“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 Mélange.”
“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 society.”
“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.
Dirk let go.
Core shot back and away, stumbled, and flipped down on his back. Dirk rolled to his knees, unsure of the cut leg, and gathered himself to spring. Core rolled up to his knees, and Dirk leaped, pushing hard with the good leg. Core threw himself to the side, and Dirk went sprawling on his face. He heard Core laugh, and flipped onto his back just in time to see the sword slashing down at his eyes. Frantically, he threw up his arms—and caught Core’s wrist with his left hand. By pure reflex, he lashed out with his right, catching Core on the point of the jaw. The Lord lurched back, and Dirk rolled away, up onto his knees again—in time to see Core, recovered and on his feet, slashing down.