He reached beneath his cloak and produced a dagger.
“Bring me through, Benedict!” I cried, but it was no use. There was no response, no strength to trump me up there.
I seized Brand’s Trump. I recalled my Trump battle with Eric. If I could hit Brand through his Trump, I might be able to break his concentration sufficiently for Benedict to come free. I turned all of my faculties upon the card, preparing for a massive mental assault. But nothing. The way was frozen and dark.
It had to be that his concentration on the task at hand, his mental involvement with the Jewel, was so complete that I simply could not reach him. I was blocked at every turn.
Suddenly, the stairway grew paler above me and I cast a quick glance at the moon. A limb of cumulus now covered a portion of its face. Damn!
I returned my attention to Benedict’s Trump. It seemed slow, but I did recover the contact, indicating that somewhere, inside it all, Benedict was still conscious. Brand had moved a pace nearer and was still taunting him. The Jewel on its heavy chain burned with the light of its use. They stood perhaps three paces apart now. Brand toyed with the dagger.
“. . . Yes, Benedict,” he was saying, “you probably would have preferred to die in battle. On the other hand, you might look upon this as a kind of honor-a signal honor. In a way, your death will allow the birth of a new order. ..”
For a moment, the Pattern faded behind them. I could not tear my eyes from the scene to examine the moon, however. There, within the shadows and the flickering light, his back to the Pattern, Brand did not seem to notice. He took another step forward.
“But enough of this,” he said. “There are things to be done, and the night grows no younger.”
He stepped nearer and lowered the blade.
“Good night, sweet Prince,” he said, and he moved to close with him.
At that instant, Benedict’s strange mechanical right arm, torn from this place of shadow and silver and moonlight, moved with the speed of a striking snake. Thing of glinting, metallic planes like the facets of a gem, wrist a wondrous weave of silver cable, pinned with flecks of fire, stylized, skeletal, a Swiss toy, a mechanical insect, functional, deadly, beautiful in its way, it shot forward with a speed that I could not follow, while the rest of his body remained steady, a statue.
The mechanical fingers caught the Jewel’s chain about Brand’s neck. Immediately, the arm moved upward, raising Brand high above the floor. Brand dropped the dagger and clutched at his throat with both hands.
Behind him, the Pattern faded once again. It returned with a much paler glow. Brand’s face in the lantern light was a ghastly, twisted apparition. Benedict remained frozen, holding him on high, unmoving, a human gallows.
The Pattern grew dimmer. Above me, the steps began to recede. The moon was half-occluded.
Writhing, Brand raised his arms above his head, catching at the chain on either side of the metal hand that held it. He was strong, as all of us are. I saw his muscles bunch and harden. By then, his face was dark and his neck a mass of straining cables. He bit his lip; the blood ran into his beard as he drew upon the chain.
With a sharp snap followed by a rattling, the chain parted and Brand fell to the floor gasping. He rolled over once, clutching at his throat with both hands.
Slowly, very slowly, Benedict lowered his strange arm. He still held the chain and the Jewel. He flexed his other arm. He sighed deeply.
The Pattern grew even dimmer. Above me, Tir-na Nog’th became transparent. The moon was almost gone.
“Benedict!” I cried. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he said, very softly, and he began to sink through the floor.
“The city is fading! You’ve got to come to me right away!”
I extended my hand.
“Brand. . .” he said, turning.
But Brand was sinking also, and I saw that Benedict could not reach him. I clasped Benedict’s left hand and jerked. Both of us fell to the ground beside the high outcrop.