Children of Chaos tdb-1

by Dave Duncan

  Frena touched the sore place on her shoulder, and her fingers came away black in the dim light. Blood and dark... No, that wasn't right. Blood and... something. No matter. In her dream straggles she had opened the cut the rock had made at Bitterfeld.

  She could have rescued that man, had she realized in time what was happening. A bold effort could have done it: two chariots, two swordsman, and she screaming curses to frighten the mob. It had been when they turned away that the pack had gone for them.

  Dawn could not be far off—she had been up until long after dark with scribes and tallymen and stewards, making plans. Time had frothed by in a deluge of meetings, decisions, edicts, and even a few temper tantrums to break down resistance. At dawn the invitations would go out, still warm from the oven, and by morning a sizable fraction of the population of Skjar would be working on her dedication.

  The underlying ritual could not be simpler. A girl of poor family went with her mother to any altar of Veslih and offered the goddess a flower or a barley cake, making her vows without a single priestess in sight. It was the rich who showed off with banquets and parades, with the girl's mother driving her to the Pantheon, where all her family and friends and her parents' friends waited to witness. Then the new woman would make a vow and a sacrifice at each of the twelve shrines, before driving her mother home, leading the parade of chariots to the banquet.

  Frena's problem was that the people she wanted to invite had almost all fled to the hills. Nobody would willingly miss a grand feast in the Wigson mansion, but how many could return before Father's absurd deadline? Three days? They would all assume she was being rushed into wedlock before the baby arrived. Even collecting food in time would be almost impossible. Guests must be given expensive gifts. And entertainment? She must have dancers and musicians, tumblers and mimers, even performing animals, but the professionals had followed their patrons to the hills. Arrgh!

  She sat on the edge of her sleeping platform with her head in her hands. It throbbed.

  On such a night...

  On just such a night, three years ago, heat and worry had kept her from sleeping. She had donned a robe and gone downstairs to see how her mother was faring. For three days Paola had lain abed, bandaged and splinted, coughing up blood and suffering terribly. Healers would not normally accept a patient so grievously injured, so close to death, but Horth's wealth had persuaded one—braver or greedier than the rest—to offer an attempt at a cure. Paola had refused him. She had refused all aid from holy Sinura, and even holy Nula. She had persisted in her refusal despite her daughter's tears and her husband's entreaties. Although Horth had fetched the best extrinsic apothecaries and surgeons available, internal injuries were beyond their skills. Paola's life had been visibly ebbing away.

  Yet that night Frena had walked in and found the sleeping platform empty, her mother gone, and Quera—that sad excuse for a night nurse—snoring in a chair. Somehow the immobilized invalid had vanished. Curiously, young Frena had not run screaming for her father. She had not wakened Quera, nor yet raised the alarm among the servants. She had run back to the inner court to search among the trees and flowers, knowing that the garden she tended personally was her mother's favorite place, the view she always wanted from her room. A trail of discarded clothes and bandages had led Frena to Paola's corpse, facedown under some bushes.

  The cold earth ... Blood and the cold earth? No, that wasn't right

  Paola had been laid to rest where she died—in a respectable grave, it was worth remembering, in a marble sarcophagus and faceup. Half the population had come to the service. She had been a loving, most utterly perfect mother, not an evil monster. Her almsgiving had been the wonder of the city. Everyone who knew her had loved her well.

  But...

  But she had not merely been lax in offering sacrifice in the Pantheon. In the long dark of the night, Frena could not recall any instance of her mother going there to offer sacrifice. As the wife of one of the wealthiest men on the Face, she must have seen fewer of life's troubles than most women, but had there been no sicknesses or worries to prompt her to importune the Bright Ones? No friends or favored servants in trouble? In her final illness, why had she rejected all physical help from holy Sinura and comfort from holy Nula? And the manner of her death—had some ghastly aspect of Xaran dragged the dying woman from her bed, stripping her near-naked, before sucking out the last of her life under some bushes? Or had Paola Apicella returned voluntarily to a dark mistress and the cold earth?

  Had the watchdog Quera been incompetent or victim of some evil art?

  If Frena for the first time in her life did not trust what her mother had been, she must also admit that, for the first time in her life, she did not trust what her father said. His excuse for rushing her into a dedication ceremony in such disreputable haste did not ring true. What did he know or suspect that he would not discuss?

  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.