A Wizard in Bedlam

CHAPTER 2

They came to the village just before sunrise. Dirk stopped, the life draining out of his face, looking about him with bleak, starved eyes.

Gar frowned down at him. “What’s the matter?”

“It always hits me like this,” Dirk muttered, “coming into one of these villages after I’ve been away a year. It’s almost déjá vu, it’s so much like the place I grew up. As though I’ve been here before and it’s home—but it’s not, it can’t ever be. I don’t belong here anymore…”

He caught himself, realized he’d been spilling his guts to a total stranger, and one he didn’t particularly trust. “Come on, let’s get moving,” he snarled. “We’ve got to get undercover fast.”

Gar frowned after him, then shrugged and strode fast to catch up. After putting on his clothes, he was dressed in the same fashion as Dirk. It was gentleman’s clothing—their only possible cover—for only gentlemen could travel from village to village at will. Only gentlemen, or Lords—but they all knew each other and would be quick to spot a ringer.

They ambled down the village street, Gar trying to keep from staring at the villagers—the broad, squat men with broad, round faces, brown eyes, snub noses, and ball chins; and the women, almost as broad, with ample bosoms and hips, their faces similar to the men’s but a little finer-boned. They were all dressed alike; the men in red or green jerkins and ocher hose, the women in blue or yellow homespun with red aprons. Occasionally a taller man walked by, with huge, muscular shoulders and arms, long-fingered hands, and a square face with a broad forehead and high cheekbones; but they were few.

The houses were like their owners—low, broad, and round, with thatched roofs and mud-and-wattle walls, painted in pinks, pale blues, mint-greens.

“They still look so much alike,” Gar muttered.

“Huh?” Dirk came out of a brown study, frowning. “What do you mean, ‘still’?”

“Well, I’ve been here a month. By now I should be seeing individual differences.”

Dirk smiled bleakly. “Not really.”

Gar turned to him, frowning. “Why? How long will it take?”

“Your whole life,” Dirt said sourly, “and even then you’d make mistakes. It’s not just a matter of their all looking alike to you simply because you’re from off-planet.”

Gar scowled. “What else could it be?”

“That they do all look alike,” Dirk said sweetly. “I told you about the inbreeding, didn’t I?”

Gar stopped and stood, glowering down. “No, as a matter of fact. You didn’t. Don’t you have any taboos against incest?”

“Yes, a very elaborate set. But they don’t help much if you’ve all got the same genes to begin with.”

“That’s impossible,” Gar said flatly.

Dirk shook his head. “Not if you have a small enough gene-pool.”

“That small a gene-pool couldn’t survive. Not just genetically—the original colony on this planet wouldn’t’ve had enough people to build a self-sustaining society.”

“Nevertheless, it happened.” Dirk turned to look around the village. “Look it up in the official records—that’s what we had to do, those of us who escaped off-planet. You see, we didn’t know our own history—the Lords were very careful about that.”

Gar cocked his head to the side. “All right, I’ll give you the straight line—what did the records say?”

“The original ship …”

“Ship?” Gar was restrained—only a little skepticism. “One ship, for a whole colony?”

“Only one,” Dirk confirmed. “You see, our lords and masters, in their infinite wisdom, decided not to take along any spare baggage, such as people who might not agree with them; so that one ship was limited to a very exclusive set of people who were sick and tired of not being able to have things their own way. About two thousand of them—at least, the record said six hundred families. Plus, of course; enough sperm and ova on ice to guard against too much inbreeding.”

“Of course,” Gar murmured. “And the churls? Two thousand is a full shipload—or was, a few centuries ago. Figure a hundred farmers to support each Lord—”

“Two hundred,” Dirk interrupted sweetly. “You forget such essentials as butlers, cooks, maids, hostlers, and barbers.”

Gar nodded. “About half a million.” Dirk shook his head. “Twelve.” Gar held still, staring at him.

Dirk turned away, looking out at the villagers. “Have you seen what these people bear on their backs, under their clothes? Have you ever seen one of them whipped?”

“I’ve seen it,” Gar grunted. “The capital letter ‘C’.”

Dirk nodded. “The brand of slavery. They’re branded with it when they reach puberty—you might call it our rite of passage, not that we chose it …” He broke off, brooding. “Of course, I don’t have it. I escaped before then …”

He shook off the mood, looked up at Gar. “Do you know what the ‘C’ stands for?”

“Well …” Gar scowled. “ ‘Churl,’ I suppose. That’s the local term for the peasants, isn’t it?”

Dirk nodded. “It could stand for ‘churl.’ But it stands for something else, too—‘clone.’ ”

Gar stared down at him, appalled.

“Yes,” Dirk said softly, “that’s what they did. They brought twelve servants along, only twelve—how they conned them into it, heaven knows. As soon as they landed, they took bits of flesh from each of them, and made clones, then cloned the clones—hundreds of them, hundreds of thousands, until each Lord had as many servants and subjects as he wanted.” He stopped, took a long breath. “And that’s how my people came into being.”

Gar turned slowly, looking at the villagers. “No wonder you all look alike.”

“Yes, no wonder. Very efficient, isn’t it? You can tell a man’s place in life just by looking at him. The broad, stout ones are Farmers, like most of them here. The occasional tall one, with the muscles? He’s a Tradesman, a blacksmith or carpenter. They just drafted one man with a mechanical aptitude, and stamped out copies until they had enough to go around. Then there’re the Butler family, the Merchants, the Hostlers, the Soldiers, the Woodsmen, the Fishers—oh, and let’s not forget the ladies: the Cooks, the Maids, and the Housewives—and that’s it.” He gave Gar a saccharine smile. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Inhuman,” Gar growled.

Dirk nodded. “That, too.” He turned away, his eyes roaming the street. He stiffened. “Well, well, you get to meet another family—the Soldiers. Along with a genuine Gentleman, represented by the local Squire.”

Gar looked up.

Five men were trotting toward them on tall horses, four in steel caps and chain-mail jackets behind a short, slender man with wavy golden hair, dressed in pale-blue hose and a purple doublet.

“You might call him a hybrid,” Dirk said softly. “You might, if you wanted to be polite … You see, the Lords brought along all the best aspects of the Terran aristocratic culture—best for them, that is. Including the droit de seigneur, and the right to grab any churl woman and seduce her, or rape her if she’s not seduceable. Anytime they want. And the bastard offspring they call ‘Gentlemen,’ and make them knights and squires, to govern the villages.”

Gar nodded. “What do they call the bastards from a churl man and a lord’s woman?”

“Dead,” Dirk said, too brightly. “Her, too, usually.”

The Squire came up, and drew rein. His Soldiers did, too, but managed to let their horses wander a little, nicely surrounding the travelers.

Dirk watched them nonchalantly. Then he turned to the Squire. “Good day, Squire.”

“Good day,” the Squire replied pleasantly. “You seem wearied, Gentlemen. Has your journey been long?”

“Very.” Dirk wondered what the Squire would say if he knew just how long, then sobered as he realized the man might. “And wearying—we found no shelter this last night, and perforce kept walking till dawn.”

“A hard tale,” the Squire commiserated. “May I ask your profession, good sirs? What business is it brings ye abroad, on foot, in such unsettled times?”

Dirk noted the “unsettled times,” though he saw no sign of it in the quiet, well-ordered village. “We’re both younger sons.” He included Gar in a gesture. “Our Lord had no place for us, so we must perforce seek other positions. We’re bound for the King’s Town.”

He saw the Soldiers stiffen. What was happening at Albemarle?

“You have no employment, then?” The Squire hid his reaction much better than his Soldiers; he merely seemed wary.

“No,” Dirk said slowly. “We thought to seek places in the King’s Army.” He saw the Squire relax a little—but only a little.

The young man nodded. “Then of course, you’d be bound for the King’s Town …”

“Sir, your pardon,” said the sergeant suddenly, “but wasn’t there word that wandering Gentlemen were goading the churls into joining the rebels?”

“I have heard such talk …” The Squire gave Dirk a calculating look.

Dirk felt Gar tense beside him.

“Two out-of-place Gentlemen, wandering toward Albemarle,” the sergeant mused. “Could be they’s carrying word from one nest of outlaws to another.”

The Squire nodded, eyes on Dirk.

Dirk decided on Righteous Indignation. “Sir! We are Gentlemen, and loyal to the King!”

“So am I,” said the Squire softly. “Yet, when all is said, each man is most loyal to his own interests. And, to say truth, we seek a spy, known to be near this parish, who would probably go disguised as a Gentleman.”

“One,” Dirk pointed out, suddenly grateful for Gar’s presence. “Not two.”

The Squire shrugged impatiently. “Two spies instead of one is to our credit.”

“There’s this, too,” the sergeant pointed out. “Milord Cochon needs more foot soldiers.”

Dirk fought down a surge of panic and hauled out his best smile. “Squire, surely you jest. Who would a spy be from? There is only the King.”

“And the outlaws,” the Squire reminded him. “Have you heard no talk of rebellion?”

Dirk nodded slowly, frowning. “Aye, I’ve heard—but scarce could credit it; I see no sign.”

“But I do,” The Squire said grimly. “You will come with us, Gentlemen. If you are not rebels, you will have my apologies, and places with Lord Cochon. But if you are …” He let the sentence hang, smiling grimly, and turned to the sergeant; jerking his head toward Gar and Dirk.

The sergeant nodded, and nudged his mount forward, bringing up a cocked crossbow.

Dirk’s hands slipped down on the wood, and the quarterstaff leaped end-over-end to crack down on the Soldier’s hand. The sergeant yelped; the crossbow clattered to the ground.

Gar’s staff lashed out over Dirk’s head, parrying a sword cut from the Squire. Out of the corner of his eye, Dirk saw another Soldier forcing his horse off the street into the space between two huts, winding his crossbow; but he had no time to worry, for a third Soldier was pressing in from the left, sword swinging up. Dirk snapped the quarterstaff around, caught the base of the blade near the hilt; the Soldier howled, and the sword flipped end-over-end into an alley.

Dirk heard a cry behind him, whirled to see the fourth Soldier slipping from his saddle, and Gar spinning back toward him, staff rebounding back to guard.

Dirk nodded, grinning, and swung back to the Squire, who had transferred his sword to his undamaged left hand and was chopping down. Dirk brought up his staff just in time; but the force of the blow slapped the staff back against his forehead. The world darkened, star-shot, as he fell to his knees; he could barely make out the Squire, swinging the sword up for another cut; then a huge body blocked his vision, he heard a CHUNK! and a shrill cry from the Squire, blessed Gar, and turned to see the sergeant on the ground, cranking furiously at his crossbow; bracing it against his knee with his forearm; but just to his left, the third Soldier picked up his sword and swung about, blade chopping down.

Dirk shook his head to clear the mists and drove upward from a crouch, catching him under the chin with the tip of his staff. The Soldier flew backward, hit the ground sprawling.

Dirk shot to his feet, staff back to guard … to find himself facing two leveled crossbows. The sergeant aimed at him from his left; the trooper between the huts had him covered from the right.

He didn’t stay to look; he fell to the ground and rolled, noting in passing that Gar seemed to have disappeared. A bolt hissed where his head had been; another grazed his leg. As he started to roll to his feet, he saw a long arm shoot out from behind the trooper between the huts, wrapping itself around the man’s throat. Then he was completing the roll, coming up between sergeant and Squire, waiting for the blade in the back, but bound to bring the smug Squire down with him. His body uncoiled like a spring in a straight line with his staff and caught the Squire in the belly as the sword swung down. The Squire shot backward over the rump of his horse, the blade sliced air a foot from Dirk’s face and went spinning, and Dirk whirled to face the sergeant.

Who wasn’t there.

He was running toward Gar, bellowing and swinging his crossbow like a club.

Gar’s staff shot out like an extended stiff arm. The crossbow clattered uselessly on its shaft; the tip caught the sergeant in the collarbone. He shot backward and landed sprawling, out cold.

Silence settled down over the village street. Dirk glanced around him and noticed the villagers were conspicuous by their absence. Wise.

He looked around him, at the five unconscious bodies, then up at Gar, who stood, feet wide apart, staff in his hands, a slight, ironic smile on his face. Dirk limped over to him, panting. “You’re a better man than I thought,” he gasped. “Where’d you learn to handle a quarterstaff—rich kid?”

Gar’s smile twitched. “My own home planet is still a little on the—shall we say—primitive side.” He nodded toward the unconscious troop. “Offhand, I’d say our cover is blown.”

Dirk turned slowly, looking around him. “You might say so, yes.”

“Well, you’re the local expert,” Gar grunted. “What do we do now?”

A door flew open beside them, and a woman stepped out. “In here, quickly! Before they awaken!”

Dirk stared.

She was tall and dark, with small, full breasts straining against a tight-laced bodice. The flowing skirt followed the gently rounded curve of her hip. This much was like any other Maid—but the heart-shaped face, the small, straight nose, the full lips and large green eyes with long fluttering lashes, and the wealth of darkly gleaming hair, made up a face more beautiful than he had ever seen. How did the Lords miss this one?

“Quickly!” she hissed, pointing angrily to the interior of the hut. “You must be gone from sight before they waken!”

Dirk stepped in slowly, feeling numbed; Gar followed closely behind, watching his “guide” warily. The girl whirled in after them and latched the door.

The slam jolted Dirk out of his stupefaction. He looked around him, eyes narrowing. Dirt floor, central firepit, rough-hewn furniture, a little light escaping through small parchment windows—nothing unusual; a peasant hut like any other. The same applied to the peasant woman and her girls, and the two young boys, scarcely more than toddlers. The women were all Housewives built on the wide and generous scale; and the boys were small blocks of beef, undoubtedly like their father. Typical Farmer family, even down to the apprehension in their faces; the churls were never free of it, though admittedly it was a little worse right now. Quite a bit worse—two fugitives in their house.

Dirk glanced at their brunette captor again—make that three. Maybe. Certainly she wasn’t a Housewife, equally certainly not related. What was she doing here?

She grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the ladder in the wall impatiently. “Quickly, up to the loft! Men look upward last, when they’re searching; ‘tis your best chance.” She whirled to the wife and children. “Go about your daily round; forget we are here, as much as you can. They’ll be gone soon enough; you have only to hold the masquerade an hour at most.”

The apprehension vanished from the wife’s face, to be replaced by grim, set purpose. She nodded once with decision and turned to crackle commands at her brood. By the time Dirk and Gar were stretched out on the nine-by-nine square of planking that served as a sleeping loft, the whole family were going about their daily tasks, seeming calm and unhurried, with only the faintest trace of anxiety about them.

Gar stared down over the edge of the planking, fascinated. Dirk glanced at him irritably; what could be so fascinating about scraping dishes?

Then he forgot Gar as cloth rustled beside him, and a warm, firm body stretched out next to him. He looked up, saw her tearing a square of homespun into strips.

“You’re wounded, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she said with a tinge of sarcasm. “Not that I care; but the blood might drip through the cracks in the boards and give us away.”

Dirk felt a stir of irritation. “If you don’t care, why’re you taking the risk of hiding us?”

“Use your imagination,” she snapped. “Do I look like a villager?”

Dirk nodded slowly. “So. You’re a rebel.”

“A courier for the outlaws. You’re from our ‘friends’ in the sky?”

Dirk felt the chill of wariness flow through him from the way she said “friends”—almost as though it were an insult. “How do you figure that?” he said slowly.

She shrugged. “When Lord Cochon and his troops ride out like the Wild Hunt in the middle of the night, it’s something more than an escaped churl. If it were an outlaw raid, I’d know of it; and what else could it be but one of your dropping in? So I paced you from house to house as soon as you entered the village; and, when I heard the talking in the street, I knew who you were.”

Dirk lay staring at her, feeling the hot flush of desire spread outward through his whole body. Not just beauty—brains, too.

He didn’t know how to handle the wave of emotion; it scared him. Simple lust he’d had a hundred times, and knew how to cope with—but this was something different; a fascination, the roots of an obsession. Warning bells clanged in his mind. He lay still, hoping the wave would flow through him, crest, and subside.

The girl pushed herself up to her knees and yanked down his stocking, baring the calf. “This won’t hold for long, but it’ll soak up the blood till you’re out of here. You’re lucky—it’s only a flesh wound.” She picked up his foot and started wrapping the cloth.

Dirk lay very still, trying to ignore the current her touch seemed to generate. “I take it we lie doggo till they’ve waked and gone away.”

“Yes, and an hour after that. Less, and they might still be scouring the village; more, and they’ll have the Lord’s Sniffer out after you.”

Gar’s head snapped up. “ ‘Sniffer’? What’s that?”

“A low-grade telepath,” Dirk explained, “usually also an idiot; the two qualities seem to go together more often than not. They’ll walk him around everywhere they think we might be. If he hears any thoughts out of the ordinary, he’ll point us out.”

Gar stared at him. “You talk as though a telepath were an everyday occurrence.”

The girl stopped bandaging, frowned down at him. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

“An excellent question, here.” Dirk smiled wryly. “One of the effects of massive inbreeding, Gar.”

Gar turned away, eyes wide, seeming almost numb as he watched the family below.

The girl noticed it, and smiled, almost contemptuously. “I thought all you sky-men claimed to be churls.”

Dirk felt his stomach sink. He turned and looked over his shoulder. “We are. This one escaped early—before he was two, in his mother’s arms.”

Gar looked up, startled. The girl looked skeptical; but, after a moment, she turned back to her bandaging.

Dirk decided it was time to distract her. “What’s your name, beautiful?”

The girl’s head snapped up, fury flaring in her eyes. “I’m Madelon—not that it’ll do you any good, churl! Scrub your mind, if you want my help!”

Dirk stared at her. He could almost feel his eyes bugging out. That wasn’t his only physiological reaction, but it was the only one he cared to think about at the moment.

He needed a distraction, himself. He turned back to Gar—and frowned, seeing the big man’s total absorption in the domestic scene below. “May I ask what the hell you find so unusual?”

“Nothing—and that’s just it,” Gar muttered. Dirk grimaced impatiently. “What’s the matter? Never seen a churl family before?”

“Oh, yes,” Gar said softly, “and that’s just the problem.” He gestured at the people below. “Every time I’ve seen one of your families, I’ve seen exactly the same thing—exactly. They perform exactly the same tasks.”

Dirk smiled sourly. “What’s strange about that? If people are hungry, you make dinner.”

“Yes.” Gar’s eyes burned into his. “But do you use exactly the same movements? Down to the slightest, tiniest mannerism? Sprinkle the salt in just so, reach for a pot at exactly the same time and with precisely the same tilt of body and bend of elbow?”

Dirk gazed at him for a long moment.

Then he smiled, almost gently. “Why wouldn’t that be, Gar? What determines behavior?”

“Why, environment and heredity, of course; but—” Gar broke off, eyes glazing as he understood.

“Yes.” Dirk nodded. “When the inbreeding gets this bad, everyone’s got the same genes. And, when the Lords make you live in the same kinds of houses—almost identical, in fact—and give you identical cloth for your clothes, and identical utensils …” He shrugged. “Sure, the home environments start out different from one another; but, as the centuries pass, the people become more and more alike, homogenized; so the homes start becoming alike, too. Environmental differences tend to be ironed out. By this time, they’ve disappeared. Everyone of any given type is raised in exactly the same type of home. Exactly.” He shrugged. “Okay, so we’re low on individualism. We didn’t want it that way, I assure you.”

“But,” Gar said thickly, “if everyone of a given type is raised in exactly the same type of home, and has exactly the same genes—”

“You get identical behavior. Down to the slightest mannerism.”

Gar seemed almost angry. “How deep does the identity go?”

Dirk frowned. “If you mean, do we think alike? The answer is yes … Except men like me, of course.” He turned away, looking down at the family. “I was raised in a different environment, after I was ten. Makes for some differences. Oh, not the basic ones—but enough. If you ask me what those boys are thinking right now, I can give you a good guess—but I don’t know…”

His voice trailed off as the feeling of alienation, isolation enfolded him.

Dirk looked up slowly, saw Gar’s eyes, saw the pity in them, and shook himself with a growl. He looked back at Madelon, who was gazing at Gar; Dirk saw the watchful, calculating look in her eyes.

And something else—less than fascination, more than interest—and felt his heart sink.

There was a sudden commotion in the street, the Squire’s voice bawling orders in a sort of seasick groan, then more groans and the clanking of armor, a few oaths. Then the sound of hooves, fading.

“They’ve gone.” Madelon gave Dirk’s bandage a last tug and dropped down beside him. “Now begins the waiting. Think of something, anything—a peasant girl, naked. Make it lascivious, so it holds all your attention; anything to keep your mind off where you come from or the kinds of thoughts men have there.” She folded her arms, pillowed her head on them, and became completely still.

Gar looked up at Dirk, in a silent question. Dirk nodded and pushed himself back from the edge of the platform. Gar followed suit, and they both lay down, curled up on their sides, and made an excellent try at becoming inanimate.

A feather seemed to touch Dirk’s brain, a shadow of foreboding, then lifted away, gone as quickly as it had come; but apprehension remained.

He rose to his knees. “I think we’d better go.”

“Be still!” Madelon hissed. “We’ve yet half of an hour before the search is away from the village.”

Dirk shook his head doggedly. “I may have a touch of psi myself; I don’t know. One way or another, when something tells me to get gone, I move. And so far it has always paid off.” He started down the ladder.

“You’ll have us all killed! Do ye want the torture?”

“No.” Dirk touched ground. “That’s why I’m going.” He looked up. “Coming, Gar?”

The big man looked from Madelon to Dirk, frowning dubiously. Then he started down the ladder.

“Go to your dooms, then! I’ve done all I can, and I’m well rid of you!” But there was a despairing note in her voice.

Dirk paused in the doorway to nod to the Housewife. “I thank you for your hospitality, madam. May all go well with you.”

She nodded, nervously, then turned back to her baking.

Gar closed the door behind him. “Where to now?”

Dirk pointed down along the village street. “Down there—into the forest.” He followed his own hand, striding long and quickly; Gar lounged along beside him.

As they came into the shadows of the leaves, Gar mused, “We owe them. You know that.” Dirk nodded curtly and kept walking.

But Gar stopped. “If your hunch means anything, the Sniffer’s already onto us. He’ll know we stopped at that house.”

Dirk whirled about. “We can’t help that. We’ve got to get out of here!”

Gar smiled sourly. “Why? They won’t start the revolution without us?”

Dirk snarled and turned away. Gar waited.

“Look,” Dirk growled, “I’ve got to manage liaison between the rebels and the spacers. Without that, the rebellion might fail.”

“What will the Lords do to that family?”

“A lot of peasants will die in this rebellion!” Dirk snapped. “They all think it’s worth their lives—and so does that family!”

Gar leaned on his staff, waiting.

With a despairing snarl, Dirk turned back to join him.

They found a thicket, insinuated themselves, and lay down on their bellies, peering through the screen of leaves, watching the village street.

A bee buzzed by, looking for nectar. He took one sniff and hurried away.

“If the local Lord has a Sniffer, he must have had one with that search party last night,” Gar murmured. “Why didn’t he spot us?”

“For myself, I was carefully thinking of the lewdest pornography I knew.” Dirk turned to him. “But as far as you go—it is a good question, isn’t it?”

Gar said nothing; he gazed through the leaves, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Dirk’s eyes narrowed.

Gar stiffened. “There they are!”

Dirk snapped back to the village street. A party of Soldiers walked their horses between the houses toward them, the Squire at their head. In front of him wandered a skinny, slack jawed churl with a matted thatch of hair and a shambling walk.

He stopped in front of the house they’d hidden in, pointing vaguely. From their post fifty yards away, Dirk could hear the Squire’s shout, saw him wave his arm at the troopers, just barely heard the mutter that ran through the ranks as four Soldiers dismounted and stalked up to the cottage door. One of them pounded on the door with a fist; without waiting, another put his shoulder to the door and slammed it open. The whole search party dove in.

They came back out a moment later, dragging the Housewife, wailing protests, herding the silent children.

The Squire swung down from his horse and strode toward them, fists on his hips. “Bastards!” Dirk rose to his knees, tensing. Gar put a hand on his arm. “Not yet.”

Dirk’s head snapped around; he stared at Gar, unbelieving.

He heard the crack of a slap, turned back toward the village. The wife staggered back against the house, hand to her cheek; the Squire stood before her, rubbing his hands.

The last Soldier dragged Madelon out the door. The Squire turned toward her and stopped, staring.

Madelon shook the Soldier’s hands off and straightened, glaring at the Squire.

The Squire came toward her swaggering, rubbing his hands again. He nodded toward one of the Soldiers; the man uncoiled a whip from his waist as the Squire reached out to cup Madelon’s chin. For a moment, it was a frozen tableau.

Then the Squire’s hand flashed to her neckline and ripped. The Soldier behind her spun her around and slammed her face into the wall, ripping the blouse down, baring her back, the whip handler stepped up, shaking out his lash, and Dirk snapped out, “Move!”

He broke from the thicket, running quick and lightly. He heard a drumming behind him; then Gar flashed past him, giant legs devouring lengths of ground.

The Soldier’s whip cracked, the children screamed, and the Housewife started wailing. The Soldiers didn’t hear Gar till he crashed into them, staff whirling in a windmill of havoc.

The end of the staff cracked into the whipman’s neck at the base of the throat; he went down like a poleaxed steer, and the staff rebounded to crack alongside the head of the Soldier who held Madelon. He slumped as Gar whirled, staff snapped up to block a sword blow, then crashing down on the Soldier’s head, leaping back to catch another Soldier in the belly with its butt, while the Housewife all but threw Madelon into the hut, shooed her children in, and followed, slamming the door.

Then the last three mounted Soldiers were in, charging. Gar heard them coming, and spun around, but not quite quickly enough; a horse knocked him back against the wall of the hut, and a sword ripped his shoulder.

He rebounded off the wall, lifting the staff in his good hand …

… to see an ugly stub of a pistol in the Squire’s hand, pointing at his belly.

Gar stood, frozen.

The Squire lifted the pistol, sighting along the barrel at Gar’s eyes.

Dirk slammed into the Squire’s back. The pistol hissed a shaft of blue light as he fell; it licked the roof of the hut, which exploded into flames. Then the Squire hit dirt with Dirk on top. He tried to roll, but Dirk rose to one knee and chopped down with the blade of his hand. The Squire went limp.

The horsemen were galloping back for a second try, and two of the footmen were staggering to their feet. Gar leaped aside as the horsemen charged past; but the last horseman slewed around, tracking him, sword swinging down. Gar swung his staff, and the sword spun away, ringing; but a footman stepped up behind Gar, swinging a dagger.

The door of the hut flew open, slammed into the Soldier’s face. Madelon stepped out, the rags of her blouse tied around her neck and a cleaver in her hand.

The horseman with the bruised hand swung his mount toward her. The other two went for Gar, closing in from opposite sides.

Dirk took a running leap, pole-vaulting on his staff, feet aimed for the rider who was cornering Madelon.

The last foot soldier swung his sword, chopped Dirk’s staff out from under him.

The ground leaped up and slammed Dirk flat on his back. Agony screamed through him; he couldn’t breathe. A body came between him and the sun; a club barreled toward him, swelling to fill the world. Then pain exploded, and blackness, and there wasn’t much to remember after that.