A Wizard in Bedlam

CHAPTER 11

Dirk stood like brass, adrenaline shooting through him. Chaotic images whirled through his mind, ragtag bits of memory; and, with a creeping sense of doom, he began to suspect what had happened.

The giant squeezed his eyes shut, pressing a hand to his head. “My head aches as though a thousand miners were swinging their picks inside it!” He glared up at Dirk, then suddenly heaved himself to his feet. He lurched forward, swaying, propped himself with his staff, glaring down at Dirk. The glare turned to a puzzled frown. “I’ve a memory … that you are my friend. Or have done me a friend’s services, at least.” He turned to Madelon, who knelt transfixed, staring up at him, lips parted. “And you also,” the strange voice rumbled. DeCade closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his head again. “So many memories … that I knew nothing of. Of a life beyond the sky, on a strange world … So many worlds, swarming through the night sky …” His eyes snapped open, glaring at Dirk. “This body was a lord!”

Suddenly Dirk was on his guard. It was all gibberish, but things had a terrifying feeling of making sense, somewhere underneath it all. He’d better move slowly, and with all due caution—or undue, for that matter. “He was not a lord of this world. And do you not also remember that he came here to help us overthrow the Lords?”

It had to be the clearest case of megalomania he’d ever seen. Either that, or …

Gar/DeCade frowned, fingertips pressing his temples. “I … do remember … something of the sort …”

“Then you must also remember that he has already struck one blow against the Lords,” Dirk said quickly, “and lost his mind because of it.”

The giant nodded painfully, wincing at the fire in his head. Dirk studied him carefully. The voice, the stance, the mannerisms—the whole personality had changed. If this was a split personality with some crazy sort of delusion of grandeur, it was an extremely thorough one. But it had to be that; he couldn’t really have become invested with DeCade’s personality.

Could he?

“He is DeCade,” Madelon whispered, her voice trembling, scarcely daring to believe. Then her face lit up with triumph and joy. “He is DeCade—and he has come back, as the Wizard foretold!”

“The Wizard …” Something connected in Dirk’s mind, the missing piece, and suddenly he believed, too. Completely. Implicitly. With reservations; but all in all, more thoroughly than Madelon did.

DeCade looked up and saw the huge skeleton on the bier. He stood a moment, staring; then he stalked over to it, a little unsteadily, and stood over it, leaning on his staff, staring down at the shattered bones. Then, slowly, he stretched out a finger, pointing to the crushed skull. “That I remember—but none of the rest.” A sardonic smile crept over his face. “Of course—they did it after I was dead.” He looked up at Dirk, suddenly grinning, like a hungry wolf. “Ah, how they must have hated me!” It was gloating, a war-chant glowing with the heat of revenge; and Dirk began to understand why Gar’s body had lived through it.

Father Fletcher burst into the chamber. “What was that thunderclap? It sounded like the crack of doom …” He broke off, staring at them. DeCade’s head swiveled, watching him. The priest fell to his knees. “Hail, Grandmaster DeCade!”

The big man smiled slowly-a grim twist of the lips. “ ‘Grandmaster’? I have not heard that title, but it would seem that you know me.”

The priest smiled, eyes glowing. “Who else could hold DeCade’s staff? Now I see the great kindness hidden in the cruelty, of depriving this poor fellow of his wits! It was to empty his mind, that it might be ready to house DeCade! To him the honor, to him the praise!”

Dirk looked up, startled. Was that just a lucky guess, based on metaphor and symbolism? Or did the priest know a little more about psis and technology than he’d let on?

DeCade turned to him with a look of skepticism. “ ‘Kindness in cruelty…’ Pretty words that ring hollow. I do not trust that kind of thought; eelwriggling, they call it.” He turned back to the priest, his tone heavy with irony. “As to the ‘honor’ of his housing me, I have some doubt. I can only hope it will not prove ill for this poor fellow.”

“They’ve gone by, Father!” Hugh swaggered in, with his men, grinning. “They’re a half-mile away, and no sign of—” He broke off, staring at the giant.

DeCade lifted his head with a curled smile. Hugh fell to the floor on one knee. “Hail, Grandmaster DeCade!” His men followed his example, but only stared, dumbfounded.

DeCade stood looking at him a moment, then smiled, amused, at Dirk. “It seems to be catching.” And, to Hugh: “Rise, man. Rise, all of you! You must be done with one man kneeling to another!” He riveted his gaze on Hugh, half-amused. “You know me, eh?”

Hugh scrambled to his feet. “You are DeCade, returned to us as the Wizard foretold!”

DeCade nodded heavily, still half-smiling. “And who are you?”

Hugh squared his shoulders proudly. “I am Hugh, a captain of the forest outlaws, Grandmaster.”

“Be done with that title; I like it not,” DeCade said sharply. “I am DeCade—nothing more.” He lapsed into silence, eyes boring into Hugh. When he spoke, Dirk could hear the eagerness suppressed under his words. “You are chief of the forest men, then?”

“One of them, but our true chief is Lapin.” Hugh grinned. “We are waiting and eager to do your bidding, DeCade—armed, drilled, and primed, awaiting only your word.”

DeCade nodded slowly, thoughtfully, eyes glinting. He turned to Father Fletcher. “And you, Father?”

“I am only a poor hedge-priest, called Father Fletcher—and, of course, a courier between the outlaws and the Guildsmen. They, too, stand ready, DeCade. Ready, and biding in patience. If you say to do it, they shall raze the town.”

“No, I think I shall not ask it.” DeCade smiled. “We want something left when all this is past. And you, lady?”

“Madelon, DeCade. I carry word between the Guild and the country folk, and the girls in the brothels.”

“The country folk, yes.” DeCade’s head hadn’t moved, but Dirk could feel the sudden piercing intensity in his words. “At the last, it all depends on them—the Farmers on the land, for they are the overpowering weight. How stand these churls?”

“They are ready, DeCade—ready, and craving your word.”

Father Fletcher nodded. “Each courier knows his route; each churl has weapons buried away, wrapped in oiled cloth.”

DeCade nodded slowly, eyes burning. “It is with them that it rests… Ships!” He frowned suddenly. “The Wizard promised me those—mighty ships, tall towers falling down upon the land!”

“They are ready.” Dirk stepped forward, with an eldritch, unreal feeling prickling his skin. “They ride at your order, DeCade.”

Father Fletcher and Hugh stared at him, startled. With a wrench of irony, Dirk came back down to earth; “off-worlder” or no, they hadn’t quite realized he could bring down the Far Towers. “I am Dirk Dulain, DeCade. I speak for the sky-men.”

DeCade squinted in pain, pressing fingertips to his forehead. “Yes… I remember now; you had told … this body. They sent you to seek out the churl’s leader.”

Dirk nodded. “I have found him. Twenty tall tower-ships ride waiting behind the moon. At your word, they drop down, with fire-cannon ready.”

DeCade winced again. “Yes … ‘laser cannon’ is their true name. There is pain, in this mingling of memories…” His head came up sharply, eyes burning into Dirk. “And the firesticks, laser pistols? The Wizard promised those, too!”

Dirk nodded. “They are ready, hidden throughout the land. At your word, we unearth them, tell the churls where they are. And when the Towers drop down, they’ll bring more.”

DeCade nodded tightly, with a gleeful smile. “All is indeed ready, then. You have done well, very well. How long has this taken? How long have I slept?”

The cavern was still. Then. “Five hundred years,” Madelon murmured.

For a moment, DeCade blanched. Then he began to smile again, with building warmth. “Aye, so the Wizard told me; he warned it might be centuries. But it is worth it, after all; and things could not have changed so much that I cannot hold to his plan. No, they could not change much. Not in Mélange.”

“Scarcely at all,” Dirk grunted. He’d seen the records. “If ever there was a fossilized culture, this is it. The Lords are dinosaurs, and their Triassic is ending.”

DeCade nodded, gloating; then he threw back his shoulders, grinning like a wolf. “Send the word throughout the land: in five days, we ring the Bell! All is ready!”

“Well, not quite.” Dirk said it quickly, before the cheer could start.

DeCade turned to him, frowning. “What lacks?” Dirk hesitated, but his obstinate skepticism won out. “The Wizard. The prophecy said he’d come back, too.”

“But he has!” Madelon cried.

“Churls have seen him!” Hugh bellowed. “The word runs abroad!”

“Only rumors.” But a strange dread trickled down Dirk’s spine, because DeCade was just leaning on his staff, watching him, amused. He waited for the shouting to die, then said quietly, “Only that? Come, friend Dulain! He is here; this body remembers it. It has seen him.”

Dirk stared.

And before he could ask the next question, DeCade was striding toward the archway. “Come! Enough of skulking in hiding! Raise the cry!”

The whole crew fell in behind him with a shout of joy; what could Dirk do but follow?

As they stepped out into the sunlight, DeCade grinned back over his shoulder at Dirk. “You are worried; do not be. The same weakness that makes so many of our people go mad will give them victory. Your eyes shall see it: our madness is our strength.”

“Indeed it is,” said a coldly amused voice. DeCade wheeled about, and Dirk’s eyes snapped forward. A ring of steel-clad men encircled the mouth of the cave. In the center, a few paces in front of the others, stood Lord Core.

Hugh and his band streamed out behind DeCade and Dirk, joking and laughing. They looked forward and froze.

“What an elegant company you make,” Core murmured. “And so many of you decked in my livery, too. My faith! Quite a compliment!” He turned his eyes to DeCade. “I had some notion the truth in this tale of your madness was somewhat limited.”

DeCade’s lips curved into a sardonic smile. “So? And who do you think I am?”

Core frowned, faintly disturbed by the change in the giant’s manner. “You are the outworlder who called himself Magnus d’Armand; and the slight one beside you is your henchman.”

Dirk stiffened. Slight? Admittedly, he wasn’t exactly a wrestler, but still …

DeCade’s eyelids drooped sleepily. “Have you not gone to a great deal of trouble for two insignificant outworlders?”

Core’s face relaxed in a smile of contempt. “Come, sir! You know I cannot ignore any outworlder abroad in this society.”

“Am I so much a threat, then? Is your world so delicately balanced?”

Core’s face tightened as though he’d been slapped. He stepped forward. “Come, enough of this! You see I have the advantage of you ten times—a hundred of my iron Soldiers against poor ten of you. Surrender to me now, or meet your death—you and all your company, Magnus d’Armand.”

“Why, so I might,” DeCade said reasonably, “were I Magnus d’Armand still.”

Core’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? You have become someone else? Whom, may I inquire?”

“I am DeCade!” the giant thundered, and lashed out backhanded with the great staff.

But Core was quick; he skipped aside with the look of shock still on his face; the staff caught him only a glancing blow on the shoulder. He reached for his sword—and Dirk slammed into him and picked the Lord’s dagger-sheath as the trees rained outlaws and knives flashed in the sun. A score of Soldiers fell under the weight; knives probed chinks in armor, men screamed, and the outlaws rose alone.

Then the rest of the Soldiers wakened to what was happening. They turned on the outlaws, bellowing, and the clearing turned into a melee of single combats.

Dirk stepped back from Core just far enough to free his knife hand to thrust; but Core’s sword hissed out of its scabbard, turning Dirk’s blade and slashing out at him. Dirk leaped backward, sucking in his belly, and Core’s sword swung up to chop. It fell, and Dirk stepped back from the slash and tripped on a body. Core gave a shout of joy and wound up for another thrust; but Dirk balled his body up and uncoiled, feet-first, at Core’s chin. Core ducked and stepped back. Dirk landed on his feet and lashed out with a kick at the groin; Core fell back again, staying two inches clear of the kick; then he slashed while Dirk was recovering. Dirk screamed as the blade sliced his calf, and fell. He flipped over onto his back just in time to see Core, mouth wide in a caw of triumph, coming straight down at him, the tip of his blade aimed straight for Dirk’s eyes. He snapped his head to the side, and the blade slit his ear. Dirk bellowed with pain, throwing himself over to seize Core’s hand before the Lord could recover. Core’s lips writhed back from his teeth in a snarl. He threw himself backward, trying to break free.

Dirk let go.

Core shot back and away, stumbled, and flipped down on his back. Dirk rolled to his knees, unsure of the cut leg, and gathered himself to spring. Core rolled up to his knees, and Dirk leaped, pushing hard with the good leg. Core threw himself to the side, and Dirk went sprawling on his face. He heard Core laugh, and flipped onto his back just in time to see the sword slashing down at his eyes. Frantically, he threw up his arms—and caught Core’s wrist with his left hand. By pure reflex, he lashed out with his right, catching Core on the point of the jaw. The Lord lurched back, and Dirk rolled away, up onto his knees again—in time to see Core, recovered and on his feet, slashing down.

A quarterstaff whirled down between them, cracking the sword blade in half and slamming the hilt into Core’s chest. The Lord shot back, mouth gaping, and Dirk clambered to his feet carefully, testing his leg, as DeCade stalked after the Lord, murder in his eyes.

Core stumbled back, turning, caught half a breath, and broke into a stumbling run.

DeCade leaped after him.

A panicked horse fled toward them, screaming. Core leaped for his life as it passed, caught the saddle bow, and swung aboard, reeling. DeCade bellowed and leaped into the horse’s path, quarterstaff swinging like a poleaxe; but Core sawed back on the reins, and the horse reared, screaming in agony. DeCade’s staff whined past its belly. Core yanked at the reins; the horse swung about, came down headed toward the trees. Core shouted and kicked its ribs, hard, and the horse took off like a cannonball, slamming through the ranks of the outlaws, and disappeared into the trees.

Dirk stood staring after him, hearing the horse’s crashing progress fading into the distance. His eyes glazed, and he turned away with the sunken feeling of defeat inside him.

“Fools!” DeCade bellowed. Dirk’s head snapped up.

The clearing was still, filled with windrows of dead Soldiers and outlaws. In the center, thigh-deep in corpses, DeCade bellowed in rage, slashing about him with his staff. “Idiots! Blockheads! Traitorous dogs! You let him escape!”

The outlaws slipped back out of his reach with battle-wariness, their faces blanched with the deepest religious fear, trembling at the wrath of their saint, not understanding.

“Spawn of jackals!” DeCade screamed and leaped at Hugh, his staff whirling. Hugh danced aside. Lapin loomed up with elephantine majesty, her face somber.

DeCade froze, staring down at the huge woman who blocked him from his quarry. His face tightened in a quick stab of pain. He said slowly; “I know you. You are chief of these outlaws.”

“I am.” Slowly and with great difficulty, Lapin wallowed down to one knee and bent her head. “I honor you, Grandmaster.” Then her head rose again. “But why do you curse us? If we have sinned against you, surely our offense was not so great that you should be so much enraged. What hurt have we done? We came, unbidden, to give timely rescue to you and your band. All your enemies we have slain, save this one; and are we so much to blame if we have let one mere man escape?”

“But—you—have—let—one—man—escape!” DeCade grated. “And that man was a Lord!” His voice rose; he moved back into the center of the clearing, raking them all with his eyes. “Fools! Do you not see? He will ride faster than we can follow, to Albemarle! By dawn he shall bear, word to the King that I live again, that the peasants will rise—and the King will send word to all his Lords—he has magic means for it, let me assure you! When our churls rise with swords, they shall find armies against them, with fire-cannon!” His staff rose above his head, and his voice rose with it, toward a scream, trembling. “I shall not be cheated! I have waited too long in the shadows for this time! I shall not see this world lost again! And there is no way to prevent it!”

His shriek pierced their ears; the outlaws winced and hid their faces.

Dirk stared at DeCade’s eyes. There was madness creeping up there; DeCade was going insane! “Can you ring the Bell before morning and make it heard throughout this land?” DeCade screeched. “No, nor can I! You have let one Lord escape, and for that, our cause is lost! But if I cannot kill them …”

“DeCade!” Dirk’s voice cracked like a gunshot. The giant froze. Then his head swung slowly toward Dirk, like a hawk picking a sparrow out of the flock.

Dirk stepped forward, limping but briskly, to hide the weakness in his knees. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he knew he had to snap the giant out of it. He saw the blood-lust come into the man’s eyes, saw the huge staff swing up, twirling … and Dirk remembered what he was here for. “Ring your Bell! I can make it heard by all churls, before dawn!”

DeCade froze.

Every eye in the clearing fastened on Dirk. DeCade stood like stone, poised to strike, madness still in his eyes.

Dirk stood firm, staring back at him.

Slowly, the fog in DeCade’s eyes seemed to clear a little. His voice was low and ominous. “Tell me how you can do this.”

“There are wires woven through my belt,” Dirk said, fingering the rope around his waist. “Each is a series of circuits, and the frayed ends act as a diaphragm—No matter. It is magic and will send your words up to the Wizard’s Far Towers, where they ride behind the moon. They shall send your words back here, to sky-men like me, in hiding all across the land. They shall bear your word to the churls and dig up the lasers. Give me the word you wish carried, and the country shall rise before Core reaches Albemarle.”

DeCade stood staring at him.

Then the huge staff flipped spinning up into the air, and DeCade split the clearing with a huge, savage yell. The staff spun down at his head; he reached up and caught it and whirled it about. “Our day is saved! We shall yet bring down the Lords! Great thanks, goodmen and goodwives all! Noble outlaws!” He leaped forward, caught Lapin and Hugh by the arms, yanked them back into the center of the clearing. “Great leaders! May all the saints who smile upon bondsmen bless you this day, you who have brought me awake, aye, cared for and nurtured the man who was to be my body, and saved us all from the jaws of the Lords! Your names shall be written in fire, to burn down the ages in glory! Outlaws, remember this hour! That your children, and your children’s children, down to the twentieth generation may say, ‘My ancestor was there when DeCade awoke and called down havoc upon the Lords!”

He let go of Hugh and Lapin and leaped back, whirling his staff over his head again. “Now, ring the Bell!”

The outlaws cheered, yelled themselves hoarse. In the middle of the clamor, Dirk dropped down to sit cross-legged on the ground. He untied his belt, handed one end to the nearest outlaw. “Here! Hold it tight!” He rubbed his palm over the frayed ropeend, flattening it out into a diaphragm. Then he pulled the large garnet from his ring and stretched out the long, thin coiled wire beneath it. The stone was shaped like a button earphone; he pressed it into his ear. The belt acted as microphone, transmitter, and antenna; the ring acted as receiver, the garnet as earphone, and the wire connecting them doubled as receiving antenna.

Dirk spoke into the rope-end, feeling like half a fool. “Dulain to Clarion! Come in, Clarion!” He repeated the message while the clamor in the clearing died, until he heard a rich, resonant voice in his ear. “Clarion to Dulain. Receiving, Proceed.”

“Holding for instruction.” Dirk looked up at the outlaw. “Summon DeCade.”

The outlaw scowled at the “summon” part, but he turned, waved his free arm. Across the clearing, the giant caught the movement; he frowned and came stalking over to Dirk. “What means this? If you cannot—”

“I must have the words you wish sounded across the kingdom,” Dirk interrupted sharply. “The exact words, to be sure I make no mistake.”

DeCade shrugged impatiently. “ ‘DeCade has rungen the Bell. Bring down your Lords at dawn; then send men to Albemarle.’ ”

Dirk stared.

Then he cocked his head to the side. “Just like that, huh?”

“Aye. What of it?”

“Been thinking it over, have you?”

DeCade gave him a sardonic smile. “Several hundred years, these people tell me.”

Dirk thought that one over a second, then nodded and turned back to the rope-end. “Uh-huh. Right … Dulain to Clarion. Copy and retransmit to all agents—General Call, Emergency/Red Alert: ‘DeCade has rungen the Bell. Bring down your Lords at dawn; then send men to Albemarle.’ ”

There was no reply. Dirk frowned, listening closely. No, there was ambient sound; the connection hadn’t been broken. “Clarion—come in!”

“Copied.” The voice on the other end was strained, almost unbelieving. Then the operator cleared his throat, got his voice back to business. “Hold please, Dulain.”

Dirk frowned, pressing the garnet into his ear. What was the matter?

“What moves?” DeCade growled.

“I don’t think they can believe it’s finally happening.”

“Copied, Dulain; will execute.” Dirk stiffened; it was the Captain’s voice. “What else, Dulain?”

“Uh-hold for instruction.” Dirk looked up at DeCade. “When and where do you want the Far Towers to fall?”

DeCade’s face went blank; then he frowned in thought. “They bear arms, you said?”

Dirk nodded.

“What quantity on each ship?”

“A thousand rifles and ten laser-cannon. That’s portable, for the churls; the ships themselves each mount four cannon and a hundred bombs.”

DeCade’s face tightened as he consulted Gar’s memories; Dirk wondered if he was getting used to the pain. DeCade nodded slowly, still thinking. “How many ships?”

“Twenty-one—one for each province, and two for Albemarle. Believe me, that’ll be enough.” DeCade stared down at him for a long moment. Then he said, “You have your own battle plan.” Dirk nodded. “You want it in detail?” DeCade grimaced in disgust. “Credit me with some sense, Dulain. Do as you have planned; I doubt not your strategy stems from the Wizard, as does mine; they should mesh. As to time, bring them at dawn; let all move at once.”

“We can raise the land by midnight,” Dirk suggested.

DeCade stared.

Then he scowled. “Why did you not say so sooner? If you can … are you certain?”

Dirk nodded emphatically.

“Then do, by all that is holy! Let all move at midnight; so much more will the Lords be taken unaware! Bring the ships down then, save for the two over Albemarle. Let them ride unseen till I call them!”

Dirk nodded, turning back to the mike with a gloating smile. “Amend previous message: have churls bring down Lords at midnight. Bring ships down then, too, except for the two over Albemarle.”

“Copied. Anything else, Dulain?”

Dirk looked up at DeCade. “Anything more?” DeCade shook his head, his eyes glinting. Dirk turned back to the mike. “No more, Captain.”

“Copied and over.” The Captain’s voice suddenly turned warm, exuberant. “Well done, Dulain! If we had medals, you’d get one! How did you ever find the leader?”

Dirk started to answer, then caught himself short. “Uh … I couldn’t,” he said slowly, “so I made one.” And, before the Captain could say anything, “End contact.”