They came back out a moment later, dragging the Housewife, wailing protests, herding the silent children.
The Squire swung down from his horse and strode toward them, fists on his hips. “Bastards!” Dirk rose to his knees, tensing. Gar put a hand on his arm. “Not yet.”
Dirk’s head snapped around; he stared at Gar, unbelieving.
He heard the crack of a slap, turned back toward the village. The wife staggered back against the house, hand to her cheek; the Squire stood before her, rubbing his hands.
The last Soldier dragged Madelon out the door. The Squire turned toward her and stopped, staring.
Madelon shook the Soldier’s hands off and straightened, glaring at the Squire.
The Squire came toward her swaggering, rubbing his hands again. He nodded toward one of the Soldiers; the man uncoiled a whip from his waist as the Squire reached out to cup Madelon’s chin. For a moment, it was a frozen tableau.
Then the Squire’s hand flashed to her neckline and ripped. The Soldier behind her spun her around and slammed her face into the wall, ripping the blouse down, baring her back, the whip handler stepped up, shaking out his lash, and Dirk snapped out, “Move!”
He broke from the thicket, running quick and lightly. He heard a drumming behind him; then Gar flashed past him, giant legs devouring lengths of ground.
The Soldier’s whip cracked, the children screamed, and the Housewife started wailing. The Soldiers didn’t hear Gar till he crashed into them, staff whirling in a windmill of havoc.
The end of the staff cracked into the whipman’s neck at the base of the throat; he went down like a poleaxed steer, and the staff rebounded to crack alongside the head of the Soldier who held Madelon. He slumped as Gar whirled, staff snapped up to block a sword blow, then crashing down on the Soldier’s head, leaping back to catch another Soldier in the belly with its butt, while the Housewife all but threw Madelon into the hut, shooed her children in, and followed, slamming the door.
Then the last three mounted Soldiers were in, charging. Gar heard them coming, and spun around, but not quite quickly enough; a horse knocked him back against the wall of the hut, and a sword ripped his shoulder.
He rebounded off the wall, lifting the staff in his good hand …
… to see an ugly stub of a pistol in the Squire’s hand, pointing at his belly.
Gar stood, frozen.
The Squire lifted the pistol, sighting along the barrel at Gar’s eyes.
Dirk slammed into the Squire’s back. The pistol hissed a shaft of blue light as he fell; it licked the roof of the hut, which exploded into flames. Then the Squire hit dirt with Dirk on top. He tried to roll, but Dirk rose to one knee and chopped down with the blade of his hand. The Squire went limp.
The horsemen were galloping back for a second try, and two of the footmen were staggering to their feet. Gar leaped aside as the horsemen charged past; but the last horseman slewed around, tracking him, sword swinging down. Gar swung his staff, and the sword spun away, ringing; but a footman stepped up behind Gar, swinging a dagger.
The door of the hut flew open, slammed into the Soldier’s face. Madelon stepped out, the rags of her blouse tied around her neck and a cleaver in her hand.
The horseman with the bruised hand swung his mount toward her. The other two went for Gar, closing in from opposite sides.
Dirk took a running leap, pole-vaulting on his staff, feet aimed for the rider who was cornering Madelon.
The last foot soldier swung his sword, chopped Dirk’s staff out from under him.
The ground leaped up and slammed Dirk flat on his back. Agony screamed through him; he couldn’t breathe. A body came between him and the sun; a club barreled toward him, swelling to fill the world. Then pain exploded, and blackness, and there wasn’t much to remember after that.
CHAPTER 3
He was drifting through infinite blackness. Somewhere far away, there were stars—he knew that just because he couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there.
A tiny pinpoint of light … There! He’d known he had eyes! And the pinpoint grew, swelling, no, it was rushing closer, it was a head, or a face, anyway, framed with white, floating hair, and it had eyes—great, luminous blue eyes, or turquoise, anyway; what matter if the rest of the face was too blurred to see, it was a good face, he knew it, he had to have faith …
“Little out of your depth, aren’t you?” it asked. It had a voice like a brazen gong; only it wasn’t sound, really …
“Dunno,” Dirk said astutely. “How deep is it here?”
“Up to your clavicles,” the face answered, “and it’s rising. Don’t you think you ought to back off and just float with the tide?”
That jarred, somehow; comfortable though it was here, there was the feeling of seduction, of somebody trying to get him to do something pleasant that he knew was wrong, that he didn’t want to do.
Dirk shook his metaphorical head. “No, I mean, you’re a great guy, and all that, but … Well, how do I know it’ll flow? I mean, somebody’s got to make the tide move.”
“Let somebody else do it,” the face suggested.
Dirk considered that. It was tempting … Tempting! That jarred. No, if it was tempting, it had to be wrong. He shook his head stubbornly. “No thanks. I’ll stand pat.”
The face shrugged somehow. “Your choice. You should remember the option, though.” The eyes frowned, peering. “But I see you’re almost back. Well, remember.” And it turned away.
“Hey, wait a minute!” Dirk felt suddenly clearheaded.
The face turned back patiently. “Yes?”
“Who are you?”
“The Wizard of the Far Tower,” the face said. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
It turned away and shrank, going fast, and winked out.
And Dirk felt himself sinking, felt the blackness closing in over him. He fought it, fighting to rise, to move upward, pushing against the weight of it, the weight of his eyelids, they were heavy, all his strength did no good, he couldn’t direct it, couldn’t channel it to the eyelids, couldn’t release it, he needed the valve, just turn it to release strength, the valve—word—any word—but his tongue and lips were swollen, heavy with a ton of inertia, he couldn’t release strength to them, either. He fought, straining, to part his lips just enough to release breath, to move the slug-tongue, no matter how little …
He felt it; he’d managed it, and it moved easier now, strength flooded through, “Puhleeeze …” And he felt his body about him again, felt grass against his back, arms, and legs, heard a sibilance of breeze, far-off birdsong, saw the red of light through closed eyelids.
He moved an arm, rolling toward it, thrust with all the strength in his body, and levered himself up on one elbow. He opened his eyes, looked around, saw grass, tree trunks, leaves, and a tow-headed boy, wide and squat, his mouth open in shock.
Dirk frowned and floundered, pulling himself up to a sitting position. “Hey, kid … What …” The boy’s mouth snapped shut, terrified.
Then he turned and leaped, crashing through the underbrush. Gone.
Dirk stared numbly after him, feeling sluggish and fuzzy.
His eyes wandered; he saw a body lying beside him, bright full skirt and bare back, with one wavy line of dried blood across it, shoulders shrouded in dark hair.
Madelon! He shook his head, trying to clear it, and the whole fight came back.