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"Theis!" He jerked upright, grabbing for the dwarf.
Rogala had disappeared. Gathrid jumped up. He began blundering through the
brush.
Rogala ghosted out of the darkness. "Be quiet!" he hissed. "And get down."
"It's after me!" Gathrid babbled. "It's getting closer. It almost got me this
time." He was getting loud, but could not stop himself.
Rogala ended his hysteria with a slap. Startled, Gathrid plopped down and
rubbed his cheek. There had been a remarkable strength behind the blow.
"Now explain. Quietly."
Gathrid did so, softly but urgently.
"You should've told me before."
"You could've stopped it?"
"No. But I would've had time to think before it got dangerous. I'll worry
about it after we finish tonight's work."
"Eh?"
"Our horses. I've been scouting. There're twenty-three men down there. None
with Power. All second-line soldiers led by a lazy sergeant. There were three
sentries. I've cared for them already."
"Then we'll have no trouble stealing horses and..."
"The horses come afterward."
"But...."
"Daubendiek is weak. It's starving after meeting that thing. It has to be
fed."
"Theis, no. I couldn't."
"What?"
"Kill men while they're sleeping."
"Best time. They don't fight back. You remember who they are? They could be
the men who tortured your mother. Aren't you hungry? They have more than
horses. Boy your age usually eats a ton of fodder a day."
Gathrid needed no reminder. His navel was grinding against his backbone. But
to kill men over something to eat.... He was not that hungry. Not yet.
The horror of the Ventimiglian invasion had not purged youth's pacifism and
idealism. He still saw the world through the lens of should-be. That
distorting lens was chipped now. It had a big crack across its middle. It
would shatter before long.
"Ideals are a handicap," Rogala insisted. "If you're not flexible about them."
"But...."
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"You're going to get your head lopped off, boy. You fight fire with fire in
this world. You don't see these Ven-timiglians counting scruples, do you?"
"If we sink to their level, we're no better than they are."
"What gives you the idea you are? Human is human, boy. There are two kinds of
people. Wolves and sheep. Is the sheep better than the wolf because he bravely
lets himself be gobbled? Hardly. These Ventimiglians are pragmatists. I don't
yet see their logic, admitted. I don't know their goals. They do have the
determination to achieve them." He launched a rambling discourse about great
pragmatists he had known.
Gathrid shut him out. He could not stomach the dwarf's primitive
philosophizing.
As he talked, Rogala edged nearer the enemy camp. He spoke in an ever softer
voice.
Gathrid felt the presence of his haunt. He crowded Rogala.
The cynical old dwarf knew how to motivate him. He talked about Anyeck.
Gathrid immediately conjured visions of his sister suffering. The dwarf kept
poking that sore spot. Though short-spoken, he could wax colorful when he
wanted.
The boy's anger kindled. Rogala fanned, it. Hatred conceived in the ruins of
Kacalief fed it.
Even so, Gathrid tried to go directly to the horse picket.
Fate intervened.
A sleepy Ventimiglian, leaving his tent on some nocturnal mission, stumbled
into the youth. The sleepiness left him. His eyes grew improbably wide. His
mouth opened....
Gathrid seized the Sword's hilt and flung the blade around.
For a vertiginous instant he relived the entire mean, small life of Grems
Migneco, who had known little joy till Ahlert's conquests had allowed his
brutal nature full play. It ended on a high, piquant note of terror.
Daubendiek hummed softly, pleased, but was not satisfied. Having tasted blood
at last, it lusted for more. Much more. Rivers. Oceans.
And Gathrid could not deny it. Mastering the blade eluded him. Tired, weak in
spirit, eager to escape the thing that pursued him, he welcomed its control
and exultation.
The soldier's gurgling death brought, three more victims from the tent.
Ventimiglians slept lightly, Gathrid reflected. Maybe there had been other
night attacks. Gudermuth would not have submitted passively.
Their quick response did them no good. Swift as an adder's strike, death
darker than the darkness, Dauben-diek penetrated their guards and flesh,
slashing and slicing as if against no resistance at all. The Ventimiglians
accomplished only one thing: they wakened their company. Sleepy men rushed
toward Gathrid and death.
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He was involved no longer. He had become an adjunct of the Sword, a sickened
observer watching the ultimate power manipulate his hands.
The first rush gave him no trouble. The Ventimiglians were expecting other
raiders. Then they realized he was alone, decided he was a madman making a
suicide attack.
Alone? Gathrid thought. What happened to Theis? He was right behind me a
minute ago.
Daubendiek screamed joyously. The Ventimiglians grew pale, but persisted. In [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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