Children of Chaos

odds very hard. The rules were traditional—you tried to pick either men you thought would make the cut, or the one who would come in first. That paid the best odds, of course, and Therek had always had a good eye for winners. This year the favorite was a promising young brute named Snerfrik, huge and vicious. Therek had even wondered if Snerfrik might be one of his, but the seers said not, and seers were never wrong. But Snerfrik was so obviously destined to be runtleader that no one would give decent odds against him, so this time the hostleader had changed his strategy, betting on those who would make the team. He did not think much of the three probationers he'd brought up with him from Tryfors—they'd have done better to wait a season for the next testing there.

Thirteen faces were well tanned and windburned, but one was even browner. The darkie hostage must be good, for Therek had found lots of eager Nardalborg metal wanting to ride on the odd man out. He'd gotten some astonishing odds from those who couldn't see that he had rigged the game before it even began.

He chuckled to himself and drank a private toast to the destruction of all Florengian vermin. Ten years or so ago it had seemed a good idea to move his collection of hostages up here to Nardalborg, where they could have no chance of running away. The Celebre kid had been by far the youngest, and there had been no children of his age to play with except sons of Werists. Having been assured that they beat the shit out of him on a daily basis, which was good for all concerned, Therek had not worried.

Until the day he'd seen a dung-faced Florengian youth stalking around in a probationer's rope collar! His immediate interview with Heth had been fiery, to say the least, but the damage had been done by then, and he could not overrule the huntleader without damaging his authority. All he'd been able to do was refuse to allow any such trash to be tested anywhere in his entire satrapy. The more Heth had insisted that the whelp was a born fighter, the more Therek had explained that you could not trust a Florengian! They were traitors, perjurers, turncoats.

Those oath-breakers had killed his other sons.

And they were cowards. Stralg had raped the entire Florengian Face as easy as reaping corn. A torrent of loot and slaves and hostages had spouted over the Edge to Nardalborg and on down the great river, enriching all Vigaelia just as the life-giving silt of the annual flood fertilized the plain. When there was no opposition left, the bloodlord had begun to withdraw, planning to replace his garrisons with locals he had trained. That had been his mistake. Every single man Stralg had initiated into the cult defected. Then they started training and initiating others like themselves. The war had flared up again, but this time with Vigaelian Werists facing Florengian Werists. Three sons of Therek Hragson had died fighting those faithless brutes. He would never trust a Florengian, never!

Nor would Gzurg Hrothgatson, for certain. Earlier in the year Gzurg had reached the end of his fighting days. It had been a close call, as he admitted, for on his last changing he had nearly failed to come back, and a man trapped in battleform would be dead in a day.

The trouble was healing. Fights, even between well-matched Werist forces, rarely lasted more than a few minutes. Good chases might take half a day, but the body could forgive even those if they were not too frequent. Sooner or later, though, a man's luck ran out and he was wounded. A Werist healed much faster in battleform—he could also recover from damage that would kill him instantly in normal shape—but the effort could be so great that the body forgot the way back. Gzurg's next change would be his last.

So Stralg had sent the old Hero home to Vigaelia to see what he could do to speed up recruiting. Having invited him to test the Nardalborg candidates, Therek had finally allowed Brownie Boy to try his luck. The dupes in the Nardalborg Hunt who had been willing to bet on him had failed to see that Gzurg, after all the years of fighting, all the bloodshed and betrayal, was far more likely to take up embroidery than ever to let one more detested Florengian Werist into the cult. Therek was going to rake in a fortune tonight. The Orlad vermin hadn't realized it, obviously, sitting there with naked treason burning in those freakish black eyes. Oh, was Baby Turncoat ever in for a disappointment! He didn't know his hostleader had seen through his duplicity and was watching him even now.

'Have y'ever counted up, broth'r,' Gzurg growled, leaning closer in a blast of sour beer fumes, 'how many men you shent to the Dark One in y'r time? Pershon'ly I mean?'

'No. Have you?'

'Till I ran out of fingers.' The hostleader brayed a drunken laugh at his absurd understatement.

' 've you ever counted up the girls you bedded?'

'No; 've you?'

'Yes.'

Gzurg's great teeth clashed shut as he hiccuped. 'Shay, wash tryin' 'member—what wash the name of that duke up near White Lake tried to argue us because he thought his shordsh-men had us shoe-rounded? You 'member?'

'Don't recall.' Therek just hoped the old lush would be able to remember the names of the candidates he had passed.

'Think't was before we shack'd Jat-Nogul.'

No, it had been the year after. 'Still don't recall.'

'Never forget it. Dozen men with swords out all aroun' him and you changed and went through 'em ina blur and cut his throat and were back out again 'fore he hit the groun'!' The drunken brute guffawed and took a long suck on his straw.

'You ready to give your speech?'

'Sure. Then we can get down to some sere-yes drinking, mm?'

Therek stood up. And up. Werists tended to start big and grow bigger. He had always been skinny and tall, and now he towered half again over any extrinsic—if he straightened up, which he preferred not to try. He spread his talons on the table, leaning forward to scan the hall. The lads called him 'the Vulture' behind his back, so his seers told him. He liked that, although 'Eagle' would have been more respectful.

Elbows rammed into ribs and silence fell quickly.

'Fifteen years ago,' Therek squealed—he had no teeth left, so his voice tended to whistle, but that was his listeners' problem. He could chew with his gums. 'Nardalborg was a traders' staging post, a collection of tents and sod huts. It was here that our dread bloodlord, my brother—'

Pause for obligatory cheering. It was here he'd said farewell to Stralg—with a silent Good riddance!—and settled down to enjoy the life of a satrap: wealth, women, and power. The hills were