Children of Chaos

thirty-four

CUTRATH HOROLDSON

and a much-reduced band of fellow Werists arrived at Tryfors in a driving rainstorm. He took an instant dislike to the town and familiarity only confirmed his first impression. For one thing, it was so overcrowded with Werists that there were not enough Nymphs to go round, and on his very first night he got blacklisted by both the commercial cathouses just for playing a little rough. Almost as bad, Tryfors was ruled by his crazy Uncle Vulture, who looked even more like a plucked stork dying of scurvy than he had on his last visit to Kosord. There were rumors that the next caravan might be put off until spring. Given the choice of freezing to death in the Edgelands or spending half a year with Uncle Vulture, Cutrath would ask for time to think.

He was lonely and homesick. Back in Kosord he had been the satrap's son, always able to call for the drinks. Here he was only the Fist's nephew and likely to get beaten up for it any time he went near a beer shop. His only pelf was the same pittance every other man received. He'd set out with a fortune in gold and silver sewn into his pall and lost every twist of it the first time he got laid—whatever she'd put in the beer had nearly killed him. Since his mother had predicted something of the sort while weeping farewells all over his brass collar, he was glad she was far away and would never know. Worst of all, perhaps, was the knowledge that the buddies he'd set out with from Kosord had vanished somewhere along the Wrogg. He was deeply hurt that his friends had abandoned him.

When blue pack was ordered out to Nardalborg, he was glad to see the last of Tryfors. An easy two-day jog, they said. They hadn't mentioned the slope, or the weather, or the weight of a waterlogged pall. They ignored the black clouds boiling up in the north. They took no account of what a long river voyage did to men sitting idle in a boat. They forgot that a satrap's son in training would naturally do his long-distance running with some help from a flunky driving a chariot.

Blue pack left town before dawn with everyone making nervy jokes about which body parts were most likely to freeze and fall off. Cutrath trotted along in the front row between Packleader Jarlion and Center-Flankleader Quirb, whom reassignments and desertions had left as his last remaining companions from Kosord. They both had families back there, raising dark suspicion that they had been sent along only to see Cutrath safely delivered to the Edgelands, and would then be free to go home.

At the top of the first hill, Cutrath and some others threw up. After that the stronger runners were set to help the weaker ones by caning their legs every time they faltered. That day was the longest of his life, and very nearly the last, because around noon the black clouds arrived with gale winds and blinding snow. Six men either collapsed completely or became lost in the storm. Cutrath did reach Halfway Hall alive, but he had no memory of doing so, and later could not counter taunts that he had been carried in.

Halfway Hall would have held a dozen men adequately and twenty at a pinch, but forty-three were pickles in ajar. Food and fuel ran out the next day; the blizzard did not.

The second night was worse than the first, with hunger added to the ordeal of cold and overcrowding. The refugees sat in one squalid mass and slept very little, mostly trading horror stories of Stralg's crossing fifteen years ago, while reassuring one another that the Edgelands had been made much safer now with a cleared track and overnight shelters.

"My brothers died there six years ago," Cutrath said. "We're not even into the Edgelands yet!"

Someone suggested that breakfast should be Cutrath Horoldson, and the motion carried with only one dissenting vote.

The sun came up in a clear sky, revealing a desolate world of white hills and nothing else. A sharp, undulating horizon was unnerving in itself, but the lack of a road was worse. Jarlion waded out a short distance and then came back to consult with his flankleaders.

"We can't run through the drifts," he explained. His breath smoked. "If we zigzag around them, we'll have to cover many times the distance. Nardalborg lies eastward, but I don't know exactly where. I propose waiting until the sun is higher, then returning to Tryfors. Any better suggestions?"

No one spoke up to point out that the road back was as invisible as the road forward. No one mentioned snow blindness, or the real hazard of fair-skinned Vigaelians charring on the outside while freezing on the inside. No one seriously suggested eating Cutrath.

♦

The first hint of rescue was a strident trumpeting in the distance. Whatever made the noise was approaching from sunward, invisible in the glare, and Jarlion drew up the pack in battle order, just in case.

They were almost certainly the famous Nardalborg mammoths, Cutrath told himself, shivering so hard that the ice in his beard crackled. There were other nasty things like catbears in the hills, but the only wildlife that could seriously harm a pack of Werists were wild mammoths. Whatever these were, there were a lot of them. "Kill 'em and eat 'em raw!" he muttered, and was rewarded with some approving chuckles.

The first men to make out the monstrous shapes started to swear. Flankleaders shouted warnings against premature changing. When it became clear that the brutes carried riders, Jarlion ordered the pack to stand down.

It was not true that mammoths were big, Cutrath decided. They were enormous, and the tusked male leading them was twice that. They were hard to load because their front legs were longer than their back legs, but they could carry a dozen or so men apiece all the way to the Ice. He counted twelve females and four cubs. The five humans were all swathed in fur, but on three of them it had been dyed green. The other two wore palls as well.

When the train halted, the dozen females stopped, scratching and attending to the cubs. The male continued to move around, snuffling, but his Nastrarian mahout seemed to have him under control. The two Werists began unloading the sumpters, and Jarlion sent center flank forward to assist. The rations were only smoked meat and the sort of unleavened biscuit that would keep forever in sealed jars, but men stood around in the snow and feasted.

The Werist with the two-color pall must be Huntleader Heth himself. Jarlion bowed and gave his name with his mouth full.

"Very happy to see you, my lord."

Heth, from what could be seen of him, was a burly, square-faced man with a minimal smile. "Glad to be of help, Packleader. It was worth the ride. If there was no one here, we'd have just restocked the shelter. No others on the road?"

"None that I was told of, my lord. We lost six men on the way."

"They're dead, then. Your men can have a quick meal, and we'll give you a ride back. If you—"

"What is that shit?"

Cutrath Horoldson had not intended to speak so loudly, but the shock of seeing a Florengian dressed as a Werist was just too much for him.

The freak turned. "Somebody say something?" He was not especially tall; he looked very solid, but much of that must be his heavy furs. His sash and stripes said he was leader of rear flank, red pack, Nardalborg Hunt, Therek's host. There was something familiar about the broad cheekbones and deep-set dark eyes, but one Florengian looked much like another to Cutrath.

Everyone waited for Huntleader Heth to prohibit the challenge. Surprisingly, he said, "I heard something. What did you hear, Flankleader?"

"I heard somebody call me a shit, my lord." The brownie was staring very hard at the man who had.

Packleader Jarlion's glare was almost as deadly. "Warrior Cutrath, you said something?"

Cutrath's hide was still too tender from all the baiting to let him back down. "I was startled, my lord. I thought for a moment we had made contact with the enemy." That was good—no one could be punished for insulting the Florengian mutineers. He was happy to see approving grins in the background.

"You say something more?" inquired the flankleader. "You call me a traitor?"

Cutrath shrugged. If the turd wanted a fight he could have one. "A natural mistake."

"Permission granted, Orlad," Heth said. "You'll have to strip down to what he's wearing to make a fair match of it."

A mammoth wailed plaintively. Cutrath continued to chew his breakfast to show how confident he was, or at least wanted to seem. He couldn't swallow, though.

Predictably, the brownie folded. "I'll settle for an apology, my lord."

"You won't get it, dungface!" Cutrath snapped before Jarlion could issue orders. "All Florengians are cowards."

The spectators muttered encouragement and the whispered betting grew louder. He'd almost forgotten how good approval felt; it was like being home in Kosord.

"Well?" The huntleader looked madder than the freak did—his own fault for backing chocolate. "You can't eat that!"

"I beg leave to postpone settlement until my return, my lord."

Heth growled. "Packleader Jarlion, the satrap has summoned Flankleader Orlad to attend him in Tryfors for a few days. I know that only his sense of duty deters him from demanding satisfaction now. Will you graciously grant a postponement until he returns?"

"If he ever dares," Cutrath remarked, and basked in the approving laughter.

Jarlion was not laughing, though. His face was florid. "My lord, the flankleader's restraint in putting duty ahead of satisfaction is commendable. I personally apologize to you now, my lord. And I swear by Weru that if Warrior Horoldson does not apologize to flankleader Orlad when he returns, it will be because I have beaten him to death. Is that acceptable?"

Cutrath's throat tightened abruptly. They wouldn't dare, would they? Only slaves got beaten. Beat a Hero? A hostleader's son? Everyone would laugh at him! He'd battleform! He'd appeal to Uncle Vulture ...

"Wait!" the Florengian snapped. "Did you say 'Horoldson'? Is he Satrap Therek's nephew, my lord?"

"He is, Weru help us."

"Then I withdraw my complaint. It would not be fitting for me to damage a close relative of my liege. I did not hear anything."

"He has shit in his ears, too," Cutrath said. He was safe now. No one was going to stand up for this worm. The laughter became a cheer as it spread through the pack. It felt nice.

"Prepare to move out, Packleader," Heth said. "Orlad, come with me."

♦

Out of earshot, he spun around, looking madder than Orlad could ever recall seeing him—lips white, breathing hard. Heth never swore, normally, but now he showed that he could do so very well. At the end of his tirade he roared, "I stood up for you and you made a fool of me. You shame the entire hunt!" Puzzled, Orlad said, "I am truly sorry, my lord. I did not know who he was." Did Heth think it had been easy? After what Orlad had endured over the last two seasons, Heth could not doubt his courage.

"It doesn't matter who he is, you bonehead! You should have pounded him to pulp for what he said to you."

It would certainly have been a pleasure and probably not difficult. Anyone whose face was already so battered could not be much of a fighter. "My lord is kind."

"You're crazy as the Vulture himself!"

Orlad's own temper slipped. "My lord! That is an inappropriate slur on our hostleader."

Heth gaped. "What did you say?"

"My lord, he is one of the greatest of all Heroes! Satrap Therek has fought for a lifetime for his brother, his oaths—"

"Silence! He's crazy! Haven't you seen that yet? He wants you at Tryfors so he can kill you. He can and he will."

"Why should he do that, my lord?" Orlad was distressed to hear his own unworthy suspicions confirmed.

"You heard those men over there and what they think of your countrymen—all Florengians are oath-breakers. Therek blames you for his sons' deaths."

"I am not an oath-breaker!" If Horoldson had used that word, he would be a wreck by now.

"How will you prove it to a raving maniac?"

"I will obey without hesitation," Orlad said proudly, "as I swore to do. If he orders me to lay my head on the block, I will. I hope that will convince him of his error."

"You are madder than he is. Suppose he runs you for his hunt instead?"

"Then I will die. But I will not break my oath!"

Heth snorted and stalked away.

Dividing a mammoth herd was normally impossible. Fortunately, Tiny, the reigning male of the third train, was elderly and tolerant and disliked the eldest of his harem, Outhouse, who was past breeding age. But he did like Oberdar, who was an extremely competent Nastrarian, so he pretended not to notice when she rode Outhouse away. Oberdar and Outhouse gave Orlad a ride down the Tryfors road to the point where snow changed to slush. They left him within sight of the river and the town.