His voice rang off the granite walls and was swallowed up in the cavern of fifty united minds. The guard’s lips writhed back with his snarl; the pistol rose …
“And what will you do to the man who sang it?”
Dirk looked up, startled. The voice had come from Gar; but it was deeper, more resonant, almost seeming to come from someplace else.
The pistol tracked toward him, steadied. “Who asks?”
Slowly, Gar stood—unhurried, easy: And ready.
“What will you do? Kill the man? Will that hold the song from its ending?”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you began it?”
“Why, no.” Gar moved toward him, easily, almost causally, slow movements hiding the speed of long strides.
“You lie!”
“Why would I do such a horrible thing?” He was halfway to the guard.
The pistol flicked upward toward Gar’s head. “Stand where you are!”
“Why? Are you afraid to speak to my face?” Gar kept moving. And suddenly, somehow, something clicked together in Dirk’s mind, and it all made some sort of crazy sense. Nothing he could say, but … He rose to his feet and paced after Gar.
“Stop!”
“Why? I can come only as far as the bars,” Gar said reasonably. “Are you afraid of me even behind bars?”
The prisoners watched—tense, ready.
Gar was a stride away from the bars. The guard took a step back. “If you did it, say so!”
“But I didn’t,” the strange voice purred. Gar took the last stride and raised his fists to clasp the bars at shoulder level. “Would I be fool enough to talk this way if I had?”
“Then tell me who did!” The pistol rose level with Gar’s eyes. “Or I promise you, you’ll die in his place!”
Dirk ducked around between Gar and the bars. “I sang it!”
The guard’s eyes flicked down to him, startled; the muzzle wavered.
Gar’s whole body went rigid—and the bars bent.
The guard looked up, saw, and wild terror spread over his face. The gun muzzle jerked upward—Dirk leaped through the bars and slapped it aside. The searing light-lance spat wide, shearing through four more bars as Gar’s huge fist closed around hand and gun both, squeezing. The guard’s face went white; his mouth stretched in a silent scream as he dropped, unconscious.
Gar stood over him, his body slowly loosening. Dirk could almost see him changing back to his normal self. It was as though something were lifted off of him, out of him …
The prisoners rose as though one string pulled them all upright, with one massive shushing hiss of straw sandals on stone.
Dirk looked up, ducked back through the hole in the bars, sure of what to do without knowing why, as the prisoners began moving toward him like a single enormous machine. “Oliver, Hugh, Gaspard!” he called out softly, but the prisoners paused while the Tradesman, the Woodsman, and the Merchant stepped forward to Dirk.
Dirk whirled back to Gar. “It’s your party. What do we do?”
Gar shook himself, looked up, frowning. He gazed at the churls, seeming to see them for the first time. He nodded. “The guards should be gathered in the wardroom by the main gate. But we’ve made something of a noise, so they may have a patrol out checking the halls, and they may have put a guard on the armory. Divide into three parties—one to the armory, one to the arena gate, and one to the wardroom. That’ll cover all the halls, and the trouble points, too.”
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.