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... ."
"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 shortspoken, 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.
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 brief flickers Gathrid and his weapon drank wretched, unhappy lives, yet lives in which, inevitably, there was something joyful, some treasured memory that made each soul unique among so many others of similarly mean origins. The Sword now needed but to wound lightly to slay. Bodies piled round Gathrid.
From his perch behind the eyes of a body that had become a murder machine, Gathrid tasted the sour flavor of their pasts and pitied them. They came of a class where hopelessness and pain reigned supreme. They had made the Mindak's dream their own. It promised escape from the endlessly repetitive, dreary march of their days.
Understanding one's enemy, Gathrid had been
"Ideals are a handicap," Rogala insisted. "If you're not flexible about them."
"But... ."
"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 shortspoken, 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.
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 brief flickers Gathrid and his weapon drank wretched, unhappy lives, yet lives in which, inevitably, there was something joyful, some treasured memory that made each soul unique among so many others of similarly mean origins. The Sword now needed but to wound lightly to slay. Bodies piled round Gathrid.
From his perch behind the eyes of a body that had become a murder machine, Gathrid tasted the sour flavor of their pasts and pitied them. They came of a class where hopelessness and pain reigned supreme. They had made the Mindak's dream their own. It promised escape from the endlessly repetitive, dreary march of their days.
Understanding one's enemy, Gathrid had been
Similar Books
