Children of Chaos

thirty-three

HUNTLEADER HETH

had ruled Nardalborg for many years and initiated more Heroes for his father than he could bear to think about. Wherever the sacred rituals allowed, he had devised his own ways of doing things.

Not everything in life must be solemn ritual and blood-sweating grind. For two whole days now the runts had been allowed to rest and eat as much as they wanted—in preparation for the Fortitude Test, they had been told. Every Werist in Nardalborg was in on the leg-pull, wincing whenever the mythical ordeal was mentioned; there was much ominous shaking of heads. Some carried the warnings to absurd extremes, but the kids never caught on. After what they had been through, nothing would seem impossible. Summoned by the beat of the drums, twelve apprehensive young warriors presented themselves at the chapel door that bitter night—and gaped at the slave who opened it to admit them.

"If my lords would be so kind..." Heth stepped aside and bowed low. "We most humbly beg your lordships' forgiveness, but we do not have enough couches in Nardalborg. Honored lords at a real banquet recline on couches, of course, but never before has Nardalborg had a full, twelve-man flank of cadets, and I cannot recall any class where every man qualified for initiation. If your lordships will forgive stools ..."

Flames danced in the fire pit below the terrible image of the god, but on the far side of the pit stood a table set for twelve, with silver dishes, roast meats, and fresh beer. The six flunkies waiting to serve them, clad in the sackcloth smocks and leggings worn by slaves here in the uplands, were the Nardalborg Hunt's five packleaders and the huntleader himself. As the striplings stared aghast at the sight, the packleaders erupted in guffaws; then Heth began to laugh, too, and the cadets followed one by one. Relief made them howl with mirth.

All except one. Runtleader Orlad did not laugh. The glitter in his dark eyes was anger. Just because he did not see jokes? Or had he somehow learned of the extreme peril that now hung over him?

Somewhere a loose shutter was banging, and Heth made a mental note to have it fixed, but the blizzard howling outside set a fitting mood for merriment safe indoors. Snow and thunder were a killer combination, a Nardalborg speciality, but he had only himself to blame. He had scheduled this ceremony and he had never known an initiation night not to be stormy. With all three mammoth trains out in a frantic dash to stockpile supplies for Caravan Six, he must just hope that the storm was only local. Half the men due to go on Six were in-house already and many more might be strung out between Tryfors and Nardalborg, camping on the moors. There was no time to lose.

Usually Heth loved inductions, because he steadfastly believed in the Heroes. He had a set speech for inductions. There would always be wars, he would explain, so there must always be warriors. The Werists were not perfect, certainly, but at their best they let extrinsics live in peace by keeping conflicts to themselves. He personally took pride in every boy he raised to manhood in the cult, and he was especially proud tonight, he would tell them, with Nardalborg gaining a full dozen warriors who would free up a dozen others to reinforce the Fist's horde on the Florengian Face. So he would say.

In truth he wasn't proud tonight. He was sick with shame at what was going to happen.

♦

The feast went well. Humbly served by their superiors, the cadets ate well, drank even better, and became stupidly raucous. Heth delivered his speech and was cheered. An ensemble of six flankleaders dressed as women dropped in to sing very badly, play pipes and drums even worse, and dance a striptease that left them wearing nothing except their collars and a total of a dozen melons. By then the audience was helpless with drunken mirth. Except the runtleader. Orlad drank mostly water and never relaxed his vigilance, as if he knew that this nonsense must presage treachery.

After the dancers had gone and the diners had eaten their fill, it was he who broke the spell. Watching him fidget, Heth was not surprised when the question came, but he saw with genuine admiration how the quiet words cut through the drunken gabble and stopped it. A born leader, that one.

"My lord? What happens next? In our training, I mean?"

"Nothing. You're done. It's over." Heth paused a moment to let the implications seep through the beer. Then he gave them another speech, and no one was drunk enough to interrupt a huntleader. "Congratulations, warriors! You know you have achieved what no men ever have. Your runtleader told me he would see you all qualified before the last caravan departed. I told him he was crazy. He has done it with days to spare and no dropouts. Yours is the honor, but you know who to thank for your success. I am going to break a host rule and promote Runt Orlad directly to flankleader."

"Fame to Orlad!" yelled Runt Waels, leaping up, beaker in hand. Another ten took up the shout and rose also, not without staggers.

Orlad sat and scowled, ever suspicious of mockery. In the silence while the others toasted his name—for even a Werist could not speak and suck on a straw at the same time—he said only, "So when do we get our collars, my lord?'

"Now. They must first be dedicated. Irig, please?"

Irig Irigson, packleader of the red, had the finest voice in the hunt. He reached into a bag he had been wearing at his hip all evening, and produced a dozen strips of shiny brass. These he took over to the god and held them high as he sang a ritual incantation. The others stood in silence until the last note reverberated away. Then he brought them over and cast them down on the table in front of Orlad.

Heth said, "Sit."

Eleven men hastily sat down. Runt Ranthr missed his stool and sprawled on the floor, but no one spared him a glance.

Orlad frowned. "What is the ritual?"

"None. You earned that collar, warrior. You won it by your own sweat and blood and no man but you has the right to hang it around your neck. The god has now blessed it. I salute you and congratulate you." Heth tried a smile, knowing it would be refused. "And I pray to holy Weru that I never meet you in battle." That was no lie. He heard quiet mutters of agreement from the other packleaders behind him.

The boy selected a length of brass, examined it, flexed it. He hooked a finger in the chain around his neck, snapped that away, and then glanced to Heth for guidance.

"I just bend it around?"

"Yes. I warn you, you will feel quite a jolt." The main reason Heth preferred the cadets to be drunk and lying on couches at this point was that the shock was little short of being struck by lightning, but he had no doubts that Orlad could survive it when so many lesser warriors had.

The others watched intently as the Florengian centered the metal at the back of his neck, then forced the two ends forward until they met. Weru, being also god of storms, honored each new Hero with a clap of thunder. The first one always seemed the loudest, and this time the bolt must have landed right outside the chapel. Stunned by the noise, several cadets tumbled off their stools. Orlad sprawled forward on the table, dislodging a cataract of dishes that fell unheard because every ear in the building was still ringing. Irig, still hovering at his back, had no need to catch him.

Then he reeled to his feet with one great bellow of jubilation, shaking both fists at the sky. He was pale and dazed, but those midnight eyes blazed with triumph as he fingered the seamless golden band encircling his neck. Now he had the power to make that neck thicker than a bear's or slender as the Vulture's, but the collar would always fit. He would die wearing it.

He sobered as the packleaders closed in to congratulate him. When their thumping and hugging was over, he returned Heth's handshake almost halfheartedly, as if impatient to move on to some new struggle. He did not resume his seat with the boys. Now Warrior Orlad stood with the men.

Who was to go next? The runts waited for Orlad's orders, but he was no longer runtleader and gave none. As cautious hands reached to the heap of brass, Bloodmouth said, "Can we do it all together, my lord?"

"If you wish."

They all agreed to that, although probably few of them saw as he had that this would conveniently forestall argument over who got the loudest thunder. Eleven leather collars were ripped away and eleven strips of brass bent into place simultaneously. One long crashing roll from the heavens sufficed for all of them. Only Waels and Hrothgat fell backward, and they were caught by Orlad and Packleader Ruthur, respectively. The Nardalborg Hunt gained another eleven warriors.

♦

They had all risen, because that was what Orlad had done. Eighteen men in that chapel at that time of year naturally gravitated into a rough circle around the fire. Thump! thump! said the shutter.

Formalities followed. Heth told the new Heroes where they were assigned, so they knew what palls and sashes to obtain from the commissariat. He never sent new warriors straight off to the front, and they tried not to show relief when they heard that this rule still applied. He awarded them another day's rest before they must report in—nothing much would happen until the storm lifted. He told them where they would find girls waiting to help them celebrate.

So he came to the vital last rite of passage, their first chance to try out their warbeasts in earnest.

"As soon as the weather clears, of course, you are allowed a day to go hunting. Packleader, what did the scouts report?"

Ruthur of gold pack was a big man with a squeaky voice and a foolish braying laugh, which he used now. "A difficult choice, my lord! First, there's two herds of oribis up on Deadcold Hill."

Snerfrik's loud groan was followed by a chorus of boos from everyone else. Correction: from ten others. Orlad did not react. Oribis were good eating but as game for Werists they might as well be precooked.

"Rather chase ducks," Vargin said.

The packleader sniggered. "You want something more sporting? There's a bachelor moving in from the south."

A quick gasp was followed by bravado cheers. Ruthur brayed again.

"That's all?" Heth demanded angrily.

"Not another mouse on the moors, my lord."

With the rutting season fast approaching, a bachelor mammoth was an earthquake on legs. Every winter a few of the monsters were attracted to Nardalborg's females and had to be disposed of. They were slain with bronze-tipped spears, and Heth never sent less than thirty men for one mammoth. Only lunatics would try battleforming against something that size.

He said, "A difficult decision. If you choose the bachelor, then I'll send reinforcements with you, so it won't be your own hunt, and you'll have to use weapons. Or you can wait for something better in a sixday or two." Their pride would never let them do that. "I will allow individual choices," he added, glumly aware that not one of them would degrade himself by choosing the oribis. "Flankleader Orlad?"

"Oribi, my lord." No hesitation.

Heth discovered that he was no longer surprised at being surprised by Orlad. "Warrior Snerfrik?"

The big man stared in bewilderment at the Florengian. He looked around the equally puzzled faces of his friends. Very hesitantly he said, "The mammoth, my lord...?," so his indecision turned the statement into a question.

"Warrior Vargin?"

Vargin went through the same process. All of them did, leaving the vote at eleven mammoths and one oribi. Orlad seemed quite unworried that he alone had made the coward's choice, but he understood Heth's one-word bark—

"Why?"

He jumped to attention. "My lord is kind. Since I intend to apply for immediate transfer to Florengia I do not wish to risk an injury that might keep me from traveling on Caravan Six. My lord is kind."

He had added twist to prod. No one ever volunteered for service in Florengia anymore. But he just had, so who was the coward now?

"That explains it," Heth said grimly. "Dismissed—except for you, Flankleader."

♦

Snow swirled across the floor, smoke belched from the hearth, and then came a massive thud as the departing Werists slammed the door. While calm returned to the chapel, Heth stood staring glumly down at burning logs, ignoring the new Werist waiting at his side. He could taste vomit. For the first time since he had wrapped on his own brass—no, for the first time since Therek had tied a probationer's rope around him—Heth was tempted to disobey an order. Thump! said the shutter. Finally: "So you want a transfer, do you?"

"My lord is kind."

"In public, you ask."

"My lord, with respect, I did mean to apply to my packleader tomorrow."

Heth grunted. "Then my fault for asking. Let's discuss it. I want you in my hunt. You are the best. Stay and you'll be a packleader inside two years." He might advance even faster in Stralg's embattled horde if he lived long enough; promotion there was by survival more than ability. "However, if you persist in your transfer request, I cannot refuse you after what you have achieved with the runts. You have earned the right."

"My lord is kind!"

Heth glanced at him, wondering if he had just missed an actual smile. If so, it had been directed at the image of the god. Although the kid was staring fixedly ahead, he was certainly pleased. It was a possible solution—ship him out and put off Therek somehow until Caravan Six was out of reach.

"You do realize that the Vigaelian Werists in Florengia will see you as one of the enemy and the natives will count you traitor? Every time you go into battle you'll be attacked by the wrong side, or even both sides."

"It is a risk I must take."

"So you won't be put into battle. You'll be set to scouting and probably spying."

"My lord is kind. I do not speak or understand Florengian."

So he couldn't be a spy. And didn't care. This was like trying to talk a would-be suicide down off the battlements, which Heth had attempted several times, but never with success.

Twelve curses! "There is another problem. A few days ago I reported to Hostleader Therek that the runts were about to be initiated. He replied that I am to send you to Tryfors right away."

Another quick glance. The boy looked slightly puzzled, not terrified. Would he ever look terrified? And obviously he was not going to ask why.

"I don't know why," Heth said. "In this he was merely confirming orders he gave me in the spring, when you were sworn."

"I am very honored that the satrap takes an interest in me, my lord." The kid's voice was perhaps just a hairsbreadth less confident now. Suicidally stubborn but not quite stupid.

"He always has. They don't call him the Vulture for nothing. You do know that he lost three sons in the war? He blames the Florengian Werists for their deaths."

"The oath-breakers, my lord. I, too, despise and hate them."

Weru 's balls!

Heth wanted to scream out, He is crazy! He is my father and he is crazy! He wants to run you for the hunt! But he couldn't say that. Therek Hragson had fought all his life for his brother, for his oaths, for the cause he believed in. He'd almost died a dozen times and always refused to quit and that was why he looked like a monster now. He was Heth's father, his mentor, his liege lord, and the words could not be spoken.

If the boy couldn't sense Therek's insanity, then there was no hope for him.

"Dismissed. We'll talk again when the weather clears."