A Wizard In Bedlam

by Christopher Stasheff

  Dirk swung back to the three churls. "Oliver, go to the arena gate. Gaspard, to the armory." They didn't even wait to nod just slipped through the hole in the bars and split, Oliver to the left, Gaspard to the right. Two-third of the churls stepped after them like a wave and filed through the hole in perfect order, half turning to the left, half to the right, following Oliver and Gaspard, moving with the precision of drilled soldiers without command or question-like zombies or robots, Dirk thought-till he looked in their eyes and shuddered.

  He turned back to Hugh. The big Tradesman just stood there, watching Dirk and waiting, with seventeen churls waiting behind him.

  Dirk turned to Gar and nodded.

  The big man let out a long, hissing breath, set his jaw, nodded, and turned away. Dirk followed, and behind him, Hugh stepped through the bars with seventeen silent churls behind him.

  "Mind telling me how you did that?" Gar growled down at Dirk as they led their squad down an empty hall.

  "Sure!" Dirk smiled brightly. "As soon as I figure it out."

  There were two doors to the wardroom. Dirk split off from Gar and Hugh and padded silently through the hall that led to the far door. Once he glanced back over his shoulder, saw eight churls following him. Eight just about half. He turned away with a shudder; not so much because of their unthinking precision-he was almost getting used to that-but because he'd known what he was going to see before he looked. That bothered him.

  He rounded a corner and stopped just short of the opened door, waiting. He didn't know what he was waiting for, or how Gar would let him know when to charge-but he knew it wasn't time yet. The other eight churls had stopped behind him and were waiting with a stone's patience; he knew that-he didn't bother to look. On the other hand, he probably didn't dare ...

  Suddenly, it was time. Dirk leaped through the door and saw Gar and Hugh burst through the door opposite him. And he saw a startled guard whip around, staring. Dirk dove, reaching for his throat, and saw a huge fist coming up at his face. He twisted in mid-air, felt a boulder the size of a house crush his shoulder, and felt his hands close around a flexible tree-trunk. Then body slammed body; the guard staggered, overbalanced, and went down. Dirk whiplashed the head, cracked the guard's skull on the stone floor, let go of a limp body, and leaped to his feet as his churls charged into the room in perfect unison. The guards were surging to their feet, catching up weapons, but Gar and Hugh's churls whooped, and the guards looked back startled, as the first wave of churls hit them from the east. A moment later, the western wave poured in, and the sea closed. There were nineteen prisoners and twelve guards. The troubled waters spewed up jetsam.

  Some of the guards died trying to raise their weapons. The ones who just laid about them with their fists lasted a little longer. Dirk threw a punch and danced back out of range; the guard charged him, roaring, and a silent fury landed on his back, slamming him to the floor. Dirk heard something crunch as he turned away, but he didn't have time to think about it; a guard was backing toward him, retreating from two Merchants. Dirk dropped to hands and knees; the guard tripped on him, bellowing, as the Merchants moved in.

  It was all over in three minutes. Dirk climbed to his feet and saw Gar standing, glaring down at the still bodies; but there was something bleak about him. Dirk recognized the look; he got over to Gar fast. "You don't have time for a conscience now, Blunderbore. We still have a small problem of a full arena tomorrow."

  Gar looked up, frowning. He closed his eyes, nodding, then turned to Hugh. "Pick up the live ones and lock them up somewhere. Set someone to doctoring the ones who might make it, but give him a strong guard. Then get down to the armory and break out weapons."

  "Ho!"

  Dirk looked up, saw Gaspard coming through the east door with fifteen churls behind him. The big churl looked down at the carnage, shaking his head sadly. "Too late for the party, hey?" He looked up at Gar. "Fortune was against us; they were all here."

  Gar nodded, then turned as Oliver appeared at the west door. "There were two of them guarding the armory," the big Farmer reported. "Bertrand Hostler is dead."

  Gar nodded. He didn't bother asking about the guards.

  Fifteen minutes later, the churls assembled in the wardroom, armed and somewhat armored. There was an occasional moan from the punishment cell down the hall, where the live ones were locked; but it was blocked by the chink of mail and the quiet, exultant laughter of the prisoners.

  Hugh and his men swaggered back into the wardroom, fresh from a trip to the armory. Hugh held up a short sword and slapped the pistol at his side, grinning. "It's astounding how these lift your spirits."

  Dirk couldn't help grinning. "Just don't lose your head, Tradesman. There's still tomorrow, and an arena full of guards to get through."

  Hugh shrugged and thumped Gar on the chest. "What matter? With a brute like this to lead us, who could stop us?"

  Gar looked down with a bleak smile. "So I'm appointed permanent leader, eh?"

  Hugh looked up, surprised. "Why, so you were before this coil began. Did you not say you could conquer a world with us, Outlander?"

  The holiday dawned bright and clear. The churls arrived with the sun, carrying baskets of food; they were expecting a long day.

  Dirk and Gar peered through the portcullis at the arena gate, watching the huge beige bowl fill from the top down. Gar frowned, quizzically. "Little quiet for a holiday crowd, aren't they?"

  "I assure you," Dirk said sourly, "that this is one holiday during which all the workers wish they were back at their drudgery."

  The Master of the Games arrived about that time, too, banging on the wicket door and striding in, bedecked in finery-yellow waistcoat and breeches under a scarlet coat, gleaming linen, and a huge cocked hat. He strutted up and down between the cages, filled with self-importance, watching the prisoners eating breakfast in the pen, as they always had; he saw nothing out of the ordinary. On the other hand, he wasn't looking for suspicious bulges. "It seems as though there were more of them yesterday."

  "Why, that's only because 'tis the day of the Games," the guard beside him explained easily. "They've shrunk in on themselves, don't you see." He was the only real guard left free; the rest of the day shift were behind bars, unconscious, where they'd been dumped as soon as they came through the wicket door. But Dirk had recognized Belloc, the man who'd smuggled him in, and had realized the value of having one genuine Soldier among them.

  The Master of the Games nodded, apparently satisfied. He swaggered up and down the halls for half an hour, slapping at the guards with a riding crop, barking out last-minute instructions. He didn't seem to notice how much his guards' faces had changed overnight.

  When Belloc had closed the door behind the Master, he turned about and collapsed against it with a sigh of relief.

  "When will we see him again?" Gar appeared from the watchman's booth.

  "Not until after the Games." The rebel Soldier pulled himself up. "Which means never, I hope. For a while there, I was afraid I would have to kill him."

  Now it was Gar who strode through the barred halls, checking to be sure each churl had at least one weapon hidden on him somewhere. All the "guards" had laser pistols. Gar tucked the last one into his loincloth, snaked out a hand to catch Belloc by the shoulder, and headed for the arena gate. "Where do you boys usually stand during the Games, Belloc?"

  "Up there." Belloc pointed through the portcullis as they came up to the gate. "Atop the wall, all around the Arena-in case of accidents."

  Dirk smiled sourly. "Which means, in case three or four churls manage to gang up on one lordling." Gar nodded, peering up to the stands. "Lot of brass up there, too."

  Sunlight glared off the armor and bared weapons of the Soldiers, fifty feet apart, forming interlocking squares all through the stands.

  "Castle Soldiers," Belloc explained, "there in case of trouble. We never had anything to do with each other."

  Gar nodded, lowering his eyes to the glare of full plate armor at the
other side of the arena. "These, I take it, are our worthy opponents?"

  Dirk nodded. "With ten years of tutoring behind their swords and full plate armor for a womb. The young sons of the noble houses-not a one under eighteen or over twenty-one."

  Gar scowled, squinting against the sun. "What is this-their rite of passage?"

  "You could call it that," Dirk said slowly, "though no lordling could live this long without getting a taste of blood. Whipping churls, or killing one who tried to escape. For most of them, this is the first time the churls fight back. But that's only part of it."

  Gar transferred his scowl to Dirk. "Would you mind explaining that?"

  "Our lords and masters are very efficient; anything they do has to have at least two purposes." Dirk turned away, looking out at the arena. "You see, in spite of everything they can do with education, youth does tend toward idealism. Somehow, in spite of everything they can do, a few of their sons always wind up with horribly humanitarian ideas-churls are human, justice for all men, sympathy with the underdog, all men should be happy-downright subversive."

  Gar looked down in surprise. "Liberals? You mean these dinosaurs are actually capable of producing an open-minded man?"

  Dirk nodded. "Far too often for their comfort. Happens to every noble family at least once in every generation. So they bring them here, put them in the arena against churls who're armed enough to be dangerous, and just possibly lethal, even to a man in full plate armor. And these churls are the hotheads of the nation, drilled and primed to come out craving blood and howling hate."

  "Like killer wolves," Gar said tenderly.

  "It seems to be singularly effective. What chance is there of a young man coming out of that with any thoughts of gentleness left-fifty steelfisted churls charging down on him, screaming for his blood."

  "It would tend to cool idealistic enthusiasm,". Gar agreed.

  Dirk twisted on a smile. "Moral: Kindness to churls is lethal. And that's how you make a reactionary out of a young radical."

  "How many come through it with any shred of an ideal left?"

  "One," Dirk said judiciously. "I'm no historian, mind you but I know of only one."

  "Oh?" Gar raised an eyebrow. "What happened to him?"

  "He started treating his churls decently, and the neighboring Lord didn't like that-it might give his own churls nasty ideas. So he declared war, and the King lent some of his own troops to help out."

  Gar nodded slowly. "I take it there wasn't too much of him left by the time they got through." "His daughter managed to escape, with her grandfather. We smuggled them out; now he's lobbying for us with the Tribunal."

  Gar nodded. "And the liberal?"

  "He stayed on the planet-or in it, I should say. Six feet down."

  A trumpet blew in the arena, and Belloc reached up to touch Gar's shoulder. "Gather them, Outlander. It is time."

  The churls were pacing, impatiently swinging their lead-clad fists and growling at one another. Dirk slammed the iron door open, and every head in the room snapped around toward the crash. The muttering cut off, and every eye fastened on Gar as he stepped in. He ran his gaze over them in a quick survey and nodded, satisfied. "All right, now's your chance. Come out howling, they expect that-but don't get carried away. Keep sight of me, whatever you do. Follow me wherever I go, and I may bring some of you out of this alive. Don't stop to pick off a tempting lordling along the way just follow."

  Their cheer went up, and Dirk's spirits dropped. They wouldn't remember.

  But Gar nodded, satisfied, and turned away. The churls streamed out after him, down the halls to pile up against the portcullis like a human flood.

  The Master of the Games strutted about in the center of the arena, calling out the opening amenities in a clarion tone. When he finished, he turned away toward the safety of the arena wall, walking very quickly. He stepped on a stairway, and it retracted as he climbed, telescoping in till it swung away into a recess in the wall.

  The lordlings stepped forward, swinging their swords and glancing at one another nervously, stretching out into a line across the far end of the arena.

  A trumpet blasted. Gears clashed, iron grumbled, and the portcullis slid up. Gar bellowed and charged out. Dirk leaped into place beside him, glancing back to make sure; Hugh, Bertrand, and Oliver were following, and the three separate groups of churls were following them. He looked back just in time to avoid slamming into Gar as the giant skidded to a halt, facing the steel-clad line fifty feet away. Dirk stopped and Hugh snapped dead still just behind him. Bertrand and Oliver leaped to the sides, and the churls fanned out behind them into a solid, charged line, like a condenser about to spit.

  A murmur rippled through the arena, rose in a wave. The gladiator-churls had never been organized before.

  The lordlings stood frozen, galvanized.

  Then Gar paced forward slowly, bringing up his mailed fists-a panther with brass knuckles. Dirk followed; Bertrand, Hugh, and Oliver followed him; and the line of churls ground forward like a steamroller.

  The lordlings lifted their swords and crouched down behind their shields.

  A trumpet snarled, kettledrums bellowed, and a clarion voice cried, "Hold!"

  Gar only grinned and paced forward faster. The lordlings glanced at one another, clanked uncertainly, nodded, and stepped forward, snarling. The churls quickened their pace.

  A laser bolt boiled the dust between them.

  Gar's head snapped back with a frown, nose wrinkling. Dirk agreed; ozone stinks. The churls hesitated while Gar thought it over; then his mouth tightened in disgust, and he relaxed, resting his mailed fists on his hips. The churl ranks rustled in a sigh, and came to a halt.

  The lordlings relaxed, lowering the swords, and the grandstands subsided, muttering.

  "They smell something," Dirk growled. "They're stopping it before it gets out of hand." "Aye." Hugh grinned like a wolf, right behind him. "Come, Outlander! Let's get out of hand!" But Gar held up a palm, shaking his head slowly, a slight smile touching his lips. "There isn't much they can do now except shoot us down; if they were going to do that, they'd have done it. No, let's see their reason for stopping the show." A ladder swung out from its recess and telescoped down to touch the sand.

  Gar's smile widened to a grin. "Oh yes. I was hoping they'd do that."

  "Sorry to disagree," Dirk grunted, "but right now, I don't like anything out of the ordinary." "And you claim to be a liberal?"

  A tall, lean figure in plum-colored coat and white waist-coat, breeches, shirt, and stockings came down the stairs, followed by twenty Soldiers with laser rifles ready.

  "Core!" Dirk hissed.

  "I believe we've met," Gar murmured.

  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.