Dirk jumped to his feet, remembering the bars in the arena, as the warders came running up. Gar’s body convulsed, straightening out against the chain; metal groaned, screeched—and the warders piled onto him. One threw an arm around his throat, the other bear-hugged his arms to his sides. The giant whirled about, roaring, shaking them like a terrier with rats; then three more warders out of the bunk-room piled on, bearing him down under sheer body-weight. Dirk plastered himself back against the wall, staring, horrified. Then he shook himself, and dived into the churning mass of bodies, throwing his arms around a warder, yanked him loose—and Gar surged up with a bellow, spewing warders out like a volcano, blasting out one huge, blood-congealing shriek that lanced through Dirk’s ears down his spine. It echoed, and faded, but the dim light showed a huge, stiff silhouette bowed over backward, mouth gaping, vacant eyes staring up. Then, slowly, the human spring uncoiled, and slowly, slowly, folded in on itself, crumbling; then, in a sudden cascade, collapsed, sprawling trembling limbs and bowed head to the floor.
The warders stood back, watching, faces locked in lugubrious tragedy.
Dirk stepped forward, knelt, reached out a hand toward the huge body.
“Does he live?” one of the warders rasped. Dirk touched the massive shoulder tentatively, then grasped, shook it.
The huge body lifted itself up agonizingly, one leg straight out, the other folded under him. The torso lifted up, leaned back, backward, until shoulders and head fell back against the wall. The great arms lay limp, hands upturned and empty on the floor. The eyes stared upward, blank.
The warders stood in a silent semicircle, their faces grave. Then one frowned, leaning down, and slapped Gar’s face. “Now, then, answer—do you hear me?”
The face rocked to the side with the blow; the eyes stayed empty.
“Gone,” another warder muttered thickly. All their faces seemed to gel; they turned away, slowly, back toward the light. The warder who had spoken stood over Gar, then turned to Dirk. “He’s gone, then, lad. Do you know what that means?”
Dirk remembered he was supposed to be mad. His eyebrows shot up in surprise; he managed a smile. “Aye, Nuncle! Why, ‘tis my brother!”
For a moment, the warder’s face seemed to soften. “Aye, poor idiot. But is he here, still?”
Dirk turned to look at Gar in surprise. “Why, wherefore not? He is as he has always been, since the day of his birth. Except …” He rolled forward onto his knees, thrusting his face to within an inch of Gar’s, peering at him from every side while he fought down a sudden surge of nausea. Then he looked up at the guard with a delighted, beatific smile “… except he is bigger now.”
The warder stood silent for a moment, his mouth working. Then a sad smile won over his face; he turned his head from side to side. “Aye, lad. Aye, he is bigger now. Aye, that is all.” He started to reach out to Dirk, as though to pat his head, but thought better of it, and pulled his hand back. “Aye, care for him, then. He is your brother.” He turned away, going back to the light.
Dirk watched after him, staring at the feeble glow of the lamp—anything to avoid looking at Gar. Yes, Gar was his brother now. There was a bond between them—now, when it was too late.
And the warder was right again—Gar was gone, or his mind, at least. Catatonic, probably—he wasn’t an expert. He couldn’t be sure.
And, now that it was too late, he understood. Gar was a telepath; he could “hear” other people’s thoughts; but not just that. He could “hear” the thoughts of the dead, too—if he was in the room where the dead had lived. There was a word for it, “psychometry,” and even a theory to back it up—that strong emotions made minuscule changes in the electrical potentials of objects within range; and a special kind of mind, “scanning” those objects even centuries later, could still resonate tiny echoes of those long-lost emotions and, through them, of the people who had held those emotions. A really good psychometrist was supposed to be able to pick up a rock, or a cup, or anything, and describe the personality of the person to whom it belonged and the main events in that person’s life. And here, in a room that had never held anything but the mentally ill, and had held generations of them, for centuries … A room in which there had never been anything but strong emotions, and most of them negative … For a moment, Dirk felt a touch of what Gar must have gone through and shuddered, automatically pinching the sensation off, closing it away from his mind. Gar must have thought he had walked into hell. Presumably a telepath—or any kind of a psi-built up automatic defenses against psionic input, a kind of blocking or closure that would automatically shut out any signals he didn’t want to hear, the way most people can be in a room where music is playing and never really be aware of it, until the music stops. But even the strongest dam can be breached. Or overwhelmed …
And what happens then, when the floodwaters come booming in, and the storm churns throughout the land? Why, you find yourself a bolt-hole, some watertight place in the bowels of the earth, and you go lock yourself in and pull the key after you, so that nothing can ever get to you, ever, ever again.
Somewhere, some cul-de-sac corner of Gar’s brain, the giant’s mind had retreated into, pulling the hole in after it, leaving the rest of his brain clear, for the demons to play in …
Suddenly, frantically, Dirk ached for daybreak.
CHAPTER 10
At long last, the huge cell began to lighten with false dawn, gray light filtering down to soothe shuddering forms with cool lucidity. The warders stretched, grumbling, ready to strike out for home as soon as the day shift came in.
A huge, booming knocking sounded from the outside door.
Dirk looked up, hope suddenly spurting in him. Was this it, so soon? But how could they possibly have pulled the army together so quickly? And what about the Bell not having rung?
The chief warder scowled and gestured to one of his men. The attendant turned away, into the tunnel leading to the outside door; Dirk heard the huge bolts grind back, the hinges grate open.
There was the murmur of voices; then the attendant came back, looking singularly baffled. He muttered something to the chief warder, who scowled, puzzled. The attendant held out a sheet of parchment; the chief warder spread it out flat on the desk, scowling over it, lips moving to silently piece letters together. Then he looked up, shrugged in resignation, and nodded. The attendant motioned to two others, picked up a maul and a cold chisel, and strode down the room toward Gar and Dirk.
Dirk’s heart hammered. Never had he wanted out of a place so dearly as he wanted out of this one.
The warders came to a halt in front of Dirk and Gar, and Dirk went limp with relief. Two went to stand to either side of him, ready to catch hold, while the third kneeled down, set the chisel against the chain, and cut through it with two blows. He stood, shaking his head, mystified. “Why His Lordship wants them is more than I can see.”
“ ‘Tis not for us to question,” one of his mates growled. “Come, let’s get it done.” He turned to Dirk, jerked his thumb. “Up on your feet, fellow.”
Dirk stood, not understanding what was going on, but not about to worry about it, either. At the last moment, he remembered the act. “Praised be the sun, moon, and stars! The ransom is paid; the King wanders free! Praised be the deliverers, praised be—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” the warder soothed. “Stand there like a good fellow, while we get your brother free.”