Suddenly other “lords” burst in, crying, “Who is hurting you?”
“They are!” Orgoru screamed, pointing at Dirk and Gar. “Seize them!”
The false aristocrats jumped on Gar and Dirk. Dirk knocked the first two over with quick jabs, and Gar picked up a couple and tossed them away—but the hall was suddenly full of others, pouring into the room and burying the three men under sheer numbers. Miles struck about him wildly, but the city men leaned aside from his blows or blocked them, then caught his arms and pinned him against the wall. He could only stand and watch his companions being buried, and could only think how senseless this was, for he’d seen them defeat armed foresters. Neither seemed to be fighting terribly hard, and Miles guessed that they must be afraid of hurting the poor madmen. Gar roared and Dirk howled, but the “lords” overpowered them, burying them under sheer numbers.
“Well done.” King Longar came waddling through the door, his moon-face grim. “Now take them before the Guardian.” The madmen hustled the three men to their feet and bundled them out the door. As they passed Ciletha’s suite, she burst through the doorway, crying, “What’s happening?”
“He hurt me,” Orgoru panted, coming up to her, “the big one. I felt him poking about in my mind. We’re taking them to the Guardian for judgment.”
Ciletha stared at him, and Miles, watching, saw realization come into her eyes, realization that Orgoru was even more insane than she had thought. His posturing and pretenses hadn’t ripped her veil of belief in him, but his claim that the giant had invaded his mind did.
Then the madmen were hustling Miles on down the hallway, and Ciletha followed, crying, “He can’t have done it! He can’t have meant any harm! He’s a good man, he saved Miles twice and more, he would have saved you!”
“I don’t need to be saved,” Orgoru snapped at her. “I don’t want to be.”
Ciletha halted, frozen, her eyes huge, as the implications of Orgoru’s words sank in. Then she ran after them, choking down sobs. They mustn’t hurt Miles!
Back into the great hall they went, around and into a sort of alcove, where they stopped. Ciletha halted too, staring in amazement at the jeweled curves and angles inlaid in the wall’s surface.
“Great Guardian!” King Longar boomed. “Here are three who would join our court, but have hurt one of our number! Judge, we pray you! Judge whether or not they are true aristocrats! Judge whether or not they are of our kind!”
A voice resonated all about them, making Ciletha jump with fright—but the spirit showed no threat to anyone. “Which of you has it hurt?”
“I.” Orgoru stepped forward, still holding his head, and Ciletha felt a stab of pity for him.
“How did he hurt you?”
“He poked about in my mind!”
None of the false aristocrats seemed at all skeptical about the remark. Looking from one face to another, Ciletha was amazed to see complete and total belief.
The invisible Guardian didn’t seem to have any doubts, either. “Let me sense their motives.”
There was no sound, no movement, but suddenly Ciletha felt as though she were surrounded by something warm and clinging, sinking in through the very bone of her skull. Strangely, though, she wasn’t the slightest bit frightened—the Guardian, whatever it was, meant only to help, never to hurt.
Then the sensation was gone, and the Guardian declared, “They are not of your kind, neither they nor the woman.” Instantly, Orgoru cried out, “The woman has made no move to hurt or imperil anyone!”
Ciletha felt a surge of gratitude and affection for her old friend, instantly followed by panic and fear for Miles.
“We thank you, O Guardian,” King Longar said, then turned to his courtiers. “Take them out of the palace.”
The crowd shouted and surged toward the portal, out through it and down the long, long flight of stairs. There they halted, turning the prisoners to face King Longar, whose face was grim. “You have abused our hospitality, and you are not of our kind. We can’t have the vulgar discovering our court and flocking here to overwhelm us.”
Miles looked up at more footsteps clattering down the stairs. Dirk looked up, too, and stared. “Laser rifles!”
Gar never took his eyes from King Longar. “So you have actually managed to learn how to operate some of the machinery here.”
“Machinery?” The king frowned. “We have magical weapons, and courtiers before us learned which parts of the Guardian’s design to push in order to bring them to life.”
“We knew the nuclear generators still worked, or the robots wouldn’t,” Dirk said to Gar, “and some mad genius learned how to punch the right buttons to connect them to machines.”
Every “aristocrat” stiffened, their faces turning ugly, and King Longar’s voice was heavy with menace. “Mad? Do you say we are mad?”
For answer, Gar turned to him and asked, “Does the Guardian make the lightning sheet from the top of the wall when enemies come near, or have you learned how to do that, too?”
The tension stretched so thin that Miles thought it would break him when it snapped. Then Longar exploded. “I can’t believe the gall of this man! Three magical weapons are trained on him, and all he can do is ask questions! Have you no common sense, vagabond, no fear?”
Gar gave Dirk a questioning glance. Dirk shrugged. They both turned back to Longar, shaking their heads as Dirk said, “Not really, no.”
The “noblemen” stared at them, astounded. King Longar burst out, “Why? How can you not fear?”
With a sudden surge, Gar kicked out, sending the men who held his legs sprawling. He landed in a crouch, bowed with a snap, and the two who had held his arms went tumbling over his head, slamming into half a dozen of their fellows.
At the same moment, Dirk doubled his whole body, pulling the men who held him closer together, then drove his elbows back as he shoved with both feet. The men who held those feet dropped them, clutching their stomachs and gagging; the armholders clung on long enough for Dirk’s feet to hit ground, when he elbowed them again. They let go, and he whirled to kick at the men holding Miles’s knees. They fell, howling, and Miles set down his feet with a shout of triumph. He strained forward, and the men holding his arms shouted, pulling backward. Then Miles leaped back as hard and as far as he could, swinging his arms forward with all his strength, and the two collided with each other. Free, he turned to swing at the nearest aristocrat. The man sprawled backward into two more who were running forward.
The whole court shouted and charged at them.
Lightning split the night, and everyone froze, turning to see Dirk and Gar holding two rifles with a third at Gar’s feet. “Grab it, Miles!” Dirk snapped.
Miles sprinted to them and caught up the weapon. He had no idea how to use it, nor had need to—he only needed to keep it from the madmen.
“We’re going to leave now,” Gar said gently. “Please don’t try to follow us. I assure you, we know how to use these weapons, and we know they can scar these walls, even burn through them. We’d rather not see that happen.”
He left the other threat unspoken: that the beams could burn through people, too.
“But—but we are noblemen!” King Longar cried. “How can you have defeated us so easily?”
“Because we’re trained soldiers, Your Majesty.” Dirk’s voice was gentle somehow, even sympathetic. “Ciletha? You can come with us—or you can stay here.”
The madmen turned toward the woman, their faces ugly. “No!” Orgoru cried. “She is good, she is gentle, and not to blame one whit for what these men have done!”