Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

"I wouldn't know him if I saw him and I'm sure he's forgotten me." He began to move, paused. "My mother?"

"She is acting as regent for your father, they said. Oh, Benard, listen to me! They will send one of you back to succeed your father, and it looks like it must be you or Orlando. The moment Horold hears you aren't needed as a hostage anymore, you're dead. Somehow we must get you out of Kosord. I know it will be difficult—"

He swung around and came to her in two long steps. Black eyes blazed down at her with a fury she had never seen in them before. She cringed back, amazed to realize that even Benard might be dangerous.

"No it won't; it'll be impossible. Horold's warbeasts will run me down and kill me. But I'll risk it on one condition."

She shook her head: No !

"Yes!" he said. "You come with me. Just us two. You're married to nothing human, your son is grown up. We can slip away together. If I have to work as a peasant or chop wood all my days, I won't care."

She smiled despite herself. Being Benard, he might even believe what he said. "That would be nice, wouldn't it? Except for Horold's seers telling him where we are and the fact that I am a Daughter, bound to Kosord's hearth. Good idea! And if by some miracle it were possible, strangers would congratulate me on my handsome son and ask why he wasn't married."

"Wouldn't bother me."

"Yes it would. Go and visit the Nymphs, and then you'll see things more clearly for a day or so."

Strangely, he flushed. "No I won't."

She shook her head. "It's a wonderful dream, but it's futile and dangerous even to discuss."

"I'll bring the chariot to the steps at dawn."

"I'll send a girl of about your age. Be careful, Benard!"

He shook his head and was gone.

Ingeld went after him to bolt the gate. On the way back, she stopped to watch the fish, which often helped her find calm.

She needed to scream.

That stupid ox of a boy! How could anyone so observant be so blind? He paved streets with broken hearts and did not realize. His work made every other artist in the city weep tears of envy, but he gave it away without a thought. He walked through walls while dreaming of clouds. He flatly refused to admit the frightful danger hanging over him. Why, suddenly, was he so important to Kosord? A baby, a ship, a letter, and Benard. Why Benard?

Her husband and her son were undoubtedly planning to kill the man she loved. Cutrath had always known that she loved Benard more than him. Poor Cutrath! He had never been able to match the twins in his father's eyes or the hostage in his mother's.

The golden fish did nothing to help, and when she stepped back over the threshold, she saw a plank leaning against the wall. That was the drawing that had caused all the trouble, the face of the man she had married. Why had Horold ordered that sent to her? Her temper flashed out in a curse. The wood exploded in a blaze of sparks and billowing smoke, leaving only drifting flakes of white ash and a black smoke stain on Cutrath's image in the mural above.

ten

THEREK HRAGSON,

brother of the bloodlord and satrap of Tryfors, was the light of Weru on Nardalborg—when he was there, which was not often enough. The rest of the time Huntleader Heth did what was required and did it very well, but Therek still took every excuse he could find to come up to the moors and spend a day or two there, where life was simpler. The swearing in of a new class of cadets was ample reason.

This was supposedly spring, yet a blizzard howled around the walls. Summer on these desolate fells could be missed with a sneeze, and fall was a myth when there were no trees to drop leaves. The snow would soon melt, of course, adding more mud to the tracks, but up in the high country, edgeward, some of it might hang on. That was bad, because this year's crop of Werists was on its way. The first of them had been trickling into Tryfors when he left.

Heth had not long ago sent last year's leftovers on in the first caravan of the year; he would need at least four more runs to move the new crop over the Edge before winter, and anything that slowed down the first three would make the last one dangerously late. Worse, Therek had a strong hunch that his darling Baby Brother Stralg was shortly going to demand a sixth. Call it warrior's intuition; he would bet half his battle honors on it. Every caravan depended on caches of food and fuel stocked by at least three pack trains. Late departures tempted the gods; Heth might lose a train up there, and he could not spare the mammoths, let alone the men. And Stralg was screaming for every additional Hero he could get.

The great hall was battened tight against the storm, lit by sputtering, stinking torches. Flames danced, shutters rattled, and Florengian slaves rushed back and forth with jars of beer. The assembly had just finished eating, not yet finished drinking, and was about ready to start fighting. Therek looked out over tables flanked by big men in striped palls, a wild, all-male scene, noisy and fiery, implying danger lurking. Most assemblies of Werists ended in ructions, but that was just man play—unauthorized battleforming was savagely punished and hence rare.

Good to see so many. He kept the Nardalborg Hunt at full strength, around four sixty, but the rest of his host had been bled dry to keep Stralg supplied. Tryfors Hunt was back up to about three sixty, but the Fist's Own was down to two. Cullavi Hunt and the Fiends existed only on baked clay. He kept shifting packs from town to town, changing their stripes so that no one would realize how few men he really had. All the governors in his satrapy claimed to be in even worse shape, but they would naturally say that.

Only here could Therek imagine he was back in his campaigning days, those long summers in the field with Stralg and his other brothers and a few old trusties like Gzurg Hrothgatson, who was sitting beside him now. They'd begun two dozen years ago, disciplining heretic Werists who would not submit to the new bloodlord, and that had been a raw job; it had turned to sport later, when they were establishing Stralg's hold over the cities and mainly fighting extrinsics. Most of those old comrades were gone to the Dark One now, and those that were left were showing their years. Like Gzurg and his crocodile teeth.

Or Therek himself. Even an extrinsic was old at fifty-three, and very few Werists lasted so long, so he was lucky to have so few infirmities. The faces near him were all blurs, but he could count the cavities in the teeth of tonight's candidates because they were sitting at the far end of the hall. He scanned those fourteen eager young faces, wondering how many Gzurg had passed, and which. Old or not, the Toothed One still had his training skills, and he had driven those boys through fire and ice for the last few days. It was amazing that only two had dropped out. Both were expected to recover.

How many and which? All warriors enjoyed gambling, especially with subordinates who dared not argue the odds very hard. The rules were traditional—you tried to pick either men you thought would make the cut, or the one who would come in first. That paid the best odds, of course, and Therek had always had a good eye for winners. This year the favorite was a promising young brute named Snerfrik, huge and vicious. Therek had even wondered if Snerfrik might be one of his, but the seers said not, and seers were never wrong. But Snerfrik was so obviously destined to be runtleader that no one would give decent odds against him, so this time the hostleader had changed his strategy, betting on those who would make the team. He did not think much of the three probationers he'd brought up with him from Tryfors—they'd have done better to wait a season for the next testing there.