by Dave Duncan
Orlad had no reason to carry a waterlogged pall now. Pausing to shed it, he heard a low complaint, which he traced to a solitary mouflon tethered to a last, isolated tree some distance uphill to his left. If he had still doubted the eunuch's warning, that poor bleating beast would have convinced him. The herds had been removed in case they distracted the hunt, but a light snack had been left there to reward the returning victors. His murder had been carefully catered.
As he kicked off his sandals, he scanned the slope below him. The town itself was completely invisible, but he guessed that the hunt had started by now. Let the game begin!
He began to lope, angling into the wind. Up ahead a clammy breeze dragged filmy draperies of rain across the hillside. It would carry his scent back to the hunt, but even that might be turned to his advantage.
As his breathing and heartbeat increased, he summoned the power of his god and changed. Not very much yet, although enough to hurt like the rack. He stretched his legs, hardened his feet, and increased his chest capacity while trying to leave his head alone, although his thinking was bound to be cramped as his muscles became greedier for all available blood. Now he swung along with a six-foot stride on legs coated with dense black fur like moleskin. Hairiness came naturally because it gave protection, and hair color was conserved. Vigaelian warbeasts were flaxen or golden, rarely bronze, so there would be no trouble telling the players apart in this match.
The world, too, had changed—losing color, gaining relict scents of the herds that had grazed there only yesterday, of herders and their dogs. He remembered to angle upwind. His breath came in gales, his hooves beat rhythmically on the turf, and he rejoiced in his strength. Speed was exhilarating. No, he was not a victim being hunted down. He was a warrior leading his foes into a trap, and although he had no hope of dining on that victory-feast mouflon, he would make sure that some of them did not live to enjoy it either.
He must not let left flank catch him before, er... wherever it was he was going ... rocks. Rocks? Rocks all around him now. He had reached the rocks. He stopped and drove himself through the agony of retroforming, which was always worse than the original change. Rain seemed colder coursing down smooth skin.
Now he could think, while gasping for air. He was just inside the boulder field, but there was still enough grass there to make walking on human feet possible. Who was the hunter now? If he could manage to make his first few kills in silence, he might take quite a toll on the enemy. His best option was to move downwind inside the cover and hope the enemy would follow his trail, letting him catch their scent. It was a sign of his desperation that he was reduced to hoping that his opponents would be utterly stupid.
As he scrambled up on a rock to look back, something moved behind him, in the corner of his eye, something still human and vulnerable. The seer had misled him! He was up against more than just rear flank, and he had run right into a trap. Roaring fury, he flashed through a change even as he leaped, claws out and fangs bared to rip open the prey's throat.
The prey screamed something... human words ...
Orlad managed to retract his claws, but no Werist could have retroformed fast enough to complete that leap in human form. The prey went flat on his back with Orlad's fangs at his neck. Eyeball-to-eyeball... Familiar scent. Without conscious effort or awareness of pain, Orlad finished retroforming.
"Waels!"
Face white as chalk around his bloody birthmark, the victim stared up at his deadly assailant. He made a choking noise.
"That was close," Orlad said. Too appallingly close! He had very nearly torn out the throat of his ... his former classmate.
"You're safe!" Waels whispered. "Oh, Orlad! We were so worried!"
"Who's 'we'?"
"Me, then." The disfigured mouth twisted in a smile. "My lord is kind?"
"Looks like attempted rape," remarked a familiar voice above them.
Those large hairy legs belonged to Snerfrik. Orlad sprang to his feet and confirmed this. Vargin was emerging from behind a boulder. But both of them were wearing palls striped in orange, green, and red. And so was Waels. Orange for Therek's host, green for the Nardalborg Hunt, yes. But red pack? Their sashes were standard warrior brown, but the knots were at their backs, out of sight.
Waels had been assigned to blue pack, left flank; Vargin and Snerfrik to gold pack, right flank. And there stood Ranthr, who had been red pack, right flank, but his sash was tied at his back, too.
Red pack, rear flank, was to be Orlad's own, as soon as Huntleader Heth assigned him warriors. Could he trust what his eyes were telling him?
"Weru's balls!" he roared. "What are you all doing here?"
Snerfrik laughed. "We got called for first hunt, and old Heth—"
Orlad was about to do battle. "Report, warrior!"
Big Snerfrik jerked to attention. "My lord is kind. The huntleader summoned us for our first hunt, my lord, but when we mustered, he had us change palls. I mean, he reassigned us all to your flank. Temporary assignment. He ordered us to make sure our leader returned safely."
Waels clambered to his feet, moving gingerly. "He also said you might find us better game than oribis."
"And we saw a black warbeast coming," Hrothgat explained from the top of a large monolith.
Orlad hurled a fast prayer at Weru: May Your servant Heth Hethson gain glorious and immortal memory among Your Heroes!
"Well?" Waels said, rubbing his back. His eyes shone fiery bright. "Did you find any game worth our attention, my lord?"
Orlad distrusted that gleeful smile, but there were too many other things going on to worry about it now. "Did you break anything, warrior?"
"My lord is kind. A shoulder blade, three ribs, and possibly my neck."
All of which he could heal in battleform. The rest of rear pack were visible now, emerging from behind, or on top of, boulders. A leader might take some pride in the fact that they were all still paired with the buddies he had assigned them back in the spring.
"I'm being hunted. Anyone in sight yet, Hrothgat?"
"Four... no, five. Ah, seven. Warbeasts of various types, my lord. Well spread out. Coming at a slow trot. Eight."
"There should be twelve in all. They intend to kill me. Anyone want out?"
Eleven heads shook. "No," they said, or, "No, my lord." Eleven sets of teeth showed.
Oh, Weru! Last night family, and today friends. Friends? He didn't know how to deal with family and friends. All his life he'd been alone. He must find time to think about these things later.
"Then spread out." He pointed both ways along the length of the boulder train. "Take cover and wait as long as you can. When you're spotted, attack, otherwise hold off until the ruckus starts, and then join in. Any questions?"
"Prisoners?" asked Waels, always the spokesman.
"No."
All those teeth flashed again.
"My lord is kind," they said. What else could they say? Those who lived would have a memorable first hunt to relate. What a pity satrap Therek would not be able to watch!
Orlad might not die after all—might even win a victory. Dear, wonderful Huntleader Heth! But how many friends was he leading to their deaths? He shivered violently—fight now, think later.
"Rear flank—strip!"
♦
Orlad hurried downwind through the rocks with Waels at his heels. "I feel catty," he said over his shoulder, thinking of Leorth.
Waels laughed as if this was a tremendous game. "Beef for me, then. Just point where you want me." Soft-spoken Bloodmouth was ever an ocean of surprises; his amusement seemed genuine.
Orlad found a suitable monolith, climbable on one side and vertical on the other, high enough to give him a view. He raced up the slope, and by the time he reached the top he was down on all fours, grinding bones and joints, sprouting dark fur. The pain took his mind off a horrible hollow feeling in his gut. He had fought often enough, but not this sort of fight.
Extrinsics often wondered—but were rarely foolish
enough to ask—how warriors told friend from foe in battleform, when appearance was useless and speech limited at best, usually impossible. The answer was that men living together for an extended period and eating the same food acquired their own group scent. A pack knew its own and was expected to recognize the other packs in its hunt. Larger units had to resort to artificial markers—paint sometimes, but not all warbeasts could distinguish colors. Strong-smelling herbs worked better. Even so, there were many tales of friend mauling friend in the heat of battle.
With odds of twelve to one and permission to accept all necessary casualties, Flankleader Leorth must be feeling very confident as he closed in on the boulder train. He need no longer worry about driving the subject out into the open to die, because the mist had blocked the satrap's view. He could guess why Orlad had headed upwind and he was certainly not going to lead his flank into that nightmare maze and then turn downwind. With only one man opposing him, he did not start by seizing the high points, as he should have done. Indeed he almost made a game of it, spreading his men out to enter the boulder field in line abreast.
Unaware that the entire former Nardalborg runt class was in there also, every pair caught what they thought was Orlad's scent and tracked it back, straight into the labyrinth.
Shivering with bloodlust, Orlad watched from his perch as they came. He was in full cat-form now, with the addition of a pair of dagger fangs, a useful variant old Gzurg had told him about. Had he been thinking at human rate, he might have been amazed at his opponents' folly, but all he knew was that the nearest of them, slinking in on all fours practically under his aerie, was white and feline. Close to its tail lumbered a great yellow bear-thing on two legs—standard practice being to pair speed with strength. They could as easily be Leorth and Merkurtu as any others. They were heading to pass below Orlad on his left. Remembering his buddy waiting below, he forced his tail to stop twitching and point right, so that Waels could circle around that way, keeping out of sight. So far, this was just standard training.
For almost sixty heartbeats, Leorth's flank prowled through the rocks, looking for one warrior. Battle broke out everywhere simultaneously—hunter encountering quarry, quarry pouncing on hunter—just as the cat below Orlad decided to jump up on this convenient rock. Raising its tawny eyes, it saw a panther looking down. Orlad screamed to warn Waels as he sprang, but his voice was just one in the uproar. Three Tryforians broke from cover, four Nardalborgians raced out after them, and a free-for-all developed in the open.
Orlad's opponent, already rearing back to leap upward, was bowled over by the darker warbeast. Each immediately tried to disembowel the other with rear claws. Yes, the white cat was Leorth. Although he was underneath, he had a momentary advantage because he could bring his forepaws around to rip Orlad's back while his own was unreachable. He tucked in his head to try for a throat bite and Orlad drove a tusk deep into his left eye.
Even that blow would not kill a warbeast outright, but it did throw Leorth into convulsions. Freed from his grasp, Orlad was able to do a thorough job of ripping his neck open.
He rose from the bloody, twitching corpse to look for his mate, and heard the struggle before he dodged around the boulder and saw it. The bear-creature was still upright, roaring as it tried to hug Waels to death. Waels had gone badger—squat and thick and solid—and fortunately had managed to keep his front paws inside the deadly embrace; so far he was resisting the crushing pressure that would otherwise collapse him. The bear was visibly shrinking in height as it moved bulk into its arms; Waels's neck was growing steadily longer as he tried for its throat with his teeth.
Waels was in trouble, but Orlad would have helped him even if he had been winning. Claws extended, he went up the enemy's back as if it were a tree. The bear-thing screamed and dropped its victim. It reeled back in an effort to smash this new tormentor into the rock behind it. Orlad sawed at its neck with his tusks. Waels hit the ground, rolled, and then went for its groin and belly, front paws flailing in a blur of knife-sharp claws. It screamed again and crumpled in a scarlet flood. The winners savaged it until they were certain it was dead. That was all.
Silence had returned. Hero battles never lasted long.
The tang of blood in his mouth warned Orlad that he was ravenous. He needed meat, raw meat for preference. There was meat there. Forbidden meat. Must not. Bad example.
He was so overwhelmed by the excitement of the battle and the smell of blood that he needed a moment to realize that there was a blazing agony in his back and some of the blood must be his own. Fortunately, he had made his hide loose enough that Leorth's claws had slid before they could dig deep; although the gashes ran the full width of his back, they were mostly superficial.
Heal first, retroform second. He twisted around and managed to lick the lowermost cuts—which helped little with healing, but felt good. Another large and slobbery tongue joined in. Bloodmouth was an entirely appropriate name now for this gory monster with the familiar scent. He wagged his stumpy tail, but that was just Waels being consciously funny.
Orlad managed a purr.
Not just the healing. Something else wrong ... yes, a leader must not lie around letting his wounds be licked. He struggled up on all fours and headed for the King's Grass, still in battleform, spine very stiff. Waels shivered and yelped and became a man on hands and feet. He rose and came to walk alongside, chattering human noises that the Orlad beast did not understand.
Death smells led him to many-many bodies on the grass. Most were warbeasts, but a few had tried to change back as they died and those looked much worse—half-human monsters, fur alternating with livid corpse-pallor, all streaked watery crimson by the rain. Their brass collars, which had been golden bright only minutes before, were tarnished now to a dingy brown. Two-legged people were dragging out more dead.
Orlad drew a deep breath and retroformed. The world of smell and sound dimmed; vision and thought surged back. But it really hurt, and he would have to go through it again because he wasn't properly healed yet. He turned a shriek of agony into a brave attempt at a victory howl.
"All right?" he asked Waels. "Anything broken?"
His buddy was one big walking bruise, but he was grinning. "Not anymore."
Thirteen corpses. Plus the two he and Waels had killed. "Who did we lose?"
"Caedaw and Vargin," Snerfrik said glumly. He was sitting on a rock and gingerly flexing his right arm, which looked well chewed but mostly healed already.
"Ranthr, Charnarth," Hrothgat added. "My lord is kind ... one got away."
That was bad news, although the massacre could not stay secret long. "Eleven for four? This is a great victory, men!" Anything better than fifty-fifty was good in the Heroes' eyes when the initial odds had been roughly even. "We have done well, for cubs."
"My lord is kind," Waels said, staring into the fog. "You didn't see any cattle on your way up here, did you, lord? I could eat a mammoth."
"I could eat anything," Namberson muttered.
Judging by the corpses, so could some members of the flank. It happened, and a wise leader pretended not to notice unless the offense was flagrant.
Now what? The leader must decide. First the mouflon, to dull the insane craving for meat. And then, according to the rules, Orlad should report the unfortunate incident to Satrap Therek. That ought to end the matter, because self-defense was an unalienable right within the order. Resisting arrest was never a crime. But who had ambushed whom? And if Orlad Orladson expected a fair judgment from Therek Hragson, he was still as crazy as he had been yesterday at this time.
He would have to lead his troop back to Nardalborg and rely on Heth to shield the others from the satrap's wrath. He doubted very much that even Heth could shelter the hated Florengian, though. Would he let Orlad sneak away and head out over the pass ahead of Caravan Six? A solitary crossing would be quite a feat for any man, even a Hero, and he would need the proper clothes, and rations for the first leg, to get him as far as the cache at First Ice. Woul
d Heth let him attempt it? No. Orlad could not even ask him. Therek would send a seer to find out how the criminal had escaped and then loose his murderous rage on Heth.
Leadership was less easy than expected.
He must send the others back to Nardalborg while he... He what?
He needed time to think.
"I have to battleform again and heal my back. Snerfrik, you'd better come with me and finish that arm. Waels, you are in charge. Get the men dressed. There's a mouflon tethered near the road, down where the trees begin. Try not to let anyone... Listen!"
Even puny human hearing could distinguish hooves, squealing axle, and cracking whip, all coming fast. Someone was driving a team brutally up the hill. That made no sense. The survivor could not have reached the town yet. Even if he had, the response would be Werists in force, not a chariot. The fugitive might have missed a driver in the mist and failed to pass a warning, but who would be driving a chariot up a moorland road the way this one was moving? If he was only some extrinsic attending to his own business, he might go past the battlefield without noticing. If he saw the bodies and tried to go back to Tryfors, he would have to be stopped before he could raise the alarm.
Perhaps his team might be persuaded to bolt in the wrong direction? No, the chariot was already too close for Orlad to position men behind it. He realized with a shameful, un-Heroic dismay that he might have to order a murder in a couple of minutes.
A faint shadow of onagers and car congealed out of the gray murk, going by on the left, probably not close enough to see the watchers. But the sole occupant was tall as no man was tall. Therek Hragson had not wanted to be cheated out of his entertainment, an entertainment that had already cost the lives of Ranthr, Charnarth, Vargin, Caedaw, Leorth, and ten others.
"Kill him!" Orlad screamed, and battleformed.
♦
He ought to have died on the spot. Every one of his companions had sworn his oath to Therek Hragson as the light of Weru, so the satrap had claim on their loyalty before all mortals on Dodec. Orlad had not worked that out ahead of time and his warbeast couldn't. He knew nothing then but hate. Unaware even of the healing gashes in his back, he streaked.