Children of Chaos

twenty-two

ORLAD ORLADSON

felt his teeth rattle every time the great drums spoke, their sepulchral roll reverberating through the high- corbeled chapel. Man-sized flames danced in the fire pit, illuminating rough-cast walls of boulders and giant timbers, and also the figure of the god, huge and terrible in white mosaic—certainly made of bone chips, but whether or not they were truly human bone, as the probationers were taught, was known only to Satrap Therek. Brmmm! Eleven runts knelt in a horseshoe before the great central blaze, sweating rivers in their palls. The Hero witnesses stood farther away, in comfort—tonight these were the warriors of gold pack, four dozen of them. But other initiates lurked in the shadows at the back of the chapel, and Orlad was sure those included Packleader Ruthur Landarson and probably Hostleader Heth, who kept a close watch on the cadets. Tonight was First Call, said, to be the most critical moment in the whole training program.

Brmmm! The echoes faded. Everyone in Nardalborg knew that the Heroes were meeting in conclave tonight and no extrinsic who valued his life would approach the shrine.

Runt Vargin was being examined, kneeling on the far side of the pit, with firelight shining on his naked back. Packleader Frath Thranson was examiner, standing directly under the god. He was farther from the fire, but his pall probably made him even hotter than Vargin. He held a two-handed bronze sword before him, resting on its point.

'What is life?'

Brmmm! roared the drums.

'My life is my corban!' Vargin shouted.

'Louder!'

'My life is my corban!' Vargin screamed.

He would not be warned again—he was lucky to have been warned once. There were twelve questions in the catechism. The first and last were fixed; the other ten could be asked more than once and in any order. Responses must be correct and instantaneous.

'What is victory?'

Brmmm! No eavesdroppers would hear the sacred responses over that thunder.

'Victory is my duty!'

'What is pain?'

Orlad wiped sweat from his eyes. He could not remember when he had last slept or sat down to eat. Life seemed to have been a single long torment of drill, practice, study, and exercise ever since Satrap Therek hung the chain collar on him, three sixdays ago, so that now he was simultaneously reeling from exhaustion and more keyed up than he had ever been in his life. He was runtleader and he should be out there leading, but the rules said that Vargin and Ranthr must go before him. Ranthr had sailed through the catechism and had made First Call successfully. He was now back kneeling with the rest, getting bloody from trying to grin while gnawing a meaty bone, which was the traditional award but obviously not something he craved.

Idiot Vargin was not doing as well. He was hesitating on every response, although Orlad had drilled him half the night on the catechism.

'What is blood?'

Brmmm!

'Blood is my.,. er ... blood is ...'

'Wrong!' Frath roared, raising the great sword.

At this point in the ritual, that move was merely the gesture of dismissal, but Vargin screamed in terror and hurled himself back, almost tumbling into the fire pit. By the time the sword descended on the place he had left— slowly, so as not to break the bronze—he was running full-tilt for the door, not fully upright yet, but still howling.

Orlad streaked. Two Heroes in the line of witnesses jumped aside to let him through and he caught Vargin in a flying tackle before he had pulled the heavy flap open. They crashed into the timber together, slamming it shut. Boom!

'Let me go!' Vargin howled, eyes rolling in terror. He tried to struggle free, but Orlad clung like lichen.

'You're not going anywhere! You have one more chance at First Call. You'll take it tonight and you'll pass!'

'No!' Still Vargin fought. He was larger than Orlad and slippery as an oiled eel. 'Not tonight! Next sixday!'

Orlad hooked a foot behind the madman's ankle and flipped him hard against the door again, winding him; then pinned him there. 'No! You're going up again tonight!' It was obvious that a sixday from now the man would have worried himself into complete idiocy. In the Heroes, 'last chance' meant last chance.

'Leader?' said Waels. He, Snerfrik, and Charnarth had come to help. The runts were not supposed to go running around making a scene in the middle on this most solemn occasion.

'Hang on to him,' Orlad said. 'Stay here unless they order you back to the fire, and drill him, drill him, drill him! Make him give you the answer to every question the light asks—quietly, of course. He knows it, really. He's going up again tonight and he's going to pass!' He grabbed both of Vargin's ears and pulled the bigger man's head down so he could glare right in his eyes, nose-to-nose. 'Shame me and I will rip your throat out! Understand?'

Vargin did not reply, but he looked as if he believed.

Orlad trotted back to kneel in his place. Frath had gone and two Heroes were adding logs to the fire and poking it with bronze rods to make it burn hotter. Ranthr had curled up on the floor and gone to sleep, a permissible reaction to the release of stress.