King Kobold Revived wisoh-3

by Christopher Stasheff

  Rod lifted his head slowly, eyes widening. Then he grinned. “I should’ve known better than to question your judgment on tactics! But will they really believe we’d just flat-out run, when we’ve been fighting back for so long?”

  “They’ll expect some show of resistance, surely,” Tuan agreed. “Therefore wilt thou and the Flying Legion ride out against them.” He nodded toward the right flank. “They await thee, Lord Warlock.”

  His commandos raised a cheer when they saw him, and he raised them with quick orders. A minute later, half of them faded into the grass and scrub growth that lined the riverbank. The other half, the ones with the hipboots, imitated Moses and drifted into the bullrushes.

  Rod stayed with the landlubbers, easing silently back along the bankside till they reached a place where the beach widened, walled with a semicircle of trees, the spaces between them filled with brush. Ten minutes later, the first scouts from the beastman advance guard came up even with them. Rod waited until they were right in the middle of the semicircle, then whistled a good imitation of a whippoorwill. But the cry was a strange one to the beastmen, and something rang fowl. One Neanderthal looked up, startled, his mouth opening to cry the alarm—when a dozen Gramarye commandos hit him and his mates.

  The rangers surrounded the beastmen completely, so Rod didn’t see what happened; all he knew was that it lasted about thirty seconds, then his men faded back into the trees, leaving three corpses in the center of the glade, pumping their blood into the pale sand.

  Rod stared, shaken and unnerved. Beside him, his sergeant grinned. “ ‘Twas well done, Lord Warlock.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Rod muttered. “What’d these boys do in peacetime—work in a slaughterhouse?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Any farm lad must know how to slit the throat of a swine, and these ogres are little more.”

  Rod had to bite back a sudden impulse to explain the conflict as the beastmen saw it. “They’re the enemy,” he agreed unhappily, “and this is war. They’ve already pretty well proved that they’ll kill us if we don’t kill them first.” Privately, he wondered how many of them really wanted to.

  Later. Right now, it was time to play monster. “Tell the men to spread out along the backtrail, sergeant.”

  The sergeant turned away to mutter a few words, but that was the only effect Rod saw or heard. He sat his saddle securely anyway, knowing his men had spread out toward the beastmen. He sat securely, and waited.

  After about five minutes, the vanguard came up. Their leader saw the corpses in the center of the glade and held out an arm to stop his men. While they stared, shocked, Rod called like a gull, and fifty commandos slid from the brush, swords slashing throats before the beastmen even realized they’d been attacked.

  As the first Neanderthals fell, the others turned with a roar, axes whirling down. Rod’s men leaped back, but a couple weren’t quick enough. He let the anger fuel him as he commanded Fess, “Go!” The great black steel horse leaped out into the battle as Rod shouted, “Havoc!” The beastmen’s eyes all riveted on this new threat, so they didn’t notice the shadows that slid out of the rushes behind them in answer to Rod’s cry. Beastmen began dropping at the rear as Rod and his men began their deadly gavotte, skipping back out of reach of the beastmen’s axes as they tried to catch Gramarye glances, but Rod’s men held to their hard-learned tactic—staring at the enemy’s weapons, not at his pupils. Here and there a soldier accidentally looked at the reddened eyes of the foe, and slowed. It even happened to Rod—being on horseback, he attracted eyes. One Neanderthal managed to catch him squarely, and suddenly he was plowing through molasses, panic touching him as he felt two rival impulses battling in his brain, and realized neither of them was his own.

  Then a spreading warmth coursed through his head and down his spine, a familiar touch, and he could almost scent Gwen’s perfume as his shield-arm leaped up to give the ax a slight push that deflected it to just barely miss, while his sword stabbed down over the beastman’s shield. He felt it sink in, jar against bone, and yanked back on it furiously, turning to the next foeman, trying hard to ignore the falling body.

  Then lightning strobe-lit the beach, and thunder broke upon their heads. Rod blocked ax-blows frantically, realizing that almost half his force was frozen. Axes swung and the Gramarye soldiers fell, while their opponents turned to help their fellows gang up on soldiers. Darting frantic glances from one to another, most of the soldiers slipped and chanced to look a Neanderthal in the eye—and froze.

  Rod bellowed in anger and fear and chopped down at a beastman. He dodged aside, revealing a grinning face that stared up at Rod, catching his gaze full in the eyes.

  It was as though Rod’s riposte had slammed into a wall. Frantically, he pushed at the sword, but it wouldn’t move, and an ax was swinging up at him. Only a spare tendril lingered in his mind, probing weakly at a dark wall that seemed to have settled there…

  Then a blazing shield tore into the dark mass, shredding it to tatters—and Rod’s arms answered his summons. He whipped aside as the ax swung past, then bobbed back to stab downward. His men tore into the beastmen like wildcats, outnumbered but determined to bring down ten times their number by sheer ferocity. But more beastmen were welling up behind the vanguard, more and more; and, in a stab of fear, Rod saw a long, slender dragon ship shouldering up out of the drizzle behind the masses of enemy.

  But a roaring bellow shook the beach, and the beastmen looked up in sudden terror at five thousand Gramarye soldiers pouring down along the riverbank.

  Rod bit back a shout of triumph; all his men kept silence and channeled the surge of energy into a series of quick stabs. Beastmen dropped before them, then came out of their trances enough to turn and defend themselves; but it was frantic and scrambling now, for the soldiers outnumbered them.

  Stabbing and blocking fiercely, Rod became dimly aware of a rhythmic rumble coming from the enemy.

  “Rod,” Fess’s voice ground out like a slowing recording, “the strain increases… I may fail you…”

  “Hold on while you can!” Rod shouted, and mentally prepared himself to leap down and use Fess as a back-shield.

  The rumbling grew louder, became coherent; the enemy army chanted, as with one voice, “Kobold! Kobold! Ko-bold!”

  And it almost seemed that their god heard them; the whole riverbank was suddenly transfixed by a shimmering glare, and thunder wrapped them inside a cannon shot.

  As the glare dimmed, soldiers slowed. A beastman caught Rod’s gaze and he felt himself pushing his arms with agonizing slowness again.

  Then the white-hot shield burned through the dark mass again, and his arms leaped free. The whole Gramarye army erupted in a shout of joy and fought with new, savage vigor. A bellow of anger answered them, but it was tinged with despair; and the beastmen seemed to shrink together, forming a wall against the Gramarye spears. But the island wolves harried at that wall, chipping and digging, loosing the blood that it held dammed; and the night was a bedlam of screaming and the crashing of steel.

  Suddenly, Rod realized that they were gaining ground. But how could they be, when the enemy had their backs to the water? Looking up, he saw beastmen scrambling single-file back aboard the dragon ships.

  “They flee!” he cried, exultant. “The enemy runs! Harrow them!”

  His men responded with a crazed scream, and fought like madmen. They couldn’t really do much more than scratch and chip; the beastmen’s wall was solid, and became all the more so as it shrank in on itself as one boat glided away and another replaced it. But finally, the last few turned and ran to scramble up the sides of the boat. Soldiers leaped to chase them, but Rod, Tuan, and Sir Maris checked them with whiplash commands that echoed through every knight to every sergeant; and, looking up, the soldiers saw the beastmen already aboard poised to throw down everything from axes to rocks upon them. Seeing the soldiers checked, they did throw them, with crazed howls; and shields came up, bouncing the missies away harmlessl
y. But as they did, the dragon ship slid out into the current, swooped around in a slow, graceful curve, and drifted away downstream.

  Tuan stabbed a bloody sword up at the sky with a victorious scream. Looking up, the astonished army realized they had won. Then a forest of lances and swords speared up with a screaming howl of triumph.

  Before the echoes had faded, Rod had turned Fess’s head downstream again. “You made it through, Old Iron!”

  “I did, Rod.” The electronic voice was still a little slowed. “They could only come at me from the front in this battle.”

  Rod nodded. “A huge advantage. Now head for the witches’ tent, full speed!”

  The sentries outside the tent recognized him and struck their breastplates in salute. Rod leaped off his horse and darted in.

  Guttering candles showed young witches and warlocks sprawled crazily all over the floor, unconscious. In the center, Agatha slumped against one tent-post, her head in her hands, and Gwen huddled against the other, moaning and rubbing the front and sides of her head.

  Fear stabbed. Rod leaped to her, gathered her into his arms. “Darling! Are you…”

  She blinked up at him, managed a smile. “I live, my lord, and will be well again—though presently mine head doth split…”

  “Praise all saints!” Rod clasped her head to his breast, then finally let the shambles about him sink in. He turned back to Gwen, more slowly this time. “He showed up, huh?”

  “Aye, my lord.” She squinted against the pain. “When the second bolt of lightning struck, all the younglings were knocked senseless. Agatha and I strove to bear up under the brunt of that fell power, and I could feel Harold’s force aiding her. But we all feared a third bolt, knowing we could not withstand it…”

  “And Galen was mentally eavesdropping, and knew you probably couldn’t hold out against it.” Rod nodded. “But he didn’t dare take the chance that his ‘son’ might be burned out in the process, even though that son wasn’t born of his body.”

  “Do not depend on his aid again,” came a croak from across the tent, and the pile of cloth and bones that was Agatha stirred. “Beware, Warlock, he doth know that thou wilt now seek to use him by placing Harold at risk.”

  “Of course.” Glints danced in Rod’s eyes. “But he’ll come, anyway.”

  Tuan had left squadrons on both banks, chafing with anger at not being able to take part in the battle; but now, as they saw the dragon ships sailing down toward them, they yelled with joy and whipped out their swords.

  The beastmen took one look and kept on sailing.

  Frustrated, the young knights in charge gave certain orders; and a few minutes later, flaming arrows leaped up to arc over and thud into decks and sails. The archers amused themselves for a few minutes by watching beastmen scurry about the decks in a panic, dousing flames. But as soon as they were all out, the next squad down the river filled the air with fire-arrows, and the fun began all over again. So, even though Tuan sent a squad of revived witchfolk to fly alongside the fleet, keeping carefully out of arrow-range, they weren’t needed. Still, they stood by, watchful and ready, as the dragon ships sailed down the Fleuve and out to sea.

  On the horizon, the dragon ships paused, as though considering another try. But a line of archers assembled on the sea-cliffs with telekinetic witches behind them, and the resulting fire-arrows managed to speed all the way out to the horizon before they fell to rekindle charred ships.

  The dragon ships gave up, turned their noses homeward, and disappeared.

  In the midst of the cheering and drinking, Rod shouldered through to Tuan. He grabbed the King by his royal neck and shouted in his ear to make himself heard. “You know it’s not really over yet, don’t you?”

  “I know,” the young King replied with dignity, “but I know further that this night is for celebration. Fill a glass and rejoice with us, Lord Warlock. Tomorrow we shall again study war.”

  He was up and functioning the next morning, though not happily. He sat in a chair in his tent, gray daylight filtering through the fabric all around him. The sky was still overcast, and so was Tuan. He pressed a cold towel against his forehead, squinting. “Now, Lord Warlock. I will hear the talk that I know I must heed: that our war is not done.”

  Brom O’Berin stepped close to the King’s chair, peering up into his face. “I misdoubt me an thou shouldst speak of war when thine head is yet so filled with wine its skin is stretched as taut as a drumhead.”

  Tuan answered with a weak and rueful smile. “ ‘Twill do no harm, Lord Councillor; for I misdoubt me an we shall speak of aught which I know not already.”

  “Which is,” Rod said carefully, “that if we don’t follow them, they’ll be back.”

  Tuan nodded, then winced, closing his eyes. “Aye, Lord Warlock. Next spring, as soon as thunderstorms may start, we shall see them here upon our shores again—aye, I know it.”

  Brom frowned. “Yet hast thou thought that they’ll have reasoned out a way to conquer all the power our witches can brew up?”

  Tuan grimaced. “Nay, I had not. It strengthens my resolve. We must needs bring the war home to them; we must follow them across the sea, and strike.”

  “And the time to strike is now,” Brom rumbled.

  Tuan nodded and looked up at Rod. “Yet how shall we bring our army there, Lord Warlock? Canst thou transport so many men and horses with a spell?”

  Rod smiled, amused. “I don’t think even Galen could send that many, my liege. But we have discovered that Gramarye has a thriving merchant fleet who would no doubt be delighted to lend their services to helping wiping out a potential pirates’ nest.”

  Tuan nodded slowly. “I do believe ‘twould gain their heartfelt cooperation, an thou wert to word it so.”

  “It’s just a matter of figuring out their area of self-interest. We’ve also got an amazing number of fishing boats, and their owners will probably be very quick to agree we should forestall any poaching on their fishing-grounds, before it starts.”

  The King nodded—again very slowly. “Then thou dost think we may have transport enow.”

  “Probably. And what we lack, I think shipwrights can turn out with around-the-clock shifts by the time we’ve gathered all the provisions we’ll need. No, transportation’s not the problem.”

  “Indeed?” The King smiled weakly. “What is, then?”

  “Fighting the beastmen on their home ground when they’re battling for their lives—and for their wives’ and children’s lives, too.”

  Tuan stared at him for a moment. When he spoke his voice was a ghostly whisper. “Aye, ‘twill be a bloody business. And few of those who sail shall be wafted home.”

  “If we make it a fight to the death,” Rod agreed.

  “What else can it be?” Brom demanded, scowling.

  “A coup d’etat.” Rod grinned. “According to Yorick and our other beastman-guests, this invasion is the result of a junta managing to seize power in Beastland.”

  Tuan shrugged, irritated. “What aid is that, if these people have adhered to their new leader?” But as soon as he’d said it, his gaze turned thoughtful.

  Rod nodded. “After a defeat like this, they’re not going to be very happy with the leadership of that shaman, Mughorck, and his Kobold-god. And from what Yorick said, I kinda got the feeling that they never really were screamingly enthusiastic about him anyway—they were just bamboozled into putting him into power in the panic of the moment. If we can make it clear right from the beginning that we’re fighting Mughorck, and not the beastmen as a whole—then maybe they’ll be willing to surrender.”

  Tuan nodded slowly. “Thou dost speak eminent good sense, Lord Warlock. But how wilt thou convey to them this intention?”

  “That,” Rod said, “is for Yorick to figure out.”

  “Nothing to it, m’lord.” Yorick waved the problem away with one outsized ham-hand. “Oldest thing in the book—a nice little whispering-campaign.”

  “Whispering-campaigns are that old
?” Rod had a dizzying vision of 50,000 years of slander. “But how’ll you get it started?”

  Yorick glanced at his fellows, then shrugged as he turned back to Rod. “No help for it—we’ll have to go in ahead of you and do it ourselves.” When Rod stared, appalled, Yorick grinned. “What were you thinking of—leaflets?”

  “I was really thinking we might be able to do something with telepathy,” Rod sighed, “but none of our projectives know the language. Yorick’s right—he and his men have got to get the word started somehow. The question is—can we trust them?”

  “Trust a man of the foe?” Catharine cried. “Nay, Lord Warlock, I would hope you would not!”

  “But he’s really on our side,” Rod argued, “because he’s fighting the same enemy—the shaman, Mughorck.”

  They sat in a small chamber—only forty feet square—of the royal castle in Runnymede. The Oriental carpet, tapestries on the walls, gleaming walnut furniture, graceful hourglass-shaped chairs, and silver wine goblets belied any urgency. But even though the fireplace was cold, the talk was heated.

  “He doth say Mughorck is his enemy,” Catharine said scornfully. “Yet, might he not be an agent of just that fell monster?”

  Rod spread his hands. “Why? For what purpose could Mughorck send an agent who couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a Gramarye native? Not to mention his handful of cronies who don’t even speak our language.”

  “Why, for this very purpose, lad,” Brom O’Berin grunted, “that we might send them in to strengthen our attack, whereupon they could turn their coats, warn their fellows, and have a hedge of spears for our soldiers to confront when they land.”

  “Okay,” Rod snorted, disgusted. “Farfetched, but possible, I’ll grant you. Still, it just doesn’t feel right.”

  Catharine smiled wickedly. “I had thought ‘twas only ladies who would decide great matters by such feelings.”

  “All right, so you’ve got a point now and then,” Rod growled. “But you know what I mean, Your Majesty—there’s some element of this whole situation that just doesn’t fit with the hypothesis that Yorick’s an enemy.”