Children of Chaos tdb-1

by Dave Duncan

  "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."

  thirteen

  FRENA WIGSON

  gazed out her window at the lifeless docks. Not even slaves could work on a day like this, when the sun was a blur of brightness in a pallid sky and Ocean a lead sheet behind masts and rigging. She wore an appropriately virginal robe of white linen with a sprinkling of pearls. Her tar-black hair was demurely coiled but adorned with a ruby comb, which was somewhat daring for the Pantheon, a subtle display of insurrection.

  Accepting noon for her appointment with High Priestess Bjaria had been a misjudgment. By the time she crossed to the bedroom door, she was damp with perspiration. Her chariot was waiting for her at the front door, with Dark and Night in the traces, but she was surprised to find Verk driving. Servants set down mounting steps for her, and he offered a strong hand to help her aboard.

  "Uls is well?"

  "The lady is kind to ask. He is fully recovered."

  She took the reins and he raised the brake. Why Verk to escort her, instead of her usual driver or one of the other house guards? Had Father arranged this, or was Verk contriving to speak with her in private? She did not inquire, because she had developed a stabbing headache, and it was growing steadily worse. As the chariot rocked and bounced across the bridge to Temple, thunder and lightning inside her skull felt fit to burst it.

  Having no female relatives, she had informed Father that he would be Mother to drive her there. Although he had not driven a chariot in years, he had laughed and said he would be honored. She would drive home, though. She was determined to follow tradition and lead the chariot parade back from her dedication. So this trip was rehearsal as well as the obligatory preliminary call upon the garrulous high priestess.

  "Are you all right, mistress?"

  She wondered how green her face must be for him to have noticed. "I am fine. I just wish I had thought to bring wool to plug my ears." High Priestess Bjaria was the worst blabbermouth on Dodec.

  Temple was one of the larger islands, the most rugged and irregular of all, and clearly had been formed when a section of the canyon wall collapsed and the river cut new channels through the resulting dam. Houses had spread over most of it so that it looked like a lumpy reptile scaled with roofs, but in places its bones were exposed as piles of gigantic rocks. The Pantheon stood on a green-furred hump, one of the few wooded areas in the city, and was reached only by climbing a long flight of stairs. Score twelve extra points for the weather, twelve more for the headache.

  From the bridge to a busy street, then another, which headed straight to a cliff, snaked through a notch in it, and emerged in a steep-sided bowl whose floor was an uneven graveled yard. Scores of other chariots were waiting there, some being tended by their owners' servants, others by green-clad Nastrarians employed by the Pantheon. The onagers' braying echoed back and forth, and the stupid brutes kept answering themselves. Worshipers bustled in and out through several entrances, but they must all ascend the rocky hillside by the same wooden staircase. Verk drove as close to the base as he could. There she must leave him, because weapons were not allowed and to take attendants when calling on gods was regarded as poor taste.

  She handed the reins to Verk and prepared to climb down.

  "The master sent for me," he said, not looking at her.

  She paused. "But did not impale you."

  "No, mistress. He was very concerned to know why you insisted on approaching the mob."

  So was she. What had led her to be stupid? That was not like her. "I hope you explained that I was merely being nosy?"

  "Not in those words, mistress." His tone was oddly flat.

  She could have rescued that man!

  Verk handed her down. Slinging her leather satchel on her shoulder, she braced herself for the climb. The headache pounded harder than ever, not helped by the wailing of beggars trying to extract alms from stolid citizens going by. The stolid citizens ignored them, as did the clergy in their many-colored Pantheon robes. When the cadgers noticed Frena's purse, they redoubled their howls, scrambling after her on their knees with hands outstretched, but she hurried past them and began the ascent, following a couple of priests. The stair zigzagged, changing slope and direction frequently. It was wide enough for two people going up to pass two coming down, but the treads were in alarmingly poor condition, the handrails splintered and not entirely secure. Renovations were clearly overdue.

  "Fabia Celebre?"

  Something touched her arm. She ignored it, plodding painfully upward.

  "Frena Wigson, then."

  Frena was startled to discover that she was being addressed by a seer—a woman, judging by her voice, tall, slender, and completely swathed in white cloth. Her lower body was covered in a white skirt or robe, a cape fell below her waist, hiding even her hands, and another cloth draped her head. She must be melting inside all that.

  "I am Frena Wigson." She had never spoken with a Witness before.

  The speaker moved alongside. "Keep climbing and do not act surprised. I have an important warning for you."

  "How do I know you are what you pretend to be?" And why were they speaking Florengian?

  "You have an unhealed cut on your right shoulder and your shift is embroidered with blue daisies." She sounded young. "Am I a seer?"

  "Er, yes. What warning, Witness?"

  "You do believe that I speak only truth?"

  "You addressed me by another name."

  "I wanted to see if you knew it. You were not always Frena Wigson."

  "I wasn't?" Frena croaked. Her heart was pounding much harder than it should be. Her mouth was dry, her headache excruciating, and the two old priests ahead were climbing faster than she was. She did not need crazy seers babbling riddles at her.

  "No. You have been lied to all your life, but only to keep you out of danger. Now your ignorance may put you in worse danger."

  If anyone other than a seer mouthed such nonsense ...

  "Then who am I?"

  "Your real name is Fabia. You are the fourth child of Piero, doge of the Florengian city of Celebre, and his wife, the lady Oliva. You were taken hostage when Celebre fell to Bloodlord Stralg, fifteen years ago. Your heartbeat is alarmingly fast, my dear. Take a moment's rest."

  Frena leaned against a mossy rock and the seer stood beside her, one step up. A family group climbed past.. A group of women descended. The headache was flashing streaks of green light brighter than sunshine.

  "Fabia?"

  "Fabia Celebre."

  "What's a doge?"

  "A sort of elected king."

  "What is the danger?" Besides dying of headache.

  "Premature death. Very briefly: You and your three brothers, all older than you, were brought to Vigaelia as hostages. For the last fifteen years, your father has ruled his city as the bloodlord's puppet, thereby keeping war and grief away from it. Our sight cannot extend to another Face and my most recent information is about a season old. He was said to be very ill then. Celebre is becoming strategically important again, as it has not been for many years. One of his children will be returned to Florengia to take over after his death. The others will not be left alive as potential challengers. Now do you appreciate your danger?"


  "Brothers? Where? Who?"

  "We have no time for irrelevant detail. The Queen of Shadows is Stralg's regent on this Face. She will decide which one of you will live. At the moment she leans toward marrying you off to a man she can trust and sending you back with him to legitimize his rule, but she may change her mind."

  "She organized this dedication?"

  "Certainly. She terrified your father by threatening to denounce you as a Chosen of Xaran."

  Frena hung to the rotted handrail and tried fiercely to focus on the seer through the flickering green lights. Pain was wringing out her brain like a wet cloth. "Why are you telling me this? I thought Maynists were Stralg supporters and counselors. Why are you pretending to thwart his sister?"

  "Never pretending!" The seer's voice displayed some welcome human emotion at last—anger. "Fabia, Fabia! We serve the monster unwillingly, believe me, and only to fulfill an ancient compact, which most of us believe must now be discarded. Although only a minority in our cult think as our leader does, only her views count, and by accosting you I am sorely bending my vows of obedience. Do you feel well enough to proceed? Some officious priest will certainly start prying if you remain here very long."

  Frena forced herself to resume the climb, although her feet felt like boat anchors. People coming down were glancing curiously at the seer, not at her.

  "I don't think I can believe all this."

  "Try, because your life is at stake. I am a Witness of Mayn! We speak only truth."

  "Yes, Witness. I am sorry. Does my father know of this?"

  "Of course."

  "And as soon as I have made my vows, he will receive an offer for my hand?"

  "An offer he will not dare refuse."

  "Who is the lucky bridegroom?"

  "Saltaja's present choice is a son of her brother Horold, satrap of Kosord. The youth's name is Cutrath and he has just been, or is about to be, initiated as a Hero."

  A Werist? Ugh! Frena could not imagine a worse choice of husband. "My father ... Horth ... has always promised that I will not be forced to marry against my will."

  "You will be now. No one who opposes Saltaja Hragsdor ever prospers."

  "Why are you bothering to tell me if I have no choice?"