A Wizard in Bedlam

CHAPTER 10

At long last, the huge cell began to lighten with false dawn, gray light filtering down to soothe shuddering forms with cool lucidity. The warders stretched, grumbling, ready to strike out for home as soon as the day shift came in.

A huge, booming knocking sounded from the outside door.

Dirk looked up, hope suddenly spurting in him. Was this it, so soon? But how could they possibly have pulled the army together so quickly? And what about the Bell not having rung?

The chief warder scowled and gestured to one of his men. The attendant turned away, into the tunnel leading to the outside door; Dirk heard the huge bolts grind back, the hinges grate open.

There was the murmur of voices; then the attendant came back, looking singularly baffled. He muttered something to the chief warder, who scowled, puzzled. The attendant held out a sheet of parchment; the chief warder spread it out flat on the desk, scowling over it, lips moving to silently piece letters together. Then he looked up, shrugged in resignation, and nodded. The attendant motioned to two others, picked up a maul and a cold chisel, and strode down the room toward Gar and Dirk.

Dirk’s heart hammered. Never had he wanted out of a place so dearly as he wanted out of this one.

The warders came to a halt in front of Dirk and Gar, and Dirk went limp with relief. Two went to stand to either side of him, ready to catch hold, while the third kneeled down, set the chisel against the chain, and cut through it with two blows. He stood, shaking his head, mystified. “Why His Lordship wants them is more than I can see.”

“ ‘Tis not for us to question,” one of his mates growled. “Come, let’s get it done.” He turned to Dirk, jerked his thumb. “Up on your feet, fellow.”

Dirk stood, not understanding what was going on, but not about to worry about it, either. At the last moment, he remembered the act. “Praised be the sun, moon, and stars! The ransom is paid; the King wanders free! Praised be the deliverers, praised be—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” the warder soothed. “Stand there like a good fellow, while we get your brother free.”

The first warder set his chisel against Gar’s chain while the other two watched warily. The maul swung, the chain dropped free; but Gar still sat like a statue, staring forward.

“Up!” The man with the chisel scowled down at the giant, braced for anything—but nothing happened.

Dirk dropped down beside the big man. “Why, come then, Brother! We must up and away! The night is gone; the sun wheels toward day!” He slung the giant’s arm over his shoulder, braced himself for a hard haul, and pushed himself to his feet—and almost fell over backward. He’d expected to have to haul the giant up by main strength; but impulse was all the huge body needed; it rose by itself, willingly. But, standing, it just stood.

Dirk looked up at the warders. “Come now, I’ll lead my brother. Take us out to the Lord of the Ransom; take us out from the castle of durance vile, ere the ogre returns.”

The warders traded a commiserating glance and turned to escort them out.

They went down between the two rows of inmates. The ones who were awake looked up, saw two of their number going toward freedom, and set up a chorus of howls, wailing for liberty. The warders stiffened, but their steps never slackened. Inmates surged to their feet, clawing at the air and bellowing, but the warders plodded on at the same even pace, past the chief warder and into the passageway to the outside door. Dirk breathed a silent sigh of relief, realized he was shaking. He wondered how the warders could take it, and realized it was a miracle they’d managed to keep so much human feeling.

The warder wrenched back the bolts and swung the door open. Dirk squinted against the dazzling sunlight, let them lead him out. As his eyes adjusted, he looked up …

… and saw a young page with five Soldiers, in Lord Core’s livery.

Suddenly the Bedlam seemed a very pleasant place to be, warm and secure …

Then his eyes finished adjusting; he looked more closely at the page’s face, and recognized Madelon. He took a deep breath and decided he’d never been so glad to see a woman in his life.

Dirk turned to look more closely at the five horsemen and recognized Hugh and a couple of his other old acquaintances from the arena. He was sure he’d seen the other two around the campfire the night before.

“Get them up on their horses, lad,” Hugh growled. “The Lord grows impatient.”

“Aye, right quickly.” Madelon turned to the warder. “I thank ye, goodmen. I shall bear word to His Lordship of your excellent night’s lodging for his guests.”

The warder looked a little worried, but he shrugged stubbornly. “We do what we can, young Gentleman. We are not, after all, given overmuch to do it with.”

Public institutions were the same everywhere, Dirk decided.

“I will speak to His Lordship of it,” Madelon promised. “Thanks, and farewell.”

She led Dirk to a waiting horse as the warders shrugged and went back into the Bedlam. The door slammed shut with a hollow echo as Dirk swung into the saddle; he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Then he looked down and saw the giant standing, blankly, in front of a Percheron. The horse eyed him and snorted uneasily.

Madelon frowned. “Come then, mount! Drop your pretense; no one watches but us.”

“Don’t worry about that part,” Dirk said dryly, “he’s not faking.” He dismounted and went to Gar, picked up a huge foot, and set it in a stirrup. Then he lifted the two, massive hands—he hadn’t known a human arm could weigh so much—and balanced them on the saddle-horn. He stepped back to survey his handiwork; the huge body still stood, unblinking, poised on one foot. Dirk sighed, went around behind, and gave him an upward shove. Reflex took over; the giant body swung up. Dirk caught the right leg and swung it up and over the horse’s rump, and Gar sprawled down onto the horse’s back. Dirk scurried around to the far side, secured the right foot in its stirrup, and came back to Madelon and Hugh, mopping his brow. “I think he’ll do now. Once he’s in position …” He broke off, seeing the looks on their faces.

Then Madelon turned away and mounted. He followed suit, thinking about the look on her face. Stricken, he could understand—but devastated?

“Away!” Hugh growled. He swung his horse about. The party turned away after him, toward the forest. Dirk looked back over his shoulder, at the gloomy, granite building, reflecting that, if the revolution succeeded, he had an excellent purpose for Lord Core’s château.

As they reached the shade of the trees, a mule trotted out from a thicket to join them. Dirk nodded to its rider with a smile of thanks. “A timely rescue, Father. How did you manage it?”

“I? Not at all.” Father Fletcher smiled, amused. “ ‘Twas Madelon’s scheme.”

Dirk glanced at the topic of discussion and decided she wasn’t in a mood to explain. “Where’d she get the uniforms?”

Hugh pursed his lips and looked up at the leaves. “Why, as to that, a few of Lord Core’s men seem to have lost their way in the wood t’other night; and, taking pity on the poor lads, we thought to give them a home …”

“Under the roots,” Dirk suggested.

Hugh shrugged. “It may have been something of the sort. Of course, I would know nothing of such details. Naetheless, there were their liveries and armor, doing no good to any man, being far too cumbersome for forest travel. So our lasses worked quickly with their needles, and we had a page’s suit to fit our likely lad, here…” He nodded toward Madelon; she looked up, frowning, seeming to notice them for the first time. “For the rest …” he shrugged. “ ‘Twas nothing at all to draw up a letter and draw Lord Core’s seal on it. After that, you know the tale yourself.”

“But I do not,” Father Fletcher said ruefully. “You shall have to tell it to me, friend Dulain, when we have more leisure—or perhaps yourself, my great friend?” He rode ahead to catch at Gar’s arm, gave him a shake. The great body rocked, came back to an even keel, and rode steadily ahead.

Dirk saw the sick realization coming into the priest’s eyes. He nodded. “It was timely rescue, Father; you came as quickly as we could hope for. But even had you come at midnight, you would have come too late.”

“But what has happened to him?” the priest whispered.

Dirk shook his head. “There was madness all about him, Father. It seeped into him, claimed him. Where his mind has gone, I do not know—but it’s gone.”

“Tell us the manner of it,” Madelon whispered hoarsely.

Dirk glanced at the agony of her face, glanced away—and despised himself for a bitter stab of jealousy. “He went into a rage, went stiff, and collapsed. Since then, he hasn’t spoken a word, and he’s looked—like that.”

Madelon looked at Gar again and looked away, squeezing her eyes shut. “If only we could have come earlier …”

“He was gone by two hours after sunset,” Dirk said quickly. “Any ordinary man could make it through at least a night in there. How could you have known? I certainly didn’t.”

She flashed him a look of gratitude, and there was something of appeal in it, which surprised him. In fact, it tied his tongue, but he managed to smile back at her. For a moment, their glances held; then she turned away, with a shuddering breath, and set her face toward the depths of the forest. “We must ride. Core’s Soldiers must certainly have told him of the two madmen they left at the house of Saint Orthicon. Only good luck kept him from coming before us.”

“Aye,” Hugh growled. “He’ll come behind us, never fear, when the warders tell him the tale.”

“Yes.” Father Fletcher nodded. “And he’ll call for dogs when he follows our trail to the forest.” “How about it, Hugh?” Dirk said softly. “This is your country. We can run if we want to, but sooner or later we’ll have to hide.”

Hugh scowled. “I’ve thought of it—and there is only one place near to here.”

The other outlaws looked up at him, startled—almost, Dirk might think, scandalized. Then foreboding settled onto their faces, and one muttered; “Hugh—desecration brings curses.”

“Is it desecration to sing at the tomb of a minstrel?” Hugh demanded.

“But we bring the sound of battle,” the outlaw objected.

Hugh flashed him a grin, and rode on.

From the brightness of the light filtering down through the trees, Dirk could tell it was midday. The outlaw Hugh had sent riding back to scout the trail came crashing out of the underbrush. “They’re onto us, Hugh. A mile behind, I could hear the hounds.”

Hugh nodded, and reined in. “We’ve gone as far as we can with horses as is. Come, free your beasts—and, friend Dulain, do you lead our silent one.”

They all dismounted, unbridled their horses, bound the bridles to the cantles.

“Away!” Hugh cried, slapping his horse’s rump. “Be off to your freedom—and leave a good, clear trail for hounds to follow!”

The horse leaped away into the underbrush, and its fellows followed it, inspired by a chorus of shouts from the outlaws. Then they stood, silent, listening to the crashing of the beasts fade away into the quiet, ever-present rustle of the noontime forest.

Dirk looked around him, wondering where they were to hide. They stood on a slope, heavily covered with trees, but with the underbrush thinning, because of the rocky outcrops, which seemed to be growing more frequent. Presumably, there were caves somewhere about—but he certainly couldn’t see any. The leafy trees were growing fewer, and the pines were more frequent.

“Up, then!” Hugh turned his face upslope, grinning. “Ye who are new to our forest, try to keep your steps as much as you can to the rock—no sense to give our hunters any more aid than we need.”

One of the outlaws cut down a pine bough, and slashed and cut at a tree trunk with it. Dirk frowned, not understanding; but he followed Hugh, leading Gar, trying to guide the big body’s feet to rocky steps—and saw the purpose of the bruised bough. The outlaw followed them backwards, dusting the ground behind him with a branch that oozed sap and odor. It might not fool the dogs at all—but then again, it might.

They had been climbing for about fifteen minutes when Hugh suddenly stopped, holding up a hand. “Hist!”

The whole party stopped dead, necks craned around and ears straining. Far in the distance, so faint it might have been imagination, came a burbling yapping.

“Core’s dogs,” Madelon stated.

Hugh nodded grimly. “They have made good time.”

Madelon’s mouth set. She threw back her shoulders and stepped ahead. “We had best move quickly, then.”

“There.” Hugh pointed upward. “That bar of shadow.”

Dirk looked upward. There was an overhang of rock about a hundred yards upslope. He nodded. “They might even pass us by.”

They started hiking again, with renewed vigor. Gar stumbled and slipped, but his body kept up with them. They broke out of the trees and pushed upward over scraggly grass with more and more rock. As they came closer, Dirk could make out the dim outline of a cave mouth beneath the overhang.

Then they forged in under the overhang and into the cave. It was low, barely tall enough for a man, and Dirk had to pull down on Gar’s arm to make the great body stoop.

“It grows chill,” Hugh grumbled. He took off his cloak and slung it over Dirk’s shoulders. “Do not argue, my friend. We can ill afford a sneeze, now.”

Dirk bit back a protest and pulled the cloak more tightly about his shoulders. “Thanks, Hugh.” One of the outlaws took off his cloak and threw it over Gar’s back.

Father Fletcher had slipped ahead and led the way with the air of a man retracing familiar ground. Dirk glanced at his companions and frowned; there was a taut, leashed eagerness about them, overlaid with awe. Just where had they come to, anyway?

The priest led the way to the back of the cave, his dark gray robes growing fainter and fainter as they went further from the cave mouth. Dirk could scarcely see him. Then he couldn’t see him, and felt a moment of panic before he realized the old man had just taken an odd turn.

“Stoop!” Hugh muttered, standing aside; and Dirk saw a cleft in the rock, perhaps four feet high and three wide. It took some maneuvering to cramp Gar through, but they managed it, sideways. Dirk stopped and took a breath on the far side, while he waited for the others to come through, and realized with surprise that he could still see. There was light, very faint, seeping down from above.

“Up!” Hugh ordered; and Father Fletcher’s voice called down softly. “The way is clear.” So they set out again—climbing, this time; the floor sloped up sharply. Moreover, it was very rough; Dirk stumbled a few times, and he had quite a job keeping Gar from falling. The passage turned as they climbed in a long, shallow spiral. Then the light brightened, and the passage widened, its far wall washed with gloomy twilight. Dirk suddenly realized what a great defensive position this was; a single man could hold it against an army—while he lasted. Somehow, he suspected it wasn’t entirely coincidence. He stepped up behind Hugh and turned the corner.

They came out into a sort of natural gallery—a broad, shallow cave, hung with stalactites. Off to the right, a broad limestone arch admitted a startling shaft of sunlight that charged the walls with a glory of rainbow coruscations. Dirk stopped dead, involuntarily catching his breath. “On, on!” Madelon urged behind him. Dirk frowned—there was too much eagerness in her voice—and Father Fletcher stood beside the limestone arch, beckoning, his eyes alight with something like triumph.

Hugh crossed to him, his steps quick. Dirk followed, with reluctance. He turned to look through the arch …

It was a natural cathedral, a vast semicircular cavern, its ceiling lost in shadows, its walls of sunlight lanced in from fissures high on the walls, meeting in a pool of light in the center of the chamber.

In that pool lay the bones of a man.

He lay on a huge stone bier, a great roughly-dressed slab of granite three feet high and eight long. The skeleton seemed almost as large as its bed. He’d been a giant of a man—seven feet tall, or nearly, and three feet across the shoulders. But he had been laid low. The left side of the skull was crushed in, the rib cage was shattered; the pelvis was cracked across, and each of the long bones of arms and legs had been broken at least twice. It was brown and crusted with age.

Beside it lay an eight-foot quarterstaff, three inches thick and bound with brass at the tips, and again where a man that size would naturally place his hands. It was broken in half; the cracked ends lay several inches apart.

Dirk stood staring, awed by the solemn, serene, natural beauty of the cavern.

Then, slowly, he moved forward, tugging at Gar’s hand. The giant shambled after him. Madelon came forward past him, to kneel at the foot of the bier. One by one, the outlaws followed her; even Father Fletcher came to kneel.

Dirk came up behind Madelon, to stand brooding down, beginning to understand what he was up against. Superstition was one thing; but when it assumed the proportions of a religion, it was well-nigh unbeatable.

Madelon looked up slowly, her face grave. “You wished to find our leader. Here he lies.”

Dirk stood looking down at her; then he closed his eyes and turned away.

“I guess your thoughts,” Father Fletcher said softly behind him. “Be assured—this is DeCade. That word has come down to us from those who laid him here. Then, too, who else would be so great, with each bone of his body broken? And who else could he by that staff?”

Dirk let that sink in a moment; then he turned thoughtfully to look at the staff. It was truly a staff for a giant. The brass bands that must have served as handholds were seven inches wide. Dirk’s brows knit. That was strange—metal handholds wouldn’t provide much friction. And the broken ends. Dirk knelt down, to take a closer look. There were little bits of something gleaming in there. He reached out a finger …

“Death!” Hugh swore, catching his arm, and Father Fletcher seconded him. “There is a curse on that staff, friend Dulain.”

Dirk lifted his head and turned to look straight into the priest’s eyes. “I don’t … believe … in curses.”

“Believe in this one,” the priest advised. “He who tries to bear DeCade’s staff—he who seeks to join those broken halves—will die.” He raised a hand to forestall Dirk’s retort. “This is no idle threat, my friend. It has happened three times over the centuries. Three times, men who have thought they were worthy to take up DeCade’s staff and lead us, have tried; and three times, lightning has struck them down where they stood.”

Dirk started a sarcastic reply, but somehow it got caught.

“It is death,” Hugh agreed, scowling.

And Dirk remembered that, even if he didn’t believe in curses, these people did. If he wanted to stay on good terms with them, he’d have to observe their taboos. His mouth drew into a thin, straight line; he closed his eyes, nodding. “Don’t worry. I won’t touch it.”

Then he bent over, to peer more closely at the ragged ends of the staff. A tiny glint of gold; another, and another … He peered into the other broken end, saw similar metallic glints, spaced equally around the circumference, and a larger one in the center. He nodded thoughtfully. Electrical contacts, probably for molecular circuits … No, they hadn’t had those five hundred years ago, but they’d had integrated circuits, and, as he remembered, they’d even then managed them on a microscopic scale. Three inches thick, eight feet long … Yes, you could pack a whale of a lot of circuitry in. that volume—enough for a computer. Not a very intelligent one, but still … Yes, DeCade’s staff had been powerful medicine once. Very powerful.

And—suddenly—he believed in the curse. Capacitors could be pretty small, too; and so could atomic batteries. Put the wrong contact together, and … He stood up with a shudder. “Don’t worry, Father. I’ll leave that thing alone.”

The priest breathed a huge sigh of relief. “I am very glad to hear it, my friend; for you must stay here, you and Madelon and your great friend, until Lord Core and his troops have ridden far by.”

Dirk frowned. “Won’t we all?”

Hugh stood, shaking his head. “We have come only to kneel in DeCade’s presence, to refresh ourselves and renew our resolve. Now we must return below to watch, so that if the hunters come too near, we can strike out across open ground and lead them away from this place.”

“But if you do, they’ll catch you.”

Hugh looked hard into his eyes. “They must not find this place, friend Dulain. If we die, then we die.”

Dirk stared. Then he shook himself out of it. “Then why shouldn’t Gar and I die with you? We’re the ones they’re looking for.”

Hugh held his gaze. “I am not entirely a fool, friend Dulain. Of the two of us, I know which can be replaced by any man, and which cannot.”

He held Dirk’s eyes a moment longer; then he turned and marched out, his outlaws behind him. Father Fletcher lingered. “I will go down with them and return to tell you when the way is clear. Do you care for the giant, your friend.” Then he turned away through the stone arch, and was gone. Dirk looked after him a moment, then found a handy boulder and sat down with a sigh, letting the worries roll off him. He looked up at Gar, where the giant sat not far from the bier, staring at the skeleton with unseeing eyes. Walls filled with the echoes of torment had driven his mind into hiding. Dirk wondered what echoes these walls contained. A rustle of cloth, and Dirk looked up to see Madelon sitting gracefully beside him.

“Yes,” she murmured, watching Gar. “It tears at your heart, does it not? A man so full of life, so proud and so vigorous, turned to less than a babe in a single night.”

A stab of guilt lanced Dirk; he hadn’t been brooding over that one at all. “It almost seems he should’ve died. It might’ve been kinder.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, nodding, and clasped his hand. Dirk felt a hot sizzle of jealousy, and wondered just how much feeling she had had for the big man.

She looked up at him. “How did it come about?”

Dirk’s mouth twisted as though he’d tasted aloes. “It’s an ugly story …” Then he looked fully at Gar, and broke off, grabbing her hand.

She turned and looked, frowning; then she stared, too. Gar had picked up a pebble, was holding it a foot from his face, staring at it. As they watched, he replaced it, slowly and methodically, and selected another.

“Can his mind be returning?” she breathed. Dirk nodded slowly. “I think it is.” He turned to her, smiling. “It’s the peace of this place; it’s never known anything but reverent thoughts.”

“Thoughts?” She frowned, puzzled. “What has that to do with his madness?”

“I think he’s a psychometrist,” Dirk said slowly. “He hears the thoughts stored in the walls of a room, the feelings of the people who’ve been there, all the people who’ve ever been there. And, if you put a man like that in a Bedlam, where there’ve never been anything but feelings of rage, despair, terror, and confusion—”

“Why, most surely he would go mad!” she breathed, staring into his eyes; and he saw the horror coming up in hers.

“Not a madness of terror,” he explained quickly. “I think it’s more that his mind has retreated, backed off into a corner of his brain, and walled it off to protect himself until he’s in a more livable environment.”

“Why, yes.” Her eyes widened in wonder. “And he is in such a place now, is he not? A place of peace, where generations of churls have come to pay homage…”

Dirk nodded. “The peace and reverence of the place are drawing him out.” He looked back at Gar over his shoulder; the big man had leaned forward to lay his hand on a giant quartz crystal.

Dirk slammed a fist into his palm. “But, damn it! I should’ve seen it coming! I had a dozen leads—how he managed to find me in the first place, how the questions he asked dovetailed with what I was thinking at the time, how quickly he picked up the prisoners’ customs in the arena, how easily he was able to fit into their attitudes in just a few days, to the point where they chose him leader! That should’ve told me he was a telepath, at least—and I should’ve realized what would happen to him in a Bedlam!”

“No man could have foreseen that much.” Dirk looked up, startled by the warmth and gentleness of her voice. Her eyes were filled with tears, but her face had a look of tenderness that almost shocked him, and took his breath away by the extraordinary beauty it gave her. “Do not blame yourself,” she murmured. “No man could have foreseen it, and even if you had, there was nothing you could have done. This is not your burden; do not borrow it.”

He stared into her eyes for a long, long moment; then, slowly, he leaned forward, and took her lips within his own in a long, full kiss. He closed his eyes, blocked out the light; there was nothing except the touch of her lips under his, their thawing, responding, beginning to demand, craving, full and moist, parted …

Suddenly her lips were gone; he heard her scream, “No!” His head snapped up, eyes wide open.

He saw Gar on his knees by the skeleton, the two halves of the broken staff in his hands, scowling intently as he tried to bring them together, like a child with a puzzle.

“Stop!” Madelon screamed again, and Dirk broke into a scrambling run, throwing himself across the chamber, remembering just how much power a few grams of uranium could put out …

With ponderous precision, Gar brought the two jagged ends together.

Thunder crashed and white-hot light seared the cavern, picking the giant up like a twig and slamming him into the wall.

Then the cavern was dim and silent again, with the memory of thunder fading, and a crumpled heap at the base of a wall, lying very still.

Madelon gave a sobbing gasp and ran to kneel by Gar, chafing his wrists and moaning. Dirk came up behind her and stood looking down, his face a mask, sour guilt rising up to block his throat. Again, he should have seen it coming. For a few minutes, he hadn’t watched—only a few minutes—but that had been all it took.

“He lives,” Madelon said fiercely, “but for how long, I cannot tell.”

“Of course he’s alive.” Dirk was surprised at the lack of emotion in his own voice. “The current—the lightning—didn’t touch him. It just knocked him off his feet.” He scowled at Gar’s hands, still clasped around the huge brass bands. Then he saw the center of the staff, saw it was whole; he couldn’t even see where the break had been. And suddenly he wasn’t so sure about Gar’s health. If those brass bands were connected to the circuitry … He looked back up at Gar’s face—and froze, galvanized.

Gar was watching him.

Dirk’s hand closed on Madelon’s shoulder like a vise. She looked up at Gar—and gasped.

The big man’s face was contracted, frowning, squinting against pain, but studying Dirk through it, as though trying to decide whether he were a locust or a ladybug.

Alarm clanged in Dirk’s head, bracing him for defense. Then he frowned, remembering the big man was his friend. If he had his wits back, so much the better… Wasn’t it?

“You are alive.” Madelon breathed the words, unbelieving. “You are the only man ever to take up DeCade’s staff and live!”

Gar transferred his gaze to her. His mouth tightened into a scornful smile. “Small wonder.” Dirk stiffened; it wasn’t Gar’s voice. It was deeper and somehow harsher.

“In truth, no wonder at all,” the strange voice went on. “For I am DeCade.”