Children of Chaos tdb-1

by Dave Duncan

  Ingeld laughed. "Praise to the appropriate god! Now help me, quickly, before... well, frankly, it doesn't matter if he does see me."

  Fabia had understood very little of that exchange, and she watched in bewilderment as Sansya helped Ingeld shed her finery. That was not an unreasonable procedure at this time of night, for wearing all that paraphernalia would exhaust anyone, but doing so in this ill-reputed pesthole gave the action a strangely furtive air. Ingeld stripped and donned a garment from Sansya's bundle, a dark robe with a hood.

  At that point, as if hearing his cue, a husky young man came running down the ramp, streaming smoke and sparks from a flaming torch. He hurled it to the weepy brick floor so he would have both arms free when Ingeld flowed into his embrace. It was a long embrace.

  A very long embrace.

  How revealing! Sansya was clearly embarrassed, fidgeting and trying not to stare, but Fabia sent a silent prayer of thanks to her divine mistress for showing her this little scandal. She wondered how long her scatterbrained brother had been cuckolding the satrap. This explained the sudden outburst of temper in Benard's yard this morning; only lovers would dare speak so bitterly. Absurd! Ingeld was old enough to be his mother.

  "By your leave, my lady?" Sansya said quickly, when the lovers broke for air.

  "Of course!" Ingeld gave her a hug. "Many thanks for your help, my dear. I leave my city in good hands."

  Benard, too, gave Sansya a hug, and she went hurrying off up the ramp. The lovers smooched all over again. Even Fabia was starting to squirm. Would she ever sink into idiocy like that over a man?

  Ingeld said, "Beloved, we must go. Guthlag has hired a boat. It's waiting at Candlemakers' Steps."

  "I heard about the boat—Ucr Blessed." Benard's low growl echoed strangely through the crypt. "A Witness who says her name is Mist is meddling in our affairs, love. She gave me some odd advice. Is 'Mist' a normal Maynist name?"

  Or was Mist a committee?

  "I don't recall ever hearing any Witness's name ..."

  Their voices died away up the ramp. Darkness returned to the shrine of Xaran, and the quiet drip continued to count off the ages.

  Was Fabia supposed to do something with this illicit information? She could slip away from the palace and find Candlemakers' Steps easily enough, but her disappearance would betray the conspiracy to Saltaja. And what would happen to Horth? No, she must continue to bide her time. The lovers had not said whether Ucr Blessed would head upstream or downstream.

  Fabia wished her brother good luck. She could not pray to Cienu to send it to him, but a word to Xaran would not be out of place—plus another for the mother Fabia had never known outside of dreams, but whose identity had just that day been confirmed for her by Benard's incredible art. Had the doge's wife ever been sent back to her childless home and husband, or had she met with a fatal accident, like her eldest son?

  Fabia went in search of the altar that would be hidden somewhere in this holy place.

  ♦

  The sky was blue by the time a sleepy and grumpy Fabia arrived at the riverbank in a palace chariot driven by a saturnine male Nastrarian who, typically, seemed to have forgotten how to speak. He could hardly plead the usual excuse of too much partying in the night, for a Nastrarian 's idea of fun was mucking out a stable. Her jailers, Cnurg and Ern, trotted behind.

  Saltaja was waiting, talking with a wolfish Werist. "This is the girl, Huntleader."

  "And twelve blessings on you, too, my lady!" Fabia said recklessly.

  The Werist was big, surly, and had a badly scarred face. He nodded to her. "Darag Kwirarlson. At your service."

  "Really at my service, or just-being-polite at my service?"

  "Just-being-polite." He did not bother smiling.

  Obviously this one was replacement for the late and un-lamented Perag Hrothgatson. The younger Werists scowling in the background included few familiar faces, and Fabia needed no divine revelation to guess that Saltaja had reshuffled her escort so that any mutinous conspiracy must sprout again from the roots. Down on the water, the riverfolk were making ready. Judging by the squealing and squabbling, many of them had been sampling the Kosordian feast.

  "I am disappointed that our host and hostess are not here to see us off," Fabia remarked airily, wondering how far away Ingeld and Benard were already, and which way they had gone.

  Saltaja regarded her with a stare that would have made a shark blink, but Fabia knew by now that this was merely low-level intimidation, not necessarily implying knowledge of guilt or even suspicion, except insofar as Saltaja was permanently suspicious of everyone. It could be ignored, that stare.

  Then, in one of the great shocks of Fabia's life, Horth Wigson strolled in from the shadows—bowing, smiling, offering greetings. He bussed his foster daughter.

  Even the Queen of Shadows was agape. "Where did you go?" she barked.

  He peered at her wonderingly. "Nowhere, my lady. I mean, I was just wandering around here in Kosord. I admit that holy Ucr is my patron god, but feasting has little appeal for a man with my fastidious digestion. I met up with various old friends instead." He beamed like some inane middle-aged child.

  As his gaze wafted past Fabia, he blinked, but his eyelids were oddly out of step, so that the blink could almost be classed as a pair of winks.

  She hugged him. "Wonderful to see you, Father!" He must have returned to the captivity of the river voyage solely for her sake, whatever he was up to. "Oh, Father, I wish you had been there! I met my brother Benard! He is a wonderful sculptor, and such a warm, loving young man! I am surprised that he did not come here to see me off, but I suppose it is festival time... I do wish I could have spent more time with him and the wonderful lady Ingeld, getting to know them..."

  She knew quite enough about Benard Celebre already. Even a Chosen could not look after her own when he was as featherbrained as that one. She had another brother waiting at Tryfors. Perhaps he would be better.

  "Go and prod those riverfolk, Huntleader," Saltaja growled. "It's time for us to leave."

  Part III

  ♦

  Fall

  ♦

  thirty-three

  HUNTLEADER HETH

  had ruled Nardalborg for many years and initiated more Heroes for his father than he could bear to think about. Wherever the sacred rituals allowed, he had devised his own ways of doing things.

  Not everything in life must be solemn ritual and blood-sweating grind. For two whole days now the runts had been allowed to rest and eat as much as they wanted—in preparation for the Fortitude Test, they had been told. Every Werist in Nardalborg was in on the leg-pull, wincing whenever the mythical ordeal was mentioned; there was much ominous shaking of heads. Some carried the warnings to absurd extremes, but the kids never caught on. After what they had been through, nothing would seem impossible. Summoned by the beat of the drums, twelve apprehensive young warriors presented themselves at the chapel door that bitter night—and gaped at the slave who opened it to admit them.

  "If my lords would be so kind..." Heth stepped aside and bowed low. "We most humbly beg your lordships' forgiveness, but we do not have enough couches in Nardalborg. Honored lords at a real banquet recline on couches, of course, but never before has Nardalborg had a full, twelve-man flank of cadets, and I cannot recall any class where every man qualified for initiation. If your lordships will forgive stools ..."

  Flames danced in the fire pit below the terrible image of the god, but on the far side of the pit stood a table set for twelve, with silver dishes, roast meats, and fresh beer. The six flunkies waiting to serve them, clad in the sackcloth smocks and leggings worn by slaves here in the uplands, were the Nardalborg Hunt's five packleaders and the huntleader himself. As the striplings stared aghast at the sight, the packleaders erupted in guffaws; then Heth began to laugh, too, and the cadets followed one by one. Relief made them howl with mirth.

  All except one. Runtleader Orlad did not laugh. The glitter in his dark eyes was anger. Just
because he did not see jokes? Or had he somehow learned of the extreme peril that now hung over him?

  Somewhere a loose shutter was banging, and Heth made a mental note to have it fixed, but the blizzard howling outside set a fitting mood for merriment safe indoors. Snow and thunder were a killer combination, a Nardalborg speciality, but he had only himself to blame. He had scheduled this ceremony and he had never known an initiation night not to be stormy. With all three mammoth trains out in a frantic dash to stockpile supplies for Caravan Six, he must just hope that the storm was only local. Half the men due to go on Six were in-house already and many more might be strung out between Tryfors and Nardalborg, camping on the moors. There was no time to lose.

  Usually Heth loved inductions, because he steadfastly believed in the Heroes. He had a set speech for inductions. There would always be wars, he would explain, so there must always be warriors. The Werists were not perfect, certainly, but at their best they let extrinsics live in peace by keeping conflicts to themselves. He personally took pride in every boy he raised to manhood in the cult, and he was especially proud tonight, he would tell them, with Nardalborg gaining a full dozen warriors who would free up a dozen others to reinforce the Fist's horde on the Florengian Face. So he would say.

  In truth he wasn't proud tonight. He was sick with shame at what was going to happen.

  ♦

  The feast went well. Humbly served by their superiors, the cadets ate well, drank even better, and became stupidly raucous. Heth delivered his speech and was cheered. An ensemble of six flankleaders dressed as women dropped in to sing very badly, play pipes and drums even worse, and dance a striptease that left them wearing nothing except their collars and a total of a dozen melons. By then the audience was helpless with drunken mirth. Except the runtleader. Orlad drank mostly water and never relaxed his vigilance, as if he knew that this nonsense must presage treachery.

  After the dancers had gone and the diners had eaten their fill, it was he who broke the spell. Watching him fidget, Heth was not surprised when the question came, but he saw with genuine admiration how the quiet words cut through the drunken gabble and stopped it. A born leader, that one.

  "My lord? What happens next? In our training, I mean?"

  "Nothing. You're done. It's over." Heth paused a moment to let the implications seep through the beer. Then he gave them another speech, and no one was drunk enough to interrupt a huntleader. "Congratulations, warriors! You know you have achieved what no men ever have. Your runtleader told me he would see you all qualified before the last caravan departed. I told him he was crazy. He has done it with days to spare and no dropouts. Yours is the honor, but you know who to thank for your success. I am going to break a host rule and promote Runt Orlad directly to flankleader."

  "Fame to Orlad!" yelled Runt Waels, leaping up, beaker in hand. Another ten took up the shout and rose also, not without staggers.

  Orlad sat and scowled, ever suspicious of mockery. In the silence while the others toasted his name—for even a Werist could not speak and suck on a straw at the same time—he said only, "So when do we get our collars, my lord?'

  "Now. They must first be dedicated. Irig, please?"

  Irig Irigson, packleader of the red, had the finest voice in the hunt. He reached into a bag he had been wearing at his hip all evening, and produced a dozen strips of shiny brass. These he took over to the god and held them high as he sang a ritual incantation. The others stood in silence until the last note reverberated away. Then he brought them over and cast them down on the table in front of Orlad.

  Heth said, "Sit."

  Eleven men hastily sat down. Runt Ranthr missed his stool and sprawled on the floor, but no one spared him a glance.

  Orlad frowned. "What is the ritual?"

  "None. You earned that collar, warrior. You won it by your own sweat and blood and no man but you has the right to hang it around your neck. The god has now blessed it. I salute you and congratulate you." Heth tried a smile, knowing it would be refused. "And I pray to holy Weru that I never meet you in battle." That was no lie. He heard quiet mutters of agreement from the other packleaders behind him.

  The boy selected a length of brass, examined it, flexed it. He hooked a finger in the chain around his neck, snapped that away, and then glanced to Heth for guidance.

  "I just bend it around?"

  "Yes. I warn you, you will feel quite a jolt." The main reason Heth preferred the cadets to be drunk and lying on couches at this point was that the shock was little short of being struck by lightning, but he had no doubts that Orlad could survive it when so many lesser warriors had.

  The others watched intently as the Florengian centered the metal at the back of his neck, then forced the two ends forward until they met. Weru, being also god of storms, honored each new Hero with a clap of thunder. The first one always seemed the loudest, and this time the bolt must have landed right outside the chapel. Stunned by the noise, several cadets tumbled off their stools. Orlad sprawled forward on the table, dislodging a cataract of dishes that fell unheard because every ear in the building was still ringing. Irig, still hovering at his back, had no need to catch him.

  Then he reeled to his feet with one great bellow of jubilation, shaking both fists at the sky. He was pale and dazed, but those midnight eyes blazed with triumph as he fingered the seamless golden band encircling his neck. Now he had the power to make that neck thicker than a bear's or slender as the Vulture's, but the collar would always fit. He would die wearing it.

  He sobered as the packleaders closed in to congratulate him. When their thumping and hugging was over, he returned Heth's handshake almost halfheartedly, as if impatient to move on to some new struggle. He did not resume his seat with the boys. Now Warrior Orlad stood with the men.

  Who was to go next? The runts waited for Orlad's orders, but he was no longer runtleader and gave none. As cautious hands reached to the heap of brass, Bloodmouth said, "Can we do it all together, my lord?"

  "If you wish."

  They all agreed to that, although probably few of them saw as he had that this would conveniently forestall argument over who got the loudest thunder. Eleven leather collars were ripped away and eleven strips of brass bent into place simultaneously. One long crashing roll from the heavens sufficed for all of them. Only Waels and Hrothgat fell backward, and they were caught by Orlad and Packleader Ruthur, respectively. The Nardalborg Hunt gained another eleven warriors.

  ♦

  They had all risen, because that was what Orlad had done. Eighteen men in that chapel at that time of year naturally gravitated into a rough circle around the fire. Thump! thump! said the shutter.

  Formalities followed. Heth told the new Heroes where they were assigned, so they knew what palls and sashes to obtain from the commissariat. He never sent new warriors straight off to the front, and they tried not to show relief when they heard that this rule still applied. He awarded them another day's rest before they must report in—nothing much would happen until the storm lifted. He told them where they would find girls waiting to help them celebrate.

  So he came to the vital last rite of passage, their first chance to try out their warbeasts in earnest.

  "As soon as the weather clears, of course, you are allowed a day to go hunting. Packleader, what did the scouts report?"

  Ruthur of gold pack was a big man with a squeaky voice and a foolish braying laugh, which he used now. "A difficult choice, my lord! First, there's two herds of oribis up on Deadcold Hill."

  Snerfrik's loud groan was followed by a chorus of boos from everyone else. Correction: from ten others. Orlad did not react. Oribis were good eating but as game for Werists they might as well be precooked.

  "Rather chase ducks," Vargin said.

  The packleader sniggered. "You want something more sporting? There's a bachelor moving in from the south."

  A quick gasp was followed by bravado cheers. Ruthur brayed again.

  "That's all?" Heth demanded angrily.

&
nbsp; "Not another mouse on the moors, my lord."

  With the rutting season fast approaching, a bachelor mammoth was an earthquake on legs. Every winter a few of the monsters were attracted to Nardalborg's females and had to be disposed of. They were slain with bronze-tipped spears, and Heth never sent less than thirty men for one mammoth. Only lunatics would try battleforming against something that size.

  He said, "A difficult decision. If you choose the bachelor, then I'll send reinforcements with you, so it won't be your own hunt, and you'll have to use weapons. Or you can wait for something better in a sixday or two." Their pride would never let them do that. "I will allow individual choices," he added, glumly aware that not one of them would degrade himself by choosing the oribis. "Flankleader Orlad?"

  "Oribi, my lord." No hesitation.

  Heth discovered that he was no longer surprised at being surprised by Orlad. "Warrior Snerfrik?"

  The big man stared in bewilderment at the Florengian. He looked around the equally puzzled faces of his friends. Very hesitantly he said, "The mammoth, my lord...?," so his indecision turned the statement into a question.

  "Warrior Vargin?"

  Vargin went through the same process. All of them did, leaving the vote at eleven mammoths and one oribi. Orlad seemed quite unworried that he alone had made the coward's choice, but he understood Heth's one-word bark—

  "Why?"

  He jumped to attention. "My lord is kind. Since I intend to apply for immediate transfer to Florengia I do not wish to risk an injury that might keep me from traveling on Caravan Six. My lord is kind."

  He had added twist to prod. No one ever volunteered for service in Florengia anymore. But he just had, so who was the coward now?

  "That explains it," Heth said grimly. "Dismissed—except for you, Flankleader."

  ♦

  Snow swirled across the floor, smoke belched from the hearth, and then came a massive thud as the departing Werists slammed the door. While calm returned to the chapel, Heth stood staring glumly down at burning logs, ignoring the new Werist waiting at his side. He could taste vomit. For the first time since he had wrapped on his own brass—no, for the first time since Therek had tied a probationer's rope around him—Heth was tempted to disobey an order. Thump! said the shutter. Finally: "So you want a transfer, do you?"