The Warlock of Rhada Read Online Free PDF Page A

game-bags. She pushed against Glamiss again and said, “Eat, Glamiss. We eat now.” Her voice was sibilant, the words distinct to a warman accustomed to the language of the mares.
    “Go eat, then,” he said. “But eat what has already been killed.”
    Blue Star tossed her narrow head and bared her saber teeth. “Hunt. We hunt.”
    Glamiss looked at the sky and the distant, disturbed eagles. He did not wish to risk Blue Star in this country of savage birds. “No,” he said.
    “Hunt,” the mare said again.
    Glamiss rapped her smartly across the muzzle. “No.”
    There was a wild light of something resembling amusement in the animal’s slotted eyes, as though being struck by a creature she could rend to bloody tatters pleased her, satisfied her need for submission. “Master,” she said.
    “And tell the Vulk I’m waiting for him.”
    The mare snorted and bared her teeth again. It was, Glamiss thought, as though she knew that his severe manner toward the Vulk was a pose.
    He felt a frailty in himself: too much compassion could be a bad thing for a warleader, and the Vulk--well, they were pitiful things, truly. Small, weak, spindly. Their featureless faces were sad caricatures of men’s, and their passive submissiveness could goad men to considerable cruelty. When Vulk were serving in the field as Talkers, many warleaders denied them even the comfort of a mare to ride upon, making them stumble across all sorts of terrain on their sticklike legs behind the warband. Glamiss contended that this was impractical, that there was no advantage in thus slowing the progress of a troop. But Emeric said that it was because sometimes his kindness leaked out between the seams of his armor. “The spirit of the Star is in you, no matter how tough you pretend to be.” It was in the high-born Emeric Aulus Kevin Kiersson-Rhad as well, Glamiss had retorted, for though the Order of Navigators was more severe with the Vulk than the mere laity, Nav Emeric treated the alien creatures with courtesy and kindness. Not at all the usual attitude of a priest of the Order toward beings who refused to accept man’s religious view of the galaxy.
    Glamiss considered his priestly companion, watching him loosening the caparison on Sea Wind before freeing her to join the other mares feeding on the game. The noble Emeric was a member of an Order that formed the only tenuous ties among the worlds of the Great Sky. Navigators were autonomous, ubiquitous. According to the Way--the dogma of their Order --they piloted the starships, served as spiritual counselors to the thousands of petty lordlings on every planet, and acted as military chaplains in the constant warfare. They were needed, Glamiss thought bitterly. On town or village, castle or lodge, the starships might descend at any time, or a troop such as this one might appear. And the Navigators arriving with the invaders would serve with the invaders, while the Navigators of the defenders would serve with the defenders. Navigators never killed Navigators, but they killed others readily enough. And when the fighting was finished, the chaplain of the defeated might pray in the bridge of the invaders’ starship, thank God in the Star for his questionable mercy, and return to his wounded, defeated people. The starship would rise into the sky, carrying booty or prisoners. Life would go on as before.
    In drunken moments Glamiss would sometimes tax Emeric with this strange evenhandedness in wickedness, and then the Rhadan would patiently explain that the clergy was servant of all God’s subjects. If Rhadan fought Vykan and both fought Astrari--did that make them the less God’s creatures? The individual Navigator did his duty to his assigned people--the Order took no side but God’s.
    Glamiss asked, “If Vara-Vyka fought the Northern Rhad, would you serve against your own people?”
    Emeric’s face showed the conflict of blood and faith as he replied, “I would hope the Order would not ask it of me.