Children of Chaos

of the monsters were attracted to Nardalborg's females and had to be disposed of. They were slain with bronze- tipped spears, and Heth never sent less than thirty men for one mammoth. Only lunatics would try battleforming against something that size.

He said, 'A difficult decision. If you choose the bachelor, then I'll send reinforcements with you, so it won't be your own hunt, and you'll have to use weapons. Or you can wait for something better in a sixday or two.' Their pride would never let them do that. 'I will allow individual choices,' he added, glumly aware that not one of them would degrade himself by choosing the oribis. 'Flankleader Orlad?'

'Oribi, my lord.' No hesitation.

Heth discovered that he was no longer surprised at being surprised by Orlad. 'Warrior Snerfrik?'

The big man stared in bewilderment at the Florengian. He looked around the equally puzzled faces of his friends. Very hesitantly he said, 'The mammoth, my lord...?,' so his indecision turned the statement into a question.

'Warrior Vargin?'

Vargin went through the same process. All of them did, leaving the vote at eleven mammoths and one oribi. Orlad seemed quite unworried that he alone had made the coward's choice, but he understood Heth's one-word bark—

'Why?'

He jumped to attention. 'My lord is kind. Since I intend to apply for immediate transfer to Florengia I do not wish to risk an injury that might keep me from traveling on Caravan Six. My lord is kind.'

He had added twist to prod. No one ever volunteered for service in Florengia anymore. But he just had, so who was the coward now?

'That explains it,' Heth said grimly. 'Dismissed—except for you, Flankleader.'

¦

Snow swirled across the floor, smoke belched from the hearth, and then came a massive thud as the departing Werists slammed the door. While calm returned to the chapel, Heth stood staring glumly down at burning logs, ignoring the new Werist waiting at his side. He could taste vomit. For the first time since he had wrapped on his own brass—no, for the first time since Therek had tied a probationer's rope around him—Heth was tempted to disobey an order. Thump! said the shutter. Finally: 'So you want a transfer, do you?'

'My lord is kind.'

'In public, you ask.'

'My lord, with respect, I did mean to apply to my packleader tomorrow.'

Heth grunted. 'Then my fault for asking. Let's discuss it. I want you in my hunt. You are the best. Stay and you'll be a packleader inside two years.' He might advance even faster in Stralg's embattled horde if he lived long enough; promotion there was by survival more than ability. 'However, if you persist in your transfer request, I cannot refuse you after what you have achieved with the runts. You have earned the right.'

'My lord is kind!'

Heth glanced at him, wondering if he had just missed an actual smile. If so, it had been directed at the image of the god. Although the kid was staring fixedly ahead, he was certainly pleased. It was a possible solution—ship him out and put off Therek somehow until Caravan Six was out of reach.

'You do realize that the Vigaelian Werists in Florengia will see you as one of the enemy and the natives will count you traitor? Every time you go into battle you'll be attacked by the wrong side, or even both sides.'

'It is a risk I must take.'

'So you won't be put into battle. You'll be set to scouting and probably spying.'

'My lord is kind. I do not speak or understand Florengian.'

So he couldn't be a spy. And didn't care. This was like trying to talk a would-be suicide down off the battlements, which Heth had attempted several times, but never with success.

Twelve curses! 'There is another problem. A few days ago I reported to Hostleader Therek that the runts were about to be initiated. He replied that I am to send you to Tryfors right away.'

Another quick glance. The boy looked slightly puzzled, not terrified. Would he ever look terrified? And obviously he was not going to ask why.

'I don't know why,' Heth said. 'In this he was merely confirming orders he gave me in the spring, when you were sworn.'

'I am very honored that the satrap takes an interest in me, my lord.' The kid's voice was perhaps just a hairsbreadth less confident now. Suicidally stubborn but not quite stupid.

'He always has. They don't call him the Vulture for nothing. You do know that he lost three sons in the war? He blames the Florengian Werists for their deaths.'

'The oath-breakers, my lord. I, too, despise and hate them.'

Weru 's balls!

Heth wanted to scream out, He is crazy! He is my father and he is crazy! He wants to run you for the hunt! But he couldn't say that. Therek Hragson had fought all his life for his brother, for his oaths, for the cause he believed in. He'd almost died a dozen times and always refused to quit and that was why he looked like a monster now. He was Heth's father, his mentor, his liege lord, and the words could not be spoken.

If the boy couldn't sense Therek's insanity, then there was no hope for him.

'Dismissed. We'll talk again when the weather clears.'