Read Online The Warlock of Rhada by Robert Cham Gilman - Free Book Online

muttered.
    A voice called out. “It was not enough. “
    Shevil felt the beginnings of a cold, very personal dread. The traditional sacrifice to the Adversaries was animal blood. But it had not always been so. In the darkest age of the Dark Time, Sin and Cyb had required richer drink and all the folks knew it, as did Shevil Lar.
    “It was not enough!” the same voice came again. And this time there were others acquiescing, urging. Shevil shivered and thought: Little wonder the Suns fell. Men and women are abominations....
    “The Warlock demands more, Shevil!”
    Shevil stood frozen, knowing now what the folk demanded of him. Had it always been so in the past, he wondered? Was the price of hetmanship so high? There were legends, some so ancient they were legends in the Golden Age, of leaders made to sacrifice of their own blood to propitiate the wind or the soil or the sky. Shevil’s mother had told him the timeless tale of Great Agamemnon, a warleader whose fleet of starships would not rise from the sea, held there by Sin and Cyb, until he gave them to drink of his daughter Iphigenia’s blood. Shevil shuddered, remembering how that Star King was struck down by the Star in the person of an adulterous wife. ... He closed his eyes and wished with all his heart that he could pray to the Star now, that he had not damned himself by his devil-worship, that he could take Shana by the hand and run from this place.
    He heard a woman’s voice screaming from below. “Tamil! The Warlock wants her blood! Take her, Tamil!” The voice was Arietee’s, Shevil thought with dismay. He held Shana’s shoulders in a viselike grip, remembering his silver-eyed Shevaughn, who had warned him that the folk hated what was strange and would turn on him if he refused to believe it.
    “Father--?” Shana said.
    Shevil Lar shook his head sharply. “Pay them no mind, daughter. It’s madness.”
    “Tamil! Shana!”
    Others below were taking up the cry, calling for deeper sacrifice from their hetman. “Give him Shana!”
    Quarlo the miller and Tamil stared at one another uneasily, then at Shevil Lar and his daughter.
    Shevil raised the knife-that-burns and said, “Don’t even think it. Stay where you are.”
    “But, Shevil,” the miller said reasonably, “if the Warlock does not come, we are dead men. All of us.”
    Tamil looked at Shana and licked his lips. Shevil could see the strange conflict on his face.
    “If you take a step toward her, I swear I’ll kill you both,” Shevil said.
    From below the cries rose up, fearful, lustful, furious at this check. “Shana! Let it be Shana!”
    Quarlo leaned. Shevil glanced quickly from him back to Tamil. The young man had decided. The decision was on his face, in his eyes. He moved, and Shevil swung Shana behind him and crouched, knife held sword-fashion, low, pointed at Tamil’s belly. The others backed away, all but Quarlo, who had his own knife bared.
    The miller began to circle, to take Shevil from the flank, but the moraine was narrow here and the light uncertain. Shevil felt the fury building in him. These would take his daughter from him, spill her blood in sacrifice--and for what? He bared his teeth and howled with rage and despair.
    Tamil lunged, but his foot slipped in the blood of the weyr and Shevil’s point raked across his chest making a shallow cut. Tamil screamed with pain and fright.
    Shevil heard the sharp intake of breath from the folk below, and the sudden silence.
    Shana shielded her eyes and dropped to her knees, “The Warlock, father! The Warlock!”
    Shevil raised his eyes to the tunnel mouth which was now suddenly and miraculously a blaze of light. The Warlock stood there, his terrible eyes staring, his mouth open and red in his grizzled beard. The silver cloak he wore seemed to shimmer and rustle with his anger.
    His voice, amplified by the gown that sensed his every need, reverberated and crashed down the mountainside.
    “Animals! Savages! What are you doing now!