Children of Chaos

Reluctantly, Benard decided that his small friend was right. He really ought to head back to his shed and get some sleep. Unfortunately, he reached that decision just as he turned the corner and saw her. He could never refuse beauty, and this girl was lovely. Gorgeous, breathtaking, spectacular—young and lithe, struggling in the grip of a hulking lout twice her size. The brute was behind her, clutching her to his chest with one arm and reaching inside her wrap to play with her breasts. His equally large friends stood around laughing at the sport.

Their flaxen hair and beards were cropped short to deny handholds to enemies. They wore the brass collars of Weru and the absurd garments called palls, which were merely lengths of cloth wound around their torsos and over their shoulders, leaving their limbs bare. Werists' palls were striped in colors that proclaimed the wearers' ranks and allegiances. Benard recognized only the purple of Satrap Horold Hragson, who ruled both the city and its garrison—officially for his brother, Stralg, but in reality for his sister, Saltaja Hragsdor.

Had he been granted a little longer to think—say, a pot-boiling, in his present condition—Benard might have come up with some witty or original opening remark, but instead he bawled out the first cliche that came into his head.

'Take your filthy hands off her!'

Nils disappeared like a shooting star.

Drunk or not, the three warriors surrounded Benard instantly. He realized that the one tormenting the girl was Cutrath Horoldson, and things could get no worse after that. Last sixday all Kosord had celebrated the coming-of- age and initiation of the satrap's son, because Horold Hragson had made it known that he would look with disfavor on anyone who chose not to. Apparently Cutrath and his cronies were still celebrating. Drunk or sober, they were equally dangerous.

Ever since Benard's arrival in Kosord fifteen years ago, Cutrath had been his personal plague. Although several years Benard's junior, Cutrath had been protected by his high birth and supported by a pack of eager followers, whose mission it was to make the despised Florengian hostage's life eternal torment. Only when Benard had escaped into apprenticeship and Master Odok's house had he been relatively free of his persecutor. Even then, Cutrath and his mob had known that Benard must report to the palace at least once each day, and had often lain in wait for him.

Now the little shit had become an enormous shit, initiated into the Heroes of Weru at minimum age because his father was the satrap and his uncle was Bloodlord Stralg. Now he could be a lot worse than just obnoxious. His pall was of finer weave than his companions', the shoulder straps of his scabbard were decorated with faience plaques, and he wore tooled leather ankle boots instead of regulation sandals. He clutched the woman's arm with one hand, ignoring her struggles. He was not too drunk to recognize his longtime favorite victim.

'What did you say, Florengian scum?'

Benard was sobering rapidly, if too late. Only his goddess could save him now. Alas, what could the lady of art do against the god of battle? He stole another wondering glance at the girl and hastily began the major invocation— praying in silence, of course, for pleas to one's god were part of the mysteries.... great Her majesty and in infinity the realm of Her blessing ... She is star of the horizon and fair path amid the storm ...

Aloud, he said, 'I said you've got my girl. You all right, Hilde?' He had no idea if that was her name. It was just a sweet-sounding name for a beautiful girl. Everything looked red in the predawn glare, but he, of all people, should have realized sooner that her wrap was scarlet, which meant that Nils had been right—he was about to be massacred for trying to save a harlot from a rambunctious customer. But her loveliness ought to attract the pity of holy Anziel, even if his own merit did not. He hurried through the intercession ... brandish the rainbow and shape the wind... She hears his appeal and bends Her sight as the hawk rides the morning ...

'No,' Cutrath said, 'she is not all right. She will shortly be even less right. And you shall be much worse. She is not your girl and when I have done with you, you won't have any use for a girl anyway.'

'He never did,' said one of the others, and they all guffawed.

Now open the door that thy servant configures, by the eyes of a serpent, the plumage of kingfishers ...

'On your knees, Celebrian slug.' Cutrath was almost a head taller than Benard, although no wider. His hair and downy beard were the color of campfire flames; he had been a beautiful child before his nose and ears were smashed for the sixtieth time.

'Run away, man!' the girl shouted. 'You can't help me.'

Running away from Werists was not an option. Holy Anziel had always been generous with Her aid to Benard. Could She help him, now, though? Dare he appeal to Her in such a cause, and in such a state of drunkenness? If he didn't, he was about to be mashed or diced. Forcing himself to concentrate, he planned a rogation.

'I say she's my girl,' he proclaimed aloud. 'You want to fight me for her?'

'Do we what?'

The thugs exploded in helpless mirth. They leaned against the walls or clutched one another's shoulders while their laughter echoed raucously along the alley, momentarily silencing even the crickets; but their eyes never left the prisoner and Cutrath did not release the girl. It was understood, of course, that a Hero must die rather than lose a fight, so fairness was sacrilege. Benard had automatically challenged all three of them, one at a time or all together as they chose.

'Fight me for her.' Having established a calm silence in one corner of his mind and furnished it with the images he needed, he silently sent the rogation to his goddess: thongs dangling, strips of leather rising, a dance of beauty, for this innermost prayer was written in pictures. He dared not look at the reality, but he did not need eyes to find figures in stone or see the face he would draw out from clay and glaze, and he did not need his eyes for this. Everything was shape, symmetry, pattern. Beauty.

Meanwhile he said, 'Tell your friends to stay out and I'll beat all the crap out of you, you baby barbarian. It's time somebody did. There's mush too ... I mean much. Much too mush of it in there.'

Cutrath seemed truly unable to believe his ears. 'You speak to me like that, you southern trash? Dauber! Muck-dabbling, muddy-fingered, cowardly follower of female gods—you think you can fight me?'

It was fortunate that the satrap's son always needed time to work up his fury before a fight, because Benard needed time to move and shape and pattern. He felt the blessing of his goddess fill him like a holy fire, but he must do his tampering without alerting his foe to what was happening. Nor must he provoke the warrior so far that he