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"You could call it that," Dirk said slowly, "though no lordling could live this long
without getting a taste of blood. Whipping churls, or killing one who tried to
escape. For most of them, this is the first time the churls fight back. But that's
only part of it."
Gar transferred his scowl to Dirk. "Would you mind explaining that?"
"Our lords and masters are very efficient; anything they do has to have at least
two purposes." Dirk turned away, looking out at the arena. "You see, in spite of
everything they can do with education, youth does tend toward idealism.
Somehow, in spite of everything they can do, a few of their sons always wind up
with horribly humanitarian ideas-churls are human, justice for all men, sympathy
with the underdog, all men should be happy-downright subversive."
Gar looked down in surprise. "Liberals? You mean these dinosaurs are actually
capable of producing an open-minded man?"
Dirk nodded. "Far too often for their comfort. Happens to every noble family at
least once in every generation. So they bring them here, put them in the arena
against churls who're armed enough to be dangerous, and just possibly lethal,
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even to a man in full plate armor. And these churls are the hotheads of the nation,
drilled and primed to come out craving blood and howling hate."
"Like killer wolves," Gar said tenderly.
"It seems to be singularly effective. What chance is there of a young man coming
out of that with any thoughts of gentleness left-fifty steelfisted churls charging
down on him, screaming for his blood."
"It would tend to cool idealistic enthusiasm,". Gar agreed.
Dirk twisted on a smile. "Moral: Kindness to churls is lethal. And that's how you
make a reactionary out of a young radical."
"How many come through it with any shred of an ideal left?"
"One," Dirk said judiciously. "I'm no historian, mind you but I know of only one."
"Oh?" Gar raised an eyebrow. "What happened to him?"
"He started treating his churls decently, and the neighboring Lord didn't like
that-it might give his own churls nasty ideas. So he declared war, and the King
lent some of his own troops to help out."
Gar nodded slowly. "I take it there wasn't too much of him left by the time they
got through." "His daughter managed to escape, with her grandfather. We
smuggled them out; now he's lobbying for us with the Tribunal."
Gar nodded. "And the liberal?"
"He stayed on the planet-or in it, I should say. Six feet down."
A trumpet blew in the arena, and Belloc reached up to touch Gar's shoulder.
"Gather them, Outlander. It is time."
The churls were pacing, impatiently swinging their lead-clad fists and growling at
one another. Dirk slammed the iron door open, and every head in the room
snapped around toward the crash. The muttering cut off, and every eye fastened
on Gar as he stepped in. He ran his gaze over them in a quick survey and nodded,
satisfied. "All right, now's your chance. Come out howling, they expect that-but
don't get carried away. Keep sight of me, whatever you do. Follow me wherever I
go, and I may bring some of you out of this alive. Don't stop to pick off a tempting
lordling along the way just follow."
Their cheer went up, and Dirk's spirits dropped. They wouldn't remember.
But Gar nodded, satisfied, and turned away. The churls streamed out after him,
down the halls to pile up against the portcullis like a human flood.
The Master of the Games strutted about in the center of the arena, calling out the
opening amenities in a clarion tone. When he finished, he turned away toward
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the safety of the arena wall, walking very quickly. He stepped on a stairway, and it
retracted as he climbed, telescoping in till it swung away into a recess in the wall.
The lordlings stepped forward, swinging their swords and glancing at one
another nervously, stretching out into a line across the far end of the arena.
A trumpet blasted. Gears clashed, iron grumbled, and the portcullis slid up. Gar
bellowed and charged out. Dirk leaped into place beside him, glancing back to
make sure; Hugh, Bertrand, and Oliver were following, and the three separate
groups of churls were following them. He looked back just in time to avoid
slamming into Gar as the giant skidded to a halt, facing the steel-clad line fifty
feet away. Dirk stopped and Hugh snapped dead still just behind him. Bertrand
and Oliver leaped to the sides, and the churls fanned out behind them into a
solid, charged line, like a condenser about to spit.
A murmur rippled through the arena, rose in a wave. The gladiator-churls had
never been organized before.
The lordlings stood frozen, galvanized.
Then Gar paced forward slowly, bringing up his mailed fists-a panther with brass
knuckles. Dirk followed; Bertrand, Hugh, and Oliver followed him; and the line of
churls ground forward like a steamroller.
The lordlings lifted their swords and crouched down behind their shields. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]