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.
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.