Children of Chaos

'Here,' Orlad said, 'it has happened eight times in the last ten years.' Eight out of twenty cadet classes had suffered a mortality in training. Some of those might have been genuine accidents, but there was a whispered tradition that the last name on the list tended to be unlucky. 'I suspect that we may be due for a ninth, but you are in much less danger than I am.'

'You were first!' Pusmouth looked startled as he held the door for his superior to enter.

'A Florengian runtleader? You know that no Florengian has ever survived Werist training at Nardalborg?'

Waels grinned. 'Because no Florengian has dared try?'

Orlad went by without answering. He sensed no threat in this boy, perhaps even some compatibility—hideous birthmark meets skin too brown.

The mess hall was big and high, but today's wind was disposing of the smoke. Today the overlarge windows offered expansive views of the moor and a temperature close to freezing, but most of the year windows were kept shuttered in Nardalborg. Men from red pack departing the mess made some jocularly insulting remarks about the low class of vermin that were being let in these days. Orlad did not bother to smile.

Inside, most men sat on stools at long tables, eating and arguing. There must be a runts' table somewhere. There was also a cutting table, where men just stood and tore at raw flesh. That was not yet his idea of breakfast, although he knew it soon would be. He headed for a counter laden with bread, cheese, fruit, and vegetables.

Pusmouth automatically followed his leader Orlad. That was a strange concept for a lifelong outcast, that nine men were now expected to obey his orders. Expected, but not required. A warrior who spoke back to his flankleader risked death or close to it, but a cadet could appeal to higher authority. Gzurg had warned him. As much as he can take; no more than he can hold.

Even Gzurg had admitted that runtleader was a tough assignment. When a Hero was promoted, he was set over strangers. A new flankleader was moved to a new flank, packleader to a new pack, huntleader to a new hunt, and sometimes even a hostleader to a new host. But a runtleader was merely first in his class. It would be hard to promote the first-among-equals idea if the class could not see a Florengian as an equal. He had his chain collar and about a year on most of them, two years on some. That was all. The real authority belonged to Huntleader Heth, a hard, humorless man who played no favorites. Would the huntleader back him up or cut the ground out from under his sandals?

By the time Orlad had filled a basket, he had located the runts' table by locating Snerfrik. In a hall full of huge men, Snerfrik stood out. Or sat out, to be exact. He was half a head taller than almost anyone, and he lacked nothing in breadth—give him ten years as a Werist and he would be a true giant, like Satrap Therek. That was why he had been the favorite to win the leader's chain. He had certainly been the favorite in the wrestling test, but Orlad had thrown him, and that joy was a close second to coming in first.

He headed for the table, saw his approach being noticed. Would they rise for him or snub him? His dander began to bristle as he planned possible responses. No, it was too early for line-drawing. Deliberate insubordination before he had even opened his mouth would be rank mutiny.

Stools scraped back. Every man was standing at attention by the time he reached his place. But five men along each side meant twelve in all, a full flank, and Orlad realized that he had forgotten to include Vargin and Ranthr. They had been runts in the last class and for some reason had not been initiated with their peers—just how or why they had failed were secrets of the god's mysteries. They were allowed one more chance, which put them in Orlad's flank.

Years ago, these two had been his peers, but he had been held back and they had gone on. Now, suddenly, they were thrown under his authority. They would be the first to test it, he decided. They knew the ropes, so even Snerfrik would probably defer to them. Vargin was a superb fighter—as Orlad had rediscovered many times to his cost—but that was largely because he was too stupid to know when he was beaten. Recruiting officers never worried about wits. Ranthr was smarter, in a sly way, so he was the one to watch. The pressure would come from him.

Yet interlopers might not be a bad thing. Even without a word spoken, Orlad sensed the tension. The cadets had seated themselves in the order of their standings, with the end stools left for the runtleader and the possibly doomed spare. But Vargin and Ranthr had taken the places on either side of Orlad's, claiming seniority. Everyone was waiting to see what he would do.

He laid down his bowl. 'At ease. Death to all your foes, runts.'

They spoke in almost perfect unison: 'My leader is kind.'

He sat and they all did. He looked around the table without a smile.

'Last night we swore an oath. Now we belong to the god, so together we must strive to become worthy of His blessing. We owe it to holy Weru to help one another in this quest. We are brothers in this flank, even if we are not yet numbered among His Heroes. I think we risk offending our god if we come to Him in the company of a man named Pusmouth.'

All eyes turned. At the far end of the table, Waels blanched, making his birthmark flame even redder. Puzzled glances swung back to Orlad.

'A more fitting name for a Werist would be Bloodmouth. So my first decree as runtleader is that Waels will henceforth be referred to as Waels, or Bloodmouth, but nevermore as Pusmouth. Penalty is two strokes of the rod.'

Waels was grinning as if he had just survived a bad fright. 'My leader is kind,' he murmured.

'Who does the honors?' Ranthr asked.

Orlad contemplated the battlefield and saw no pitfalls yet. 'I do. You will learn that I have a strong right arm. Anyone who catches me at fault gets to return the favor.' He bit into an apple.

More grins. So far so good. The first order was acceptable and would probably stick, unless Waels made a complete idiot of himself in the next few days. Once the ox starts moving in the right direction, the next step comes easier.

Big Snerfrik was obviously unhappy about the way Ranthr and Vargin had effectively demoted him from second to fourth. He fidgeted for a few minutes while everyone ate assiduously and the rest of the hall buzzed on uncaring. Then he barked out in his gravel voice, 'What happens today, leader?'