The horse bounded over the heads of the army and plowed through to the force of councillors, just as Tom broke through from the other side, with only a fraction of his beggar troops.
A long, lurking moment of silence filled the little circle as the councillors saw their executioners.
Then the councillors howled, drawing back into a tight circle about the machine, the ferocity of despair in their eyes, their glowing swords leaping out.
Tom's boys circled out around the councillors and closed in.
The councillors' swords were deadly; but they had to hit to be effective, and the beggars were good at hitting and getting clear.
A lot of beggars dropped, cut in half; but a lot more lived. They outnumbered the councillors four to one. They whittled away at the ranks.
The councillors screamed, chopping, and died.
In the center of the circle, Rod could make out one lonely figure still working frantically at the machine—Durer.
Then, suddenly, there were only five councillors left.
Durer spun away from the machine with a shriek of despair and lugged something out of his wallet-pouch.
A laser-pistol.
Rod dropped down to Fess's far side, the bulk of the horse between him and the councillors, knowing that only a head shot could hurt the robot, and snapped open a hidden panel in his horse's side. In it was his last-ditch defense: the latest-issue DDT laser pistol.
He fumbled the weapon out, hearing the screams of the beggars as their legs were sheared off at the knee, and shot around under Fess's neck.
His shot creased Durer's leg. The scarecrow-man clasped his knee and fell, howling.
Tom bellowed.
The beggars stepped in. Oaken staves whirled, knocking the remaining councillors off their feet.
The staves rose high, poised a moment, and fell with a sickening, moist crunch.
Big Tom bellowed victorious laughter and scooped up a fallen councillor's sword.
Durer rolled back up to one knee and fired.
The red pencil of light caught Tom in the shoulder. He roared, spinning, and fell.
Half-crawling, half-leaping, Durer went for him, struggling to get a clear shot.
Rod snapped a shot at him, and missed.
Durer howled and dove behind a fallen body.
Rod slammed his heels into Fess. "Quick! Before he can recover to shoot!"
The horse leaped; the laser beam caught it in the belly—a hollow steel belly, no harm.
But the robot's legs stiffened, its head lolled forward, even while it was in the air.
Rod sprang free as Fess landed, crumpled, rolled.
Rod rolled too, came up to see Durer, risen to one knee, level the pistol at him.
Tom's huge body smashed into him.
Durer caromed away, pistol flying wide from his hand.
The same had happened to Rod's. He cast about him, frantically searching.
Tom rolled, came to his feet, lurched after Durer, catching up a fallen councillor's sword… and tripped over a body.
Quick as an eel, Durer was up, catching Tom's fallen sword, chopping down…
Rod dove.
His shoulder caught Durer in the belly, whipped the little man around; the sword landed harmlessly in the earth.
Durer leaned on the sword, kept his feet, and swung the sword up, turning to Rod.
Rod rolled to his knees, saw the sword coming…
Tom bellowed, slammed into Rod, striking him out of the sword's path.
The glowing sword fell, shearing off Tom's shoulder and a third of his rib cage.
Rod screamed as he rolled to his feet and swung around. His arm locked aroundDurer's throat, his knee came up into the small of the back. Something snapped.
Durer screamed and went limp, screaming still, the sword falling from his fingers.
Rod threw him down.
Still screaming, the scarecrow groped for the sword.
Rod dropped to his knee and chopped down.
The callused edge of his hand smashed larynx and vertebrae.
Durer gurgled, convulsed, and lay still.
Rod stood, gasping, and turned, to see Tom's shoulder pumping blood in great gouts, the big man's face contorted in a silent grimace.
Rod was down again, groping frantically in the welter of blood and spare bodies.
He came up with the laser pistol and swung back to Tom.
The remaining beggars lurched forward, too slow; before they could reach him, Rod pulled the trigger and, holding it down, sliced off another half-inch along Tom's wound. Tom screamed.
Then they were on Rod, mauling and clubbing.
"Nay!" Tom rasped, a sickening parody of his former bellow. "Fools, let him be! Do y'not see! He stopped the blood!"
He sank back as the grasping hands hesitated, then loosened. Rod limped back to him, bruised on face and body, rubbing the worst of them—his scarcely-healed shoulder.
He sank to one knee by the gasping hilk of a man, face still wrenched with pain. The stink of cauterized flesh filled his head.
Tom forced his eyes open a fraction and tried to grin. " 'Twas… well meant… master. Two minutes ago, it… might ha' saved me."
Rod jerked off his cloak, balled it up, thrust it under Tom's head. "Lie back and rest," he growled through a tight throat. "You're a healthy hunk, you'll make it. You haven't lost all that much blood."
"Nay," Tom panted," too much… lost. And the… body's shock…"
His face twisted with a spasm of pain. Rod turned away to Fess, slapped the reset switch and fumbled in one of the horse's hidden pockets for an ampul.
He limped back to Tom, slapped the ampul against the burned flesh.
Tom relaxed with a huge sigh as the anesthetic took hold. "My thanks, master," he murmured weakly. "That hast given me, at least, painless death."
"Don't talk that way." Rod's face was frozen. "There's many a roll in the hay for you yet."
"Nay, master." Tom shook his head, closing his eyes. "My time is nigh."
"You're not going to die. You'll leave me in your debt if you do. I won't have it."
"A pox on what thou wilt or wilt not!" Tom spat, with a touch of life again. "I am not thine to command or deny now, lordling. He who now hath me in thrall is far more puissant than thou, and will one day command thee also."
He sagged back on the pillow, heaving gasps of air.
Rod knelt silent by his side.
Tom's remaining hand groped over his belly to catch Rod's forearm. "Aye, thou'rt now in my debt, though 'twas not of my choice."
"Not your choice?" Rod scowled. "What are you talking about? You saved my life!"
"Aye, and thereby lost my own. But I would never ha' done so with a clear head."
"Clear head?"
"Aye. In battle, one sees and one does, whatever comes first to mind. 'Twas thee, or living my life longer to serve the House of Clovis; and in the heat of the battle I chose thee, in my folly!"
He was silent a moment, breathing hoarsely; then his hands tightened again. "Yet while I die, thou wilt live in my debt! And what thou canst not pay to me, thou must pay to my people."
Rod tried to draw his hand back. "No!"
"Aye!" Tom's eyes flew wide, glaring, angry. " 'Tis the payment I demand! Thy life for mine, thy life spent here on Gramarye, to work for the good of my people!"
"I'm not my own master…"
"Nay, thou art." Tom sank back, weary. "Thou art, and if thou knowest it not, thou'rt true fool."
"The price is too high, Tom. My death in battle, yes, gladly. But living here, all my days, I cannot. I too serve a dream…"
" 'Twas my choice, also," Tom sighed, "the dream or the man. Nay, then, choose what thou wilt."
"I'm under a geas…"
"Then my geas also is on thee, freeing thee from the other. Thou must serve me and mine now…"
The dying face darkened. "I had thought I knew what was best for them… but now, as all darkens about me…"
He heaved up suddenly, body wracked with a spasm, coughing blood. Rod threw his arms about the big man, holding him up.
The spasm passed. Tom clutched weakly at Rod's arm, gasping. "Nay, then… thy mind is… clearer… thou must decide…"