Children of Chaos

small band of Werists, no questions asked, but now the only independents were brigands. Must they sink to that? Orlad knew no world except Nardalborg, a staging post and stronghold. Tryfors was a trivial little town, yet last night even Tryfors had shown him how naive he was. He needed help, but no one would help an outlaw. Dantio could become Mist or Mist Dantio just by changing his clothes, but a Werist's collar was there till death. With his call to battle, Orlad had sent four friends to their deaths—he'd also accepted the other seven's loyalty, and to betray their trust would be to sin as Therek had sinned. Having no lord but Weru, he was now a hordeleader. He wanted to scream.

'Another chariot coming?' Namberson muttered. Eyes turned downwind, downhill.

Yes, coming fast, too. Please, holy Weru, no more killing today! This one was heading straight for them and no extrinsic driver could locate them in this obscuring drizzle. As it became visible, the driver veered aside to keep his onagers upwind from the blood—no passenger, just one man wearing a shabby leather cloak, whose hood framed a brown face and hid his ears. Eyes and teeth shone as he reined in, showing no fear of this mob of blood-streaked killers feasting at the scene of their crime. He did not disembark.

Orlad regarded the smile with distrust. 'What do you want?'

'To help.'

'Why?'

'Why?' Dantio's laugh showed amusement, not alarm. 'Because I'm your brother, you big ruffian. Families stand together, don't you know that?'

The brother combinations Orlad had known at Nardalborg had taught him that a fight with one was liable to become crowded very quickly, but this was different. 'You don't know me.'

The bizarrely boyish face smiled in triumph. 'Yes I do. I held your hands when you were learning to walk. And even if you weren't my brother, I'd want to help you for what you just did. That!' The seer pointed to the mangled remains of Satrap Therek. 'Down with the House of Hrag! You just changed the world—I said you were a seasoner, didn't I?'

'What sort of help?'

'Save-your-neck help. We're all fugitives now—you and me and Fabia and Bena. We've all got to get out of here smartly.'

'Can't leave my men.'

'Of course not! Where are you planning to lead them? Go back to Huntleader Heth and apologize for killing his father? Oh, you didn't know that? None of you knew? Well, it's true.' He laughed shrilly. 'My lords, you have chosen yourself a worthy leader. I'd say so even if I weren't his brother. It only takes one snowflake to start an avalanche. I think Orlad is that snowflake and the avalanche is moving. All your lives you will boast that you fought with Orlad at King's Grass!'

Munching Werists stared back coldly at this high-pitched curiosity. If their flankleader vouched for him, fine. If he didn't, still fine. The dead could not testify.

Orlad was confused by too many unfamiliar emotions. Dantio's strangely gentle face sent disturbing signals, yet he had no choice but to trust the seer. 'What are you offering?'

'The others have gone on ahead by boat. I stayed behind to enjoy the palace's reaction when Fabia's disappearance was reported... and to see how you fared, Brother.' The smile returned. 'A very welcome surprise! Now I'm on my way to meet them at the mouth of the Little Stony. It's not far. I expect you can run.'

Waels was Tryfors-born. 'Bloodmouth?'

'Easily, lord. Won't even need to battleform, unless my lord wishes it.'

The seer said, 'Know the reedy inlet just downstream from the ferry dock, Hero?'

Waels said, 'Yes.'

'I am going to meet the boat there.'

Orlad looked over his horde and they were all grinning with relief. 'We'll give you a fair start and try not to eat you when we catch you.' He had no choice. 'So we escape by boat. Where to?'

Still the Witness smiled. 'I can't answer for Benard and everyone else, but Fabia and I are planning to go home. We have business to attend to.'

'Go,' Orlad said.

Dantio drove off into the mist. For a while they could hear him yodeling a joyful song. It faded into the mist and wind.

'Where's 'home,' my lord?' Narg asked around a mouthful of raw onager.

'Celebre, on the Florengian Face. Our father is a sort of king there. He's either dying or already dead.'

'Aha!' That was Waels, but others were leering also. 'And who will succeed him?'

'Dunno. Some old fogies get to choose—it could be me, or one of my brothers, or—'

Snerfrik's stentorian bellow was louder than anyone else's. 'Then we'll help them decide! Won't we, lads?'

The flank roared its approval. That enthusiastic show of loyalty gave Orlad a rush of emotion that almost choked him. Struggling not to show it, he shrugged. 'Eat up, then.'

A eunuch, a girl, an artist—and a Werist! What sort of contest was that?

May the best man win!

This story will be concluded in Mother of Lies,

in the city of Celebre.