Children of Chaos tdb-1

by Dave Duncan

  She wore a red wrap that reached from her armpits down to her thighs, just, but so flimsy that her breasts were clearly visible through it. Even in the dim light, he could see that her beauty was stunning, her proportions classical. He needed models—would it be blasphemous to use a harlot as a model for a goddess?

  "Call me Hiddi."

  "Benard Celebre," he said.

  "You are so brave!"

  So drunk, lady ... He had been crazy! "Any man would want to rescue a woman as beautiful as you."

  "To challenge Werists!" She squeezed his biceps admiringly. "So strong! A potter?"

  "An artist. Sculptor, mostly."

  "What's that?"

  "A stonemason." Near enough.

  "You don't talk like a stonemason." She was probably trying to calculate what sort of fee she could extract from him. "You talk like palace folk."

  "I was brought up in the palace."

  She laughed excitedly. "That explains it, then. Oh! You're not a slave?" Her busy hands had found the seal tied to his wrist, the mark of a reputable freeman.

  "No."

  "You look like a Florengian!" Meaning he had black hair and skin browner than any Vigaelian would achieve in the height of summer.

  "Not all Florengians are slaves. I'm a hostage."

  "What's a hostage?" Obviously Hiddi's education had been limited. Her lovely mouth produced an ugly peasant growl, fresh from the irrigation ditch.

  "Well, when I was eight years old... Oh, pig litter!" What was he wasting time on that for? "Ask me when I'm sober." He kissed her. Her lips tipped fire into him, a thrill of passion pouring downward to explode in his loins. He felt sweat break out all over his skin. He almost walked her into a wall.

  "Not far now, lover," she whispered. "Oh, I can't wait..."

  "Did Horoldson hurt you much?"

  "Him? Naw, he's one of those men who like to think they're hard and cruel. If I cry and squirm that excites them."

  "You know him well?" Benard asked glumly.

  "A few times. He thinks he's good, but he's very clumsy and obvious. Here we are!"

  They had arrived at a flight of steps, the entrance to a large building clad in painted tiles. Wall lamps cast a flickering light on a welcoming image, one Benard both knew and detested, a life-size nude combining female breasts and vulva with male beard and phallus. That was Eriander, androgynous divinity of coitus and madness, and the ugliest image Benard could imagine, an offense against all laws of beauty.

  He stopped dead. "No! I can't go in there, Hiddi!" An initiate of the Hands of Anziel could not worship Eriander in Her temple.

  Hiddi laughed as if she'd met such scruples before and knew exactly what to do about them. "Darling, you're sweating like a stallion. What's that bulge, Benard, mm?" Her wrap dropped around her ankles, leaving her wearing sandals and a quizzical expression.

  There should have been smoke rising from Benard's smock, but his thumping animal lust suddenly lost out to another form of excitement. In the soft lamplight she was as close to feminine perfection as he could recall ever seeing, a typical Vigaelian with cream-pale skin and almost invisible golden fuzz at groin and armpits; her limbs were straight and slender, belly barely curved, hips wide but well shaped, breasts high and firm. Her hair was a foam of golden curls. How much of that was real and how much illusion, a gift granted by her goddess?

  "You come along with me, Benard!" She held out a hand to lead him, and the whole world seemed to tilt toward her.

  The beer fog had lifted. He hardly heard her. "No!" he muttered. "I cannot. Not in there."

  "Is chastity your corban?" She smiled in disbelief.

  "No, but I can't... can't go in there."

  "Married? Most men can pee across that ditch."

  "Not married."

  "But you want me very much. Very much! And I want you! Don't you ever hammer on something softer than nasty old rock sometimes?"

  "Turn around."

  Amused, Hiddi undulated in a slow turn. There was not a mole or freckle on her anywhere. She was very young and quite beautiful enough to have suitors by the score. The Nymphs of Eriander claimed to be a holy mystery and were often spoken of as dangerous. Benard suspected they were merely a prostitutes' guild, with no more ability to turn men into slobbering idiots than all women had. He had never availed himself of their services—not because he feared their supposed god-given powers to enslave, but because he found other women quite alluring enough and frequently available.

  "Stand up there," he said, and Hiddi obediently went up two steps. "Don't wiggle. Put that hand on your hip, hold the other one like this. Tip your head." He gazed in rapture at the miraculous breasts, the pink softness around the nipples.

  "Benard! Most men do more than look. Much more. You're not going to kiss me again?" She fluttered kohl-darkened lashes at him.

  "No," he said hoarsely. "I must not. But listen. I am carving statues of the Bright Ones for the Pantheon. It is my first big hire, a very big one ... I needed a model for holy Anziel Herself, my lady of beauty. She sent me to you. I will use you as the model and carve a statue that looks just like you."

  Hiddi frowned, suspecting mockery. "Doing what?" She must meet many strange men in her trade, but perhaps none stranger than this.

  "Just standing. I will preserve your beauty in marble forever. Your great-grandchildren will see your likeness and marvel at how beautiful you were."

  With a sudden switch to laughter, she ran down the steps and tried to embrace him. "Do that tomorrow! Tonight is for fun!" She struggled to kiss him. "You talk pretty, Benard! Show me what you can do! I want you! I want you to enjoy me."

  He pushed her away and held her at arm's length. "Your goddess will not mind you being a model, will She?"

  Hiddi pouted. Unable to reach anything else, she began stroking his arms again, and even that sent tremors of excitement through him. "Why should He mind? He gives joy to everyone."

  "Then come and see me in daylight. I live... work... in a shed in the yard behind the Pantheon. I will make a few models. In clay. I need to see you in daylight, but mostly I work from memory." He was never going to forget her as she was now.

  "But I owe you—"

  "Nothing. Thank you, Hiddi. Now I have seen the perfect woman, which is reward enough. Twelve blessings on you."

  "You spurn me? You treat me like trash!"

  She sounded close to tears. To a careful eye, though, she did not quite look it. His resolution wavered. Then the careful eye came to his rescue.

  "No bruises! None anywhere? You're not hurt!" No red fingermarks where Cutrath had gripped her arm; no signs where she had been squeezed or pinched or slapped. "So it's true what they say? You did use a blessing on him! And on me!" He pushed her away so hard that she staggered.

  "True what who say?" She came for him again and he struck down her hands in sudden anger.

  "Everyone."

  According to the wilder legends, a Nymph could enslave a man with a single touch. Pigballs! No wonder he had been reduced to a slobbering idiot! She had used her powers on Cutrath's friends to stop them joining in the fight, so she had saved Benard more than he had saved her. She had never needed saving.

  "Goodbye, Hiddi!" He turned and ran away toward the dawn.

  two

  ORLAD ORLADSON

  was Attending the God, which was the fourth test of the second level. He stood blindfolded before the image, clasping a bronze sword in his right hand and an ax in his left. He wore nothing except the rope collar that had encircled his neck since he won probation three years ago. Hostleader Gzurg had pointed out that the candidates could reasonably beg for clothing for this test, up here in icy Nardalborg, but of course they had all spurned any such display of weakness.

  They must attend holy Weru until He dismissed them. They were not allowed to move at all, although as a special mercy, they could wriggle their toes to keep blood moving. Any candidate who dropped his sword or ax before his dismissal would be punished,
which probably meant a beating sharp enough to ruin his chances of passing the tests still to come.

  Nardalborg was an indomitable stronghold, controlling the supply lines of Bloodlord Stralg, over in Florengia. Set on bleak and rocky moors, it dominated the trail from Tryfors to the Ice, which began only five menzils away, and whose sinister glint haunted the eastern sky. Bitter winds ruled this pitiless land, driving gray showers over its treacherous bogs, its bottomless black tarns and white frothing torrents; here roamed catbears and even more savage rock boars. There was a gale blowing now, wailing in the eaves and also thumping a loose shutter: thud! thud! thud! to drive a man mad.

  Orlad could smell the bitter peaty scents; he could certainly feel the wind on his bare skin, but he could not see. The mammoths in the paddocks trumpeted sometimes. The waterfall's deep rumble was a constant in Nardalborg, but it was the accursed shutter that Orlad noticed.

  Thud! thud! thud!...

  Sixteen probationers had come into the shrine for this test—when? Yesterday? It might have been days ago; there was no way of telling except by hunger and thirst and pain. And the thumping of that damnable shutter. Sometimes the sound of rain or sleet on the roof. Strange lights moved in the darkness, and Orlad knew he was close to hallucinating. The god had been known to reject candidates in this test by driving them permanently mad.

  Naked and blindfolded, a man was defenseless, utterly vulnerable—this tested trust and courage and humility. There were watchers. No doubt Hostleader Therek Hragson came by sometimes to see how his lads were faring, but testing was done by outside examiners and the hostleader was not supposed to interfere. In practice, though, he probably made sure his favorites were not treated too harshly, because Therek was satrap of Tryfors, brother of Bloodlord Stralg, and nobody was going to argue with him.

  But this time the examiner was Hostleader Gzurg Hrothgatson, one of the finest warriors in all the Heroes of Weru. He was old now, but he had been at the bloodlord's side on the first crossing of the Edge, that magnificent epic of will and endurance when men had climbed on ladders built from the frozen bodies of their fallen—and fed on those bodies, too. Only a third of the horde had survived that journey. It made Orlad very humble to think, he might one day follow in such footsteps; he could not imagine what feats his generation could ever perform to equal those of Stralg's Heroes.

  Gzurg undoubtedly kept an eye on the candidates. Only he was allowed to speak to them. They could answer his questions, that was all. A couple of times he had barked out orders unexpectedly, but the candidates must ignore them, because they were under the command of the god alone. It was a great honor to have been trained by taskmasters as hard as Satrap Therek and Huntleader Heth Hethson; an even greater one to be tested by the magnificent Gzurg.

  Thud! thud! thud!... When this was over, Orlad was going to find that shutter and tear it to pieces with his bare hands.

  A few times he had thought he heard quiet sniggers. As a child he had been brought to watch men Attending the God, so it was only fair that others be allowed to see him and his companions standing here naked and wet-footed. Yes, they would laugh, but he would set an example for them to follow when their time came.

  He was the last now. Weru had already dismissed fifteen of the sixteen. Fifteen times the crash of ax, sword, and body falling simultaneously to the flags had announced that another had fainted. Sometimes there had been a groan or two later as the candidate recovered and dragged himself and his weapons away. In one sense Orlad had won, in that he had proved himself the strongest, but that victory was tempered by knowing that he was the oldest of the current candidates and should be able to endure more. In another sense he had lost, in that the god clearly expected more from him; he would receive no credit for his longer ordeal when the next trial began. It seemed a long time since that last crash.

  He would be worthy, though! Satrap Therek did not approve of a Florengian aspiring to join the Heroes. His attitude was understandable, because his brother the bloodlord had trained and initiated youths in Florengia itself, only to find that they no sooner won their brass collars than they broke faith and joined the cowardly guerrilla rebels. As retribution, Satrap Therek had held Orlad back until now from trying for promotion to cadet.

  Orlad was determined to pass. He had always been different, as long as he could remember, but he had never conceded that he was inferior, no matter what they did to him. He could hardly recall a day in his life when he had not had to fight someone. He had been born on the Florengian Face, but he had been only three when he came to Nardalborg and he remembered nothing of his life before that.

  Thud! thud! Pause ... thud!...

  The floor began to move; waves pounded in his head. He wriggled toes frantically until the weakness passed. He wondered if anyone ever died of thirst during this test. There were gruesome tales of men cracking their heads open when they fainted, or falling on their swords. His belly emitted a plaintive rumble.

  "Hungry?" asked a voice right behind him.

  He twitched, naturally, but he did not think that would count. He did not drop the sword or ax. His mouth was so dry he could hardly make the words.

  "My lord is kind to ask."

  "The god is testing you hard," Gzurg said. "Do you think He refuses to have a Florengian in His cult?"

  "My lord is kind."

  "Answer the question."

  "Lord, He shows favor by letting me prove my dedication."

  "Bravely rationalized," said the low voice. Gzurg had trouble speaking softly because his muzzle now resembled a crocodile's. The word passed around the candidates was that he had sixty-four teeth, and obviously some of them were as big as thumbs. Each of his thighs was as thick as a normal man's chest. Even in his human aspect he was magnificent; Orlad wished he could see him in full battleform.

  "What sort of a name is 'Orlad'? You know what it means?"

  "Lord, it means a small rodent with very sharp teeth. My lord."

  "Is it your real name?"

  "I think my original name was something hard to say, like 'Orlindio,' my lord. I have forgotten."

  "You are old to be still a probationer. Or does your coloring make you seem older?"

  "My lord is kind."

  "Your lord wants an answer."

  "I am obedient to the satrap, my lord."

  The warrior grunted. "We are all waiting for you to be dismissed so we can begin the run."

  "My lord is kind."

  Chuckle. "Nothing rattles you, does it? You have outclassed all the others so far. If you continue to perform at this standard, I shall not only award you the chain, I shall insist that you try for brass as soon as possible."

  Joy! Joy! Joy! "My lord is very kind!" The praise brought a painful lump to Orlad's throat. To prove himself! To hold up his head among the Vigaelians! To be equal!

  Thud!

  Thud!

  Thud!... Had the packleader gone?

  No. "There is one small problem," said the deadly whisper, barely louder than the wail of the wind. It was in front of him now. "You know the last test."

  "Anger, my lord."

  "Of course. We must be sure that you can feel true rage. It is by anger that the warrior calls on the god to give him his battleform. It is anger that makes him fearless in the service of his lord. Do you know why Florengians and Vigaelians hate one another so much?"

  "No, my lord."

  "Because we have been fighting for fifteen years, that's why! The longer the war lasts, the more we hate. But can a man with black hairs on his belly hate like one with gold?"

  Never a day without a fight, often two. Could Gzurg not see his scars? "I am confident, if it please my lord."

  "Mm." The warrior sounded doubtful. "And who shall I give you to demonstrate your anger? If I give you a Florengian prisoner, men may whisper that they are contemptible and easy to hate, or that they are weak and easy to hurt. If I give you a Vigaelian, they may ask if you are truly loyal, or are in fact a secret Florengian supporte
r. Mm? You see my problem? Which should it be?"

  "As it please my lord."

  "One of each, then? Can you muster enough anger for two?"

  "My lord is kind."

  "Mm," Gzurg said again, only this time it seemed a sound of approval. "And what means would you prefer? The lash? The armored glove? The club?"

  "As it please my lord." Orlad knew that this was the right answer from the sudden roaring in his ears and the tilting of the floor as the god released him. He heard his sword and ax fall, a long way away.

  three

  SALTAJA HRAGSDOR

  was known as the Queen of Shadows, among other less flattering things. Her origins were a mystery, her age unknown. She was greatly feared, for it was universally believed that she was a Chosen of Xaran and the Ancient One gave her many terrible powers. There was no doubt that anyone who opposed her usually died, one way or another. Queen of Shadows ... and shadow queen. For fifteen years she had ruled the entire Vigaelian Face as regent for her brother, Bloodlord Stralg, waiting for him to return from Florengia. For the fifteenth time spring had opened the pass and Stralg's dispatches had been rushed by relays of chariots from Tryfors to Bergashamm and then by fast ship to Skjar. Now Saltaja was forwarding his orders, maintaining the usual pretense that they came from her husband, Satrap Eide.

  She felt most at home in darkness, but many people shunned daylight in Skjar. Already the days were becoming unbearable, the air in the canyon like a huge argali-wool blanket, unbreathable and motionless, even on her favorite terrace high above the river. Her wrap of black linen clung clammily to her skin; she had thrown off her head cloth. In the room behind her, two scribes sat cross-legged on the floor under a single lamp apiece, busily poking their styli into slabs of wet clay and dribbling sweat onto the tiled floor. Heavy drapes in the doorway kept the light from reaching her.

  "Write," she said. "From Satrap Eide to Hostleader Landar, governor of Salnorn. Usual titles, usual greetings." She waited, staring out at the darkness. "Write: 'You have custody of the hostage Mardo Stighetto, from the city of Ravima.' " She sounded the outlandish names carefully. " 'Inform the—' " She prided herself on her memory, but it had been many years and there had been very many hostages. Also, she needed to calculate. About a dozen years ago; a pudgy, rather stupid child, he had been four or five...