A Wizard in Bedlam

CHAPTER 15

Dirk turned slowly, frowning. The idiot King was huddled into a ball at the head of the bed, his beard filled with spittle, his lips flecked with foam. His eyes were blank with terror. Disgust welled up in Dirk—and the beginning of a vast guilt.

“There is no time for pity,” DeCade rumbled. “They fight in the courtyard below. Quickly! Take this poor hunk of flesh; bind his arms and bring him with us.”

The idiot huddled himself tighter against the headboard, hands in his mouth, mewling.

Dirk frowned. “Why? Can’t we leave the poor thing alone?”

DeCade shook his head. “Idiot he may be, but he is nonetheless King. Do you not know what kings are, Outworlder? They are symbols, most powerful ones. Show a symbol in chains, and the men who fight for it fight as though they, too, were weighed down by chains.”

Dirk closed his eyes, nodding, and three outlaws laid hands on their King, to bind his arms and pull him to his feet. They handled him as gently as they could, Dirk noticed; he wondered whether it was from the dimmed aura of royalty that still clung to him, or from sympathy.

Then they were rushing down the hallway to keep up with DeCade’s long strides, half-carrying the poor idiot. As Dirk caught up with him, DeCade said over his shoulder, “Summon your ships. Tell them to land just outside the castle walls and fire a shot over the battlements.”

Dirk stared up at him in surprise. Then he shrugged and took off his rope belt. “It’s your party.” He contacted the ship and relayed the message. All the Captain said was, “Copied, and in execution. End contact.”

They strode on through hallways eerily deserted. “Did they leave none to guard their keep?” DeCade growled, glancing suspiciously from side to side.

“I don’t think they were planning on an inside job,” Dirk said dourly. “You must admit that the party you ordered for the front yard doesn’t exactly look like a diversion.”

Then they burst out onto a balcony, and Dirk stared down at the “party,” appalled, as the roar of battle struck him. The courtyard was one huge, clamoring, churning mass. It was steel and wooden clubs—nothing more—for the churls were so thoroughly intermingled with Lords that no one dared fire a laser, for fear of hitting a friend. Steel rang and clattered below; steel hewed heads and drank blood. Steel would decide the night.

And the Lords had been trained to the sword from their cradles. The courtyard was clogged with dead bodies, among whom the Lords were not fairly represented.

But still the churls pressed in through the gate, every man eager for his chance at his persecutors. It was steel against masses of flesh, swords against numbers; and Dirk saw clearly that the numbers would weigh down the swords and grind them into the earth—but only at an unbelievable cost. The churls would win the land they tilled, but they would pay with seas of blood.

Beside him, DeCade called, “They must be silenced long enough to hear my voice. Where are your ships?”

Dirk searched the skies, craning his neck. Then he saw it—a star that moved. “There!” He grasped DeCade’s head, to sight along his pointing arm. “One mass diversion coming up—or down, as the case may be.”

The star separated into two; both grew, swelling into planets, then moons; and, faintly over the roar of battle, Dirk began to hear a mutter. It grew to a bellow as the two moons swelled up and stretched out into tall, pointed flareships, dropping down at them on cushions of flame. Thunder shook the whole castle as two huge, bright towers fell out of the sky, screaming and howling. Then at last, every man in the courtyard froze, staring up in terror at the huge fiery mouths that spewed down toward them. Dirk saw men cower, saw lips stretched wide in shrieks. But all he could hear was the thunder that filled the world.

At the last moment, the two towers seemed to veer to the sides as they shot down outside the castle walls, tall, bright turrets stretching up above the top of the keep. Still the thunder bellowed. Then the engines cut out, and silence struck the courtyard like a physical blow.

Then a double thunderclap split the night as two huge white balls of flame exploded above the courtyard from the ship’s guns. A vast, raw scream of fear raked up from the packed mass of men, and a cleared circle appeared magically in the center of the court as Lords and churls alike jammed back frantically toward the walls, clambering over their fellows to get away from the juggernaut that must surely fall on them.

Dirk took a long, deep breath. It was definitely a most glorious way of stopping a battle.

Then he realized that it wasn’t. The Lords knew what spaceships were; they would come out of it quickly, and turn to slaughter dazed churls.

Just then, DeCade’s voice roared in his ear, filling the courtyard: “Behold your King!”

Every head in the courtyard swung about, staring. DeCade gestured, and two outlaws swung the idiot King high for all eyes to see. He screamed and struggled, kicking wildly, trying to break free, then went limp, sobbing in terror. Looking down, Dirk saw all the Lord’s faces loosen, saw the certainty of doom settle over them.

With one ragged voice, the churls cheered; and Dirk saw the Lords’ faces hardening again, in despair.

Thunder split the night again; a searing white fireball exploded, chopping a watchtower off the battlements.

Silence held the night again; and the look of doom came back to the Lords’ faces, as they realized how high above them the gun turrets stood, how easily they could fire down on them.

Then one of the tall towers spoke, in a booming, gargantuan voice. “At your pleasure, Grandmaster DeCade! What would you have us do?”

DeCade glared down at the packed Lords, waiting, and Dirk saw understanding begin in their eyes. DeCade saw it, too. Only then did he speak, in a voice that carried to every inch of the yard: “If these Lords do not do as I command—burn out this courtyard!”

The churl’s eyes stretched wide in disbelief, but the Lords looked on DeCade’s set, granite face and knew he was as good as his threat.

After a long, deathly pause, the great ship spoke again, in a voice weary with resignation: “As you command, Grandmaster DeCade. ”

And now, at last, Dirk saw naked fear on the Lords’ faces.

Almost quietly, DeCade commanded, “Milords—throw down your swords, and step to the center of the yard, with your hands on your heads.”

An awed mutter passed through the churls, growing, gaining glee.

DeCade chopped it off. “If any churl touches a Lord who has laid down his sword, I will kill him!”

The churls were silent, shrinking back in superstitious terror.

DeCade surveyed them, and nodded. “At your pleasure, milords—now!”

Silence held the courtyard a moment longer. Dirk felt as though he were standing on the edge of a razor blade.

Then a sword rang on the cobbles, and a Lord stepped into the center of the courtyard, his hands on his head. There was a moment of waiting. Then another sword clattered down, then another and another, till the air was filled with the clatter of steel, and the Lords filed into the center of the yard, their hands clasped on their heads, sick despair on their faces. The churls pressed back, leaving room for them, eyeing the stony figure of DeCade nervously, till the center of the yard was packed with an unmoving mass of Lords, ringed in by bright steel.

A tall, broad-shouldered Tradesman elbowed his way through to stand under the balcony. Hugh. “They are all there, DeCade. No Lord remains living outside this circle.”

DeCade nodded slowly. “Take them into the great hall, and set a strong guard upon them—beginning with these.” He nodded to the ten outlaws behind him, then turned to the two who held the King. “Take him in with his fellows—and make certain none harm him.”

The outlaws nodded, almost genuflecting, their faces filled with awe, and turned away to find their way back through the castle to the great hall.

Below, Hugh was mustering his most trusted men with harsh, barking shouts. They formed two files, clearing a path between the packed Lords and the door of the keep. Then, one by one, the Lords began the long march down that gamut of churls to the keep, their backs prickling with the expectation of a sudden laser shot—but not a man touched them.

Peaceably, and in good order, the defeated Lords filed back into the King’s castle.

Then, finally, DeCade’s whole body seemed to loosen. He bowed his head, gave a long hissing sigh, and collapsed.

Dirk dropped to one knee beside the fallen giant, panic clawing at his throat. DeCade lay slumped against the wall, mouth slack, eyes closed. Dirk slapped his face lightly, quickly. “Come out of it, man! It’s all over; you won! Come on, wake up!”

DeCade’s eyes opened, staring up at Dirk—and right on through him. Suddenly his whole body stiffened, rigid as a board, muscle straining against muscle, as DeCade swung his staff high in both hands and brought it crashing down across his knee.

The broken halves of the staff fell clattering to the paving stones. The huge body relaxed, and the giant leaned forward, resting his head in his hands.

Dirk hovered over him, almost frantic, not knowing what to do. Finally he grasped the man’s shoulder, and shook him. “What’s the matter? What happened? Are you okay now? Wake up—you won!”

Slowly, then, the huge head rolled to the side, looking up at him with a queer, sad smile. “Yes, I won—but I’ve lost, too.”

Dirk looked into his eyes and felt a ghostly wind pass through him, chilling him to the marrow.

The arrogance was substantially lessened, and the eyes were no longer compelling. And the voice wasn’t as deep and harsh any more.

Dirk nodded slowly. “Welcome back, Gar.”