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 but 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.
CHAPTER 3
He was drifting through infinite blackness. Somewhere far away, there were stars-he knew that just because he couldn't see them didn't mean they weren't there.
A tiny pinpoint of light ... There! He'd known he had eyes! And the pinpoint grew, swelling, no, it was rushing closer, it was a head, or a face, anyway, framed with white, floating hair, and it had eyes-great, luminous blue eyes, or turquoise, anyway; what matter if the rest of the face was too blurred to see, it was a good face, he knew it, he had to have faith . . .
"Little out of your depth, aren't you?" it asked. It had a voice like a brazen gong; only it wasn't sound, really ...
"Dunno," Dirk said astutely. "How deep is it here?"
"Up to your clavicles," the face answered, "and it's rising. Don't you think you ought to back off and just float with the tide?"
That jarred, somehow; comfortable though it was here, there was the feeling of seduction, of somebody trying to get him to do something pleasant that he knew was wrong, that he didn't want to do.
Dirk shook his metaphorical head. "No, I mean, you're a great guy, and all that, but ... Well, how do I know it'll flow? I mean, somebody's got to make the tide move."
"Let somebody else do it," the face suggested. Dirk considered that. It was tempting ... Tempting! That jarred. No, if it was tempting, it had to be wrong. He shook his head stubbornly. "No thanks. I'll stand pat."
The face shrugged somehow. "Your choice. You should remember the option, though." The eyes frowned, peering. "But I see you're almost back. Well, remember." And it turned away.
"Hey, wait a minute!" Dirk felt suddenly clearheaded.
The face turned back patiently. "Yes?" "Who are you?"
"The Wizard of the Far Tower," the face said. "Didn't anyone tell you?"
It turned away and shrank, going fast, and winked out.
And Dirk felt himself sinking, felt the blackness closing in over him. He fought it, fighting to rise, to move upward, pushing against the weight of it, the weight of his eyelids, they were heavy, all his strength did no good, he couldn't direct it, couldn't channel it to the eyelids, couldn't release it, he needed the valve, just turn it to release strength, the valve-word-any word-but his tongue and lips were swollen, heavy with a ton of inertia, he couldn't release strength to them, either. He fought, straining, to part his lips just enough to release breath, to move the slug-tongue, no matter how little ...
He felt it; he'd managed it, and it moved easier now, strength flooded through, "Puhleeeze . . ." And he felt his body about him again, felt grass against his back, arms, and legs, heard a sibilance of breeze, far-off birdsong, saw the red of light through closed eyelids.
He moved an arm, rolling toward it, thrust with all the strength in his body, and levered himself up on one elbow. He opened his eyes, looked around, saw grass, tree trunks, leaves, and a tow-headed boy, wide and squat, his mouth open in shock.
Dirk frowned and floundered, pulling himself up to a sitting position. "Hey, kid ... What . . ." The boy's mouth snapped shut, terrified.
Then he turned and leaped, crashing through the underbrush. Gone.
Dirk stared numbly after him, feeling sluggish and fuzzy.
His eyes wandered; he saw a body lying beside him, bright full skirt and bare back, with one wavy line of dried blood across it, shoulders shrouded in dark hair.
Madelon! He shook his head, trying to clear it, and the whole fight came back.
Her head stirred; she forced herself halfway up on her elbows. Her head turned, the face tilted up to him, pale, wide-eyed, puzzled, and-yes, a little afraid.
Small wonder. He wasn't exactly feeling bold, himself.
She gave her head a shake, squeezing her eyes shut, then forced herself up to a sitting position and pressed a hand to her forehead with a little moan.
Her blouse-or what was left of it-stayed behind on the ground. For a moment, all Dirk saw was her round, full breasts, the nipples like halfripe cherries; all else seemed dim. He stiffened, galvanized even through the pain of his headache; then he forced his eyes up to her face.
She bowed her head forward, fingertips pressed against her forehead; black hair tumbled forward to hide her body. Dirk exhaled in relief.
She looked up at him, blinking, frowning against the pain. "How ... what ... ?"
Dirk forced his lethargy down and threw on rationality like a cloak. "I'd like to know, myself. The last thing I remember is a pike butt hitting me between the eyes. But why didn't the Squire take us in as prisoners?"
She nodded, then winced. "Yes . . . And where's your friend?"
Dirk shrugged. "They probably did take him in. That means ... I'll have to find a way to get him out."
"Yes." She frowned. "How much does he know?"
Dirk shrugged. "Not much, for sure. All he knows about the rebellion is meeting the two of us."
Her eyes narrowed. "Just what is he?"
Dirk sat very still for a moment. So much for his story about Gar being a churl.
"A tourist," he said slowly. "A man who goes visiting places just to see what they're like. Probably a rich man's son, looking for someplace where he can Do Good."
"Then he is not a churl." Her tone was a frosted dagger.
Dirk shook his head.
Her voice trembled with rage. "Why did you bring him?"
"I didn't." Dirk looked into her eyes. "He brought himself here, and just latched onto me. For my part, I thought it was better to have him where I could watch him, than to take a chance on his joining the Lords."
She glared back at him; then her lips twisted wryly, and she nodded reluctantly. "Yes. I suppose you're right.... But now the Lords have him."
Dirk nodded. "We'll have to do something about that."
"Can he be trusted not to tell what he knows?" "As to that," Dirk said slowly, "we should be finding out very soon now.... I think he can." "Why should he? This is not his fight!" "He's made it his. And there's something about him . . ."
Her frown turned to brooding. "Yes. He is strange."
"He's no novice with the quarterstaff," Dirk said slowly. "You don't expect a rich man's son to be skilled with a churl's weapon. And he claims to have been here for a month; surely a Sniffer would've found him out in that much time."
"How did he escape them?"
"Yes." Dirk leaned back on one elbow, slowly and carefully. "And how did he just happen to be near here when I, uh, came down from the sky? Sure, given that he was around here, I can understand how he could've figured out where to find me-but why was he here, and not fifty miles away?"
Her brooding sharpened into suspicion. "This is a strange visitor you have taken up with, skyman."
"Dirk," he said absently, turning to look at her. Then he smiled bleakly. "You might want to make yourself decent."
She looked down. Her eyes widened. She caught up the remains of her blouse and pressed them to her.
But Dirk wasn't watching; he was frowning, looking off into the leaves. "I had a strange dream while I was out..."
"I trust I wasn't in it." She knotted the ends of the rags around her neck.
Dirk shook his head. "Just a huge white face, with blue-green eyes and floating white hair. He said he was the Wizard of the Far Tower." Madelon froze, her eyes widening.
"Yes." Dirk turned to her, nodding gravely. "DeCade's Wizard."
"Who shall return," she whispered, "when the time has come to tear down the Lords!"
They were both silent, the words of the Lay running through their minds:
For when my far towers drop down from the skies, And DeCade calls you out, then all churls, arise!
Dirk shrugged off the mood. "Only a dream. We can't hope for magical help; we'll have to do it ourselves."
"Per-" Her voice broke; she moistened her lips. "Perhaps not. There have been rumors-" "Of what? You're not going to try to tell me the Wizard's been seen; he's been dead for five hundred years! I should know. His name was Nathaniel Carlsen, he founded our company, and-" He broke off, his eyes widening. "Of course! `For when my far towers drop down from the skies ... Towers from far away, dropping down-our gigs and ships! Flareships dropping down from the skies!"
"You see," she whispered, "the rumors are true! He is moving again!"
"Only his spirit," Dirk said irritably, "his Dream and his Plan. The man himself is dead!"
"But rumor says he walks again among us. And DeCade is dead, too; but he shall rise again, to lead us."
Dirk clenched his jaw in anger; it gave him the strength to force himself to his feet in spite of the pain. "Your living, human leaders are quite capable of running a successful rebellion by themselves, without supernatural aid-and it's my job to find them and find out what they want us to do!"
Madelon started to answer, but the underbrush rustled, and they both whirled around.
A Farmer stepped out from the leaves, broad and massive-but with a lurking apprehension in his eyes, and something like awe. "You were dead," he whispered.
Dirk stared.
Then he leaned back on his staff, head cocked to the side. "Oh, were we, now? Seems nobody bothered to tell us!"
"The Soldiers felt for your pulse; they held the feather to your lips," the Farmer said doggedly. "You were dead."
Dirk suddenly got the point. "But Gar-the big man who was with us-he was alive?"
The Farmer nodded. "Alive, and awakethough he was bleeding badly. They took him away to the castle, and the Soldiers bade us throw your bodies on the dunghill. But we did not. We bore you away to the forest, here, to come back and bury you properly, at night . . ."
Madelon nodded. "That was fortunate for us. You did well."
"Very," Dirk agreed. "And thanks for the offer, but we don't really need the burial."
"But your friend must be rescued." Madelon stood, turned to the Farmer. "How can we get into the castle?"
The Farmer stood impassive, only his eyes widening at the impudence of her words, and the danger.
Then he nodded slowly. "My sister's husband's cousin's son is a Butler; he is a footman there. I shall ask a man who shall ask."
Madelon nodded curtly. Then she remembered her manners and gave him a dazzling smile. "Do so."
The Farmer nodded, turned away.
"And good Farmer-" She boosted the smile a few degrees Kelvin-"Thank you."
The Farmer looked back, nodded. "The word shall run," he whispered. "It has begun. The dead have come alive . . ."
Then he was gone. Dirk stood staring after him, stupefied.
Then he turned angrily on Madelon. "There! You see how rumors begin? In two days it'll be all over the kingdom as some sort of supernatural miracle! And all it was, was . . ."
Madelon raised her eyebrows politely, waiting. "Just a simple case of suspended animation," Dirk finished weakly. "Uh ... Just that . . ." "And pray, sir, how was this done?"
Dirk turned away with a snarl.
"You dreamed of the Wizard," she reminded. "Coincidence," Dirk snapped.
She watched him a moment, then turned away, smiling gently.
But Dirk didn't notice; he was carefully avoiding her eyes.
Damn it, there was no reason for him to feel like a fool! Suspended animation was a common phenomenon; it happened to billions of animals every winter! It even happened to people occasionally; they called it "catalepsy," or something like that.
But it didn't happen to two people at the same time in the same place--did it?
He shrugged it off. It was just a coincidencebut why did that word have a superstitious ring to it, suddenly?
Somehow, without any reason for it, he had a hunch Gar would answer that question.
The Farmer came back as dusk was blurring the forest. "He is in the dungeons," he explained, "and had not yet been harmed, an hour ago. The Question waits for a visiting lord."
Dirk frowned; that had a very ominous ring. "You mean they won't start till the guest gets there?" The Farmer nodded.
"Lord Core," Dirk said thickly. "Name your odds-it's Lord Core."
Madelon frowned. "Why should it be?"
Dirk shrugged. "He's Privy Councillor-and he was at the field where the sky-ships land, warning us not to try dropping anyone-meaning me. It stands to reason, doesn't it?"
"Of a sort," she agreed dubiously and turned to the Farmer. "Can you get us in?"
The Farmer nodded. "I shall lead you to a man who shall lead you. Come."
They went the way messages went among the churls-from hand to hand, and surprisingly quickly. The Farmer took them into the village again, where a second Farmer was waiting near the common. He fell into step beside them; their first guide disappeared into the darkness.
"I am Oliver," the new guide said. "I bear word from Felice."
Madelon nodded. "Is she safe?"
Oliver nodded. "She looked back once, to see her house in flames, and never looked back again. She and all her children are safe with the outlaws. Word was-brought to her husband while you still were fighting; he laid down his hoe and went straight to the forest. He is with them now."
Dirk kept his face carefully impassive; but he was, as always, floored by the efficiency of his own people. They each knew what to do in any given situation, and did it, without question or hesitation. Inbreeding couldn't account for it; he wasn't sure what could.
Oliver led them up to the castle and around to the side. Dirk looked up at the frowning granite pile, looked down at the slimy green of the moat, and felt his own grim dedication renewed. Eighteenth-century France-the culture the Lords imitated-had favored chateaus of the elegantpalace sort, not medieval fortresses. Of course, they hadn't had radio, or radar, or laser pistols, either. The Lords made a fe
w concessions here and there; they seemed to be very much aware where the loyalties of their subjects really lay.
Oliver fumbled next to the bank, came up with a rope, and yanked on it. A log floated out from the bankside toward them. Oliver lifted its bark off, revealing a long, narrow canoe. He gestured; they climbed in, carefully. Oliver took up a paddle and sent them across the sixty feet of moat with five slow, even strokes. He turned the canoe broadside and grappled the bank while Dirk and Madelon climbed out, and a postern gate opened in the shadows. Madelon went toward it, and Dirk turned to thank Oliver; but he was already halfway back across the moat.
Chills chased each other up Dirk's back as he turned back to the gate. They acted like parts of a machine, with perfect timing and perfect coordination-and in a situation like this, it was a fair bet they hadn't had much rehearsal.
He stepped through the postern, and it closed behind him as a hand closed on his arm. The pressure was gone as quickly as it had come, and a slender, liveried silhouette was moving away from them. Dirk followed, and glanced down to see Madelon cloaked in a black, hooded robe. Again the sense of eeriness shimmered over him; they thought of everything.
They moved silently across a courtyard in the shadow of the wall. When they reached the keep, their guide opened another shadowed door; they stepped through into darkness, and the door closed behind them. Then Dirk heard the chink of flint on steel, and light flared in a tinderbox, revealing a young, fine-boned face under a powdered wig. The footman took a candle-stub from his pocket, lit it, and handed it to Madelon while he doused the tinderbox. The candle wavered, and strengthened as Madelon cupped a palm around it.
The footman slipped the tinderbox back into his waistcoat. Over it he wore a pinch-waisted, burgundy, velvet coat-dark enough to blend into shadow. "We can speak here, in whispers, while we go down the stair-but then you must be silent as the dead." He took the candle and started down the steps.
Madelon followed him; Dirk brought up the rear. "Where is our friend? In the dungeons?" The footman nodded. "Of course."
A Wizard In Bedlam Page 4