He was closing the gap, but a middle-size rock ended the chase. Chariots were not meant to be driven like that. A wheel shattered into a cloud of fragments. The car spun full circle around its long axis, hurling the satrap out like a shot from a sling, while snapping shaft and yoke and hopelessly entangling the onagers in the traces. The axle splintered into tinder, sending the other wheel careering off down the hill. Rig and team crumpled together on the grass.
Having the choice of hitting the ground as an elderly man of fragile build or of battleforming in midair, Therek naturally chose to battleform. His pall flew free. His appearance changed little—his talons grew larger, his mouth expanded into a true hooked beak—but from that moment he was a dead man, for he could never go back. No matter; as the greatest fighter of his generation, he would acquit himself gloriously, sending his foes ahead to proclaim his arrival in the halls of Weru. This he prepared to do.
He landed nimbly enough on needle-tipped toes while Orlad ripped turf in a mad effort to change direction, find footing, and launch himself in attack. As he left the ground Therek swung on one foot and lashed out with the murderous spur on his heel. Driven by the full power of his five-foot leg, that scythe could slice a man open like a soft fruit. Alas, time takes its toll. A third his age, Orlad twisted in midair and caught the leg in his teeth as it went by him. Bones crackled like bacon rinds.
Orlad hit the ground full-length and bounced upright, spinning to face his foe. Therek fell headlong on the turf and was buried under a screaming heap of warbeasts.
♦
"I wanted him," Orlad said petulantly, scowling at the remains—which covered an impressive expanse of ground.
"Greedy!" Bloodmouth muttered. "Must learn to share."
"There's a piece for everyone," Hrothgat countered, grinning. "Er, what's the rest of the host going to say, lord?"
Ah, Weru! Left flank had come hunting in battleform, clear evidence of naked aggression, so their deaths could be forgiven, but liege lord and brother to the bloodlord was the wrong game in any man's bag. Heth could not save them now. Eight men had just become outlaws.
"My lord is hungry?"
Orlad recoiled as Snerfrik thrust a steaming mass of gory meat at him. Then he saw it had hide on one side and must be onager, not satrap, so he snatched it and began tearing it with runty human teeth, every lump sliding down his throat as purest joy. Soon all the naked, soaked men around him were doing the same, laughing and growling, rubbing gore on one another's faces in childish joy at being winners, being blooded Werists, just being alive. Their wounds were already healed to old white scars.
Their leader could not laugh. The score was twelve for four now, but the monster they had unleashed would not stop feeding soon. Even if Stralg tried to appoint a new hostleader, his decision could not arrive until spring and the matter would not wait that long. There were currently only three huntleaders in Therek's Host—Heth, Karrthin, and Fellard—and the vote would tie at one apiece. That was the Heroes' way. There would be war.
The danger was extreme. Extrinsic outlaws could be arrested, imprisoned, tried, and executed, but not Werists—what jail would hold them? Anxious to demonstrate loyalty, the three hunts would compete for the honor of running down the renegades and dismembering them.
Meanwhile seven men were waiting for their new lord to issue orders. Beyond sending them back up the hill for their palls and sandals, Orlad had not a useful idea in his head.
He had several useless ones. If Fellard and Karrthin suspected that Heth was behind the assassination and his whole hunt was lurking in ambush ... so leave the dead men's Nardalborg palls as a clue? ... perhaps so obvious a clue that the Tryfors men would suspect a trap ... the only thing that could throw warbeasts off the scent was running water...
Where to run, where to hide? Before Stralg unified the Face, dozens of cities would have been happy to hire a small band of Werists, no questions asked, but now the only independents were brigands. Must they sink to that? Orlad knew no world except Nardalborg, a staging post and stronghold. Tryfors was a trivial little town, yet last night even Tryfors had shown him how naive he was. He needed help, but no one would help an outlaw. Dantio could become Mist or Mist Dantio just by changing his clothes, but a Werist's collar was there till death. With his call to battle, Orlad had sent four friends to their deaths—he'd also accepted the other seven's loyalty, and to betray their trust would be to sin as Therek had sinned. Having no lord but Weru, he was now a hordeleader. He wanted to scream.
"Another chariot coming?" Namberson muttered. Eyes turned downwind, downhill.
Yes, coming fast, too. Please, holy Weru, no more killing today! This one was heading straight for them and no extrinsic driver could locate them in this obscuring drizzle. As it became visible, the driver veered aside to keep his onagers upwind from the blood—no passenger, just one man wearing a shabby leather cloak, whose hood framed a brown face and hid his ears. Eyes and teeth shone as he reined in, showing no fear of this mob of blood-streaked killers feasting at the scene of their crime. He did not disembark.
Orlad regarded the smile with distrust. "What do you want?"
"To help."
"Why?"
"Why?" Dantio's laugh showed amusement, not alarm. "Because I'm your brother, you big ruffian. Families stand together, don't you know that?"
The brother combinations Orlad had known at Nardalborg had taught him that a fight with one was liable to become crowded very quickly, but this was different. "You don't know me."
The bizarrely boyish face smiled in triumph. "Yes I do. I held your hands when you were learning to walk. And even if you weren't my brother, I'd want to help you for what you just did. That!" The seer pointed to the mangled remains of Satrap Therek. "Down with the House of Hrag! You just changed the world—I said you were a seasoner, didn't I?"
"What sort of help?"
"Save-your-neck help. We're all fugitives now—you and me and Fabia and Bena. We've all got to get out of here smartly."
"Can't leave my men."
"Of course not! Where are you planning to lead them? Go back to Huntleader Heth and apologize for killing his father? Oh, you didn't know that? None of you knew? Well, it's true." He laughed shrilly. "My lords, you have chosen yourself a worthy leader. I'd say so even if I weren't his brother. It only takes one snowflake to start an avalanche. I think Orlad is that snowflake and the avalanche is moving. All your lives you will boast that you fought with Orlad at King's Grass!"
Munching Werists stared back coldly at this high-pitched curiosity. If their flankleader vouched for him, fine. If he didn't, still fine. The dead could not testify.
Orlad was confused by too many unfamiliar emotions. Dantio's strangely gentle face sent disturbing signals, yet he had no choice but to trust the seer. "What are you offering?"
"The others have gone on ahead by boat. I stayed behind to enjoy the palace's reaction when Fabia's disappearance was reported... and to see how you fared, Brother." The smile returned. "A very welcome surprise! Now I'm on my way to meet them at the mouth of the Little Stony. It's not far. I expect you can run."
Waels was Tryfors-born. "Bloodmouth?"
"Easily, lord. Won't even need to battleform, unless my lord wishes it."
The seer said, "Know the reedy inlet just downstream from the ferry dock, Hero?"
Waels said, "Yes."
"I am going to meet the boat there."
Orlad looked over his horde and they were all grinning with relief. "We'll give you a fair start and try not to eat you when we catch you." He had no choice. "So we escape by boat. Where to?"
Still the Witness smiled. "I can't answer for Benard and everyone else, but Fabia and I are planning to go home. We have business to attend to."