Read Online The Warlock of Rhada by Robert Cham Gilman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Cham Gilman
Tags: Science-Fiction
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How dare you come to this place with your swine’s battles! Filth! Blood-lovers! God curse you--put up your weapons!”
The burning eye lowered its view to take in the slaughtered weyr and the Warlock’s frame seemed to shiver and tremble with fury. “Take that thing away from me! Take it away at once!” He turned and would have retreated into the tunnel once again, but Shevil leaped onto the god-metal step and, dragging Shana with him, threw himself at the Warlock’s feet.
“They wanted me to sacrifice my daughter, Dark Prince! They said the weyr was not enough!”
The Warlock stopped in midstride and stood for a moment, as though transfixed. His wizened face was a mask of horror and disgust. Then his expression softened slightly as he murmured, ”Dihanna? Is it you, Dihanna?” Shevil Lar rose to his feet and pressed himself and Shana against the strangely smooth wall of the tunnel. His heart was fluttering and pounding like a living thing. Quarlo and the bleeding Tamil were following the others in a mad rush down the moraine.
Shana stood very still while the muttering, humming eye examined her. She shivered as she saw how it seemed to grow, like a second, smaller head from the Warlock’s shoulder.
“No,” the Lord Ophir said more calmly. “You are not Dihanna. You are the bird girl from the village.”
“Yes, sire,” Shana whispered.
“They wanted to sacrifice you? Cut your throat?” An expression of fastidious disbelief suffused the old face. “To me ?”
Shevil would have spoken, but the Warlock silenced him with a gesture.
“Yes, Dark Prince,” Shana said.
“Unbelievable,” the Warlock said. “Are you savages, then? Have you sunk to human sacrifice?” He shook his head and murmured to himself in an unknown language.
Shevil, who could not forget that he was hetman of Trama, said, “They are frightened, Lord. The warmen of Ulm have come.”
“Good,” the Warlock said sharply. “Let them do their duty. Are they less savages than you?” His tone conveyed an impregnable superiority. It was in such a voice, Shevil thought, that a man might address a crawling insect--a lower form of life.
“They will kill us, Lord. There is a priest with them,” Shevil said, pleadingly.
“Those who rebel against their rulers deserve nothing better,” the Warlock said in that imperial voice.
“They would not punish us that way for rebellion, Dark Lord,” Shana said evenly. “But for worshipping you.’’
The Warlock stiffened. He raised his hands to his head and muttered again in the unknown tongue.
“We do not understand you, Lord,” Shevil Lar said desperately.
“Of course you don’t,” the Warlock murmured. “Why should you speak the Royal Language of the Rigellians.” As though the thought were more humorous than strange, he began to laugh in a cracked and bitter voice. Shana looked at her father fearfully, for it was obvious to her now that the Warlock was quite mad, and a mad demon was something much to be feared--perhaps even more than the warmen of Ulm and their Navigator.
“Can you help us, Lord?” asked Shevil.
“Perhaps, perhaps. Come see me tomorrow.” The silver robe rustled as he prepared to step away, down the tunnel.
“Sire,” Shana said carefully, “the warmen are here. Tomorrow we may all be dead.”
The electronic eye clicked and hummed as the first moon began to break over the wooded ridges to the east.
“Sire? Please?” The girl’s voice was soothing, gentle.
The Warlock rustled his robe irritably. “I am not a soldier. I’m not a weaponeer either--I am--” He stopped, a perplexed expression in his drug-blind eyes. “I am--” he began again. “Great Star, I don’t know what I am, but I knew only a short while ago. While I slept, I knew.” His voice grew agitated, tremulous with the beginnings of anger again. “How can I help you if I cannot help myself? Answer me that? Well, tell me, bird-girl. Tell me if you can.”
Shevil said hopelessly,
The burning eye lowered its view to take in the slaughtered weyr and the Warlock’s frame seemed to shiver and tremble with fury. “Take that thing away from me! Take it away at once!” He turned and would have retreated into the tunnel once again, but Shevil leaped onto the god-metal step and, dragging Shana with him, threw himself at the Warlock’s feet.
“They wanted me to sacrifice my daughter, Dark Prince! They said the weyr was not enough!”
The Warlock stopped in midstride and stood for a moment, as though transfixed. His wizened face was a mask of horror and disgust. Then his expression softened slightly as he murmured, ”Dihanna? Is it you, Dihanna?” Shevil Lar rose to his feet and pressed himself and Shana against the strangely smooth wall of the tunnel. His heart was fluttering and pounding like a living thing. Quarlo and the bleeding Tamil were following the others in a mad rush down the moraine.
Shana stood very still while the muttering, humming eye examined her. She shivered as she saw how it seemed to grow, like a second, smaller head from the Warlock’s shoulder.
“No,” the Lord Ophir said more calmly. “You are not Dihanna. You are the bird girl from the village.”
“Yes, sire,” Shana whispered.
“They wanted to sacrifice you? Cut your throat?” An expression of fastidious disbelief suffused the old face. “To me ?”
Shevil would have spoken, but the Warlock silenced him with a gesture.
“Yes, Dark Prince,” Shana said.
“Unbelievable,” the Warlock said. “Are you savages, then? Have you sunk to human sacrifice?” He shook his head and murmured to himself in an unknown language.
Shevil, who could not forget that he was hetman of Trama, said, “They are frightened, Lord. The warmen of Ulm have come.”
“Good,” the Warlock said sharply. “Let them do their duty. Are they less savages than you?” His tone conveyed an impregnable superiority. It was in such a voice, Shevil thought, that a man might address a crawling insect--a lower form of life.
“They will kill us, Lord. There is a priest with them,” Shevil said, pleadingly.
“Those who rebel against their rulers deserve nothing better,” the Warlock said in that imperial voice.
“They would not punish us that way for rebellion, Dark Lord,” Shana said evenly. “But for worshipping you.’’
The Warlock stiffened. He raised his hands to his head and muttered again in the unknown tongue.
“We do not understand you, Lord,” Shevil Lar said desperately.
“Of course you don’t,” the Warlock murmured. “Why should you speak the Royal Language of the Rigellians.” As though the thought were more humorous than strange, he began to laugh in a cracked and bitter voice. Shana looked at her father fearfully, for it was obvious to her now that the Warlock was quite mad, and a mad demon was something much to be feared--perhaps even more than the warmen of Ulm and their Navigator.
“Can you help us, Lord?” asked Shevil.
“Perhaps, perhaps. Come see me tomorrow.” The silver robe rustled as he prepared to step away, down the tunnel.
“Sire,” Shana said carefully, “the warmen are here. Tomorrow we may all be dead.”
The electronic eye clicked and hummed as the first moon began to break over the wooded ridges to the east.
“Sire? Please?” The girl’s voice was soothing, gentle.
The Warlock rustled his robe irritably. “I am not a soldier. I’m not a weaponeer either--I am--” He stopped, a perplexed expression in his drug-blind eyes. “I am--” he began again. “Great Star, I don’t know what I am, but I knew only a short while ago. While I slept, I knew.” His voice grew agitated, tremulous with the beginnings of anger again. “How can I help you if I cannot help myself? Answer me that? Well, tell me, bird-girl. Tell me if you can.”
Shevil said hopelessly,
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