranthr. They had been runts in the last class and for some reason had not been initiated with their peers—just how or why they had failed were secrets of the god's mysteries. They were allowed one more chance, which put them in Orlad's flank.

Years ago, these two had been his peers, but he had been held back and they had gone on. Now, suddenly, they were thrown under his authority. They would be the first to test it, he decided. They knew the ropes, so even Snerfrik would probably defer to them. Vargin was a superb fighter—as Orlad had rediscovered many times to his cost—but that was largely because he was too stupid to know when he was beaten. Recruiting officers never worried about wits. Ranthr was smarter, in a sly way, so he was the one to watch. The pressure would come from him.

Yet interlopers might not be a bad thing. Even without a word spoken, Orlad sensed the tension. The cadets had seated themselves in the order of their standings, with the end stools left for the runtleader and the possibly doomed spare. But Vargin and Ranthr had taken the places on either side of Orlad's, claiming seniority. Everyone was waiting to see what he would do.

He laid down his bowl. "At ease. Death to all your foes, runts."

They spoke in almost perfect unison: "My leader is kind."

He sat and they all did. He looked around the table without a smile.

"Last night we swore an oath. Now we belong to the god, so together we must strive to become worthy of His blessing. We owe it to holy Weru to help one another in this quest. We are brothers in this flank, even if we are not yet numbered among His Heroes. I think we risk offending our god if we come to Him in the company of a man named Pusmouth."

All eyes turned. At the far end of the table, Waels blanched, making his birthmark flame even redder. Puzzled glances swung back to Orlad.

"A more fitting name for a Werist would be Bloodmouth. So my first decree as runtleader is that Waels will henceforth be referred to as Waels, or Bloodmouth, but nevermore as Pusmouth. Penalty is two strokes of the rod."

Waels was grinning as if he had just survived a bad fright. "My leader is kind," he murmured.

"Who does the honors?" Ranthr asked.

Orlad contemplated the battlefield and saw no pitfalls yet. "I do. You will learn that I have a strong right arm. Anyone who catches me at fault gets to return the favor." He bit into an apple.

More grins. So far so good. The first order was acceptable and would probably stick, unless Waels made a complete idiot of himself in the next few days. Once the ox starts moving in the right direction, the next step comes easier.

Big Snerfrik was obviously unhappy about the way Ranthr and Vargin had effectively demoted him from second to fourth. He fidgeted for a few minutes while everyone ate assiduously and the rest of the hall buzzed on uncaring. Then he barked out in his gravel voice, "What happens today, leader?"

Orlad had no idea. He chewed, swallowed, and drew his first line in the sand. "First thing that happens is I assign pairings. I may as well do that now."

"But—"

"Yes?"

"Nothing ... my leader is kind." Snerfrik and Vargin exchanged glances. Perhaps Snerfrik considered himself second-best choice and expected Orlad to take him as partner. Or he might have misgivings about being honored that way. Likewise, Vargin and Ranthr had been down the road before, so either would be a good catch. Waels would be last choice, obviously, after Hrothgat, who had come in ninth.

"I warn you all now," Orlad said, "that I intend to have no failures. All members of this flank will pass or die in the attempt. The strong must help the weak, so I take Bloodmouth as my buddy. Snerfrik will take Hrothgat, Caedaw take Charnarth..." He ran through the list, dealing from top and bottom alternately until he put the middle two together. Then—"Vargin and Ranthr, you'll partner each other."

The runts' table had become a tiny oasis of silence in the hum of the hall. He abandoned the thought of another bite of apple as he realized that his challenge was going to be accepted. His whole mouth seemed to pucker, dry as salt.

"I don't want Ranthr," Vargin said. "Other runtleaders let their men choose buddies."

Vargin was always too stupid to know when he was beaten, meaning in this case demoted. He had dug his own grave.

And perfectly timed, for Huntleader Heth was striding in their direction, so the new runtleader could stand or fall right now.

"I'll give you one heartbeat to withdraw that remark, runt."

"I agreed to be Snerfrik's buddy."

The apple in Orlad's hand crumbled to paste without his willing it to. "Runt Vargin! Run and ask the harbor master how many children he has now."

"Run yourself, shit-eyes."

Perfect timing. Orlad could now pretend to notice Huntleader Heth looming behind Waels. He sprang up. "Flank, attention!"

Several stools toppled as the eleven followed his lead. Then Orlad bowed in proper Werist fashion—feet together, back horizontal, eyes staring straight down, which in this case meant with his nose almost on the table, for a count of three. This put him at a disadvantage if his leader wanted to stun him.

"At ease," Heth said. The huntleader was a respected warrior, with no known weaknesses except a humorless dislike of drunken orgies; there were also vicious rumors that he was faithful to his wife. Despite his many campaigns, the only battle hardening he displayed was a general increase in size and an abnormal thickening of his neck and shoulders, which gave him a bull-like appearance. His head was oddly cubical, but Orlad could remember noticing that as a child.

The cadets sat, all except Orlad. The huntleader eyed them thoughtfully, as if sensing something amiss.

"This morning, Runtleader, drill your men in stripping, and then rest them till evening. None of you will be getting much sleep for the next few days. Make sure they feed well now, then make them fast. Report to the shrine at sundown bell for instruction and meditation. We'll proceed toward the lifting of the first veil."

Yes! to that, whatever it was. "My lord is kind. We are eager to begin."

"Good. Carry on ..." From the slowness with which he turned, Heth probably knew he would not get far.

"My lord!"

"Runtleader?"

"My lord, I regret to report a disciplinary problem."

The Werist scowled. His square face darkened; his massive shoulders seemed to grow even larger. "Already?"

"Yes, my lord."

"That is probably something of a record, not one to brag of."

"My lord is kind."

"What sort of problem?"

"A punishment I assigned has been refused."

"The offense?"

"Refusal to obey an order."

"What order?"

"The man refuses to accept the cadet I assigned as his buddy."

"And the punishment?"

"Harbor master, my lord."

The harbor master—whoever that notoriously fruitful man was, for Orlad had never had cause to meet him—was stationed down in Tryfors, which was supposedly three menzils away, but a menzil was a very loose measure. In good weather, a strong and superbly fit cadet like Vargin should just manage the trip between dawn and dusk, one way. Having to run there and back again was rated worse than a second-level beating, and last night's snow would certainly delay him.

"And what additional punishment have you assigned for refusing the first one?"

"I had not gotten so far, lord. Five strokes for each day or part of a day he is absent?"

Heth pursed his lips. "You will have to learn to be stricter than that, Runtleader, or they'll be taking advantage of you right and left."

Triumph! Orlad struggled to conceal giddy relief behind a stern, warrior mien. "With respect, my lord, I do not want to cripple the man on a first offense."

"As you will." Heth shrugged. "If he persists, report him to me and we'll run him for the hunt."

An inexcusable surge of nausea almost made Orlad gag, but he managed to gulp the obligatory "My lord is kind" at Heth's departing back. Reproaching himself for unbecoming weakness, he looked down at Vargin and saw utter terror.

"You heard the first and second punishments, runt. Will you take them or go for the third?"

The delinquent lurched to his feet. "My leader is kind," he croaked. "Permission to go now?"

"Granted." But there was no point in killing the idiot. "Vargin?"

The great loon turned. "Leader?"

"Wear whatever you like. Take food and a canteen."

"My leader is kind!" Vargin sounded as if he meant that, for once. He headed for the counters to gather rations.

Orlad sat down and regarded ten appalled faces. Ranthr and Snerfrik were almost green, wondering which of them would be next. There would be no further trouble.

"Runt Ranthr, will you run through the stripping drill for us?"

"My leader is kind," Ranthr mumbled, and then parroted, "On the command 'Strip!' the warrior will drop his pall. My leader is kind. And of course: On the command 'Dress!' the warrior will don his pall, helping his buddy to do the same."

"We'd better find a warm place to try that." Orlad tore off a crust and stuffed it into his mouth while he considered the problem. A pall could be removed with a yank at the sash's half-knot and then one hard tug. The heavy cloth would drop like a landslide. "How long does a good squad take?"

"No time at all," Ranthr said. "Instantaneous upon the command."

"So we'll do it faster!" Orlad ripped off more bread. One or two of the others had begun to eat again also. Most were still too stunned by the onset of full warrior discipline. Run him for the hunt?

"We all belong to holy Weru now," Orlad said. "We are all going to be initiated into His mysteries. And we are going to do it in record time. Does anyone doubt that?"

There was a long pause before Waels ventured to inquire, "How much time did you have in mind, leader?"

"Before the last day of the Festival of Weru."

No one dared look at anyone.

"With utmost respect, leader, that is only half a year." As the leader's buddy, Waels was assuming the dangerous office of spokesman. "I don't think any class has ever gone from probation to initiation that fast."

"But we will. In the last ten years the last caravan has always left about a sixday after the end of the Festival. We will be ready so we can cross the Edge before winter closes the pass." Orlad glanced around the table. "Or are you cowards who want to sit around until next year before you join the bloodlord's horde and start killing Florengian oath-breakers?"

They shouted denials like good little Werists.

Orlad smiled approval. "I can't wait."