Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

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 supporter. 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.