Children of Chaos tdb-1

by Dave Duncan

  Therek warbled, "I want Warrior, er..."

  "Flankleader Ern Jungrson," Saltaja said, "and Warrior Brarag Braragson."

  "I want them now!" Therek shrilled. "And the seer. If there's any delay, I'll have you all whipped again."

  The boy vanished, yelling for assistance.

  Saltaja went to Therek and gripped his face between her hands, pulling his head down to her level. She froze him, and the terror in his eyes glazed over in a trance.

  Once his mind had been as familiar to her as his face, but what she found in there now appalled her. Ruin!—like a house sliding into a swamp, an earthquake-shattered city ... walls cracked and tumbled, pillars leaning, fungoid weeds everywhere. Wrong, all of it; wrong! Indefinable things moved in the darker corners. The mangled state of Horold's wits had shocked her, but this was much worse. With shudders of distaste she began exploring and defining.

  She prodded with a mental finger at a conspicuous suppurating abscess. "Speak."

  "Oath-breakers!" he mumbled. Of course, the notorious Florengian mutineers ... The sinister dark murk must be Hrag. She touched that. "Father..." The purple color over here, she recalled, was herself, even more baleful than Hrag, shrouded in fear. The boys had all established much the same image of her, varying only in detail. The throbbing red sore she established as Orlad Celebre. She moved on to peer in the smaller interstices, the personal niches and crevices of what had once been a glittering set of wits. These three faint, flickering blotches? She triggered them one at a time and Therek spoke the names of his dead sons: "Nars ... Hrag... Stralg ..."

  No one else; no women anywhere, so far as she could see. Like Stralg, Therek had never formed attachments; would even a Nymph accept such a gargoyle now?

  All wrong, all warped. She would need at least a thirty to sort this mess into some semblance of order, and then how long would it last? She couldn't even think of starting now, not up here, so high above cold earth. She was about to withdraw when she sensed a squirm, a brief twitch of avoidance. Here? No, here? There was something big, well obscured. The fear increased, pulsing darkly. She had to pry past walls, veils, barricades ... gently, or she would break things ... "Who?"

  Therek mumbled and slobbered.

  Harder, then. "Who?"

  Emotion burned in polychrome agony: "Heth."

  That was a man's name. Karvak had been the chaser of boys, not Therek. She backed out until she was staring at the outside of his head once again, still clutching it. Drool hung from his lips. At some deep level he was struggling against the trance.

  "Tell me who Heth is!" She used Dominance.

  He moaned. "Heth ... Hethson ..."

  A bastard. So! She was annoyed that Therek had managed to keep a nephew secret from her, but it might not be too late to use him, depending on the kid's age. Shaping worked best on blood relatives. Xaran knew she was running out of those! The Heth boy could be no less promising material than Cutrath Horoldson. Tomorrow, when she got Therek down on ground level and began to work on him, she would find out who and where this by-blow was, and how old.

  "When I release you, you will forget everything that has happened since the boy left." She stepped back.

  He jumped, pouted at her, and stalked off in a sulk, no doubt wondering what had caused that dizzy spell.

  Saltaja found a stool and slumped down on it. Mother, she was tired! A day or two on the water did no harm, but that interminable voyage from Skjar had wearied her to the bone. Day in, day out, she missed the power of the cold earth. Sixty years ago she'd have thought nothing of it. She was growing old at last. Her control of events was slipping.

  She saw now, in retrospect, that she had been too greedy. Twenty years ago, the Family had controlled the entire Vigaelian Face, with only sporadic rebellion left to quash—a hegemony unheard-of in all history. She should have been content with that, but she had let Stralg convince her that the horde would turn on itself if it had no external enemies to fight. She had let him invade Florengia. He had brought it to heel so easily that he had even started dreaming of expanding to the Ashurbian Face.

  Ten years ago the Family had ruled two Faces, a sixth of the world, and Hrag's sons had bred another generation of warriors to hold the greatest inheritance Dodec had ever seen. Then Cavotti's mutiny had thrown cold reality in their faces.

  And now? ... Now she might have to abandon Florengia and bring the survivors home to pacify Vigaelia. There were so few of Hrag's line left! Saltaja did not fear the dead, the least dangerous of people. She cared nothing for wraiths or ghosts or walking corpses, even if they existed, which she sometimes doubted. Yet she suspected that Hrag might be an exception, that even the Ancient One was not strong enough to hold him. Still, sometimes, she dreamed of the old monster—laughing at her, usually, and sending evil against his own seed so that they could not keep what he had dreamed of owning. But those were only dreams.

  There was still hope. If the Celebre girl could Shape the pathetic Cutrath into a useful tool, that would help, and this Heth boy might help, too, if he was old enough.

  "What other news from Stralg?" she asked.

  Therek swung his vulture head around to peer across at her. "He never tells me much. Nothing good. Nothing good that I believe, anyway. He's talking of fortifying Celebre, using it as his base."

  Fortifying? Mother preserve! "Since when does a Werist fortify?"

  "When he's outnumbered two sixty to one!" the satrap screeched. "The brownie Werists multiply like roaches but the extrinsics are worse! Werists fortify against extrinsics. That's why I built Nardalborg, you mad old hag."

  Was Stralg failing, too, like his brothers? She could demand to have his letters read to her, but the real news was waiting for her back in Skjar, all ancient now. Winter coming, the passes closing. Perhaps the news in the spring would be a Florengian horde arriving with Stralg's head on a pole.

  Boots scuffed on the steps and Brarag burst in, sweaty and gasping from his run. He bowed low in the doorway. "My lord is kind!"

  "At ease, lad." Therek whistled a laugh as if that were funny under the circumstances. "Inform your packleader that you have been appointed attaché to my sister."

  Brarag straightened up and eyed her apprehensively. "My lady?"

  Smiling, Saltaja walked over until she was within range. He was certainly the prettiest of the troop that had accompanied her from Skjar, all young and dewy. She applied Dominance, with all the power she could muster this far above the ground: "You will guard me with your life."

  His blue-blue eyes glazed. "I will guard you with my life."

  She released him. He blinked uncertainly.

  "Er... great honor, my lady. To be your guard." He was lying as he had never lied in his life before. His lies stank up the room.

  "My pleasure. Wait for me downstairs. I'll be down shortly ... Check on Fabia Celebre for me. She's locked up. Make sure she is well secured. Tell her guards: If she escapes I'll see they hang by their balls for a thirty."

  Brarag grinned. "My lady is kind!"

  She affected surprise. "You think that's a kindness? By the Twelve, you have strange ideas of fun, Flankleader. What else do you enjoy?"

  His astonished flush glowed through his stubble as he spluttered an apology, trying to explain that he had never intended... She was amused. If she ever were tempted to try sex again, Brarag would do nicely to start with. "Be off with you!" she said, and he ran.

  Therek was plastered back against the wall like a great snake, staring at her in deathly horror. He always reacted like that when she let him watch her using power, and she always wiped his memory later, as she would do today before she left.

  "Is that what you did to us?" he croaked. "Me and the rest?"

  "No. I never did that to you, or the others."

  "You swear?" His voice quavered.

  "I swear by holy Xaran," she said, just to watch him gibber more. "It doesn't last, honestly. I reinforce it every few days and release them after a thirty or so. They co
me to no harm."

  This was true, so far as it went. Dominance was trivial compared with Shaping, but in large doses it destroyed much faster. Ern and Brarag would likely survive, whereas her maid, Guitha, was almost useless now, after less than a year. Although Perag had lasted much longer than most, he had been insane at the end. She would soon have ordered him to kill himself, had the Celebre girl not saved her the trouble.

  Saltaja shuffled back to her stool to wait for Em and the seer. Kwirarl, Kwirarl! Her baby... Tonight she would offer blood to the Old One and pray for a change of fortune.

  A Witness entered and closed the door behind her. Without proceeding any farther, or acknowledging either the satrap or his sister, she raised her distaff and began spinning. She was tall, thin, and probably young, for the long climb had not left her short of breath.

  "Ask her," Saltaja said, "where my escort went. Half the Heroes who left Kosord with me never reached Tryfors. Where are they?"

  Therek continued to cower against the wall, as if intent on staying as far from Saltaja as he physically could. "Answer, Witness."

  "They were never within my range," the seer said.

  "What is the Wisdom on them?"

  "Answer."

  "That I cannot know yet." Her spindle continued to twirl hypnotically.

  "Many sixty others bound here last year did not arrive either. Do you know where any of them went?"

  Prompted again by Therek, the seer said, "Yes. I can list them for you, but it will take a pot-boiling or so."

  Aha! Information at last! "Where are most of them?" Saltaja demanded eagerly.

  Therek bade her answer.

  "Most of them have arrived at the rebel camp near Nuthervale."

  Therek came off the wall. "Rebels!? What rebels?"

  "It is known that the rebels assembled near Nuthervale refer to themselves as the New Dawn."

  Therek strode closer to the seer—but still not near his sister. "How many? Who is their leader?"

  "It is known that he is Hordeleader Arbanerik Kranson. The latest total known to me is sixteen sixty, four dozen, and three, but that was three thirties ago."

  "Arbanerik! I know him. Lost an arm in Florengia. He came home through here a year or two ago." Therek was practically foaming. "Traitor! Oath-breaker!"

  Saltaja was calculating how fast she could get a letter to Eide, back in Skjar, and whether he could be trusted to handle the matter. Perhaps she should send Horold to help him. She would never have thought to look for the rebel nest anywhere near Nuthervale. This Arbanerik must be stamped out before he grew any stronger.

  thirty-eight

  FABIA CELEBRE

  was close to panic. Her room was not a dungeon, just the next best thing to it. The door was solid timber and she could hear the voices of guards outside when she put her ear to the keyhole. She had a dusty blanket but no sleeping platform, a water jug but no lamp, the remains of her evening meal, and a slop bucket. She cursed herself for waiting too long, for ignoring the dread reality of her position. All Horth's wealth could not help her now.

  The window was large enough to squeeze through. Granted, it looked down on a busy street, but it was little more than head high and the drop would not be impossible. The traffic would surely end after sunset. The only problem with the window was a pair of stout bronze bars set firmly in the stonework, and she had no answer to those.

  If the Old One granted her Chosen some power that let them break out of jail, Fabia did not know what it was or how to invoke it. Saltaja would know, and also know how to counter it. Ominously, this room had a timber floor, so Fabia was cut off from the cold earth, and could detect only a very faint trace of the Mother's power welling up through the stone windowsill.

  Hustling a reluctant maiden into matrimony would be child's play for Saltaja Hragsdor, who had ruled Vigaelia no-holds-barred for so long. She would force Fabia's compliance at the wedding by threatening Horth, and would no doubt dispose of him later somewhere in the Edgelands. Verk and the rest of Father's swordsmen were half a Face away and useless against Werists. The deluded Orlad was completely on Saltaja's side. Benard was either a fugitive or a corpse by now. Even if he were here and available, Master Artist Benard could never be of any practical use. The mysterious Mist had not been heard from since before Kosord. It seemed certain: two days from now, three at the outside, Fabia was going to find herself married to the despised Cutrath, whose mother, even, never praised him.

  Darkness fell. Street noise dwindled to occasional passing voices. Too frightened to undress, Fabia curled up in her blanket. Somehow she must have worried herself asleep, because she began to dream that someone was throwing rocks at the shutter. Eventually the noise irritated her so much that she woke up to complain.

  Plink!

  She scrambled loose from the blankets and almost fell headlong in her rush to reach the window. She hauled the flap open and looked down. Florengian faces did not show up well in the dark.

  "Get dressed," Benard whispered. "I'll catch you."

  She was dressed already, but she needed a moment to catch her breath. How had Benard come here, how had he found her? Could he be an illusion, a Saltaja trick? Saltaja might be watching ... Veil! Even as she fumbled to find her shoes, Fabia hastily spun a web of darkness around herself—not so much that Benard would not be able to see her, but enough to blur her to any distant watcher. She leaned out of the window. "Ready."

  Benard ignored her, staring along the street, keeping watch. She threw her shoes at him and he jumped. Then he reached up, gripped, and hauled; she slid over the sill like a fish and tumbled into his arms. He didn't even stagger.

  He hugged her and kissed her cheek. He wrapped a dark woolen cloak around her against the night chill. "Shoes ... Don't run. Walk as if you owned the place."

  As they strolled off, his arm was a bar of bronze around her, wonderfully comforting. The street was deserted under the stars. Oh, the stars! Skjar or even Kym never saw such skies.

  "You are so welcome!" she said, fighting back tears of relief. "Where have you been all my life? I'm just realizing what I missed all these years as an only child. I met Orlad! Is there any hope of rescuing Horth? Where are we going? When did you get here?"

  "Yesterday. Horth is free, the seers said."

  "But how did you know where I was?"

  "Mist told me the right window."

  "So Mist is ... Wait a minute! There were bars on that window!"

  Even sculptor muscles could never have removed those bars. Besides, the sill had been smooth, unmarred by broken stone or metal stubs.

  "There were," her brother agreed vaguely. "Ugly things! I just thought it would look more beautiful without them."

  thirty-nine

  HERO ORLAD

  dimly remembered Tryfors from his childhood. It had shrunk. His most vivid memories were the daily fights and nothing had changed there, except that now his opponents would be Werists. Nardalborg had learned not to challenge him, but this place festered with Heroes measuring him up for impairment: Brownie brother? Can't have that in the cult. They took their lead from Hostleader Therek, no doubt.

  Therek had been lying. Why would Cutrath Horoldson have left town if his betrothed was here? If Therek had known she was coming, why hadn't he kept Cutrath here, instead of just summoning Orlad?

  Heth's warning sawed away at the back of his mind: He blames you for his sons' deaths. He wants you at Tryfors so he can kill you. Not in person, obviously. Everyone knew the Vulture's battleforming days were over. But Leorth, now ... gracious, considerate, hospitable Leorth? Charming Leorth.

  Leorth found the visitor a berth in the barracks and took him along to the mess for chow—much too spicy, not as good as Nardalborg's—and there introduced him to many people, including every member of his flank. Beer and wine flowed, but Orlad drank very little but water at the best of times. Leorth and his friends knew something they weren't sharing. They persisted in addressing him as "Brother Orlad" and he would tru
st none of them as far as he could throw a mammoth. A bull mammoth.

  Leorth was what they called a preener, one who acted his warbeast all the time, as if he couldn't leave it alone. That was bad tactics, because any fool could see that Leorth would go cat, and there were ways of dealing with cats. Young Werists were versatile and should avoid settling upon a single battleform for as long as possible, Heth said, because the predictable die first.

  While the west still burned in scarlet, stars poured into the black eastern sky. Slaves hurried around the mess, lighting lamps. Orlad lingered at table with Leorth and half his flank; the others had gone on duty.

  "Eaten enough?" The flankleader stretched languidly.

  "Too much."

  "Anyone feel like tickling a little swansdown?"

  "Get in before the rush!" said big Merkurtu, who was obviously the leader's henchman and doer-of-heavy-stuff in the flank.

  Orlad had been expecting this. For years he had promised himself that he would hold back on women until he'd won his brass, and now he had done that. That same night he'd learned of his summons to Tryfors, and the fit was perfect, for here there would be anonymity and a wider choice. He had not counted on a group party for his first outing, but that would allow him to take his time and see how it was done. Tonight was going to be it! He had three copper twists on a pelf string under his pall.

  The others were engaged in a highly technical argument as to whether a man should go for Nymph first and commercial women after, or the other way around. Pros and cons were presented.

  Leorth settled it. "Sixty Ways is just down the road. We'll drop our loads there first and then travel light." The flankleader had spoken. Everyone rose. With no visible signal given, the flank closed in around Orlad as it escorted him out of the mess.

  ♦

  The room in Sixty Ways was dim, too large for its three little oil lamps, and furnished only with rugs and cushions. Leorth had negotiated hospitality for eight Werists in return for a gift of four coppers—taken from his own pelf string, much to everyone's surprise and approval. They would be of no use to him in the Edgelands, he explained, without saying where they had come from. Some men hailed and claimed old friends; the rest soon found suitable companions, and everyone settled down to cuddle.