King Kobold Revived wisoh-3

by Christopher Stasheff

  Captain Meridian nodded. “We had known o‘ that, Lord Warlock—yet only that, and naught more. Too, that much came only from tales that grandfathers told grandsons.”

  “Well, our young warlock checked on it, and it’s there, right enough.” Rod’s penstrokes flowed around the bump. “We think this semipeninsula is what the beastmen call ‘home.’ It’s a safe bet that the current flows past there.” He didn’t feel any need to tell the captain just how safe the bet was. “Then it flows on southward, hugging the shoreline, till it’s warmed by this outward bulge of the continent, which also forces it back out to sea, toward the northeast—and, of course, it just keeps going in the same line…” His pen sketched strokes upward and to the right until they joined up with Captain Meridian’s line at Cape Souci. “… And there’s where it comes back into your ken.” He straightened up, dropping the quill back into the inkwell. “And there you have it, Master Meridian. Between the two of us, we’ve filled in a map of the current.”

  A discreetly modest, electronic cough sounded in Rod’s ear.

  “Of course, we had a bit of help gaining the basic information,” Rod added. “Does it all make sense?”

  The shipmaster nodded, eyes glowing. “Indeed it doth, milord.” He turned to Tuan and Catharine. “Behold, Thy Majesties!” He traced the current with a forefinger. “The beastmen bring their dragon ships out into the eastward current, here. It carries them across, first to Loguire, so; then, out into the current, around the eastern coast, and away to the west again, o’er the roof of Gramarye, and so back to their home again.” His finger completed the circuit, arriving back at the bump on the mainland’s coastline.

  Tuan drew in a long, hissing breath. “Aye, Master Meridian. So. We understand.”

  The door opened, and the sentry stepped in. “Majesties—Gwendylon, Lady Gallowglass.”

  Gwen stepped in, and dropped a quick curtsy.

  “Well met, my dear.” Catharine rose from her chair and stepped toward Gwen, one hand outstretched. “Well met, in good time. These silly men are like to make mine head to spin with their nonsensical talk of currents and capes.”

  Gwen rose, catching Catharine’s hand with a smile of shared amusement.

  Rod did a double take. Then he straightened up, watching the ladies out of the corner of his eye. Catharine and Gwen had never exactly been on close terms, especially since Catharine had seemed quite interested in Rod before he brought Tuan back into her life. He didn’t think Gwen knew about that—but then, you never can tell with a telepath. All in all, this warm greeting worried him. “What have you two been planning?”

  “Planning? Why, naught!” Catharine was all offended innocence. “E’en so, we have found some space to discuss the errors of thy ways, Lord Warlock—and thou, my noble husband.”

  Tuan looked even more wary than Rod. “Indeed, sweet lady. And in what ways am I lacking?”

  “Thou dost always speak of ways to go about beating other males with thy clubs, and cleaving them with thy swords. We, though, have seen ‘tis of greater import to ward thy soldiers from thy foemen’s clubs and axes!”

  “A point well-taken,” Tuan admitted, “if thou couldst also thus ward their wives and babes, and the lands and stock that give them sustenance.”

  “I hate to admit it,” Rod agreed, “but knocking a man out with your club is a very effective way of making sure he doesn’t knock you.”

  “Ah, but in this instance, my lord, thou must needs make thy soldier able to strike such a blow,” Gwen reminded. “For that, thou must needs ward him from the beastmen’s Evil Eye.”

  Rod exchanged a sheepish glance with Tuan. “They’ve got us, Your Majesty. We’ve been so busy thinking about launching the counterattack that we haven’t put much time into the psychic defenses.”

  “Be easy of heart, lords,” Catharine assured them, “for we have.”

  “Indeed,” Gwen chirped. “The means is ready to hand, as Toby and I did manifest when the beastmen fought our soldiers.”

  Tuan frowned. “I fear that I mistook. Didst thou give warding?”

  “Oh, they surely did!” Rod assured him. “We probably wouldn’t even have saved the handful of men who did survive that battle if Gwen and Toby hadn’t, ah, broken the spell of the Evil Eye.”

  “I mind me that thou didst say thou hadst, for short spaces, dispelled the charm.” Tuan rubbed his chin. “Yet ‘twas only for brief minutes.”

  “Indeed, their thoughts were too heavy for us,” Gwen admitted. “Yet be mindful, my liege, that there were but two of us, and that we acted each alone.”

  “You’re trying to say they simply overpowered you,” Rod interpreted. “But what’s to stop them from doing it again?”

  “Why, more witches!” Gwen’s face bloomed into a rosy smile.

  Catharine tucked Gwen’s arm into her own, nodding. “Indeed, Lord Warlock! Thy wife doth think that, if witches do join hands, they may then be able to act in concert. Thus, if we may have a score of witches altogether, they might among them counter the Evil Eye of one dragon-full of beastmen.”

  “Just twenty of you, against a hundred of them?” Rod felt his backbone chill. “You’ll pardon me, but I don’t like the odds.”

  “Nor do we,” Gwen said earnestly. “It would indeed be well if we could have more witches.”

  The chill along the backbone turned colder. “Somehow, I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Nor I,” Tuan agreed. “What dost thou plan, my wife?”

  “A royal summons.” Catharine’s chin tilted up. “There are witches, husband, who do hide about the hinterlands, on farms and in small villages, seeking to disguise their powers for fear their friends and kin may turn away from them. These have not come unto the Royal Coven through fear of us, or reluctance to leave their folk.”

  “You’re going recruiting,” Rod said in a hollow tone.

  “An thou dost call it so. I will!” Catharine tossed her head. “Bethink thee—would a summons from a mere herald bring a frightened lass to court? Nay. Yet the presence of her Queen would command her loyalty.” She glared at Tuan, daring him to contradict her.

  “And where do you fit into this?” Rod leveled a doubtful gaze on his wife.

  “Lady Gallowglass shall rest here, to train the Royal Witches in the breaking of the Evil Eye, whilst I do wander round and ‘bout the countryside, summoning shy witches to the court.” Catharine patted Gwen’s arm protectively, glaring at Rod.

  Rod opened his mouth to argue (he couldn’t resist it, even if there wasn’t much to argue about; Catharine was just asking for it too plainly), but the door slammed open and a pale-faced guard stepped in and bowed. “Majesties!”

  Catharine whirled, transferring her glare to the page. “What means this unseemly outburst, sirrah?”

  “Word hath come through the witches, Majesties! Beast-men have landed at the mouth of the River Fleuve!”

  “Call out the army!” Rod snapped to Tuan. He headed for the door. “I’ll get the Flying Legion out—or what’s left of ‘em!”

  “Nay, milord!” the page cried. “They have landed under flag of truce!”

  “What!” Rod spun around, staring.

  The sentry nodded. “Aye, milord. There are but a handful of them, and they have surrendered themselves to the knights of My Lord of Bourbon. Even now, they ride toward Runnymede, guarding well their beastmen”—he hesitated, then turned a questioning glance to the king—“guests?”

  “They are if they indeed landed under a flag of truce.” Tuan rose. “Send word to guard them well, for I doubt not there are many of our goodfolk who would gladly slay them. Lord Warlock, come!” And he strode toward the door.

  “Where dost thou go?” Catharine demanded.

  Tuan turned back at the door. “I ride to meet them, sweeting, for we must converse with them as soon as we may. An hour lost could means ten lives.”

  He marched through the portal, and Rod hurried to catch up with him. He shut the door on
Catharine and Gwen with a feeling of relief.

  “Then did the High Warlock ride east to meet the beastmen who had come so strangely under a Flag of Truce, and His Majesty the King rode with him; for, though they were few in number, the beastmen were huge and fierce of mien, like unto Demons in their visages, who moved over the face of the Earth like ravening lions. They were tusked like boars, with their heads beneath their shoulders, and bore huge spiked clubs, stained with old blood; and ever and anon did they seek someone to slay. So, when they had come nigh the beastmen, His Majesty the King bade the High Warlock guard them closely with his magic, lest they forget their Truce or it proved to be vile Treachery. And the High Warlock wove a spell about them, standing tall beneath the sun, towering over the beastmen; and his eyes flashed like diamonds in dawnlight, and the aspect of his visage struck Terror into their hearts, so that they stood mute. Then he wove a Spell about them, a cage unseen, a Wall of Octroi, through which they might speak, but never strike. Then spake he unto the King, saying, ‘Lo, these monsters are now circumscribed, and naught can harm ye the whiles ye speak unto them.’ Then spake King Tuan, ‘What manner of men are ye, and wherefore have ye come unto this land of Gramarye?’ Then one among them did stand forth and say, in accents barbarous, that he was the highest Lord of their wild savage Realm, but the other Lords had risen up against their King and overthrown him, wherefore this small band had come beseeching King Tuan’s mercy. Then was King Tuan’s heart moved to Pity, and he spake and said, ‘Poor noble hearts! For I perceive that these treacherous villains who have laid waste my Kingdom have wasted ye likewise!’ And he brought them back with him to Gramarye; yet the High Warlock kept woven tight his net unseen about them…”

  —Chillde’s Chronicles of the Reign of Tuan and Catharine

  “Your name is what?” Rod stared, unbelieving.

  “Yorick.” The beastman spread his hands. “Whatsa-matter? Ain’cha never heard the name before?”

  “Well, yes, but never in real life—and as to fiction, you don’t exactly look English.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the soldiers who stood behind him with leveled pikes, then looked up at their companions who stood in a ring around the Neanderthals, pike-points centered on the beast-men. Rod considered telling them to lower their weapons, but decided it would be a little premature.

  “A word from you, and they’d drop those spears like magic,” the beastman pointed out.

  “Yeah, I know.” Rod grinned. “Ain’t it great?”

  “On your side, maybe.” Yorick rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I keep getting the feeling I’ve been through this all before.”

  “Nay, dost thou truly?” Tuan said, frowning. “I too have such a sense.”

  The Neanderthal shook his head. “Really weird. Like I’ve lived through this already. Except…” He turned to Rod. “You ought to be about a foot taller, with piercing eyes and a wide, noble brow.”

  Rod stiffened. “What do you mean, ought to?”

  The Neanderthal held up a palm. “No offense. But you ought to have a haughty mien, too—whatever that is.”

  “Indeed,” Tuan agreed. “And thou shouldst be hunchbacked, with fangs protruding from the corners of thy jaws, and a look of murdering idiocy in thine eye.”

  Yorick reared, startled. Then his face darkened and his eyebrows pulled down to hide his eyes (he had a lot of eyebrow). He stepped forward, opening his mouth—and Rod jumped in quickly. “You, ah, both have this same, ah, sense of, ah, déjá vu?”

  “Nice phrase.” Yorick nodded in approval. “I knew there was a word for it.”

  Now it was Rod’s turn to stare. Then he said, “Uh—you’ve heard ‘déjá vu’ before?”

  “Know I have, know I have.” Yorick bobbed his head, grinning. “Just couldn’t place it, that’s all.”

  The handful of beastmen behind him growled and muttered to each other, throwing quick, wary glances at Rod and Tuan.

  “How about you?” Rod turned to Tuan. “ ‘Déjá vu.’ Ever heard it before?”

  “Never in my life,” Tuan said firmly. “Doth that signify?”

  “ ‘Course it does.” Yorick grinned. “It means I’m not a native. But you knew that, didn’t you, High Warlock? I mean, it’s pretty plain that I didn’t evolve here.”

  “Yeah, but I sorta thought you’d all been kidnapped.” Rod frowned. “But one of you was in on the kidnapping, weren’t you?”

  Yorick winced. “Please! I prefer to think of it as helping place refugees.”

  “Oh, really! I thought that kind of placement usually involved finding a willing host!”

  “So, who was to host?” Yorick shrugged. “The land was just lying there, perfectly good; nobody was using it. All we had to do was kick out a few dinosaurs and move in.”

  “You never thought we folk over here on Gramarye might have something to say about it, huh?”

  “Why? I mean, you were over here, and we were over there, and there was all this ocean between us. You weren’t even supposed to know we were there!”

  “Lord Warlock,” Tuan interrupted, “this news is of great interest, but somewhat confusing.”

  “Yes, it is getting a little complicated,” Rod agreed. He turned back to Yorick. “What do you say we begin at the beginning?”

  “Fine.” Yorick shrugged. “Where’s that?”

  “Let’s take it from your own personal point of view. Where does your story begin?‘’

  “Well, this lady picked me up by the feet, whacked me on the fanny, and said, ‘It’s a boy!’ And this man who was standing near…”

  “No, no!” Rod took a deep breath. “That’s a little too far back. How about we start with your learning English. How’d you manage that?”

  Yorick shrugged. “Somebody taught me. How else?”

  “Dazzling insight,” Rod growled. “Why didn’t I think of that? Could we be a little more specific about your teacher? For one thing, the way you talk tells me he wasn’t from a medieval culture.”

  Yorick frowned. “How’d you guess? I mean, I know they didn’t exactly send me to prep school, but…”

  “Oh, really! I would’ve thought they’d have enrolled you in Groton first thing!”

  Yorick shook his head firmly. “Couldn’t pass the entrance exam. We Neanderthals don’t handle symbols too well. No prefrontal lobes, you know.”

  Rod stared.

  Yorick frowned back at him, puzzled. Then his face cleared into a sickly grin. “Oh. I know. I’ll bet you’re wondering, if I can’t handle symbols, how come I can talk. Right?”

  “Something of the sort did cross my mind. Of course, I do notice that your mates have something of a language of their own.”

  “Their very own; you won’t find any other Neanderthal tribe that uses it.”

  “I wasn’t really planning to look.”

  Yorick ignored the interruption. “These refugees come from so many different nations that we had to work out a lingua franca. It’s richer than any of the parent languages, of course—but it’s still got a very limited vocabulary. No Neanderthal language gets very far past ‘Me hungry. That food—go kill.’ ”

  “This, I can believe. So how were you able to learn English?”

  “Same way a parrot does,” Yorick explained. “I memorize all the cues and the responses that follow them. For example, if you say, ‘Hello,’ that’s my cue to say ‘Hello’ back; and if you say, ‘How are you?’ that’s my cue to say, ‘Fine. How’re you?’ without even thinking about it.”

  “That’s not exactly exclusive to Neanderthals,” Rod pointed out. “But the talking you’ve been doing here is a little more complicated.”

  “Yeah, well, that comes from mental cues.” Yorick tapped his own skull. “The concept nudges me from inside, see, and that’s like a cue, and the words to express that concept jump out of memory in response to that cue.”

  “But that’s pretty much what happens when we talk, too.”

  “Yeah, but you know what the words mean
when you say ‘em. Me, I’m just reciting. I don’t really understand what I’m saying.”

  “Well, I know a lot of people who…”

  “But they could, if they’d stop and think about it.”

  “You don’t know these people,” Rod said with an astringent smile. “But I get your point. Believing it is another matter. You’re trying to tell me that you don’t understand the words you’re saying to me right now—even if you stop to think about each word separately.”

  Yorick nodded. “Now you’re beginning to understand. Most of them are just noises. I have to take it on faith that it means what I want it to mean.”

  “Sounds pretty risky.”

  “Oh, not too much—I can understand the gist of it. But most of it’s just stimulus-response, like a seeing-eye parrot saying ‘Walk’ when he sees a green light.”

  “This is a pretty complicated explanation you’ve just been feeding me,” Rod pointed out.

  “Yeah, but it’s all memorized, like playing back a recording.” Yorick spread his hands. “I don’t really follow it myself.”

  “But your native language…”

  “Is a few thousand sound effects. Not even very musical, though—musical scales are basically prefrontal, too. Manipulating pitches is like manipulating numbers. I love-hearing music, though. To me, even ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ is a miracle.”