The Warlock of Rhada (10 page)

Ulm shifted his bulk uncomfortably and said, “We accept that, my lord Bishop. It is only that--”

Kaifa held up his hand. “Decide, Ulm. And give the order to unload your men and horses if you wish.”

Ulm’s protuberant eyes showed his fear. “Would you excommunicate us, Bishop? Would you punish us for bargaining?”

Kaifa raised his cowl so that the warriors at the table could see the dread Red Fist of the Inquisition. “Do not make me doubt your devotion to the Star, Lord Ulm. “

Ulm shuddered. He bowed his head. Kaifa turned his steady gaze to Linne and the other captains. They, too, broke under the threat.
The Order,
Kaifa thought exultantly,
the Order overbears them.

He said, “Well. Decide. Now.”

Ulm muttered, “We meant no disrespect, Bishop.”

“The valley of Trama and all it contains?”

Ulm nodded.

“Bless you, my sons,” the Bishop said, making the sign of the Star over them.

Ulm asked humbly, “But Glamiss and the men who turned against me?”

Bishop-Navigator Kaifa thought contemptuously:
Here is a lord of our time. A young mercenary is loved by his men and for this he must die--and they with him.
He thought for a moment about Emeric Aulus Kevin Kiersson-Rhad. If the Navigator was lost in this outworld skirmish between barbarians, there would be bitterness on Rhada and questions asked, perhaps by the Grand Master himself. That was a pity, but what must be, would be. The computer on Algol had said that whoever held Trama became a prime-mover. The
why
of it was, like so much else, lost in the jumble of mysticism and fear that attended the workings of those few ancient machines that remained operable.

Fact:
Bishop-Navigator Kaifa knew, Trama is vital to the Order.
Fact:
Once cleared of inhabitants
and
Ulm’s men, the valley could be examined, explored, and its mysteries unraveled by qualified members of the Order of Navigators.
Fact:
To obtain this freedom of search for the Order, a price must be paid--regrettably, in blood. The lives of the inhabitants, of the “punitive” expedition as well, were forfeit. And finally, it was also a fact that none of this could be accomplished without an alliance of the moment between the First Pilot and Commander of the holy vessel
Gloria in Coelis
and this gross and corpulent savage who sat wheezing fearfully before the austere Bishop. Glamiss, a promising young warrior, and Emeric of Rhada, an equally promising young priest-Navigator, were the price of it all. Kaifa sighed slowly and thought,
So be it and amen.

He said, “We are finished here then, Lord Ulm. You will have a free hand against your Warleader Glamiss. The Order will occupy the valley of Trama.” He rose to indicate that the audience was over. “When your troops have finished loading, send word to me and the
Gloria
will carry us to battle.”

“As you command, holy father,” wheezed Ulm.

Kaifa looked at Linne. The bearded warman nodded sulky agreement.

“Then peace be with you, my sons,” the Navigator said, unconscious of any irony.

Given the existence of the Order of Navigators and the still-operable starships of the First Empire, there is no psychohistorical reason for the state of human society in the galaxy during the dark years of the Interregnum. It is true that the human population was widely dispersed, and that men had suffered a racial shock from the ferocity of the Civil Wars that destroyed the hegemony of the Rigellian Galactons. Still, the
means
of achieving unity existed. What was lacking was the
vision.
From the rabble of contending warlords on the worlds of the “Great Sky” it was necessary to develop one true
conqueror.
And such a man--the charismatic leader with a complete and unique purview of man’s history did not yet exist.

--Vikus Bel Cyb-1009,
The Origins of the Second Stellar Empire,
Early Confederate period

None knew that Rigell XXIX lived, preserved past his time by the hopeful cryonic techniques of the dying Empire. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the
idea
of Rigell XXIX lived--for his world was dust.

--Ibid.

The Lord Ophir ben Rigell ibn Sol alt Messier regarded his sleep-tank with longing; his old body craved the maintenance dose of trilaudid that would send him back into his waking dream. For the first time that he could remember, he was aware of the opulence of his apartments in the hospital. It was a luxury to which he seemed to be accustomed. The drug still in his system illuminated fragments of memory: the suite he had occupied on the
Delos,
the quarters that had been his in the city between the two rivers, other tantalizing bits of recollection from his former life. Everything that filtered through his mind seemed accoutered with opulence, pomp, and great ceremony. And it was this, strangely, that now troubled Ophir and kept him from retreating still again into his drugged dreaming.

Elsewhere in the warren of corridors, operating theaters, and public rooms that comprised the main part of the hospital, he could hear the murmurous wonder of the people of Trama. Not all had taken refuge inside the mountain. The hetman had been unable to overcome the superstitious fears of many. But now fully fifty or more of the folk had followed him and his daughter into “The Warlock’s Keep.” Some, Ophir realized with fastidious distaste, had even brought their animals with them.

The confusion they were causing was distressing to the old man and yet he did not react as he had imagined he might--with imperious anger and disgust at their savage ways. Instead, he withheld indulgence in his own pleasures--the tank and trilaudid--aware that, in some way, he was personally responsible for the safety and well-being of these simple creatures.

Though Ophir’s chemically damaged brain was only dimly aware of it, twenty-nine generations of imperial royalty had produced him. Despite a lifetime spent in self-indulgence and enjoyment of all the vices a moribund civilization could produce, those twenty-nine generations and the early training he had undergone to prepare him to rule an empire of a thousand suns affected him now. The last of the Rigellians was a captive of his own
noblesse.
He felt responsible.

With an effort, he forced himself to plan. Earlier, in a fit of anger, he had considered using the instruments remaining in the hospital as weapons against the barbarian soldiers about to invade his valley. A more rational appraisal of these possibilities presented him with innumerable problems. When he had entered the hospital for the Sleep, Aldrin had been a relatively peaceful world. The troubles on the rim of the galaxy were still decades and parsecs away. It was unlikely that Aldrin had become, at some later date, an outpost of empire. Ophir, in his best days, had been no soldier. But he, like all imperials, had been aware of the power available to the military. Atomics of a thousand, ten thousand, a
million
megatons were commonplace in the arsenal of the Imperial Fleet. Planet-smashers were simply a matter of a decision to build them, for thermonuclear weapons were open-ended.

But he had seen no sign of such destruction in the valley, and he had heard of no such catastrophes from the natives. They sometimes spoke, in their prayers to him, of “the time of falling suns,” so there had been some sort of engagement on Aldrin. But it appeared to have been a small one, and at some distance from the hospital in the valley.

So there were no weapons as such nearby, Ophir thought painfully. His drug-hunger plagued him, but he persisted. Petulantly, it was true, he had invited the folk to take sanctuary. Or had he? Was it that half-naked girl or her father who had done it? No matter. The folk of the valley were crude--but they were peaceful. Except for their offer of human sacrifice and their disgusting habit of slaughtering weyr on his doorstep, they were not troublesome. The barbarian warband was quite another matter. Ophir had no intention of allowing a mob of spear-carrying human offal to destroy the repose of his last days. For he understood well enough now that he would die in the valley of Trama.

The pale green sky of Aldrin was the last he would ever see. His blind eyes leaked tears. Never to see Nyor again, never to walk through the gardens and avenues of the Queen of the Skies--Dihanna, he thought, never to ride with her across the windswept plains of Rhada and breathe the scent of her mingled with the cold tang of the Rhad land’s seawind--

I would have taken you to my own holding, Dihanna,
he thought with deep grief.
To my dark coasts and oceans of waving grass and skies gray and crossed with the lightning and the aurora--

The memory flared into an unbearable poignancy, and he felt the tingle of the permissive garment he wore touching him with the tiny steel tongues that fed him his beloved trilaudid.

“No,” he said aloud. “Not now.”

The hospital computer spoke through the speaker in his chamber. “It is time for your medication, sir.”

“No,” Ophir said again. “There is work to do.”

The computer pondered this strange statement and found nothing in its programming to account for it. With mechanical stupidity, it said, “You are not strong enough to undergo withdrawal therapy, sir.” Ophir’s robe tingled again.

“Strong enough?” The Warlock gave a hysterical laugh. “You brainless machine--don’t you know I’m dying?”

“We only wish to make you comfortable, sir,” said the droning voice.

“Are there weapons here?” Ophir asked, ignoring the bland acceptance of encroaching death.

“That question is beyond my competency, sir. I am a medical computer,” the voice said.

“You are
nothing
,” the old man said with sudden fury. “You are an anachronism--
worthless.”

The computer, failing to detect a question, remained silent.

Ophir came to his feet with an effort. The weight of his prosthesis seemed too much to bear. His shoulder ached with it. He felt the torturing thirst and dermal sensitivity that warned of trilaudid withdrawal syndrome. He forced himself to ignore it and went into the passageway.

He had never been trained medically, but an imperial heir’s education was catholic. A man destined to rule an empire dare not be a specialist. The thought was clouded and scarred with lacunae of amnesia, but the form of it was there. Ophir’s sense of responsibility was forcing him to reaccept the realities he had abandoned so long ago in his hedonistic flight from a civilization he despised as corrupt.

The standard instruments to be found in a hospital of his time--the personality probes and exchangers, the hypno-teachers, the lasers and sonic scalpels--must exist in this echoing tomb, he thought vaguely. Perhaps he was engineer enough to use them as weapons? And if they were not effective agencies for destruction, surely they could be used to overawe a troop of savages?

He forced aching thoughts through his mind, examining and discarding. He could hear the weyrherders of Trama. They had gathered in one of the common rooms and were huddling there, praying to who knew what dark gods?

To you, Ophir beloved,
the lady Dihanna whispered in his ear,
they are praying to you, their Prince.

The holographic projectors from the library, Ophir thought suddenly. For a beginning, the ghostly warriors of the Dawn Age, created from the plays and novels of Earth before the Age of Space. Yes, he thought, suddenly gleeful: that for a beginning. But as an overture, as something to give the invaders a taste of terror--the eagles.

His cracked laughter rang down the vaulted corridor.
First the wild birds and then the shadowy hosts of Stalingrad, Agincourt, Bataan, and Kasserine. Why, one had the whole blood-soaked history of man to choose from! When one had history, what need of soldiers?
The holographic projectors were easily portable--suddenly the whole pattern of the engagement to come took on the dimensions of a beautiful, cosmic joke. He laughed gleefully and trotted unsteadily toward the sound of his devotee’s prayers. If it was magic they wanted, a Prince of the Rigellian Empire would give them magic.