"Rise."
Only the savagely crackling fire disturbed the silence. The drums spoke no more. Orlad stood, staring confidently, even happily, into Heth's eyes. How long he had longed for this moment!
"Who comes?"
Orlad reached for Heth's brass collar with his left hand. The metal was cool and damp. He waited, mind searching, for he must not give the next response until he was sure. Yes! Yes, there was something new in the hall—a power, a presence between him and the mosaic on the wall... or perhaps behind him. Location did not matter, there was something. Huge. Dangerous. Dark? This Bright One was bright with the brightness of blood. Amazingly in that furnace, he shivered.
But he could speak in truth: "It is my god."
Heth nodded approvingly, a smile flitting over his lips. He raised his right hand. "Do this." His face reddened. Sweat beaded on it, trickled down into his stubble beard. Changing was easy enough in battle, when a man's life was at stake and all his friends were changing also. To convert one limb in cold blood was a vastly different prospect, requiring deliberate acceptance of pain. There were tales of guides losing control and changing completely, then turning on the novices who had caused their distress.
Even the stoic hostleader could not suppress a whimper as his hand began to swell. Fascinated, Orlad watched it grow to twice its normal size, and change—black pads on the underside, white fur on the back, and five great deadly talons on the edge. The bear's paw was the simplest of all transformations.
At the same time, Orlad felt the blessing of the god flowing through the man's collar. It was like no sensation he had ever encountered before, but it was there and somehow he grabbed it. And held on. Somehow. Power like a rope of lightning danced inside him.
"Concentrate on one finger," the instructors had told them. "All you have to do is make one fingernail grow and you have made a start. Many thirties of learning lie ahead of you yet. Just one nail will do to begin."
Whatever Ranthr had achieved had satisfied Frath but had not been visible to the watchers. Orlad was a better man than Ranthr and would die to prove it if he must. One miserable nail would not satisfy him.
But it would be a start. Orlad willed one nail to grow and all that grew was pain. Angry, he tried harder and soon felt as if he had plunged his finger into molten bronze. The nail stayed just as it was. Fury came to his aid: Rage is my friend. He pushed through the pain. Pain is an honor. Better-man-better-man ... Hungrily he sucked power from Heth's collar and thrust it at his finger. Change!
Grind. Burn. Orlad staggered as the ordeal surged stronger. More rage: he concentrated on the enemy, the Florengian traitors, false Heroes who had taken the god's blessing and then betrayed their lord. They were the foe, the subhumans, the snakes who had given all Florengians a reputation for treachery. Fury filled him. A red tide swam before his eyes.
It happened! His finger sprouted a walnut dagger. Exultant, he forced the other four into that imaginary furnace, and four more daggers rose from their tips. Yes! Done it. Now he could wield the power. Faster it came, smoother, easier. He was beyond pain. He commanded his whole hand and every bone screamed.
Heth was muttering "Easy, easy!" but Orlad ignored that. This was the challenge he had wanted. The Florengian hostage would show them! Little Mudface would show them. Pain was an honor. There had been so much pain for so long that grinding a hand to paste was nothing.
"Easy, easy! That's enough for First Call."
The hand grew larger. Blood thundered in his ears; his other arm trembled as blessing spurted through it from the collar.
"That's enough!" Heth barked. "Stop! Turn back."
I will die first... More power, more pain. And there it was! A bear's paw as huge and deadly as Heth's—talons as long or longer, furred in sable black instead of white.
He yelled in triumph and brandished it overhead as if threatening the god. A huge cheer filled the chapel.
Now for the arm ...
"Stop!" Heth roared, striking Orlad's other hand aside to break the path to his collar. Both bear paws vanished, although not without a jolt of agony that made Orlad reel. His lungs froze. There was no air. The whole world swam. As his knees buckled, many hands caught him; two men held him upright so that Heth could swing and land a killer punch on his chest. They all staggered. Then another. Firelight was sinking away into darkness. On the third punch something snapped—probably a rib—but Orlad sucked in a huge breath of air. His heart shivered and resumed its usual beat.
Then everyone was thumping his back and pumping his hand. Someone wrapped his pall loosely around him and someone else held out a slab of bloody meat. Yes! He grabbed it like a beast and began tearing lumps out of it while the laughter and congratulations clamored. Never had anything tasted sweeter.
"All right?" growled the huntleader.
Rubbing the throbbing bruises on his chest, Orlad grinned sheepishly. "My lord is kind."
"Next time do as you're told." Heth turned away.
Orlad should feel triumphant, but fatigue was rolling over him in black waves. And he couldn't stop, couldn't just curl up and snore like Ranthr. Snerfrik was next, so Orlad must go and take his place coaching Vargin; and he must make sure that Vargin tried again tonight. Watching eleven successes should give him the faith he lacked. Maybe then Orlad would be able to sleep. For a sixday.
Long and hard was the road to finding and perfecting his true battleform. But Orlad Orladson had begun.
Part II
♦
Summer
♦
twenty-three
BENARD CELEBRE
was at home, working on the statue of holy Anziel. It was noon in summer and there were almost no spectators around to bother him. Clang! Clang!
Rumble...
Angrily Benard changed hands, placed the chisel where he wanted it, and swung again, spattering chips like hail. Clang! Clang!
Rumble...
The thunder came not from the cloudless heavens but from his belly. He had rushed out before sunrise to start work and hadn't stopped to eat.
Out of range of the flying rubble, Thod was making grrk... grrk... sounds as he smoothed holy Sinura's left ankle with a sandstone rasp. He was also chattering like a starling, reporting everything his mother had overheard in the bazaar the previous day.
"You shouldn't repeat that," Benard muttered absently for the sixtieth time, estimating if he dared hold the chisel there and strike like this. He visualized the heart of the stone and where it would cleave. Clang!... Good. He had cut very close to Hiddi's shin, but not too close. He stepped back to admire the play of symmetry and asymmetry, the long curve from slightly tipped shoulder to the weight-bearing foot, the symbolic hawk perched on Her wrist, bird looking up, She smiling down. He did not consciously insert such trivia; the goddess did, and he carved as She directed. Her likeness stood knee-deep in uncut marble. He was not quite certain about her feet.
"I'm done, master," Thod said. "You mark some more for me?" Then he looked beyond Benard and said, "Eek! Master! Run!"
Cutrath Horoldson was stalking across the yard toward them. Benard dropped maul and chisel, wiped his hands on his smock and waited to see if this was the end. Murder would not worry a Werist much—in Cutrath's case it would help to restore his reputation—but public disobedience of an express command would be punished severely.