Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

It happened! His finger sprouted a walnut dagger. Exultant, he forced the other four into that imaginary furnace, and four more daggers rose from their tips. Yes ! Done it. Now he could wield the power. Faster it came, smoother, easier. He was beyond pain. He commanded his whole hand and every bone screamed.

Heth was muttering "Easy, easy!" but Orlad ignored that. This was the challenge he had wanted. The Florengian hostage would show them! Little Mudface would show them. Pain was an honor. There had been so much pain for so long that grinding a hand to paste was nothing.

"Easy, easy! That's enough for First Call."

The hand grew larger. Blood thundered in his ears; his other arm trembled as blessing spurted through it from the collar.

"That's enough!" Heth barked. "Stop! Turn back."

I will die first ... More power, more pain. And there it was! A bear's paw as huge and deadly as Heth's—talons as long or longer, furred in sable black instead of white.

He yelled in triumph and brandished it overhead as if threatening the god. A huge cheer filled the chapel.

Now for the arm ...

"Stop!" Heth roared, striking Orlad's other hand aside to break the path to his collar. Both bear paws vanished, although not without a jolt of agony that made Orlad reel. His lungs froze. There was no air. The whole world swam. As his knees buckled, many hands caught him; two men held him upright so that Heth could swing and land a killer punch on his chest. They all staggered. Then another. Firelight was sinking away into darkness. On the third punch something snapped—probably a rib—but Orlad sucked in a huge breath of air. His heart shivered and resumed its usual beat.

Then everyone was thumping his back and pumping his hand. Someone wrapped his pall loosely around him and someone else held out a slab of bloody meat. Yes ! He grabbed it like a beast and began tearing lumps out of it while the laughter and congratulations clamored. Never had anything tasted sweeter.

"All right?" growled the huntleader.

Rubbing the throbbing bruises on his chest, Orlad grinned sheepishly. "My lord is kind."

"Next time do as you're told." Heth turned away.

Orlad should feel triumphant, but fatigue was rolling over him in black waves. And he couldn't stop, couldn't just curl up and snore like Ranthr. Snerfrik was next, so Orlad must go and take his place coaching Vargin; and he must make sure that Vargin tried again tonight. Watching eleven successes should give him the faith he lacked. Maybe then Orlad would be able to sleep. For a sixday.

Long and hard was the road to finding and perfecting his true battleform. But Orlad Orladson had begun.

Part II

♦

Summer

♦

twenty-three

BENARD CELEBRE

was at home, working on the statue of holy Anziel. It was noon in summer and there were almost no spectators around to bother him. Clang! Clang !

Rumble...

Angrily Benard changed hands, placed the chisel where he wanted it, and swung again, spattering chips like hail. Clang! Clang !

Rumble...

The thunder came not from the cloudless heavens but from his belly. He had rushed out before sunrise to start work and hadn't stopped to eat.

Out of range of the flying rubble, Thod was making grrk ... grrk ... sounds as he smoothed holy Sinura's left ankle with a sandstone rasp. He was also chattering like a starling, reporting everything his mother had overheard in the bazaar the previous day.

"You shouldn't repeat that," Benard muttered absently for the sixtieth time, estimating if he dared hold the chisel there and strike like this . He visualized the heart of the stone and where it would cleave. Clang !... Good. He had cut very close to Hiddi's shin, but not too close. He stepped back to admire the play of symmetry and asymmetry, the long curve from slightly tipped shoulder to the weight-bearing foot, the symbolic hawk perched on Her wrist, bird looking up, She smiling down. He did not consciously insert such trivia; the goddess did, and he carved as She directed. Her likeness stood knee-deep in uncut marble. He was not quite certain about her feet.

"I'm done, master," Thod said. "You mark some more for me?" Then he looked beyond Benard and said, " Eek! Master! Run !"

Cutrath Horoldson was stalking across the yard toward them. Benard dropped maul and chisel, wiped his hands on his smock and waited to see if this was the end. Murder would not worry a Werist much—in Cutrath's case it would help to restore his reputation—but public disobedience of an express command would be punished severely.

He came to a halt a few feet back and glared. Thod was trying to hide behind Sinura.

"I have to pose for you, slug."

Benard shook his head. "It isn't needed, lord. I know what you look like. The statue will be you exactly, twice life-size, as your honored father decreed. You will dominate the Pantheon. The extra marble is being cut, but it can't arrive before spring." He saw some of the stress melt from Cutrath's tendons and sinews.

"I'll be gone from here two days from now."

"I know what you look like. I'll remember."

"You don't know what all of me looks like," the Werist said with menace.

Benard resisted the temptation to say he would call in Hiddi as a consultant. "My lord is a true servant of his god. I am faithful to holy Anziel. I will carve your image as perfectly as I know how. Like this." He gestured at Her statue.

Cutrath looked surprised. "That's Hiddi!"

"I saw her that night we ... we ... that night."

"That's very good," Cutrath admitted.

Benard was glad he had dropped his maul earlier, for that remark might have caused him to drop it on his toes now. "Thank you!"

"But you haven't seen all of me ."

"I'll be generous."

Cutrath thought that over, too. "Very well," he said, and turned and walked away.

Benard stooped to retrieve his tools.

Thod's worshipful grin had appeared from around Sinura's half-shaped hips. " Really generous?"

"In perfect proportion," Benard said sternly. "Anything else would not be art."

Rumble ... said his belly.

He cursed and wiped an arm over his streaming face. The sun was murderous. "Fetch me some ... No, wait. I'll get it myself. Come and round off this corner for me." He scratched an outline. "That much. And that." He handed over chisel and maul, feeling his hands quivering from the work—time for a rest. As he headed across to the well, a beaming Thod prepared to build muscles.

Four priests in variegated robes emerged from the Pantheon, causing Benard to mutter under his breath again, but they turned and went off toward the river instead of coming to badger him as he had feared. Priests were pests, always wanting to inspect and criticize and bring guests to admire. So was hunger. And sleep. Anything that came between a man and his art was a pest.

He pulled up the rope, drank about half the bucket's contents, and tipped the rest over his head. As he started back to the future Anziel, a carrying chair emerged from the nearest alley. This time he swore aloud, something anatomical about pigs.

The chair was enclosed by a canopy and gauzy curtains so he could not see the occupant, but only a woman's conveyance would be so brightly gilded and enameled. The armed guard trotting ahead of it was a Florengian, as were its bearers, two brawny, deep-chested men. The guard was younger than they, slender and nimble-looking, wearing a sword on his back. All three were well turned out, with kilts of good quality, hair and beards neatly trimmed, although at the moment they were as breathless as if they had run all the way from the Edge, dusty and streaked with sweat from their exertions. The bearers set down the chair close to the statue of Mayn.