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 DeCade—and 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 stretched 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?”