A quarterstaff whirled down between them, cracking the sword blade in half and slamming the hilt into Core’s chest. The Lord shot back, mouth gaping, and Dirk clambered to his feet carefully, testing his leg, as DeCade stalked after the Lord, murder in his eyes.
Core stumbled back, turning, caught half a breath, and broke into a stumbling run.
DeCade leaped after him.
A panicked horse fled toward them, screaming. Core leaped for his life as it passed, caught the saddle bow, and swung aboard, reeling. DeCade bellowed and leaped into the horse’s path, quarterstaff swinging like a poleaxe; but Core sawed back on the reins, and the horse reared, screaming in agony. DeCade’s staff whined past its belly. Core yanked at the reins; the horse swung about, came down headed toward the trees. Core shouted and kicked its ribs, hard, and the horse took off like a cannonball, slamming through the ranks of the outlaws, and disappeared into the trees.
Dirk stood staring after him, hearing the horse’s crashing progress fading into the distance. His eyes glazed, and he turned away with the sunken feeling of defeat inside him.
“Fools!” DeCade bellowed. Dirk’s head snapped up.
The clearing was still, filled with windrows of dead Soldiers and outlaws. In the center, thigh-deep in corpses, DeCade bellowed in rage, slashing about him with his staff. “Idiots! Blockheads! Traitorous dogs! You let him escape!”
The outlaws slipped back out of his reach with battle-wariness, their faces blanched with the deepest religious fear, trembling at the wrath of their saint, not understanding.
“Spawn of jackals!” DeCade screamed and leaped at Hugh, his staff whirling. Hugh danced aside. Lapin loomed up with elephantine majesty, her face somber.
DeCade froze, staring down at the huge woman who blocked him from his quarry. His face tightened in a quick stab of pain. He said slowly; “I know you. You are chief of these outlaws.”
“I am.” Slowly and with great difficulty, Lapin wallowed down to one knee and bent her head. “I honor you, Grandmaster.” Then her head rose again. “But why do you curse us? If we have sinned against you, surely our offense was not so great that you should be so much enraged. What hurt have we done? We came, unbidden, to give timely rescue to you and your band. All your enemies we have slain, save this one; and are we so much to blame if we have let one mere man escape?”
“But—you—have—let—one—man—escape!” DeCade grated. “And that man was a Lord!” His voice rose; he moved back into the center of the clearing, raking them all with his eyes. “Fools! Do you not see? He will ride faster than we can follow, to Albemarle! By dawn he shall bear, word to the King that I live again, that the peasants will rise—and the King will send word to all his Lords—he has magic means for it, let me assure you! When our churls rise with swords, they shall find armies against them, with fire-cannon!” His staff rose above his head, and his voice rose with it, toward a scream, trembling. “I shall not be cheated! I have waited too long in the shadows for this time! I shall not see this world lost again! And there is no way to prevent it!”
His shriek pierced their ears; the outlaws winced and hid their faces.
Dirk stared at DeCade’s eyes. There was madness creeping up there; DeCade was going insane! “Can you ring the Bell before morning and make it heard throughout this land?” DeCade screeched. “No, nor can I! You have let one Lord escape, and for that, our cause is lost! But if I cannot kill them …”
“DeCade!” Dirk’s voice cracked like a gunshot. The giant froze. Then his head swung slowly toward Dirk, like a hawk picking a sparrow out of the flock.
Dirk stepped forward, limping but briskly, to hide the weakness in his knees. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he knew he had to snap the giant out of it. He saw the blood-lust come into the man’s eyes, saw the huge staff swing up, twirling … and Dirk remembered what he was here for. “Ring your Bell! I can make it heard by all churls, before dawn!”
DeCade froze.
Every eye in the clearing fastened on Dirk. DeCade stood like stone, poised to strike, madness still in his eyes.
Dirk stood firm, staring back at him.
Slowly, the fog in DeCade’s eyes seemed to clear a little. His voice was low and ominous. “Tell me how you can do this.”
“There are wires woven through my belt,” Dirk said, fingering the rope around his waist. “Each is a series of circuits, and the frayed ends act as a diaphragm—No matter. It is magic and will send your words up to the Wizard’s Far Towers, where they ride behind the moon. They shall send your words back here, to sky-men like me, in hiding all across the land. They shall bear your word to the churls and dig up the lasers. Give me the word you wish carried, and the country shall rise before Core reaches Albemarle.”
DeCade stood staring at him.
Then the huge staff flipped spinning up into the air, and DeCade split the clearing with a huge, savage yell. The staff spun down at his head; he reached up and caught it and whirled it about. “Our day is saved! We shall yet bring down the Lords! Great thanks, goodmen and goodwives all! Noble outlaws!” He leaped forward, caught Lapin and Hugh by the arms, yanked them back into the center of the clearing. “Great leaders! May all the saints who smile upon bondsmen bless you this day, you who have brought me awake, aye, cared for and nurtured the man who was to be my body, and saved us all from the jaws of the Lords! Your names shall be written in fire, to burn down the ages in glory! Outlaws, remember this hour! That your children, and your children’s children, down to the twentieth generation may say, ‘My ancestor was there when DeCade awoke and called down havoc upon the Lords!”
He let go of Hugh and Lapin and leaped back, whirling his staff over his head again. “Now, ring the Bell!”
The outlaws cheered, yelled themselves hoarse. In the middle of the clamor, Dirk dropped down to sit cross-legged on the ground. He untied his belt, handed one end to the nearest outlaw. “Here! Hold it tight!” He rubbed his palm over the frayed ropeend, flattening it out into a diaphragm. Then he pulled the large garnet from his ring and stretched out the long, thin coiled wire beneath it. The stone was shaped like a button earphone; he pressed it into his ear. The belt acted as microphone, transmitter, and antenna; the ring acted as receiver, the garnet as earphone, and the wire connecting them doubled as receiving antenna.
Dirk spoke into the rope-end, feeling like half a fool. “Dulain to Clarion! Come in, Clarion!” He repeated the message while the clamor in the clearing died, until he heard a rich, resonant voice in his ear. “Clarion to Dulain. Receiving, Proceed.”
“Holding for instruction.” Dirk looked up at the outlaw. “Summon DeCade.”
The outlaw scowled at the “summon” part, but he turned, waved his free arm. Across the clearing, the giant caught the movement; he frowned and came stalking over to Dirk. “What means this? If you cannot—”
“I must have the words you wish sounded across the kingdom,” Dirk interrupted sharply. “The exact words, to be sure I make no mistake.”
DeCade shrugged impatiently. “ ‘DeCade has rungen the Bell. Bring down your Lords at dawn; then send men to Albemarle.’ ”