King Kobold Revived wisoh-3

by Christopher Stasheff

  He paused suddenly, frowning at the old wizard. “I don’t, uh, suppose you’d consider coming back with us?”

  Agatha’s head lifted slowly, fire kindling in her eye.

  “I thank thee for thy kindness in offering of hospitality,” said the old wizard in a voice rigid with irony. “Yet greatly to my sorrow, I fear that I cannot accept.”

  “Oh, to thy sorrow, to be sure!” spat Agatha. “Indeed, thou art the sorriest man that e’er I knew, for thou hast brought me sorrow deep as sin!”

  She spun toward Rod and Gwen. “And yet, fear not; thy folk shall not go all unaided! There lives, at least, still one old witch of power threescore-years-and-ten in learning, who will not desert her countrymen in this time of need! There lives still one, aye, be assured; though this old gelding”—she jerked her head toward Galen—“will idly stand and watch thy folk enslaved, a power strong as his will guard thy land!” She stretched out her hand. “Come take me with thee, get us gone, for my stomach crawls within me at his presence! He thinks of naught but himself.”

  “And thou dost not?” Galen grated, glaring at the old witch. “Is this aught but a sop to thy thwarted wish for mothering of a child thou never hadst?”

  Agatha flinched almost visibly and turned, hot words on her tongue; but Galen raised an imperious hand and intoned:

  “Get thee hence, to Runnymede!”

  White light flared, burning, blinding.

  When the afterimages faded, Rod could see, as well as feel, Gwen in his arms, which feeling had been very reassuring while the sun went nova.

  He could dimly make out Agatha too, leaning shaken against a wall, a gray granite wall.

  And a high timbered ceiling, and a knot of young witches and warlocks gathered around them, staring, eyes and mouths round.

  Their voices exploded in clamoring questions.

  Yep, home, Rod decided. It was obviously the Witches’ Tower in the King’s Castle at Runnymede.

  He wondered what would happen if Galen ever got mad enough to tell someone to go to Hell.

  One young warlock’s face thrust closer as he dropped to one knee. “Lord Warlock! Where has thou been?”

  “Galen’s Dark Tower,” Rod croaked, and was rewarded with a huge communal gasp. He looked around at eyes gone round as wafers. “And as to how we got here—well, he sent us home.”

  The teenagers exchanged glances. “We can wish ourselves from place to place,” said one of the warlocks, “but none of us can do it to another.”

  “Yeah, well, Galen’s a little older than you, and he’s learned a few more tricks.” Privately, Rod wondered—that did amount to a new kind of psi power, didn’t it? Well, he was prepared for constant surprises. “Your name’s Alvin, isn’t it?”

  “Thus am I called, Lord Warlock.”

  Rod rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I seem to remember, before I lit out to find Gwen, something about the beastmen attacking?”

  “Aye, milord. Their three long ships were only the vanguard. Behind them, their fleet did darken the waters.”

  “Fleet?” Rod snapped completely out of his grogginess. “How many of them were there?”

  “An army,” a girl answered from behind Alvin. “Thou couldst not call it less.”

  Rod staggered to his feet, looking around. He saw the great black horse standing stiff-legged, head hanging low. Rod stumbled over to him and slid a hand under the head. It lifted, turning to look at him. Rod frowned. “No seizure, huh?”

  “Indeed I did not,” the robot’s voice said in his ear only, “since I had experienced it once, and knew it to be possible. It thus did not cause great enough anxiety to trigger a seizure.”

  “So,” Rod said carefully, “you were awake during the whole thing.”

  The horsehead lifted higher. “I was. I… recorded it… all… I must play it back… very slowly… later… later…”

  “Just offhand, what would you say… happened? Just at a guess.”

  “A preliminary analysis would indicate that we passed through another dimension.” Fess’s body shuddered. “At least, I hope that is what I will decide happened.”

  “Yeah.” Rod swallowed. “Uh. Well… decide it later, okay?” He set his foot in the stirrup and swung up onto the saddle. “We’ve got to get to the coast. Where’d you say they landed, Alvin?”

  “At the mouth of the River Fleuve, milord. We wait as reserve, yet have heard no call.”

  Rod took a more thorough look at the handful left in the room and realized there wasn’t a one over fourteen. Small wonder they hadn’t been called. If they had been, things would have been really desperate. Rod nodded. “The Fleuve isn’t too far. I might still get in on the action.” He leaned down from his saddle to plant a quick kiss on Gwen. “Keep the home fires burning, dear. Come help pick up the pieces when you’ve got your strength back.” He swung back upright and kicked his heels against Fess’s sides. The black horse started trotting toward the doorway, protesting, “Rod, the lintels are too low.”

  “So I’ll duck. Upward and onward, Steel Steed! Ho, and away!”

  “You forgot the ‘horse and hattock,’ ” Fess reminded.

  Fess swept down the road to the south in the easy, tireless, rocking-chair gait possible only to electric horses. Rod sat back in the saddle and enjoyed the ride.

  “Of course,” he was saying, “it’s possible this revivalist is just what he seemed to be, nothing more—just a neurotic, unordained religious nut. But somehow I find myself able to doubt it.”

  “Coincidence is possible,” Fess agreed, “though scarcely probable.”

  “Especially since his activities are weakening the war effort very nicely—nicely for the beastmen, that is. And why else would he start operating at just this particular time? He must have begun preaching a week or two before Catharine began recruiting; otherwise we would have had at least a few volunteers.”

  “We may assume, then, that there is some correlation between the two phenomena—the war and the preacher,” Fess opined.

  “Correlation, Hell! He’s working for ‘em, Fess! How else could you explain it?”

  “I do not have an alternate theory prepared,” the robot admitted. “Nonetheless, the probability of direct collusion is extremely low.”

  “Oh, come off it!”

  “Examine the data, Rod. The Neanderthals and the preacher are separated by approximately a hundred miles of ocean. Moreover, there is no physiological resemblance apparent from the reports we have received.”

  “A point,” Rod admitted. “Still, I say…”

  “Pardon the interruption,” Fess said suddenly, “but… you are aware that I am using radar…”

  “I should hope so, when we’re going sixty miles an hour!”

  “Two flying objects have just passed overhead.”

  Rod’s stomach sank. “Just a couple of birds, right?”

  “I’m afraid not, Rod.”

  Rod darted a glance at the sky. There they were, already dwindling in the distance—two broomsticks, with women attached. “They didn’t!”

  “I fear they did, Rod. I estimate their equivalent ground speed in excess of one hundred miles per hour. And, of course, they can fly in a direct, straight line.”

  “They’re gonna get to the battlefield before us!” Rod glared after the ladies, then heaved a sigh and relaxed. “Well… I suppose I should be glad they’ll be there in time to help out… Gwen will have enough sense to keep them both up in the sky, won’t she?”

  “I trust not, since she will need to be able to concentrate all her powers in fighting the Evil Eye.”

  “Yeah… I’d forgotten about that. Well!” Rod sighed and sat back. “That’s a relief!”

  “I should think it would cause greater anxiety, Rod.” Fess actually sounded puzzled.

  “No—because she’ll probably settle down wherever the Royal Witchforce is stationed—and Tuan’ll have ‘em very well guarded.” Rod grinned. “She’ll be safe in spite of herself. But jus
t in case… step up the pace, will you?”

  “Then did the Foemen fall upon us in endless waves. Their long ships were myriad, a plague of Dragons clawing up out of the ocean onto the beach, vomiting forth beastmen in their thousands. Tall, they were, and fanged, with their heads beneath their shoulders, and Murder in their eyes. Our doughty soldiers blanched and fell back; but the King exhorted them, and they held their places. Then did the High Warlock rise up before them, and Thunder smote the air, and Lightning blasted the ground about him. In a voice like unto a trumpet, he swore unto the soldiers that his Witches would ward the Evil Eye away from them; therefore he bade them march forth to meet and best the foemen, for the sakes of their Wives and Daughters and Sweethearts. Courage flowed from him to the heart of every soldier, and they began their march.

  But the beastmen then had formed their line, and the lightning glittered from their shields and helms. They roared with bestial Lust and set forth against King Tuan’s army.

  With a shout, the soldiers charged; yet each beastman caught the eyes of two among them, or mayhap three, then half a dozen, and froze them where they stood. Then did the beastmen laugh—a hideous, grating Noise—and ‘gan to stride forward to make Slaughter.

  But the High Warlock cried out to his Witchfolk there on the hill from whence they watched the battle, and they joined hands in prayer, speeding forth the greatest of their Powers, grappling with the beastmen’s darkling Strength, and freeing the minds of all the soldiers from its Spell. The army then cried out in anger, striding forth with pikes upraised; but Thunder crashed, and Lightning smote the land, leaping up into the beastmen’s eyes, to freeze the soldiers there again within their tracks; and on their hill, the Witchfolk lay in a swoon, like unto Death—for the power of the demon Kobold had seared their minds.

  And the beastmen grunted laughter and swung huge war axes, laying low the soldiers of the King.

  The High Warlock cried out then in his Rage, and did ride down upon them on his steed of Night, laying about him with a sword of Fire, hewing through the beastmen’s line; while his wife and an ancient Hag of the Hills did hear his cry, and sped unto the battle. There they joined hands, and bent their heads in prayer, and did betwixt them what all the King’s Witchfolk together had done—grappled with the Kobold’s power, and lifted its spell from off our soldiers’ minds. Yet too many amongst them had fallen already; they could defend themselves but little more.

  Then did the High Warlock again charge the beastmen’s line, chanting high his ancient War Song, and the soldiers heard it and took heart. They gave ground then, step by step, and laid waste such beastmen as were foolhardy enough to come nigh them; thus King Tuan brought them away from that cursed beach whereon so many of their Comrades did lie slain; thus he brought them up into the hills—battered, bruised, yet an army still—and bade them rest themselves and bind their wounds, assuring them their Time would come again.

  And the High Warlock turned unto his wife upon the Hill, to consider how they might yet confound the beast-men; and they left the monsters to number their dead, and dig themselves deep Holes to hide in.”

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

  Fess trotted up to the crest of the hill, and Rod stared down at the most miserable collection of teenage warlocks and witches he’d ever seen. They lay or sat on the ground, heads hanging, huddling inside blankets. Brother Chillde wove his way among them, handing out steaming mugs. Rod wondered what was in them—and wondered even more if the Lord Abbot knew that Brother Chillde was actually helping witchfolk. The little monk seemed, to say the least, unorthodox.

  Then Rod realized that one of the blanketed ones was his wife.

  “Gwen!” He leaped off Fess’s back, darting down to kneel by her side. “Are you… did you…” He gave up on words and gathered her into his arms, pressing her against his chest. “You feel okay___”

  “I am well enough, my lord,” she said wearily; but she didn’t try to pull away. “Thou shouldst have greater care for these poor children—and for poor old Agatha.”

  “Have care for thyself, if thou must,” spat the old crone. “I am nearly restored to full energy.” But she seemed just as droopy as the kids.

  “What happened?” Rod grated.

  Gwen pushed a little away from him, shaking her head. “I scarce do know. When we came, Toby and all his witchlings and warlocks lay senseless on the ground, and our soldiers stood like statues on the beach. The beastmen passed among them, making merry slaughter. Therefore did Agatha and I join hands to pool our power against the beastmen’s Evil Eye—and, oh, my lord!” She shuddered. “It was as though we heaved our shoulders up under a blackened cloud that lay upon us like unto some great, soft…” She groped for words. “ ‘Twas like the belly of a gross fat man, pushing down upon us—dark and stifling. Seemly it could soak up all the force that we could throw unto it; yet we heaved up under, Agatha and I; we did lift it off our soldiers’ minds so that they could, at least, defend themselves—though scarcely more; they were sorely outnumbered. Then lightning rent the sky, and that huge, dark bank fell down upon us, smothering.” She shook her head, eyes closed. “ ‘Tis all that I remember.”

  “Yet ‘twas enow.”

  Rod looked up; Brother Chillde stood near them, his eyes glowing. “Thy wife, milord, and her venerable crone held off the beastmen’s power long enow.”

  “Long enough for what?”

  “For King Tuan to retreat back up this slope with the remnant of his soldiers, far enough so that the beastmen durst not follow. Nay, they stayed below, and began to dig their graves.”

  “Theirs or ours?” Rod grated. He surged to his feet, giving Gwen’s hand a last squeeze, and strode to the brow of the hill.

  A hundred feet below, the river-mouth swept into a long, gentle curve—a bow; and the beastmen were stringing that bow. They were digging, but not graves—a rampart, a fortress-line. Already, it was almost complete. Rod looked down and swore; they’d have a hell of a time trying to dig the beastmen out of that!

  Then he saw what lay on the near side of the rampart—a jumbled row of bloody bodies, in the royal colors.

  Rod swore again. Then he spat out, “They had to be planning it. They just had to. Somebody had to have put the idea into Gwen’s mind—the idea to go see old Agatha; somebody had to have told that nutty preacher to attack Agatha’s cave right then. Right then, so I’d be pulled away and couldn’t be here! Damn!”

  “Do not berate thyself so severely, Lord Warlock,” Tuan said wearily behind him. “ ‘Twas not thy absence that defeated us.”

  “Oh?” Rod glared up at him. “Then what was it?”

  Tuan sighed. “The power of their Kobold, like as not!”

  “Not!” Rod whirled away to glare down at the beach. “Definitely ‘not’! That Kobold of theirs can’t be anything but a wooden idol, Tuan! It’s superstition, sheer superstition!”

  “Have it as thou wilt.” Tuan shrugged his shoulders. “It was the beastmen’s Evil Eye, then. We did not think its power would be so great, yet it blasted our witches’ minds and froze our soldiers in their tracks. Then the beastmen slew them at their leisure.”

  ‘’ ‘Twas the lightning,‘’ Agatha grated in a hollow voice.

  Tuan turned toward her, frowning. “What goodly beldam is this, Lord Warlock? Our debt to her is great, yet I wot me not of her name.”

  “That’s just ‘cause you haven’t been introduced. She’s, uh, well… she’s kinda famous, in her way.”

  Agatha grimaced, squinting against a throbbing headache. “Temporize not, Lord Warlock. Be direct, e’en though it may seem evil. Majesty, I am called ‘Angry Agatha.’ ” And she inclined her head in an attempt at a bow.

  Tuan stared, and Rod suddenly realized that the King was young enough to have heard some nasty nursery tales himself. But Tuan was never short on courage; he forced a smile, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped up to the old lady. “I must needs thank thee
, revered dame, for without thee, my men and I had been naught but butcher’s meat.”

  Agatha peered up at him through narrowed eyes; then slowly she smiled. “Mine head doth split with agony, and I ache in every limb; yet would I do this service again for so handsome a thanking.” The smile faded. “Aye, or even without it; for I think that I have saved some lives this day, and my heart is glad within me.”

  Tuan stood, gazing down at her for a moment.

  Then he cleared his throat and turned to Rod. “What manner of hill-hag is this, Lord Warlock? I had thought the ancients ‘mongst the witches were all sour and bitter and hated all of humankind.”

  “Not this one, it turns out,” Rod said slowly. “She just hated the way people treated her…”

  “Oh, still thy prattle!” Agatha snapped. “I do hate all men, and all women, too, Majesty—unless I’m near them.”

  Tuan turned back to her, nodding slowly with glowing eyes. “Now, God save thee! For hypocrisy such as thine would confound the very Devil! Praise Heaven thou wert here!”

  “And curse me that I wasn’t!” Rod snapped, turning to glower down at the entrenched beastmen.

  “Again thou hast said it!” Tuan cried, exasperated. “What ails thee, Lord Warlock? Why dost thou say that thou wert absent, when thou wert here in truth, and fought as bravely as any—aye, and more!”

  Rod froze.

  Then he whirled about. “What!”

  “Thou wast here, indeed.” Tuan clamped his jaw shut. “Thou wert here, and the beastmen could not freeze thee.”

  “I’ truth, they could not!” Brother Chillde cried, his face radiant. “Thou didst sweep across their line, Lord Warlock, like unto a very tempest, laying about thee with thy sword of flame. Five at a time thou didst grapple with, and conquer! Their whole line thou didst confound and craze! And ’twas thou who didst give heart unto our soldiers, and didst prevent their retreat from becoming a rout.”

  “But… that’s impossible! I…”