Children of Chaos

road?'

'None that I was told of, my lord. We lost six men on the way.'

'They're dead, then. Your men can have a quick meal, and we'll give you a ride back. If you—'

'What is that shit?'

Cutrath Horoldson had not intended to speak so loudly, but the shock of seeing a Florengian dressed as a Werist was just too much for him.

The freak turned. 'Somebody say something?' He was not especially tall; he looked very solid, but much of that must be his heavy furs. His sash and stripes said he was leader of rear flank, red pack, Nardalborg Hunt, Therek's host. There was something familiar about the broad cheekbones and deep-set dark eyes, but one Florengian looked much like another to Cutrath.

Everyone waited for Huntleader Heth to prohibit the challenge. Surprisingly, he said, 'I heard something. What did you hear, Flankleader?'

'I heard somebody call me a shit, my lord.' The brownie was staring very hard at the man who had.

Packleader Jarlion's glare was almost as deadly. 'Warrior Cutrath, you said something?'

Cutrath's hide was still too tender from all the baiting to let him back down. 'I was startled, my lord. I thought for a moment we had made contact with the enemy.' That was good—no one could be punished for insulting the Florengian mutineers. He was happy to see approving grins in the background.

'You say something more?' inquired the flankleader. 'You call me a traitor?'

Cutrath shrugged. If the turd wanted a fight he could have one. 'A natural mistake.'

'Permission granted, Orlad,' Heth said. 'You'll have to strip down to what he's wearing to make a fair match of it.'

A mammoth wailed plaintively. Cutrath continued to chew his breakfast to show how confident he was, or at least wanted to seem. He couldn't swallow, though.

Predictably, the brownie folded. 'I'll settle for an apology, my lord.'

'You won't get it, dungface!' Cutrath snapped before Jarlion could issue orders. 'All Florengians are cowards.'

The spectators muttered encouragement and the whispered betting grew louder. He'd almost forgotten how good approval felt; it was like being home in Kosord.

'Well?' The huntleader looked madder than the freak did—his own fault for backing chocolate. 'You can't eat that!'

'I beg leave to postpone settlement until my return, my lord.'

Heth growled. 'Packleader Jarlion, the satrap has summoned Flankleader Orlad to attend him in Tryfors for a few days. I know that only his sense of duty deters him from demanding satisfaction now. Will you graciously grant a postponement until he returns?'

'If he ever dares,' Cutrath remarked, and basked in the approving laughter.

Jarlion was not laughing, though. His face was florid. 'My lord, the flankleader's restraint in putting duty ahead of satisfaction is commendable. I personally apologize to you now, my lord. And I swear by Weru that if Warrior Horoldson does not apologize to flankleader Orlad when he returns, it will be because I have beaten him to death. Is that acceptable?'

Cutrath's throat tightened abruptly. They wouldn't dare, would they? Only slaves got beaten. Beat a Hero? A hostleader's son? Everyone would laugh at him! He'd battleform! He'd appeal to Uncle Vulture ...

'Wait!' the Florengian snapped. 'Did you say 'Horoldson'? Is he Satrap Therek's nephew, my lord?'

'He is, Weru help us.'

'Then I withdraw my complaint. It would not be fitting for me to damage a close relative of my liege. I did not hear anything.'

'He has shit in his ears, too,' Cutrath said. He was safe now. No one was going to stand up for this worm. The laughter became a cheer as it spread through the pack. It felt nice.

'Prepare to move out, Packleader,' Heth said. 'Orlad, come with me.'

¦

Out of earshot, he spun around, looking madder than Orlad could ever recall seeing him—lips white, breathing hard. Heth never swore, normally, but now he showed that he could do so very well. At the end of his tirade he roared, 'I stood up for you and you made a fool of me. You shame the entire hunt!' Puzzled, Orlad said, 'I am truly sorry, my lord. I did not know who he was.' Did Heth think it had been easy? After what Orlad had endured over the last two seasons, Heth could not doubt his courage.

'It doesn't matter who he is, you bonehead! You should have pounded him to pulp for what he said to you.'

It would certainly have been a pleasure and probably not difficult. Anyone whose face was already so battered could not be much of a fighter. 'My lord is kind.'

'You're crazy as the Vulture himself!'

Orlad's own temper slipped. 'My lord! That is an inappropriate slur on our hostleader.'

Heth gaped. 'What did you say?'

'My lord, he is one of the greatest of all Heroes! Satrap Therek has fought for a lifetime for his brother, his oaths—'