A Wizard in Bedlam

CHAPTER 7

As Core came up to them, Dirk could see that the white clothing was sweat-stained and dusty; Core had had a long, hard ride. “What’s happened that we don’t know about?”

“Don’t worry, he’s the soul of politeness.” Gar smiled, never taking his eyes off Core. “I’m sure he’ll inform us directly.”

Core strode up, glaring, and halted ten feet away, drawing his sword.

Gar tapped his chin with a steel fist and murmured, “Good day, milord.”

“I should have been harsher with you,” Core spat. “It seems I have once more been misled by my pity and kindness.”

Dirk nearly choked.

But Gar only smiled quizzically. “How so? All that I told you was true.”

“Then how do you explain a ship dropping into orbit around this planet early this morning! A geostationary orbit, over this very spot!”

Gar’s smile widened. “Quite simply; it is my ship. I wanted to have it on hand today; I had a notion I might have need of it.”

Dirk’s stare swiveled to Gar, unbelieving.

Core glared, seething. “And what of your bribing the freight company to land you?”

Gar shrugged. “You’ve caught me—I did tell one lie.”

Core set his teeth. “How many men have you on board that ship?”

“None.” Gar’s smile returned.

“Do not jest, fellow.” Core stepped forward, sword coming up to guard. “Your death in this arena will be quick, but I could make it last for a week.”

“Why?” Gar’s smile broke into a grin. “I told you truth; there is no one aboard that ship.”

Core’s lips writhed back. “Do you take me for a fool? What would guide it, if there were no one—” He broke off, staring.

Gar nodded. “I told you we make good robots.” He laid one steel-clad hand over his biceps, massaging it. Dirk noticed there was a wide bronze bracelet on the arm, under the glove.

Core scowled, face thunderous. “A computer? Is that your pilot?”

“Its name is Herkimer,” Gar said helpfully. Dirk could’ve sworn he saw steam coming from Core’s ears. But the Lord held his temper and turned away to look about the arena, slapping his leg with his sword, considering a decision.

His eyes lit on Dirk.

Dirk suddenly wished devoutly that he had hidden behind Hugh. But too late; Core’s eyes widened, and he lifted a trembling sword, pointing at Dirk. “This—this—”

Gar glanced at Dirk, frowning, then turned back to Core with a polite smile. “Well, yes, I apologize for its condition—but you must remember, we weren’t fed excessively well.”

“Still your fool’s chatter,” Core snarled. “This is the man who accompanied you before you were arrested—the one who you claimed was your hired guide!”

Gar stood still for a moment; then he nodded gravely. “Your Lordship’s memory is good.”

“Then he is also the man whose dead body I saw!”

Gar nodded judiciously. “Now that you mention it, I do remember something of the sort.”

Core gave him a tight-lipped smile of contempt. “And how do you explain his sudden resurrection?”

Gar shrugged. “Frankly, I can’t. But I’m willing to consider any reasonable hypothesis.”

Core stared at him, frozen.

Dirk glanced at Hugh, Oliver, and Bertrand. Each caught his glance and nodded almost imperceptibly.

Core smiled abruptly. “Politely said—in return for which, I’ll afford you the same courtesy.” He waved his sword, beckoning his guards. “Take him to the castle; we’ll listen to his reasonable hypotheses there.”

The laser rifles leveled, centering on Gar. Gar twisted a stud on his armlet.

Dirk threw himself forward and slammed into the backs of Gar’s knees. The big man toppled as laser bolts spat where he’d been. Hugh leaped over them, and Dirk hugged the ground as fifteen churls hurtled after the Tradesman. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Oliver and his men closing in on Core’s troop from the right, Bertrand’s from the left. Startled, the guards swung laser rifles to cover the horde, but too late; leaded fists crashed against rifle stocks as flame-darts crackled, then swung up to crush bone, and the Soldiers dropped. So did a few churls, but the rest of the troop converged on Core. He backed away, sword up, eyes darting about wildly—and the lordlings came out of their trance with a howl and a clank, and went into action like a troop of sardine cans striking for higher-grade fish. The churls paused to scoop up fallen rifles, and Core darted free. But Hugh came hard after him, and the Lord turned at bay, chopping and thrusting. Hugh blocked the sword cuts with metal fists and swung like a threshing machine. Core danced backward, just out of reach.

All Dirk’s childhood memories boiled up into hate and lust for revenge, and he surged up with them, charging like a bull. Core leaned back, away from Hugh’s fists, and Dirk slammed into him, bowling him over. They landed flat, Dirk on top, grappling for Core’s throat. The Lord screamed and chopped down with his blade. Dirk blocked it with a leaden fist; the sword glanced off, cutting. Pain seared Dirk’s forearm, and he roared, chopping down at Core’s throat, seeing the blood flowing from his father’s back. Core jerked his head to the side, and Dirk’s fist slammed down into sand. Core twisted and heaved himself clear of Dirk, leaping to his feet. But Dirk rolled to his feet, too, and paced toward the Lord. Voices clamored in his ears, steel rang on steel in his head, but it seemed far away, unimportant somehow; only the sneering face in front of him was real, and the smell of his father’s blood in his head, and all that mattered was smashing that jeering face …

A huge hand snaked out of nowhere, caught Dirk by the neck, yanked him around, and Gar’s huge, ugly face filled his eyes. “Snap out of it! Look—there!”

Dirk turned to look where Gar pointed, and Core leaped free, running toward the arena wall. Dirk started after him with a bellow, but Gar caught his shoulder, yanked him around, clamped steel fingers on the back of his head, and pointed his eyes toward a large white cloth flapping at the top of the arena wall. “Do you want to live—or have your cause die here with you?”

Something wrenched inside, and Dirk put Core out of his mind. He was himself again. His head was clear—one Lord didn’t matter, it was all of them that counted. He turned toward Gar, but the big man was loping away toward the fluttering white square. Dirk remembered a girl and a signal. He ran after Gar.

Halfway to the wall, he looked back and slewed to a stop. Core stood at the base of a telescoping stair, hulking guardsmen standing over him with lasers. More Soldiers were leaping to the arena floor, springing into the melee. Above them, guards stepped up at the top of the arena wall, raised lasers, and fired—and, below them, the Soldiers fell screaming. Belloc and the boys, Dirk thought with savage satisfaction. Core was scrambling up the stair, and the churl gladiators were locked in combat with Soldiers and lordlings. Young Lords and churls both lay bleeding on the sand already. Above them, the death struggles went on. Good, and a delight to the eye—but Gar was right, it was time to break up the party. “To me!” Dirk screamed. “Away!” But the human jumble churned away, indifferent to him. Dirk set his jaw against the sudden grip of panic and dashed back, seized the nearest shoulder, wrenched at it. Hugh slammed back against him and pulled away, snarling. Then he recognized Dirk, and his eyes cleared. The guard he’d been fighting raised his sword for a chop at the neck. Dirk leaped forward, swinging his cesta into the man’s face. Bone crunched, blood spurted; the Soldier went down, but Dirk turned away before he hit the ground. “Follow!” he bellowed and leaped away. It was all he could do.

Fifty paces, and he glanced back over his shoulder. Hugh was following, with five or six churls behind him—all Tradesmen. The rest struggled on in the blind passion that Gar had torn Dirk out of, their worlds bent inward till nothing existed but themselves and their enemies. Nothing else mattered to them. Dirk had a momentary vision of caterpillars marching around a lampshade; he shuddered, shaking it from him, and turned back toward the white flag.

In front of him, Gar was almost to the wall. A rope ladder cascaded down. The giant leaped, caught at rungs, and was halfway up before it touched sand. Dirk hit the hemp right behind him—and heard a roar from the arena, a spitting blast of heat past his cheek. He glanced back—more Soldiers were pouring into the arena, and the front rank knelt, rifles trained on the fugitives.

And a huge golden sphere swooped down on the arena, sinking to a stop ten feet overhead. Blisters opened on its sides, and beams of ruby light lanced out, gouging holes in the arena walls, walking down in a strafing row toward the ranked Soldiers. They dropped their weapons, and ran—and, above them, the crowd let out one massive scream, rose up, and crashed down on the Soldiers stationed in the stands.

That was all Dirk saw before he scrambled on up the ladder and over the wall. Before him, the white flag trailed away with Gar right behind it. The spectators were surging up through the stands like a tide; the way was clear. Dirk sprinted after Gar and took it on faith that Hugh and the boys followed him.

Up into the stands ran the flag, into an exit tunnel jammed with fleeing spectators. Gar bellowed, slashing out with anvil fists, and the way cleared.

Dirk followed, lashing out to left and right to keep the way clear.

Then, suddenly, the screaming was behind them, and they were pounding down through dark, cool shadow, echoing, down a curving ramp toward the exitway on the far side of the arena. Gar disappeared around a bend in the tunnel; Dirk skidded into it after him, kicked out running downhill toward a rectangle glaring with sunlight. They went rattling down a long, steep flight of stairs and out into daylight.

Out across a plaza, heavy feet pounding behind him. Ahead, Gar disappeared into an alleyway between two tall buildings. Dirk bolted in behind him and slammed on the brakes as he saw it was a dead end. At the end of the alley, Gar stood, chest heaving, wiping his brow, looking down at a tall, slender, skirted figure. Dirk pushed himself into a trot just in time to avoid being trampled by Tradesmen, jogged up to the couple. Madelon glanced at him once, then turned back to pounding on a door in the side wall. Dirk shuddered to a halt, gasping for air, suddenly noticed the searing pain in his lungs. He forced himself to long, steady breaths and finally spared time to look back as Hugh and his half-dozen came pounding up behind, panting and blowing.

The big Tradesman grinned, mopping a forearm across his brow; then the door grated open, and Madelon led the troupe through the doorway, into sudden gloom, blinding after sunglare. Dirk raised his fists, groping, could scarcely hold them up, the cestas suddenly unbearably heavy. Then a wall jolted him to a stop, and he let his arms fall with a sigh, and leaned against cold granite, and breathed.

Suddenly he was shuddering, his whole body relaxing as cold stone drained adrenaline. The door boomed shut and the darkness was complete. Echoes faded, and, in the sudden silence, Hugh laughed softly, exulting.

“Aye,” Gar rumbled. “We are free.”

“Aye, outside those walls.” Hugh almost seemed mocking. “Now! Where is this world you would conquer, Outlander?”