King Kobold Revived wisoh-3

by Christopher Stasheff

“ ‘Tis even as he doth say, my lord.” Gwen’s voice was low, but it carried. “From this hilltop did I see thee far below; and ’twas thou who didst lead, even as this good friar saith.”

  Rod stared at her, appalled. If she didn’t know him, who did?

  Then he turned away, striding down the back of the hill.

  “Hold, Lord Warlock! What dost thou seek?” Tuan hurried to keep pace with him.

  “An on-the-spot witness,” Rod grated. “Even Gwen could be mistaken from a distance.”

  He skidded to a stop beside a knot of soldiers who huddled under the protection of a rocky overhang. “You there, soldier!”

  The soldier lifted his tousled blond head, holding a scrap of cloth to a long rent in his arm.

  Rod stared, amazed. Then he dropped to one knee, yanking the cloth off the wound. The soldier yelled, galvanized. Rod glanced up and felt his heart sink; surely that face belonged to a boy, not a man! He turned back to the wound, inspecting it. Then he looked up at Tuan. “Some brandywine.”

  “ ‘Tis here,” the young soldier grated.

  Rod looked down and saw a bottle. He poured a little on the cut and the soldier gasped, long and with a rattle, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. Rod tore open his doublet and tore a strip of cloth from his singlet. He held the wound closed and began to wrap the bandage around it. “There’s a lot of blood, but it’s really just a flesh wound. We’ll have to put some stitches in it later.” He looked up at the young ranker. “Know who I am?”

  “Aye,” the young man gasped. “Thou’rt the Lord High Warlock.”

  Rod nodded. “Ever seen me before?”

  “Why, certes! Thou didst stand beside me in the melee! Thou wert then no farther from me than thou art now!”

  Rod stared up at him. Then he said, “Are you sure? I mean, absolutely sure?”

  “Nay, be sure that I am! Had it not been for the sight of thee, I’d ha’ turned and fled!” Then his eyes widened and he glanced quickly at his companions, flushing; but they only nodded somber agreement.

  “Take heart.” Tuan slapped his shoulder. “Any would have fled such a battle, an they could have.”

  The young soldier looked up, finally realized the King himself stood near, and almost fainted.

  Rod grasped his shoulder. “You saw me, though. You really did see me.”

  “Truly, my lord.” The young man’s eyes were wide. “I’ truth, I did.” He lowered his eyes, frowning. “And yet—’tis strange.”

  “Strange?” Rod frowned. “Why?”

  The young soldier bit his lip; then the words spilled out. “Thou didst seem taller in the battle—by a head or more! I could have sworn thou didst tower above all soldiers there! And thou didst seem to glow…”

  Rod held his eyes for a moment longer.

  Then he went back to wrapping the bandage. “Yeah, well, you know how it is during a battle. Everything seems bigger than it really is—especially a man on a horse.”

  “Truth,” the young soldier admitted. “Thou wast astride.”

  “Right.” Rod nodded. “Big roan horse.”

  “Nay, milord.” The young soldier frowned. “Thy mount was black as jet.”

  “Calm down, Rod,” Fess’s voice murmured, “you are beside yourself.”

  “I am?” Rod looked around in a panic.

  “It was a figure of speech,” the robot assured him. “Lower your anxiety level—you are quite definitely a singular personality.”

  “I’d like to be sure of that.” Rod frowned down at the soldiers around him. He was walking through the camp, surveying what was left of Tuan’s army. Whether he’d been there during the battle or not, the mere sight of him was putting heart back into them. Personally, he felt sheepish, even guilty; but…

  “Your presence is good for morale, Rod,” Fess murmured.

  “I suppose,” Rod muttered. Privately, he wondered if he wasn’t “showing himself” to reassure himself that he was indeed himself. “I mean, the phenomenon is totally impossible, Fess. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  Soldiers stared up at him in awe. Rod ground his teeth; he knew the rumor would fly through the camp that the Lord Warlock had been talking to his “familiar.”

  “Certainly, Rod. Attribute it to mass hysteria. During the battle, they needed the reassurance that the Lord High Warlock stood by them, to oppose the beastmen’s magic. Then one soldier, in the heat of the fight, mistook some other knight for yourself, and doubtless cried out, ‘Behold the High Warlock!’ And all his fellows, in the gloom of a lightning-lit battle, also imagined that they saw you.”

  Rod nodded, a little reassured. “Just a case of mistaken identity.”

  “Lord Warlock?”

  “Um?” Rod turned, looked down at a grizzled old sergeant who sat in the mud. “What’s the matter, ancient?”

  “My boys hunger, Lord Warlock.” The ancient gestured to a dozen men in their young twenties, who huddled near him. “Will there be food?”

  Rod stared down at him.

  After a moment, he said, “Yeah. It’ll just take a little while. Rough terrain, and wagons—you know.”

  The ancient’s face relaxed. “Aye, milord.”

  As Rod turned away, he heard a soldier say, “Surely he will not.” The man beside him shrugged. “A king is a king. What knows he of a common man-at-arms? What matters it to him if we are slain and frozen?”

  “To King Tuan, it matters greatly,” the other said indignantly. “Dost not recall that he was King of Beggars ere he was King of Gramarye?”

  “Still… he is a lord’s son…” But the other seemed to doubt his own prejudice. “How could a lordling care for the fate of common men!‘’

  “Assuredly thou’lt not believe he wastes his soldiers’ lives?”

  “And wherefore should I not?”

  “Because he is a most excellent general, if for no reason other!” the first cried, exasperated. “He’ll not send us to our deaths unheeding; he is too good a soldier! For how shall he win a battle if he has too small an army?”

  His mate looked thoughtful.

  “He’ll husband us as charily as any merchant spends his gold.” The first soldier leaned back against a hillock. “Nay, he’ll not send us ‘gainst the foe if he doth not believe that most of us will live, and triumph.”

  The other soldier smiled. “Mayhap thou hast the truth of it—for what is a general that hath no army?”

  Rod didn’t wait for the answer; he wandered on, amazed by Tuan’s men. They weren’t particularly worried about the Evil Eye. Dinner, yes; being sent against the beastmen with the odds against them, yes; but, magic? No. Not if Tuan waited till he had the proper counterspell. “Put the average Terran in here,” he muttered, “put him against an Evil Eye that really works, and he’d run so fast you wouldn’t see his tracks. But the way these guys take it, you’d think it was nothing but a new kind of crossbow.”

  “It is little more, to them,” Fess’s voice murmured behind his ear. He stood atop the cliff, far above, watching Rod walk through the camp. “They have grown up with magic, Rod—as did their fathers, and their grandfathers, and their ancestors—for twenty-five generations. The phenomena do not frighten them—only the possibility that the enemy’s magic might prove stronger.”

  “True.” Rod pursed his lips, nodding. Looking up, he saw Brother Chillde winding a bandage around an older soldier’s head. The man winced, but bore the pain philosophically. Rod noticed several other scars; no doubt the man was used to the process. Rod stepped up to the monk. “You’re all over the field, good friar.”

  Brother Chillde smiled up at him. “I do what I may, Lord Warlock.” His smile didn’t have quite the same glow it had had earlier.

  “And a blessing it is for the men—but you’re only human, Brother. You need some rest yourself.”

  The monk shrugged, irritated. “These poor souls do need mine aid far more, milord. ‘Twill be time enough for rest when the wounded rest as easily as they may.
” He sighed and straightened, eyeing the bandaged head. “I’ve eased the passing of those who had no hope, what little I could. ‘Tis time to think of the living.” He looked up at Rod. “And to do what we can to ensure that they remain alive.‘’

  “Yes,” Rod said slowly, “the King and I were thinking along the same lines.”

  “Indeed!” Brother Chillde perked up visibly. “I am certain thou dost ever do so—yet what manner of aiding dost thou have a-mind?”

  The idea crystallized. “Witches—more of ‘em. We managed to talk one of the older witches into joining us this time.”

  “Aye.” Brother Chillde looked up at the hilltop. “And I did see that she and thy wife, alone, did hold off the beast-men’s Evil Eye the whiles our soldiers did retreat. Indeed, I wrote it in my book whilst yet the battle raged.”

  Rod was sure he had—in fact, that’s why he’d told the monk. He seemed to be the only medieval equivalent to a journalist available, there being no minstrels handy.

  Brother Chillde turned back to Rod. “Thy wife must needs be exceeding powerful.‘’

  Rod nodded. “Makes for an interesting marriage.”

  Brother Chillde smiled, amused, and the old soldier chuckled. Then the monk raised an eyebrow. “And this venerable witch who did accompany her—she, too, must have powers extraordinary.”

  “She does,” Rod said slowly. “Her name’s ‘Angry Agatha.’ ”

  The old soldier’s head snapped up. He stared; and two or three other soldiers nearby looked up too, then darted quick glances at each other. Fear shadowed their faces.

  “She decided it’s more fun to help people than to hurt them,” Rod explained. “In fact, she’s decided to stay with us.”

  Every soldier within hearing range began to grin.

  “ ‘Tis wondrous!” Brother Chillde fairly glowed. “And dost thou seek more such ancient ones?”

  Rod nodded. “A few more, hopefully. Every witch counts, Brother.”

  “Indeed it doth! Godspeed thine efforts!” the monk cried. And as Rod turned away, Brother Chillde began to bandage another damaged soldier, chattering, “Dost’a hear? The High Warlock doth seek to bring the ancient wizards and the hill-hags to aid us in our plight!”

  Rod smiled to himself; just the effect he’d wanted! By evening, every soldier in the army would know that they were fighting fire with blazing enthusiasm—and that the witches were going out for reinforcements.

  He stopped, struck by another thought. Turning, he looked back up the hillside. Tuan stood, silhouetted against a thundercloud, arms akimbo, surveying the devastation below him.

  You shouldn’t lie to your army. That’d just result in blasted morale—and, after a while, they’d refuse to fight, because they couldn’t be sure what they’d be getting into, that you wouldn’t be deliberately throwing their lives away.

  Rod started back up the hill. He’d promised the rank and file more witch-power; he’d better convince Tuan.

  Tuan’s head lifted as Rod came up to the brow of the hill; he came out of his brown study. “An evil day, Rod Gallowglass. A most evil day.”

  “Very.” Rod noticed the use of his name, not his title; the young King was really disturbed. He stepped up beside Tuan and gazed somberly down at the valley with him. “Nonetheless, it could have been worse.”

  Tuan just stared at him for a moment. Then, understanding, relaxed his face; he closed his eyes and nodded. “I’ truth, it could have. Had it not been for thy rallying of the troops… and thy wife, and Angry Agatha… i’ truth, all the witches…”

  “And warlocks,” Rod reminded. “Don’t forget the warlocks.”

  Tuan frowned. “I trust I will not.”

  “Good. Then you won’t mind seeking out some more of them.”

  “Nay, I surely will not,” Tuan said slowly. “Yet where wilt thou discover them?”

  Rod sighed and shook his head. “The ladies had the right idea, Tuan. We should’ve gone out recruiting.”

  Tuan’s mouth twisted. “What young witch or warlock will join us now, with this crazed preacher raising the whole of the land against them?”

  “Not too many,” Rod admitted. “That’s why I’ve realized Gwen had the right idea.”

  Tuan’s frown deepened in puzzlement. “Of what dost thou speak?”

  “The old ones, my liege—starting with Galen.”

  For the first time since Rod had known him, he saw fear at the back of Tuan’s eyes. “Rod Gallowglass—dost thou know whereof thou dost speak?”

  “Yeah—a grown wizard.” Rod frowned. “What’s so bad about that? Don’t we want a little more mystical muscle on our side?”

  “Aye—if he’s on our side i’ truth!”

  “He will not be,” croaked Agatha from a boulder twenty feet away. “He doth care for naught but himself.”

  “Maybe.” Rod shrugged, irritated. “But we’ve got to try, don’t we?”

  “My lord,” Gwen said softly, “I ha’ told thee aforetime, ’tis the lightning that lends them their strength—and not even old Galen can fight ‘gainst a thunderbolt.’‘

  Rod turned slowly toward her, a strange glint coming into his eye. “That’s right, you did mention that, didn’t you?”

  Gwen nodded. “We did free our soldiers from the Evil Eye—but the lightning flared, and the witches lay unconscious. ‘Twas then the soldiers froze, and the beastmen mowed them like hay in summer.”

  “Lightning,” Rod mused.

  He turned away, slamming his fist into his palm. “That’s the key, isn’t it? The lightning. But how? Why? The answer’s there somewhere, if only I could find it and FESSten to it.”

  “Here, Rod,” his mentor murmured.

  “Why would the Evil Eye be stronger right after a lightning flash?” Rod seemed to ask of no one in particular.

  The robot hesitated a half-second, then answered. “Directly prior to a lightning flash, the resistance of the path the bolt will follow lowers tremendously, due to ionization, thus forming a sort of conductor between the lithosphere and the iono-sphere.”

  Rod frowned. “So?”

  Tuan frowned, too. “What dost thou, Lord Warlock?”

  “Just talking to myself,” Rod said quickly. “A dialogue with my alter ego, you might say.”

  Fess disregarded the interruption. “The ionosphere is also capable of functioning as a conductor, though the current passed would have to be controlled with great precision.‘’

  Rod’s lips formed a silent O.

  Gwen sat back with a sigh. She had long ago acquired the wifely virtue of patience with her husband’s eccentricities. He would’ve been patient with hers as well, if he could find any (he didn’t think of esper powers as eccentric).

  Fess plowed on. “The ionosphere is thus capable of functioning as a conductor between any two points on earth—though it would tend toward broadcast; to avoid loss of power some means of beaming would need to be developed. There are several possibilities for such limiting. Signals may thus travel via the ionosphere rather than by the more primitive method of…”

  “Power, too,” Rod muttered. “Not just signals. Power.”

  Gwen looked up, startled and suddenly fearful.

  “Precisely, Rod,” the robot agreed, “though I doubt that more than a few watts would prove feasible.”

  Rod shrugged. “I suspect psi powers work in milliwatts anyway.”

  Tuan frowned. “Milling what?”

  “That’s right. You wouldn’t need much for a psionic blast.”

  Tuan eyed him warily. “Rod Gallowglass…”

  “All that would be needed,” said Fess, “is a means of conducting the power to ground level.”

  “Which is conveniently provided by the ionization of the air just before the lightning bolt, yes! But how do you feed the current into the ionosphere?”

  Tuan glanced at Gwen; they both looked apprehensive.

  Old Agatha grated, “What incantation’s this?”

  “That,” sa
id Fess virtuously, “is their problem, not ours.”

  Rod snorted. “I thought you were supposed to be logical!”

  Tuan’s head came up in indignation. “Lord Warlock, be mindful to whom you speak!”

  “Huh?” Rod looked up. “Oh, not you, Your Majesty. I was, uh… talking to my, uh, familiar.”

  Tuan’s jaw made a valiant attempt to fraternize with his toes. Rod could, at that moment, have read a gigantic increase in his reputation as a warlock in the diameters of Tuan’s eyes.

  “So.” Rod touched his pursed lips to his steepled fingertips. “Somebody overseas lends the beastmen a huge surge of psionic power—in electrical form, of course; we’re assuming psionics are basically electromagnetic. The beastmen channel the power into their own projective telepathy, throw it into the soldier’s minds—somehow, eye contact seems to be necessary there…”

  “Probably a means of focusing power. Unsophisticated minds would probably need such a mental crutch, Rod,” Fess conjectured.

  “And from the soldiers’ minds, it flows into the witches’, immediately knocking out anyone who’s tuned in! Only temporarily, thank Heaven.”

  “An adequate statement of the situation, Rod.”

  “The only question now is: Who’s on the other end of the cable?”

  “Although there is insufficient evidence,” mused the robot, “that which is available would seem to indicate more beast-men as donors.”

  “Maybe, maybe.” Rod frowned. “But somehow this just doesn’t seem like straight ESP… Oh, well, let it pass for the moment. The big question is not where it comes from, but how we fight it.”

  Tuan shrugged. “Thou hast said it, Lord Warlock—that we must seek out every witch and wizard who can be persuaded to join us.”

  “We tried that, remember?” But Rod smiled, a light kindling in his eyes. “Now that we’ve got some idea about how the Evil Eye gains so much power so suddenly, we should be able to make better use of the available witch-power.”

  The phrase caught Tuan’s military attention. A very thoughtful look came over his face. “Certes…” He began to smile himself. “We must attack.”

  “What!?”

  “Aye, aye!” Tuan grinned. “Be not concerned, Lord Warlock—I have not gone brain-sick. Yet, consider—till now, it has not been our choice whether to attack or not. Our enemy came in ships; we could only stand and wait the whiles they chose both time and place. Now, though, the place is fixed—by their earthworks.” He nodded contemptuously toward the riverbank below. “We do not now seek a single long ship in the midst of a watery desert—we have a camp of a thousand men laid out before us! We can attack when we will!”