Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

As his breathing and heartbeat increased, he summoned the power of his god and changed. Not very much yet, although enough to hurt like the rack. He stretched his legs, hardened his feet, and increased his chest capacity while trying to leave his head alone, although his thinking was bound to be cramped as his muscles became greedier for all available blood. Now he swung along with a six-foot stride on legs coated with dense black fur like moleskin. Hairiness came naturally because it gave protection, and hair color was conserved. Vigaelian warbeasts were flaxen or golden, rarely bronze, so there would be no trouble telling the players apart in this match.

The world, too, had changed—losing color, gaining relict scents of the herds that had grazed there only yesterday, of herders and their dogs. He remembered to angle upwind. His breath came in gales, his hooves beat rhythmically on the turf, and he rejoiced in his strength. Speed was exhilarating. No, he was not a victim being hunted down. He was a warrior leading his foes into a trap, and although he had no hope of dining on that victory-feast mouflon, he would make sure that some of them did not live to enjoy it either.

He must not let left flank catch him before, er... wherever it was he was going ... rocks. Rocks? Rocks all around him now. He had reached the rocks. He stopped and drove himself through the agony of retroforming, which was always worse than the original change. Rain seemed colder coursing down smooth skin.

Now he could think, while gasping for air. He was just inside the boulder field, but there was still enough grass there to make walking on human feet possible. Who was the hunter now? If he could manage to make his first few kills in silence, he might take quite a toll on the enemy. His best option was to move downwind inside the cover and hope the enemy would follow his trail, letting him catch their scent. It was a sign of his desperation that he was reduced to hoping that his opponents would be utterly stupid.

As he scrambled up on a rock to look back, something moved behind him, in the corner of his eye, something still human and vulnerable. The seer had misled him ! He was up against more than just rear flank, and he had run right into a trap. Roaring fury, he flashed through a change even as he leaped, claws out and fangs bared to rip open the prey's throat.

The prey screamed something... human words ...

Orlad managed to retract his claws, but no Werist could have retroformed fast enough to complete that leap in human form. The prey went flat on his back with Orlad's fangs at his neck. Eyeball-to-eyeball... Familiar scent. Without conscious effort or awareness of pain, Orlad finished retroforming.

" Waels !"

Face white as chalk around his bloody birthmark, the victim stared up at his deadly assailant. He made a choking noise.

"That was close," Orlad said. Too appallingly close! He had very nearly torn out the throat of his ... his former classmate.

"You're safe!" Waels whispered. "Oh, Orlad! We were so worried!"

"Who's 'we'?"

"Me, then." The disfigured mouth twisted in a smile. "My lord is kind?"

"Looks like attempted rape," remarked a familiar voice above them.

Those large hairy legs belonged to Snerfrik. Orlad sprang to his feet and confirmed this. Vargin was emerging from behind a boulder. But both of them were wearing palls striped in orange, green, and red. And so was Waels. Orange for Therek's host, green for the Nardalborg Hunt, yes. But red pack? Their sashes were standard warrior brown, but the knots were at their backs, out of sight.

Waels had been assigned to blue pack, left flank; Vargin and Snerfrik to gold pack, right flank. And there stood Ranthr, who had been red pack, right flank, but his sash was tied at his back, too.

Red pack, rear flank, was to be Orlad's own, as soon as Huntleader Heth assigned him warriors. Could he trust what his eyes were telling him?

"Weru's balls!" he roared. "What are you all doing here?"

Snerfrik laughed. "We got called for first hunt, and old Heth—"

Orlad was about to do battle. "Report, warrior!"

Big Snerfrik jerked to attention. "My lord is kind. The huntleader summoned us for our first hunt, my lord, but when we mustered, he had us change palls. I mean, he reassigned us all to your flank. Temporary assignment. He ordered us to make sure our leader returned safely."

Waels clambered to his feet, moving gingerly. "He also said you might find us better game than oribis."

"And we saw a black warbeast coming," Hrothgat explained from the top of a large monolith.

Orlad hurled a fast prayer at Weru: May Your servant Heth Hethson gain glorious and immortal memory among Your Heroes !

"Well?" Waels said, rubbing his back. His eyes shone fiery bright. "Did you find any game worth our attention, my lord ?"

Orlad distrusted that gleeful smile, but there were too many other things going on to worry about it now. "Did you break anything, warrior?"

"My lord is kind. A shoulder blade, three ribs, and possibly my neck."

All of which he could heal in battleform. The rest of rear pack were visible now, emerging from behind, or on top of, boulders. A leader might take some pride in the fact that they were all still paired with the buddies he had assigned them back in the spring.

"I'm being hunted. Anyone in sight yet, Hrothgat?"

"Four... no, five. Ah, seven. Warbeasts of various types, my lord. Well spread out. Coming at a slow trot. Eight."

"There should be twelve in all. They intend to kill me. Anyone want out?"

Eleven heads shook. "No," they said, or, "No, my lord." Eleven sets of teeth showed.

Oh, Weru! Last night family, and today friends. Friends ? He didn't know how to deal with family and friends. All his life he'd been alone. He must find time to think about these things later.

"Then spread out." He pointed both ways along the length of the boulder train. "Take cover and wait as long as you can. When you're spotted, attack, otherwise hold off until the ruckus starts, and then join in. Any questions?"

"Prisoners?" asked Waels, always the spokesman.

"No."

All those teeth flashed again.

"My lord is kind," they said. What else could they say? Those who lived would have a memorable first hunt to relate. What a pity satrap Therek would not be able to watch!

Orlad might not die after all—might even win a victory. Dear, wonderful Huntleader Heth! But how many friends was he leading to their deaths? He shivered violently—fight now, think later.

"Rear flank—strip!"

♦

Orlad hurried downwind through the rocks with Waels at his heels. "I feel catty," he said over his shoulder, thinking of Leorth.

Waels laughed as if this was a tremendous game. "Beef for me, then. Just point where you want me." Soft-spoken Bloodmouth was ever an ocean of surprises; his amusement seemed genuine.

Orlad found a suitable monolith, climbable on one side and vertical on the other, high enough to give him a view. He raced up the slope, and by the time he reached the top he was down on all fours, grinding bones and joints, sprouting dark fur. The pain took his mind off a horrible hollow feeling in his gut. He had fought often enough, but not this sort of fight.

Extrinsics often wondered—but were rarely foolish enough to ask—how warriors told friend from foe in battleform, when appearance was useless and speech limited at best, usually impossible. The answer was that men living together for an extended period and eating the same food acquired their own group scent. A pack knew its own and was expected to recognize the other packs in its hunt. Larger units had to resort to artificial markers—paint sometimes, but not all warbeasts could distinguish colors. Strong-smelling herbs worked better. Even so, there were many tales of friend mauling friend in the heat of battle.