Children of Chaos

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.

With odds of twelve to one and permission to accept all necessary casualties, Flankleader Leorth must be feeling very confident as he closed in on the boulder train. He need no longer worry about driving the subject out into the open to die, because the mist had blocked the satrap's view. He could guess why Orlad had headed upwind and he was certainly not going to lead his flank into that nightmare maze and then turn downwind. With only one man opposing him, he did not start by seizing the high points, as he should have done. Indeed he almost made a game of it, spreading his men out to enter the boulder field in line abreast.

Unaware that the entire former Nardalborg runt class was in there also, every pair caught what they thought was Orlad's scent and tracked it back, straight into the labyrinth.

Shivering with bloodlust, Orlad watched from his perch as they came. He was in full cat-form now, with the addition of a pair of dagger fangs, a useful variant old Gzurg had told him about. Had he been thinking at human rate, he might have been amazed at his opponents' folly, but all he knew was that the nearest of them, slinking in on all fours practically under his aerie, was white and feline. Close to its tail lumbered a great yellow bear-thing on two legs—standard practice being to pair speed with strength. They could as easily be Leorth and Merkurtu as any others. They were heading to pass below Orlad on his left. Remembering his buddy waiting below, he forced his tail to stop twitching and point right, so that Waels could circle around that way, keeping out of sight. So far, this was just standard training.

For almost sixty heartbeats, Leorth's flank prowled through the rocks, looking for one warrior. Battle broke out everywhere simultaneously—hunter encountering quarry, quarry pouncing on hunter—just as the cat below Orlad decided to jump up on this convenient rock. Raising its tawny eyes, it saw a panther looking down. Orlad screamed to warn Waels as he sprang, but his voice was just one in the uproar. Three Tryforians broke from cover, four Nardalborgians raced out after them, and a free-for-all developed in the open.