Children of Chaos

moving gingerly because this was when it might collapse—take up the sash and tie it around the waist in a half- knot. That should hold everything in place. Theoretically. There remained the problem of moving at all under what felt like an ox's weight of wool. When the quartermaster had dropped the baled cloth across his eagerly outstretched arms last night, Orlad had staggered under the sheer weight of it. He had spent half the night practicing by starlight, and now the time had come for him to go forth garbed as a Werist, instead of a scabby civilian in tunic and leggings with a rope around his neck. The years of chafing were over.

To have come in first was the stuff of dreams. Gzurg would never give praise without cause, and he had praised the Nardalborg training highly. To be approved by a Hero such as the legendary Gzurg, to be trained by Heth, and to swear one's oath to the great Therek, the Vulture himself—all these were lifelong honors, humbling starts to a career. But to be first was best of all. Ten new cadets. Nine runts and one runtleader. Nine leather collars and one chain.

Gzurg had warned Orlad what was coming, but no one else had known. Everyone had been struck dumb. Later, of course, they had cheered Snerfrik! They hadn't seen that the more they rattled the rafters for the man who had come second, the more they had really been honoring First. There had been no other surprises until the end, when Waels had sneaked in under the bar as number ten. His name had been greeted mostly with puzzled silence, until someone had explained, 'Pusmouth.' Oh, yes, Pusmouth ...

Orlad inspected himself with his hands and decided the folds across his chest were rumpled. Determined not to make his first appearance as runtleader in a poorly wrapped pall, he stripped, spread the absurd garment on the floor and began folding it again for another attempt. Feet and voices went by in the corridor.

'How much authority does a runtleader really have?' he had asked Gzurg.

'As much as he can take; no more than he can hold.' The old rogue's laugh had displayed all sixty-four teeth. 'You, son, had better draw some lines in the sand very quickly and defend them to the death. Preferably someone else's death.'

Only on his fourth attempt was Orlad satisfied—and almost out of time. A Werist! A pall-draped, chain-collared Werist! Cadet Orlad, in stripes of orange (for the Vulture's host), green (for the Nardalborg Hunt), and white for cadet. After so many years of yearning and trying, he was at last dressed as he had longed to be. The white would go soon enough. He had sworn the oath; now he belonged to the god.

A pall was a very drafty garment. He felt certain it would all drop to the floor at any minute and leave him naked, but that was its purpose—Werists assuming battleform had no time to waste struggling with clothes. He felt ridiculous, but that, too, must pass in time. He was stiff and bruised from the tests, which had been even more grueling than he had expected, and badly short of sleep, but all these were part of the process. The cut on his arm where he had drawn blood for his oath was healing well. He felt great.

Runtleader Orlad stepped into his sandals, pushed aside the curtain, and strode forth. Half the curtains were still closed, and he could even hear snores from some of the stalls he passed, but most of the men billeted in this dorm were nothing to do with him. If any of his flank were late for roll call, then he would take action. He was almost at the door when a curtain slid aside and out came Pusmouth. Good timing!

Orlad stopped. 'Death to your foes, Runt Waels.'

Pusmouth nodded hastily. 'My lord is kind.'

'Not lord.' Orlad practiced a Werist frown and was pleased to see the kid flinch.

'My leader is kind.' Waels waited cautiously to hear what was wanted. No one knew much about him. He was one of a trio of probationers sent up from Tryfors to participate in the tests. He had seemed so young and unassertive that the oddsmakers had given him little chance, but last night when the other two Tryfors boys slunk out with the jeers of the entire Nardalborg Hunt howling about their ears, he had remained. His nickname came from a wine-colored birthmark covering the lower half of his face. His gossamer beard could not hide it yet and probably never would.

'Stand by that window,' Orlad said. 'Turn around. Good job. Looks perfect. Now me. Is my ass hanging out?'

Today the runts would formally pair up and from then on each man would be responsible for his buddy in a dozen ways, including inspecting the hang of his pall.

'My leader is kind. If I may ...' Pusmouth made a minute adjustment to the hang of Orlad's pall. 'I believe that is better, leader.'

'Thanks.' They fell into step along the corridor. Orlad was not one for small talk, but a leader should know his men and he had no experience of Pusmouth. 'Congratulations. Feels good, doesn't it?'

'... Very ... leader. And congratulations to you, Runtleader Orlad. If I may say, from what I saw in the tests, you amply—'

'You may not say. No sandal-licking! I don't need to be told I'm good, whether I am nor not.'

'My leader is kind.'

They left the dormitory building and walked into ankle-deep slush and a wicked wind that wanted to test their skill at tying palls. They sped up, leaning into the blast. A group from gold pack passed them, nodding and smiling to acknowledge the new runts. The first shock must be wearing off.

'So why did you hesitate when I congratulated you?'

'I do not recall hesitating, Runtleader.'

'Yes you did. You're thinking you were tacked on as a spare, weren't you? Odd man out? Tryfors trash?'

Pusmouth stared straight ahead into the wind, eyes watering, cheeks flaming almost as red as his birthmark, lips turning bluish. After a moment's thought he said, 'The idea of spare did occur to me, Runtleader. It is only a legend, I am sure.'

They were almost at the mess door.

'How often does it happen at Tryfors?'

'There have been a few cases.'