Children of Chaos

Tactics?

Know your enemy.

Leorth liked being feline and feline meant ambush. Almost certainly this would be his first human kill, so he would want to do the deed himself. In order to let the satrap watch, he would have planned to set up his trap close by the trail, having spread the rest of his flank around King's Grass to make certain the victim did not escape. The wine had been poisoned so the killers would have time in the morning to take up position—nothing slowed a man like a night of vomiting and belly cramps.

But Orlad had been forewarned, thanks to brother-sister Dantio. Leorth would have to go dog, meaning running the quarry to exhaustion. It would be a straight chase, and holy Weru had sent this glorious mist and drizzle to deny Therek the pleasure of watching.

Orlad reached the last scabby trees. Boulders of all sizes lay scattered over the King's Grass, everything from nasty cobbles for breaking ankles to monoliths the size of small houses, but he recalled that there was a denser boulder field near the crest of the first rise. That would certainly have been where Leorth had planned to lie in wait, still within the satrap's view. Conversely, the pursuers must go through there, too, so it would be the best place for the quarry to make his last stand and ambush the frustrated ambushers.

Orlad had no reason to carry a waterlogged pall now. Pausing to shed it, he heard a low complaint, which he traced to a solitary mouflon tethered to a last, isolated tree some distance uphill to his left. If he had still doubted the eunuch's warning, that poor bleating beast would have convinced him. The herds had been removed in case they distracted the hunt, but a light snack had been left there to reward the returning victors. His murder had been carefully catered.

As he kicked off his sandals, he scanned the slope below him. The town itself was completely invisible, but he guessed that the hunt had started by now. Let the game begin!

He began to lope, angling into the wind. Up ahead a clammy breeze dragged filmy draperies of rain across the hillside. It would carry his scent back to the hunt, but even that might be turned to his advantage.

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!'