DeCade jerked to a halt again. In a low, soothing voice, he called out, “Steady. It comes now, once again.” He scowled; an uneasy murmur rose behind him. DeCade ignored it, glowering straight ahead. Dirk wondered what he was doing—putting greater weight on the floor with a force-field, pushing out heat in front of himself, stopping a stream of photons? Whichever one it was, Gar must have also been a telekineticist; by speeding up the motion of the molecules, he could raise the temperature of the air. By slowing them down, he could free energy to bind into a force field—and if he could do that, he was some kind of psi Dirk had never even heard about. Dirk found himself wondering if there had been anything psionic Gar hadn’t been able to do.
A thundering crash, and a huge portcullis slammed down to bite into the rock of the tunnel floor.
Dirk started back, scared half out of his skin. The tunnel was totally silent.
Then a low, frantic muttering began.
DeCade’s voice cut through it like a buzz saw. “It is done; they have shot their bolt. Now let us tear this iron from our path.” He nodded to Dirk. “Your laser.”
Dirk pulled out his pistol and held down the firing stud. The ruby beam sizzled out to the top corner of the portcullis and began to shear through the iron. Behind him, three outlaws unlimbered their own pistols, gaining confidence now that they had something to do. Four ruby beams slashed out, moving slowly, one along each side.
Dirk couldn’t help a moment of admiration for the first King. Just in case time deteriorated his electronic defense, he’d had a primitive mechanical one as a fail-safe. Primitive, yes, but effective—unless you happened to have an all-purpose psi along.
Each pair of laser beams met at a corner and winked out. DeCade stood waiting a few moments, watching the glowing metal; then he raised his staff with both hands clasped at the top, swung it high above his head like a battering ram, and shot it forward. The tip hit the iron grille, a little above center. The last few strands of iron snapped, and the huge gate slammed back and down with a crash.
DeCade stood staring at it a moment. Then, slowly, he said, “The way is clear, good lads. Follow.” And he stepped onto the grille, carefully avoiding the hot edges, and strode ahead. Dirk followed. So did the outlaws.
As the torchbearer cleared the far edge of the portcullis, the light fell on a steep, narrow flight of stairs, thick with dust. DeCade grinned down at Dirk. “Only a long climb now, friend Dulain, and we will have come to the place we seek.” Then he frowned, his head snapped up, as though he had heard something.
Dirk had felt it, too—that sudden inner certainty that now was the time.
“We are laggard,” DeCade said grimly. “They are storming the walls. Come.”
He turned and strode away up the stairs.
The young Lord on sentry duty at the northeast point of the wall leaned on the battlement, staring down at the wide talus slope below him, newly sprinkled with lime, white even in the starlight. He smiled at the sight, nodding with satisfaction; not a single churl could creep across that expanse of whiteness without being as clear as a hot woman’s hunger. The rabble had pushed their rightful lords back into Albemarle, but now the pushing was done; the Lords were here in the King’s castle, and here they would stay while Core and the King summoned an army from across the galaxy—there were always mercenaries for hire, and any aristocracy was a good credit risk. A fleet of ships would be on its way before morning; and the Lords could stay, safe and snug, in this castle, until the great ships came thundering down. There was plenty of food, and Albemarle had never been taken.
The young Lord failed to remember that Albemarle had never been attacked.
Below him, in the fringe of forest across the white talus slope, churls cherished new laser pistols given to them by sky-men. Directly below the young Lord, a sky-man lay prone, cradling a sniper’s laser rifle to his shoulder, centering infrared scope sights on the sentry. Next to him knelt an outlaw, his hand on the sky-man’s shoulder, waiting.
On the wall above, eight sentries watched, hawk-eyed and nervous, alert for the slightest sign of attack, wishing their watches were over.
Below each of them lay a sky-man with a rifle, and a churl with his hand on the sky-man’s shoulder—almost immobile, scarcely breathing—waiting.
Then somehow, each churl felt it within him—now was the time.
Eight hands tightened on shoulders.
Eight beams of ruby light lanced out at the same moment; eight sentries fell, with holes burned in their chests. One screamed and another managed a rattling bark; then all was still. Each lordling lay next to the huge laser cannon that had been his charge.
On the white talus slope, eight groups of outlaws appeared, running toward the wall with long ladders, grappling hooks, and cables. The butts of the ladders grounded just outside the moat; their tops swung up, over, and thudded home high on the castle walls. Outlaws scrambled up the ladders. They stopped at the topmost rungs, slipped the grappling hooks from their shoulders, swung them seven times about their heads, and let fly. Eight irons arced up through the night, over the wall and down, to clatter on stone. Below, on the ground, other churls caught the trailing ropes and pulled. The grappling irons clattered along the stone and caught in crevices. More churls threw their weight on the ropes, and steel points bit deep into stone.
Above on the ladder, the climbers caught the ropes again, pulled on them, rested their weight on them, then swung out, and set their feet against the walls, and started walking upward. A few minutes later, they hauled themselves over the top and onto the battlements. They pulled themselves to their feet, pulling out hammers and ringbolts, and turned to drive the ringbolts deep into the granite. Then they loosened the grappling irons and pulled up the ropes. At their ends came rope ladders. They made the ladders fast to the ringbolts, then leaned over the outer wall, waving down. A few minutes later, sky-men clambered up and over the walls, dropped to their knees next to the laser cannons, pulled out small tool kits, and got busy taking out a few vital parts. The climbers hadn’t waited; they were already down in the courtyard, running, converging on the main gate. As they ran, they unlimbered truncheons and drew laser pistols.
The Lord of the Watch sat at a table with three other Lords, playing cards by the light of an oil lamp. Its light flickered on the great windlass that operated the drawbridge, but didn’t quite penetrate to the door and corners. Three outlaws eased silently through the door.
One of the Lords threw down his cards in disgust and leaned back in his chair, looking up. His eyes widened and his mouth opened to shout.
The outlaws sprang, and five more leaped in behind them.
One Lord went down as a club caught him behind the ear. The other three stared, then leaped to their feet, shouting and yanking at their swords. One went down with a bad dent in his skull; a truncheon stabbed into another’s solar plexus. The last screamed as a club broke his wrist; then another caught him at the base of the skull, and his scream cut off, his eyes rolling up as his knees collapsed and he folded to the floor.
The outlaws stood panting a moment, staring down at their erstwhile masters, not quite believing. Then four of them whipped ropes and gags from their belts and knelt to get busy wrapping the Lords for storage. The other four turned to the great windlass.
Outside, an army of churls streamed up across the white talus slope with Hugh at their head. The great drawbridge groaned, then swung slowly down with a rattling of chains. It thudded home on the bank, and the portcullis creaked up as a vanguard of a thousand churls came charging across the bridge, their eyes burning with silent triumph. They burst into the courtyard. Behind them, thousands more swelled up out of the woods in an orderly, quick-moving column.