She squeezed her eyes shut, nodding, and clasped his hand. Dirk felt a hot sizzle of jealousy, and wondered just how much feeling she had had for the big man.
She looked up at him. "How did it come about?"
Dirk's mouth twisted as though he'd tasted aloes. "It's an ugly story . . ." Then he looked fully at Gar, and broke off, grabbing her hand.
She turned and looked, frowning; then she stared, too. Gar had picked up a pebble, was holding it a foot from his face, staring at it. As they watched, he replaced it, slowly and methodically, and selected another.
"Can his mind be returning?" she breathed. Dirk nodded slowly. "I think it is." He turned to her, smiling. "It's the peace of this place; it's never known anything but reverent thoughts." "Thoughts?" She frowned, puzzled. "What has that to do with his madness?"
"I think he's a psychometrist," Dirk said slowly. "He hears the thoughts stored in the walls of a room, the feelings of the people who've been there, all the people who've ever been there. And, if you put a man like that in a Bedlam, where there've never been anything but feelings of rage, despair, terror, and confusion-"
"Why, most surely he would go mad!" she breathed, staring into his eyes; and he saw the horror coming up in hers.
"Not a madness of terror," he explained quickly. "I think it's more that his mind has retreated, backed off into a corner of his brain, and walled it off to protect himself until he's in a more livable environment."
"Why, yes." Her eyes widened in wonder. "And he is in such a place now, is he not? A place of peace, where generations of churls have come to pay homage... ."
Dirk nodded. "The peace and reverence of the place are drawing him out." He looked back at Gar over his shoulder; the big man had leaned forward to lay his hand on a giant quartz crystal.
Dirk slammed a fist into his palm. "But, damn it! I should've seen it coming! I had a dozen leads-how he managed to find me in the first place, how the questions he asked dovetailed with what I was thinking at the time, how quickly he picked up the prisoners' customs in the arena, how easily he was able to fit into their attitudes in just a few days, to the point where they chose him leader! That should've told me he was a telepath, at least-and I should've realized what would happen to him in a Bedlam!"
"No man could have foreseen that much." Dirk looked up, startled by the warmth and gentleness of her voice. Her eyes were filled with tears, but her face had a look of tenderness that almost shocked him, and took his breath away by the extraordinary beauty it gave her. "Do not blame yourself," she murmured. "No man could have foreseen it, and even if. you had, there was nothing you could have done. This is not your burden; do not borrow it."
He stared into her eyes for a long, long moment; then, slowly, he leaned forward, and took her lips within his own in a long, full kiss. He .closed his eyes, blocked out the light; there was nothing except the touch of her lips under his, their thawing, responding, beginning to demand, craving, full and moist, parted ...
Suddenly her lips were gone; he heard her scream, "No!" His head snapped up, eyes wide open.
He saw Gar on his knees by the skeleton, the two halves of the broken staff in his hands, scowling intently as he tried to bring them together, like a child with a puzzle.
"Stop!" Madelon screamed again, and Dirk broke into a scrambling run, throwing himself across the chamber, remembering just how much power a few grams of uranium could put out ...
With ponderous precision, Gar brought the two jagged ends together.
Thunder crashed and white-hot light seared the cavern, picking the giant up like a twig and slamming him into the wall.
Then the cavern was dim and silent again, with the memory of thunder fading, and a crumpled heap at the base of a wall, lying very still.
Madelon gave a sobbing gasp and ran to kneel by Gar, chafing his wrists and moaning. Dirk came up behind her and stood looking down, his face a mask, sour guilt rising up to block his throat. Again, he should have seen it coming. For a few minutes, he hadn't watched-only a few minutes-but that had been all it took.
"He lives," Madelon said fiercely, "but for how long, I cannot tell."
"Of course he's alive." Dirk was surprised at the lack of emotion in his own voice. "The current--the lightning-didn't touch him. It just knocked him off his feet." He scowled at Gar's hands, still clasped around the huge brass bands. Then he saw the center of the staff, saw it was whole; he couldn't even see where the break had been. And suddenly he wasn't so sure about Gar's health. If those brass bands were connected to the circuitry ... He looked back up at Gar's face-and froze, galvanized.
Gar was watching him.
Dirk's hand closed on Madelon's shoulder like a vise. She looked up at Gar-and gasped.
The big man's face was contracted, frowning, squinting against pain, but studying Dirk through it, as though trying to decide whether he were a locust or a ladybug.
Alarm clanged in Dirk's head, bracing him for defense. Then he frowned, remembering the big man was his friend. If he had his wits back, so much the better. . . . Wasn't it?
"You are alive." Madelon breathed the words, unbelieving. "You are the only man ever to take up DeCade's staff :and live!"
Gar transferred his gaze to her. His mouth tightened into a scornful smile. "Small wonder." Dirk stiffened; it wasn't Gar's voice. It was deeper and somehow harsher.
"In truth, no wonder at all," the strange voice went on. "For I am DeCade."
CHAPTER 11
Dirk stood like brass, adrenaline shooting through him. Chaotic images whirled through his mind, ragtag bits of memory; and, with a creeping sense of doom, he began to suspect what had happened.
The giant squeezed his eyes shut, pressing a hand to his head. "My head aches as though a thousand miners were swinging their picks inside it!" He glared up at Dirk, then suddenly heaved himself to his feet. He lurched forward, swaying, propped himself with his staff, glaring down at Dirk. The glare turned to a puzzled frown. "I've a memory . . .- that you are my friend. Or have done me a friend's services, at least." He turned to Madelon, who knelt transfixed, staring up at him, lips parted. "And you also," the strange voice rumbled. DeCade closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his head again. "So many memories ... that I knew nothing of. Of a life beyond the sky, on a strange world ... So many worlds, swarming through the night sky . . ." His eyes snapped open, glaring at Dirk. "This body was a lord!"
Suddenly Dirk was on his guard. It was all gibberish, but things had a terrifying feeling of making sense, somewhere underneath it all. He'd better move slowly, and with all due caution-or undue, for that matter. "He was not a lord of this world. And do you not also remember that he came here to help us overthrow the Lords?"
It had to be the clearest case of megalomania he'd ever seen. Either that, or ...
Gar/DeCade frowned, fingertips pressing his temples. "I ... do remember ... something of the sort . . ."
"Then you must also remember that he has already struck one blow against the Lords," Dirk said quickly, "and lost his mind because of it."
The giant nodded painfully, wincing at the fire in his head. Dirk studied him carefully. The voice, the stance, the mannerisms-the whole personality had changed. If this was a split personality with some crazy sort of delusion of grandeur, it was' an extremely thorough one. But it had to be that; he couldn't really have become invested with DeCade's personality.
Could he?
"He is DeCade," Madelon whispered, her voice trembling, scarcely daring to believe. Then her face lit up with triumph and joy. "He is DeCadeand he has come back, as the Wizard foretold!" "The Wizard ..." Something connected in Dirk's mind, the missing piece, and suddenly he believed, too. Completely. Implicitly. With reservations; but all in all, more thoroughly than Madelon did.
DeCade looked up and saw the huge skeleton on the bier. He stood a moment, staring; then he stalked over to it, a little unsteadily, and stood over it, leaning on his staff, staring down at the shattered bones. Then, slowly, he stretch
ed out a finger, pointing to the crushed skull. "That I remember-but none of the rest." A sardonic smile crept over his face. "Of course-they did it after I was dead." He looked up at Dirk, suddenly grinning, like a hungry wolf. "Ah, how they must have hated me!" It was gloating, a war-chant glowing with the heat of revenge; and Dirk began to understand why Gar's body had lived through it.
Father Fletcher burst into the chamber. "What was that thunderclap? It sounded like the crack of doom . . ." He broke off, staring at them. DeCade's head swiveled, watching him. The priest fell to his knees. "Hail, Grandmaster DeCade!"
The big man smiled slowly-a grim twist of the lips. " 'Grandmaster'? I have not heard that title, but it would seem that you know me."
The priest smiled, eyes glowing. "Who else could hold DeCade's staff? Now I see the great kindness hidden in the cruelty, of depriving. this poor fellow of his wits! It was to empty his mind, that it might be ready to house DeCade! To him the honor, to him the praise!"
Dirk looked up, startled. Was that just a lucky guess, based on metaphor and symbolism? Or did the priest know a little more about psis and technology than he'd let on?
DeCade turned to him with a look of skepticism. " `Kindness in cruelty . . .' Pretty words that ring hollow. I do not trust that kind of thought; eelwriggling, they call it." He turned back to the priest, his tone heavy with irony. "As to the `honor' of his housing me, I have some doubt. I can only hope it will not prove ill for this poor fellow."
"They've gone by, Father!" Hugh swaggered in, with his men, grinning. "They're a half-mile away, and no sign of-" He broke off, staring at the giant.
DeCade lifted his head with a curled smile. Hugh fell to the floor on one knee. "Hail, Grandmaster DeCade!" His men followed his example, but only stared, dumbfounded.
DeCade stood looking at him a moment, then smiled, amused, at Dirk. "It seems to be catching." And, to Hugh: "Rise, man. Rise, all of you! You must be done with one man kneeling to another!" He riveted his gaze on Hugh, half-amused. "You know me, eh?"
Hugh scrambled to his feet. "You are DeCade, returned to us as the Wizard foretold!"
DeCade nodded heavily, still half-smiling. "And who are you?"
Hugh squared his shoulders proudly. "I am Hugh, a captain of the forest outlaws, Grandmaster."
"Be done with that title; I like it not," DeCade said sharply. "I am DeCade-nothing more." He lapsed into silence, eyes boring into Hugh. When he. spoke, Dirk could hear the eagerness suppressed under his words. "You are chief of the forest men, then?"
"One of them, but our true chief is Lapin." Hugh grinned. "We are waiting and eager to do your bidding, DeCade-armed, drilled, and primed, awaiting only your word."
DeCade nodded slowly, thoughtfully, eyes glinting. He turned to Father Fletcher. "And= you, Father?"
"I am only a poor hedge-priest, called Father Fletcher-and, of course, a courier between the outlaws and the Guildsmen. They, too, stand ready, DeCade. Ready, and biding in patience. If you say to do it, they shall raze the town."
"No, I think I shall not ask it." DeCade smiled. "We want something left when all this is past. And you, lady?"
"Madelon, DeCade. I carry word between the Guild and the country folk, and the girls in the brothels."
"The country folk, yes." DeCade's head hadn't moved, but Dirk could feel the sudden piercing intensity in his words. "At the last, it all depends on them-the Farmers on the land, for they are the overpowering weight. How stand these churls?"
"They are ready, DeCade-ready, and craving your word."
Father Fletcher nodded. "Each courier knows his route; each churl has weapons buried away, wrapped in oiled cloth."
DeCade nodded slowly, eyes burning. "It is with them that it rests.... Ships!" He frowned suddenly. "The Wizard promised me those-mighty ships, tall towers falling down upon the land!"
"They are ready." Dirk stepped forward, with an eldritch, unreal feeling prickling his skin. "They ride at your order, DeCade."
Father Fletcher and Hugh stared at him, startled. With a wrench of irony, Dirk came back down to earth; "off-worlder" or no, they hadn't quite realized he could bring down the Far Towers. "I am Dirk Dulain, DeCade. I speak for the sky-men."
DeCade squinted in pain, pressing fingertips to his forehead. "Yes.... I remember now; you had told ... this body. They sent you to seek out the churl's leader."
Dirk nodded. "I have found him. Twenty tall tower-ships ride waiting behind the moon. At your word, they drop down, with fire-cannon ready."
DeCade winced again. "Yes ... `laser cannon' is their true name. There is pain, in this mingling of memories.. . ." His head came up sharply, eyes burning into Dirk. "And the firesticks, laser pistols? The Wizard promised those, too!"
Dirk nodded. "They are ready, hidden throughout the land. At your word, we unearth them, tell the churls where they are. And when the Towers drop down, they'll bring more."
DeCade nodded tightly, with a gleeful smile. "All is indeed ready, then. You have done well, very well. How long has this taken? How long have I slept?"
The cavern was still. Then. "Five hundred years," Madelon murmured.
For a moment, DeCade blanched. Then he began to smile again, with building warmth. "Aye, so the Wizard told me; he warned it might be centuries. But it is worth it, after all; and things could not have changed so much that I cannot hold to his plan. No, they could not change much. Not in Melange."
"Scarcely at all," Dirk grunted. He'd seen the records. "If ever there was a fossilized culture, this is it. The Lords are dinosaurs, and their Triassic is ending."
DeCade nodded, gloating; then he threw back his shoulders, grinning like a wolf. "Send the word throughout the land: in five days, we ring the Bell! All is ready!"
"Well, not quite." Dirk said it quickly, before the cheer could start.
DeCade turned to him, frowning. "What lacks?" Dirk hesitated, but his obstinate skepticism won out. "The Wizard. The prophecy said he'd come back, too."
"But he has!" Madelon cried.
"Churls have seen him!" Hugh bellowed. "The word runs abroad!"
"Only rumors." But a strange dread trickled down Dirk's spine, because DeCade was just leaning on his staff, watching him, amused. He waited for the shouting to die, then said quietly, "Only that? Come, friend Dulain! He is here; this body remembers it. It has seen him."
Dirk stared.
And before he could ask the next question, DeCade was striding toward the archway. "Come! Enough of skulking in hiding! Raise the cry!"
The whole crew fell in behind him with a shout of joy; what could Dirk do but follow?
As they stepped out into the sunlight, DeCade grinned back over his shoulder at Dirk. "You are worried; do not be. The same weakness that makes so many of our people go mad will give them victory. Your eyes shall see it: our madness is our strength."
"Indeed it is," said a coldly amused voice. DeCade wheeled about, and Dirk's eyes snapped forward. A ring of steel-clad men encircled the mouth of the cave. In the center, a few paces in front of the others, stood Lord Core.
Hugh and his band streamed out behind DeCade and Dirk, joking and laughing. They looked forward and froze.
"What an elegant company you make," Core murmured. "And so many of you decked in my livery, too. My faith! Quite a compliment!" He turned his eyes to DeCade. "I had some notion the truth in this tale of your madness was somewhat limited."
DeCade's lips curved into a sardonic smile. "So? And who do you think I am?"
Core frowned, faintly disturbed by the change in the giant's manner. "You are the outworlder who called himself Magnus d'Armand; and the slight one beside you is your henchman."
Dirk stiffened. Slight? Admittedly, he wasn't exactly a wrestler, but still ...
DeCade's eyelids drooped sleepily. "Have you not gone to a great deal of trouble for two insignificant outworlders?"
Core's face relaxed in a smile of contempt. "Come, sir! You know I cannot ignore any outworlder abroad in this soci
ety."
"Am I so much a threat, then? Is your world so delicately balanced?"
Core's face tightened as though he'd been slapped. He stepped forward. "Come, enough of this! You see I have the advantage of you ten times-a hundred of my iron Soldiers against poor ten of you. Surrender to me now, or meet your death-you and all your company, Magnus d'Armand."
"Why, so I might," DeCade said reasonably, "were I Magnus d'Armand still."
Core's eyebrows rose. "Oh? You have become someone else? Whom, may I inquire?"
"I am DeCade!" the giant thundered, and lashed out backhanded with the great staff.
But Core was quick; he skipped aside with the look of shock still on his face; the staff caught him only a glancing blow on the shoulder. He reached for his sword-and Dirk slammed into him and picked the Lord's dagger-sheath as the trees rained outlaws and knives flashed in the sun. A score of Soldiers fell under the weight; knives probed chinks in armor, men screamed, and the outlaws rose alone.
Then the rest of the Soldiers wakened to what was happening. They turned on the outlaws, bellowing, and the clearing turned into a melee of single combats.
Dirk stepped back from Core just far enough to free his knife hand to thrust; but Core's sword hissed out of its scabbard, turning Dirk's blade and slashing out at him. Dirk leaped backward, sucking in his belly, and Core's sword swung up to chop. It fell, and Dirk stepped back from the slash and tripped on a body. Core gave a shout of joy and wound up for another thrust; but Dirk balled his body up and uncoiled, feet-first, at Core's chin. Core ducked and stepped back. Dirk landed on his feet and lashed out with a kick at the groin; Core fell back again, staying two inches clear of the kick; then he slashed while Dirk was recovering. Dirk screamed as the blade sliced his calf, and fell. He flipped over onto his back just in time to see Core, mouth wide in a caw of triumph, coming straight down at him, the tip of his blade aimed straight for Dirk's eyes. He snapped his head to the side, and the blade slit his ear. Dirk bellowed with pain, throwing himself over to seize Core's hand before the Lord could recover. Core's lips writhed back from his teeth in a snarl. He threw himself backward, trying to break free.
A Wizard In Bedlam Page 14