Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

Big Snerfrik was obviously unhappy about the way Ranthr and Vargin had effectively demoted him from second to fourth. He fidgeted for a few minutes while everyone ate assiduously and the rest of the hall buzzed on uncaring. Then he barked out in his gravel voice, "What happens today, leader?"

Orlad had no idea. He chewed, swallowed, and drew his first line in the sand. "First thing that happens is I assign pairings. I may as well do that now."

"But—"

"Yes?"

"Nothing ... my leader is kind." Snerfrik and Vargin exchanged glances. Perhaps Snerfrik considered himself second-best choice and expected Orlad to take him as partner. Or he might have misgivings about being honored that way. Likewise, Vargin and Ranthr had been down the road before, so either would be a good catch. Waels would be last choice, obviously, after Hrothgat, who had come in ninth.

"I warn you all now," Orlad said, "that I intend to have no failures. All members of this flank will pass or die in the attempt. The strong must help the weak, so I take Bloodmouth as my buddy. Snerfrik will take Hrothgat, Caedaw take Charnarth..." He ran through the list, dealing from top and bottom alternately until he put the middle two together. Then—"Vargin and Ranthr, you'll partner each other."

The runts' table had become a tiny oasis of silence in the hum of the hall. He abandoned the thought of another bite of apple as he realized that his challenge was going to be accepted. His whole mouth seemed to pucker, dry as salt.

"I don't want Ranthr," Vargin said. "Other runtleaders let their men choose buddies."

Vargin was always too stupid to know when he was beaten, meaning in this case demoted. He had dug his own grave.

And perfectly timed, for Huntleader Heth was striding in their direction, so the new runtleader could stand or fall right now.

"I'll give you one heartbeat to withdraw that remark, runt."

"I agreed to be Snerfrik's buddy."

The apple in Orlad's hand crumbled to paste without his willing it to. "Runt Vargin! Run and ask the harbor master how many children he has now."

"Run yourself, shit-eyes."

Perfect timing. Orlad could now pretend to notice Huntleader Heth looming behind Waels. He sprang up. "Flank, attention!"

Several stools toppled as the eleven followed his lead. Then Orlad bowed in proper Werist fashion—feet together, back horizontal, eyes staring straight down, which in this case meant with his nose almost on the table, for a count of three. This put him at a disadvantage if his leader wanted to stun him.

"At ease," Heth said. The huntleader was a respected warrior, with no known weaknesses except a humorless dislike of drunken orgies; there were also vicious rumors that he was faithful to his wife. Despite his many campaigns, the only battle hardening he displayed was a general increase in size and an abnormal thickening of his neck and shoulders, which gave him a bull-like appearance. His head was oddly cubical, but Orlad could remember noticing that as a child.

The cadets sat, all except Orlad. The huntleader eyed them thoughtfully, as if sensing something amiss.

"This morning, Runtleader, drill your men in stripping, and then rest them till evening. None of you will be getting much sleep for the next few days. Make sure they feed well now, then make them fast. Report to the shrine at sundown bell for instruction and meditation. We'll proceed toward the lifting of the first veil."

Yes ! to that, whatever it was. "My lord is kind. We are eager to begin."

"Good. Carry on ..." From the slowness with which he turned, Heth probably knew he would not get far.

"My lord!"

"Runtleader?"

"My lord, I regret to report a disciplinary problem."

The Werist scowled. His square face darkened; his massive shoulders seemed to grow even larger. "Already?"

"Yes, my lord."

"That is probably something of a record, not one to brag of."

"My lord is kind."

"What sort of problem?"

"A punishment I assigned has been refused."

"The offense?"

"Refusal to obey an order."

"What order?"

"The man refuses to accept the cadet I assigned as his buddy."

"And the punishment?"

"Harbor master, my lord."

The harbor master—whoever that notoriously fruitful man was, for Orlad had never had cause to meet him—was stationed down in Tryfors, which was supposedly three menzils away, but a menzil was a very loose measure. In good weather, a strong and superbly fit cadet like Vargin should just manage the trip between dawn and dusk, one way. Having to run there and back again was rated worse than a second-level beating, and last night's snow would certainly delay him.

"And what additional punishment have you assigned for refusing the first one?"

"I had not gotten so far, lord. Five strokes for each day or part of a day he is absent?"

Heth pursed his lips. "You will have to learn to be stricter than that, Runtleader, or they'll be taking advantage of you right and left."

Triumph ! Orlad struggled to conceal giddy relief behind a stern, warrior mien. "With respect, my lord, I do not want to cripple the man on a first offense."

"As you will." Heth shrugged. "If he persists, report him to me and we'll run him for the hunt."

An inexcusable surge of nausea almost made Orlad gag, but he managed to gulp the obligatory "My lord is kind" at Heth's departing back. Reproaching himself for unbecoming weakness, he looked down at Vargin and saw utter terror.

"You heard the first and second punishments, runt. Will you take them or go for the third?"

The delinquent lurched to his feet. "My leader is kind," he croaked. "Permission to go now?"

"Granted." But there was no point in killing the idiot. "Vargin?"

The great loon turned. "Leader?"

"Wear whatever you like. Take food and a canteen."

"My leader is kind!" Vargin sounded as if he meant that, for once. He headed for the counters to gather rations.

Orlad sat down and regarded ten appalled faces. Ranthr and Snerfrik were almost green, wondering which of them would be next. There would be no further trouble.

"Runt Ranthr, will you run through the stripping drill for us?"

"My leader is kind," Ranthr mumbled, and then parroted, " On the command ' Strip !' the warrior will drop his pall . My leader is kind. And of course: On the command ' Dress !' the warrior will don his pall, helping his buddy to do the same ."

"We'd better find a warm place to try that." Orlad tore off a crust and stuffed it into his mouth while he considered the problem. A pall could be removed with a yank at the sash's half-knot and then one hard tug. The heavy cloth would drop like a landslide. "How long does a good squad take?"

"No time at all," Ranthr said. "Instantaneous upon the command."

"So we'll do it faster!" Orlad ripped off more bread. One or two of the others had begun to eat again also. Most were still too stunned by the onset of full warrior discipline. Run him for the hunt ?

"We all belong to holy Weru now," Orlad said. "We are all going to be initiated into His mysteries. And we are going to do it in record time. Does anyone doubt that?"

There was a long pause before Waels ventured to inquire, "How much time did you have in mind, leader?"

"Before the last day of the Festival of Weru."

No one dared look at anyone.

"With utmost respect, leader, that is only half a year." As the leader's buddy, Waels was assuming the dangerous office of spokesman. "I don't think any class has ever gone from probation to initiation that fast."

"But we will. In the last ten years the last caravan has always left about a sixday after the end of the Festival. We will be ready so we can cross the Edge before winter closes the pass." Orlad glanced around the table. "Or are you cowards who want to sit around until next year before you join the bloodlord's horde and start killing Florengian oath-breakers?"