Children of Chaos

fifteen

THEREK HRAGSON

paced his chambers in twilight gloom. Click... click... click... Where was that accursed seer? What could be keeping the woman?

He paused at the window to stare down the trail to Tryfors. The sky was a wild effulgence of red, orange, and salmon, with the sun a distorted bloody blur. Sunsets lasted forever in Nardalborg.

He spun around and headed back. Click... click... click... Indoors, in this light, he could not see his bench and table, or even his sleeping platform. He timed his pacing by the scratch of his claws on the boards.

From the east window he could look up the trail, toward the Ice, and there the sky was already velvet black, sprayed with stars. This morning he had studied the incoming caravan descending the pass for an age before the watch noticed it and sounded the alarm. He'd been depressed to see how small it was. In the old days there would have been an endless train of slaves bent under their masters' booty; but now there were just a handful of traders, a dozen or so repatriated wounded, and a couple of apparently healthy Werists whose satchels doubtless contained dispatches from Stralg.

Why was that Witness taking so long? It would be dark soon.

Back again to the west. He'd intended to return to Tryfors right after the oath taking, days ago. Gods knew he had enough work waiting down there with green troops pouring into the city on their way to die for Stralg in Florengia, and Heth did a fine job of running Nardalborg without his hostleader breathing all over his collar. Therek had stayed because of that accursed Orlad hostage. The look in the kid's eyes! Not when Therek hung the chain on him and gave him that disgusting ceremonial embrace—he'd been only a hard, warm blur then. But earlier, a few minutes before, when that drunken ruin Gzurg Hrothgatson had been announcing his distorted judgment, the brownie had been lurking at the back of the hall. He had known what was coming, obviously, without realizing that anyone was watching him. Ha! Therek had seen the treason burning in those freakish black eyes.

So instead of heading back to Tryfors the next morning, Therek had sent for a seer to join him, and she'd arrived by yak wagon this morning. All he needed was her confirmation of what his own judgment told him—just in case Saltaja ever asked—and he was going to put that young brute to death. Chain collar? Hang him in it!

Knuckles rapped on timber.

He said "Enter!" and pretended to study the scenery.

"Lord!"

It was a man's voice—probably Heth, but one word was not enough to identify him. Therek could not make out the color of his sash. "At ease. What do you want?"

"My lord is kind." Heth straightened. "A caravan has come."

"I saw."

"It brought these for you." Came the distinctive sound of clay tablets being clattered down on wood. "And others, of course, which I will order sent on?" He meant, Do you want to peek at them first? It was years since Therek had been at Nardalborg when an inbound caravan arrived, so Heth was not sure of his procedures. He was smart enough to guess that there might be such procedures, though.

"Send them on by all means. I assume the largest collection is addressed to my sister. Did you think I would pry into her mail?"

"Of course not, my lord."

He would if he dared. He'd risked it once, just once, many years ago—one night when he was monumentally drunk he had started to brood on the unfairness of Stralg sending all the latest news to Saltaja and almost none to him, so he'd told a scribe to pick out the latest of several tablets from the date on the covers, then crack it open and read out the contents. Covers were broken in transit easily enough, but apparently seers could tell the difference. He hadn't known that; his sister had, and her summons had arrived about a season later. He'd tried to ignore it, mentally telling her to go to the Old One, but he'd been too afraid that she might do just that, but not in the way he wanted, and in the end he'd obeyed. For some reason she had been at Jat-Nogul that year, at the far side of the Face, and it had taken him all winter to get there. When he finally did, she had merely slapped his face, told him she would kill him if he ever did it again, and sent him straight home. At least, that was how he remembered it, but his aides had insisted he'd been gone for three days. He had never dared tamper with Saltaja's correspondence since.

Uncertainly Heth added, "Shall I send in a scribe... my lord?"

"No. What's the gossip?" That might be more credible than Stralg's fictions. "What news from Florengia? Any great battles won?"

"Indeed, yes, my lord. The Heroes are jubilant over a great victory at a place called Miona. The rebels attempted to besiege your honored brother there, my lord. Although he was seriously outnumbered, he cleverly lured them into the town and then withdrew, burning it down on top of them. Their losses were enormous."

It was impossible to tell from the huntleader's flat military tone whether he believed that fable. Therek did not. He would give half his talons to be able to see Heth's expression, but at close quarters faces were only a blur to him now.

"Were they there in person, these Heroes?"

"I don't believe so, my lord."

"Where is this Miona? Near the pass, or far away?"

"I... I didn't think to ask, my lord." Heth's voice sounded more wary.

Therek laughed and turned back to the windows. "Come here."

Heth moved to his side. "My lord?"

"You don't understand what's happening, lad," the satrap said quietly. "Shouldn't call you that, though, should I? You're what... twenty-eight?"

"Thirty."

"Ah. Well, at thirty and a huntleader you ought to see the game in the shrubbery." He forced a little chuckle and laid an arm around Heth's magnificent shoulders. "Remember back when you were initiated? You wanted to charge off to Florengia right away. You'd have set off alone that very night if I'd let you. I insisted you wait until you'd made at least flankleader."

"I remember." The tone was flat, admitting nothing. "And then you told me it was too late, that I'd missed the war."

"I believed it, lad. I did. But then he made his terrible mistake."

"You mean in initiating natives, lord?"

"Of course I do. What else could I mean? Those mud-faced, black-eyed, slithery cheats! Traitors, all of them!"

"They will suffer for their treachery."

"Will they? You think so? The Florengian horde probably outnumbers Stralg's now. Their warriors are as lethal. Why do you think he keeps screaming for more men? He is losing!"

"A temporary setback."

"I don't think so." Click... click... click... Therek realized he was pacing again. "There is less ice on their side of the Edge!"

"My lord is kind." Undoubtedly Heth knew what Therek meant, but a good Werist must never say such things.

Therek could. "Even for couriers it is easier to cross in this direction, son, with the harder going on the downhill side. To bring a horde in this direction would be much easier. That's the scorpion in the blanket! That's why the war must continue at all costs. If Stralg cannot hold the north—Celebre and the road home—then he is going to come scrabbling back over the Edge with a Florengian horde breathing on his collar. You think Nardalborg can hold them? Those brown horrors will pour into Vigaelia in their sixty-sixties, burning our cities, raping our women! And all this because Stralg trusted Florengians!" He was ashamed to hear his voice break. "They killed your brothers!"

"Yes, lord."

In his time, Therek Hragson had fathered four sons and some daughters on a variety of women. He'd given the women good settlements, letting them keep the girls while he hung on to the sons. Now he wished he'd thought of keeping the girls for grandsons, but he hadn't. Three sons he'd admitted to, and every one had sworn to Weru and taken the brass collar. He had said farewell to each of them here in Nardalborg and watched them march off to fight for their uncle. Hrag Therekson, Stralg Therekson, Nars Therekson—mighty warriors all, and Florengian oath-breakers had killed them.

"That's why I keep you secret, son. That's why you must bear the shameful name of Hethson. Stralg took three of my sons. The Florengians killed them. And Karvak's two. And three of Saltaja's. Two of Horold's died on the way there." If either Stralg or Saltaja ever learned about Heth, they'd take him as well.

"Yes, lord."

"Florengian swine! I hate them, hate them! And that stinking brown whelp of a Florengian here in Nardalborg—you talked me into letting him take the tests, Huntleader! I won't forget that. Then that bonehead Gzurg actually passed him, so I had to give him his collar. I had to watch him spill his filthy blood at my feet. You made me accept an oath from a stinking brown Florengian traitor, knowing every word he uttered was a lie. I even had to embrace the scum!" He shivered with revulsion. He still wondered how he'd managed not to strangle the maggot there and then. All he needed was a word from the seer and he would do it. Personally. Why was she taking so long?

"Well, what do you want?"

"Just bringing you the dispatch and the news, my lord."

"That's a lie. You're no page. Out with it." He might not be able to see his son's face at this range, but he knew how to glare at it, and he heard the worry in the reply.

"My lord is kind. I came to say, my lord... to inform you... I have given permission for the cadets to touch the Presence. Tonight. My lord."

"No! No, no, no! That's ridiculous." Accidentally jostling a bench, Therek roared in fury and slapped it across the room; he heard it shatter against the wall. "They're not ready. They can't be. You're making a—"

"Father, will you hear me?"

Therek could not recall ever hearing Heth give him that title. It winded him. The Florengian mutineers had butchered three of his sons, he must not lose the fourth. He nodded dumbly, staring out at the eastward stars.

"Father, I have never seen a runtleader like Orlad. Every morning I tell him what I want done next and he's already done it! He's run those boys through six days' training in half that. I know it sounds impossible, but he's done it. All twelve of them! They're reeling. It's inhuman, but he's done it. They're out on their feet, but he keeps on pushing and they respond. They follow him like goslings. He treats himself harder than any and they follow. They know all the responses, word-perfect. I tested, my lord—of course I did! And I swear they are as ready to touch the Presence as any cadets I have ever seen. Don't waste this, lord! I beg you! If they don't go tonight they'll collapse and it will be a thirty before they can be brought up to readiness again—if they ever can be. Twelve cadets, Father, all twelve ready! Gods know we need them."

Therek growled deep in his throat. Readying a man to touch the Presence for the first time was the trickiest part of initiation. The postulant must be strung to breaking point, on the very edge of snapping, or the ritual would fail, and a first failure often meant no later success. It might even kill him. Exhaustion, hunger, and lack of sleep were all vital, but too much and the boys just crumpled. Heth was rarely wrong on this.

"Take eleven and break that other one's neck." "That won't work, lord! They're following him. Without Orlad they'd just collapse in confusion. They're beyond thinking."

"No! I've told you, you can never trust a Florengian!"

That should have been the end of it. Werists did not argue. Incredibly, Heth persisted.

"Father, if what you say about the war—"

"No! He's a hostage! And a hostage for Celebre, which even Stralg admits is likely to prove critical. Saltaja asked me about him in her last letter, if he was still alive and available. Suppose the old king, or whatever he is, dies and Stralg calls for Orlad to replace him—and we send him a Werisrt What sort of puppet ruler would a Werist make?" "I can't see Orlad as anyone's puppet even now, lord."

Again knuckles rapped on the door. With relief, Therek barked "Enter!" This time it was the seer—he could make out the white blur of her robes. He barely waited for her to close the door.

"Well? What kept you? What's he thinking? He's plotting treason, yes?"

"We are not alone, lord." She was a fussy slip of a thing, this one, and young, from the sound of her voice. Women! It had been so long!

"I am well aware of that."

"As you will. The reason I took so long is that you forbade me to let anyone know what I was doing. Since I couldn't ask him direct questions, or have others do so, I had to rely on chance conversations, and he is currently so exhausted that he is barely capable of speech. The arrival of the caravan provided a fortunate opportunity for—"

"And what is he plotting? Is he subverting his entire flank against me?"

"Far from it, lord. What he says is exactly what he means, with absolutely no reservations. He is fanatically loyal to you and Huntleader Heth. He admires you so much he will not even let the cadets refer to you by the nicknames others use. He is determined to see the entire class initiated in record time, and his motive for doing so is so that he can join your brother and fight against the Florengian Werists."

"Wrong! You're wrong! You have got to be wrong!"

The woman screamed before he reached her.

Heth jumped between them and grabbed his father in a mighty hug. "Satrap! Wait!"

Therek struggled free. "She is lying! That cannot be right. He's a Florengian himself."

"Please let the seer finish, my lord. Carry on, Witness."

The Witness was curled up in a ball on the floor. "Carry on?" Her voice was shrill and shaky. "Had you not moved so fast, Huntleader, that crazy monstrosity—"

"Get up!"

She unwound. "He was going to rip me! You explain to him what would have happened then, because I have tried and failed. The agreement between the Heroes and the Witnesses would have—"

"Oh, shut up, you prattling sow," Heth said. "And get up. He didn't touch you. Tell him why Orlad hates his fellow Florengians."

"As long as the satrap behaves," she whined, dusting herself off. "The boy doesn't hate all Florengians, at least not much. He despises the Florengian Werists, regards them all as oath-breakers, because the first initiates had sworn loyalty to Bloodlord Stralg."

"You see, Father? All his life, here in Nardalborg, he has been derided for—"

"Blood!" Therek strode back to the window to let the cold wind cool his rage. "Stupid floozy. So you tell me there is one Florengian I can trust, just one who will not turn on me the first chance he gets?"

"I do not prophesy. I say only that you can trust him now."

"Ha! So I can't trust him?"

"I repeat what I just said."

"I think what the seer means, lord," Heth said, "is that fanatical loyalty can be fragile. There is no room for compromise in such allegiance. If a man who supports a cause fanatically decides that the cause is unworthy, he will change sides and support the opposition with the same absolute zeal. Am I correct, Witness?"

"I report facts, Huntleader. I do not make hypotheses."

"Blood!" Therek said again. "A dead Florengian wouldn't even make good manure. Read me that report.",

"I am not a scribe, my lord."

"I know that, half-wit! But you can tell me what it says."

He always had a Witness read his correspondence to him, because he did not trust scribes. When he dictated anything important, he had the seer read it back to him later. He tapped claws on the floor impatiently while she shuffled the little bricks.

"All of these are from Bloodlord Stralg to you. This is the first—"

"Begin with the latest, dung-head!"

There was a pause as she cracked the clay envelope on the table edge and extracted the tablet itself.

" 'In the sacred name of the most mighty—'"

"Never mind all that offal! I can guess he begins with a demand for more Werists, right?" He always did.

"Er... yes, my lord. He, er... he says that he must follow up his recent success at Miona, that the enemy are summer people and will not fight in winter, but to Vigaelians their weather is nothing, so he has a natural advantage in—"

"Toad piss! Florengia has no seasons; winter and summer all alike. How many this time?"

"Er... he expects Tryfors to supply one complete pack, at least two flanks being experienced men. You are also to send your best huntleader... my lord."

Impossible! Therek could not possibly spare forty-nine men and he was certainly not sending Heth. Heth was being discreetly silent. In the last few years he had watched men head out in sixties and sixty-sixties and only a dribble of cripples return.

"How many more caravans does he expect me to squeeze in before winter?"

"He did not say."

"Then how many men in total, mm?"

"He did not say, my lord... here."

Therek missed it, but Heth didn't. "Where does he say it?"

"With respect, my lord, I am authorized to advise only the hostleader."

"Answer him!" Therek bellowed, and then answered for himself. "You read the other dispatches! You can read them without opening them?" Why had he never thought of that? The bag-head cows had never told him they could do that. They never volunteered anything! He wondered if Saltaja knew they had that ability.

"I cannot read a sealed dispatch, lord."

"But you can tell the meaning?" Heth asked.

"If I am close enough to it," the seer admitted glumly, "and the content is important."

Therek chortled. "And were you close enough to the other dispatches that arrived today? Of course you were. You wouldn't have missed that chance to snoop. What did my dear brother write to our sister, mm? Tell me that!"

"All of it, lord?"

"Start with the most interesting news and I'll tell you when to stop."

She sighed. "Yes, lord. He wrote that he suffered a major defeat at Reggoni Bridge. Rebel Hordeleader Cavotti had sabotaged—"

"The Mutineer!" Therek screamed.

"The Mutineer, then. He had sabotaged the bridge and it collapsed when your brother's hunt was crossing, dropping the men into a gorge. The vanguard was isolated. It was attacked by the freedom fighters—"

"Rebels! Oath-breakers!"

"—and destroyed. The bloodlord lost more than sixteen sixty men, almost an entire host. He wants as many replacements ... His exact words in this case, my lord, were that your honored sister is to send 'as many men as the lunatic Therek can be forced to move over the Edge.' My lord."

Therek contemplated wringing her neck and reluctantly decided not to. "Heth, can you get five more caravans out before winter?" They had never managed six in a season before.

"I can but try, my lord. The weather will decide."

"Can you make the caravans bigger?"

"No!" Heth said firmly. "Not without more slaves and more mammoths. And if we did find some way to stock the food caches for more than four sixty men, most of the shelters will barely hold even that many. They were built for smaller caravans. Four sixty is the absolute limit... my lord."

Then Therek had an idea, a beautiful idea, a shining constellation of an idea. "Don't bother reserving a space for Warrior Orlad."

"My lord is kind," Heth muttered uncertainly.

"All those recruits ... eager but inexperienced," the satrap mumbled. He chuckled gleefully. But he couldn't do it here, not at Nardalborg. Not one of themselves. Very bad for morale, that would be. "Tonight you may proceed as requested. I am sure Runtleader Orlad will do very well. Give all the cadets my best wishes. Dismissed."

"My lord is kind."

"Oh, and one other thing... When, in due course, Runtleader Orlad is initiated, as I am sure he will be... send him to me, in Tryfors."

He heard Heth shut the door. The white blur of the Witness remained, cowering as far away from him as she could get. All those splendid young new warriors! Before sending them off to battle, it would be only fair to give them some practice in running down Florengian Werists.