King Kobold Revived wisoh-3

by Christopher Stasheff

  The sentry stepped aside, and the seneschal limped into the chamber, leaning heavily on his staff, but with a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

  “Welcome, good Sir Maris!” Tuan cried. “What news?”

  “ ‘Twas even as thou hadst thought, Majesty.” Sir Maris paused in front of Tuan for a sketchy bow, then straightened up, and his grin turned wolfish. “Three ships did curve and seek to sail into the mouth of a smaller river that runs athwart the Fleuve.”

  “They were repulsed?” Glints danced in Tuan’s eyes.

  “Aye, my liege! Our archers filled their ships with fire, the whiles our soldiers slung a weighty chain across the river. When they ground against it and found they could sail no further, they sought to come ashore; but our men-at-arms presented them a hedge of pikes. Nay, they turned and fled.” He turned to Rod. “Our thanks, Lord Warlock, for thy good aid in this endeavor!”

  Rod started, staring, and Gwen caught his arm and her breath; but Sir Maris whirled back to the King, fairly crowing, “He did seem to be everywhere, first on this bank, then on that, amongst the archers, then amongst the pikemen, everywhere urging them on to feats of greater valor. Nay, they’ll not believe that they can lose now.”

  Gwen looked up, but Rod stood frozen.

  “Yet, withal,” said the old knight, frowning, “why hadst thou assigned command to me? If the High Warlock were there to lead, he should have had command as well!”

  “But,” said Tuan, turning to Rod, “thou wast ever here in Runnymede, with ourselves, the whiles this raid was foiled!”

  “I noticed,” Rod croaked.

  “My lord, not all things that hap here are impossible,” Gwen sighed.

  “Oh, yes, they are. Take you, for example—that someone as wonderful as you could even exist is highly improbable. But that you could not only exist but also fall in love with someone like me—well, that’s flatly impossible.”

  Gwen gave him a radiant smile. “Thou wilt ever undervalue thyself, Rod Gallowglass, and overvalue me—and thus hath made a cold world turn warm for me.”

  That look in her eyes he couldn’t resist; it pulled him down, and down, into a long, deep kiss that tried to pull him deeper. But eventually Rod remembered that he was on the deck of a ship, and that the crew were no doubt watching. He was tempted to consign them all to the Inferno, but he remembered his responsibilities and pulled out of the kiss with a regretful sigh. “We haven’t been doing enough of that lately.”

  “I am well aware of that, my lord.” Gwen fixed him with a glittering eye.

  “And I thought the Neanderthals had an ‘Evil Eye’!” Rod breathed, and turned to hook her hand firmly around his elbow as he strolled down the deck. “For now, however, let’s enjoy the Seabreeze and the salt air. After all, this is the closest thing to a pleasure cruise we’re ever apt to get.”

  “As thou dost say, my lord,” she said demurely.

  “Just so you don’t mistake my doppelganger for me,” Rod amended.

  Gwen shook her head firmly. “That could not hap at any distance less than an hundred feet.”

  “Well, I hope not—but quite a few people seem to have been making the error.”

  “Ah, but how well do they know thee?” Gwen crooned. “If they’ve seen thee at all before, it has been only briefly and from a distance.”

  “Yeah, but there’re some who… well, there’s one!” Rod stopped next to a brown-robed form that sat cross-legged on the deck, leaning against the rail with a half-filled inkhorn in his left hand, writing in a careful round hand in a book of huge vellum sheets. “Hail, Brother Chillde!”

  The monk looked up, startled. Then a smile of delight spread over his face. “Well met, Lord Warlock! I had hoped to espy thee here!”

  Rod shrugged. “Where else would I be? It’s the King’s flagship. But how do you come to be here, Brother Chillde?”

  “I am chaplain,” the monk said simply. “And I wish to be near to the King and his councillors as may be, an I am able; for I strive to record what doth occur during this war as well as I may.”

  “So your chronicle’s coming well? How far back have you managed to dig?”

  “Why, I began four years agone, when the old King died, and have writ down all I’ve seen or heard that has occurred during, first, the reign of Catharine, then during the reign of both our goodly King and Queen.” He beamed up at them. “Yet, in this present crisis I have been fortunate to be in the thick of it, almost from the first. My journal shall be precise, so that folk yet unborn, and many hundreds of years hence, may know how nobly our folk of this present age did acquit themselves.”

  “A noble goal.” Rod smiled, though without, perhaps, as much respect as the project deserved. “Be sure what you write is accurate, though, won’t you?”

  “Never fear. I’ve asked several folk for their accounts of each event, and thus believe I’ve found somewhat of the truth. Yet, for the greater part, I’ve writ only what I’ve seen myself.”

  Rod nodded with approval. “Can’t do better than primary source material. May your endeavor prosper, Brother Chillde.”

  “I thank thee, lord.”

  And Rod and Gwen strolled on down the deck as the monk bent over his journal again. When they were safely out of ear-shot, Rod murmured to Gwen, “Of course, eyewitness accounts aren’t necessarily what really happened. People’s memories are always colored by what they want to believe.”

  “I can well credit it.” Gwen glanced back at the monk. “And he’s so young and filled with the ideals of youth! I doubt me not an Catharine and Tuan seem to him impossibly regal and imposing—and the beastmen immensely vile, and…”

  “Mama!”

  Gwen recoiled in surprise, then blossomed into a radiant smile as she realized she was suddenly holding an armful of baby. “Magnus, my bonny boy! Hast thou, then, come to wish thy parents well on this their venture?”

  Her eyes darkened as the baby nodded, and Rod guessed she was thinking that Mama and Papa might not come home to Baby. She needed a distraction. “What’s he got there—a ball?”

  The spheroid was dull and gray, about four inches in diameter—and its surface suddenly rippled. Rod stared.

  Gwen saw his look of disgust and said quickly, “Be not concerned, my lord. ‘Tis naught but witch moss with which, I doubt me not, he hath been toying.”

  “Oh.” Rod knew the substance well; it was a variety of fungus that had the peculiar property of responding to the thoughts of projective telepaths. Rod had a strong suspicion that it had contributed to the development of elves, werewolves, and other supernatural creatures around the Gramarye landscape. “When did he begin to play with…”

  He broke off, because the ball was changing in the child’s hand—and Magnus was staring at it in surprise. It stretched itself up, flattening and dwindling toward the bottom, where it divided in half lengthwise for half its height, and two pieces broke loose at the sides. The top formed itself into a smaller ball, and dents and lines began to define the form.

  “What doth he make?” Gwen whispered.

  “I’m afraid to guess.” But Rod knew, with a sickening certainty, what he was going to see.

  And he was right—for the lump finished its transformation and swung up a wicked-looking war ax, opening a gash of a mouth to reveal canines that would have done credit to a saber-toothed tiger. Its piggy eyes reddened with insane blood-lust, and it began to shamble up Magnus’s arm.

  The child shrieked and hurled it as far away from him as he could. It landed on the deck, caving in one side; but that side bulged out into its former form as it pulled itself to its feet and shambled off down the deck, looking for something to ravish.

  Magnus plowed his head into Gwen’s bosom, wailing in terror. “There, love—‘tis gone,” she assured him, “or will be in a moment…” And she glared at the diminutive monster, eyes narrowing. It took one step, and its leg turned into mush.

  “It’s a beastman,” Rod whispered, “a vicious parody
of a Neanderthal.”

  Another step, and the model beastman turned into a ball again.

  “But the kid didn’t see any of the battles!” Rod protested. “How could he…”

  “My lord,” Gwen grated, “it will not hold its shape unless I force it. Another mind fights me for the forming of it.”

  “Then, get rid of it—fast! You never know, it might find another one like it, and breed true!”

  “Done,” Gwen snapped.

  The witch moss turned into a ball so smooth that it gleamed, then shot off the deck and far, far away, heading for the horizon.

  Gwen turned her attention back to Magnus. “There, there, child! ‘Twas no fault of thine; ‘twas some mean and heartless person who crafted thy ball thus, to afright a babe!” She looked up at Rod with murder in her eyes. “Who would ha’ done such a thing?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.” Rod was feeling in a mayhem mood himself. He glanced quickly about the decks, even up into the rigging, trying to find anyone gazing at them—but there were only two sailors in sight, and neither was even looking in their direction.

  But Brother Chillde still scribbled in his book.

  Rod stared. No. It couldn’t be.

  But…

  He stepped over to Brother Chillde again, lightly, almost on tiptoe, and craned his neck to peer over the monk’s shoulder at the words he was writing.

  “… Huge they were,” the manuscript read, “with arms that hung down to their knees, and fangs that sank below their chins. Their eyes were maddened bits of red, more suited to a swine than a man, in a head like unto a ball, but too small for so great a body. Their sole weapon was a huge and murderous ax, and with it they quested always, seeking for living things to slay.”

  “Thou knowest not what thou dost ask,” Puck cried. “Ever was I made for battle, Rod Gallowglass! Hast thou any comprehension of the opportunities for mischief that occur when men do war?”

  “Very much,” Rod answered grimly. “Look, I know it’s a hardship to stay out of the fighting—but you’ve got to think of the good of the whole of Gramarye, not just of your own excitement.”

  “Who says I must?” the elf demanded with a truculent scowl.

  “I,” answered Brom O’Berin; and Puck took one look at his sovereign’s face and shrank back.

  “Well, then, so I must,” he sighed. “But wherefore must it be I? Are there no other elves who can execute so simple a task?”

  “None,” Rod said with absolute certainty. “It only seems simple to you. I can think of a few other elves who might be able to bring it off—but you’re the only one I’m sure of.”

  Puck visibly swelled with self-importance.

  “You’re the only one,” Rod pressed on, “who has the imagination, and the gift of gab, to pull this off.”

  “Thou wilt do it,” Brom commanded sternly, “else thou wilt answer to me, hobgoblin, when the battle’s ended.”

  “Ah, then, I shall,” Puck sighed—but preened himself, too. “E’en so, Warlock—I ken not why the monk will need one to detail to him what doth occur when he hath two eyes to see with.”

  “Yes, well, that’s the first thing you’ll have to arrange, isn’t it? Some way of making his eyes unusable for the duration of the battle. Nothing permanent,” Rod added hastily, seeing the gleam in Puck’s eye.

  “Well-a-day,” the elf sighed, “so be it. We shall benight him only for an hour or two. But what purpose doth that serve, when I am but to tell to him what doth occur?”

  “But you’re not,” Rod contradicted. “You’re supposed to tell him what isn’t happening.”

  “What word is this?” Puck stared. “Do I hear aright? 1 am to say, ‘Nay, be of good cheer! It doth not rain, nor doth the moon shine! The soldiers do not shake the beastmen’s hands in friendship, nor do they lose a foot of land!’ What foolery is this?”

  “Not quite what I had in mind, that’s for sure.” Rod fought a smile. “Don’t be so negative, Puck. Think of it like this: ‘Our brave, heroic line doth advance, and the murderous mass of craven beastmen stumble toward them with mayhem in their eyes! They catch our soldiers’ gazes, and our goodmen freeze, terror-stricken by the Evil Eye! But the witch-folk wrench them free, and the High Warlock doth rise up, a gleaming paragon on a giant steed of jet, to call them onward! Inspired by his valor, our soldier-men take heart; they shout with anger and do charge the foe!’ ”

  Puck gave him a jaundiced eye. “Thou’rt not slow to trumpet thine own virtues, art thou?”

  “Well, not when it’s warranted,” Rod said, abashed. “And in this case, it’s downright vital. Brother Chillde won’t believe anything less of me, Puck—and, whatever other effect you achieve, you’ve got to make him believe what you tell him, totally.”

  Air boomed outward, and Toby stood before them. “Lord Warlock, thou’rt wanted on the poop deck.”

  “From the poop deck?” Rod raised an eyebrow in surprised sarcasm. “All that way? Gee, Toby, I hope you didn’t tire yourself out.”

  The young warlock reddened. “I know thou dost enjoin us, Lord Warlock, to not appear and disappear, or fly, when simple walking will be nearly as fast…”

  “Darn right I do. Totally aside from what it does to your fitness and your character, there’s the little matter of its effects on the non-psi majority.”

  “I did forget,” Toby sighed. “When great events are in train, such matters seem of slight import.”

  “That’s why you need to make normal conduct a habit. But what great event’s in train now?”

  “I am!” the young warlock cried in exasperation. “I have but now returned from bearing word of our arrival to Master Yorick and his band! Wilt thou not come attend to me?”

  “Oh!” Rod bolted off his stool, feeling like a pompous idiot. “What an ass I am!”

  Puck perked up and opened his mouth.

  “Just a figure of speech,” Rod said quickly. “But accurate. Here I am, catechizing you about details, when you’ve just finished a hazardous mission! My deepest apologies, Toby—and I’m glad to see you’re back intact. And, of course, you can’t report to me here—you’ve got to say it the first time where the King can hear it.”

  “No offense, milord,” Toby said with a grin. He stepped over to the door and held it open. “And, since thou canst not transport thyself from place to place, I’ll company thee on foot.”

  “I, too,” Brom growled. “I must hear what progress this grinning ape hath made.”

  The door slammed behind them, leaving Puck alone to mutter imprecations to himself.

  “Welcome, Lord Warlock,” Tuan said quietly, as the door closed behind them, “and thou, too, Lord Brom.” His eyes glittered. “Now! May we hear this warlock’s tale?”

  Toby looked around at the glowing eyes, all fixed upon him, and succumbed to sudden embarrassment. “Where… what shall I tell?”

  “Everything that happened,” Rod suggested, “starting from the beginning.”

  Toby heaved a sigh. “Well, then! I listened for the beast-men’s thoughts, and felt a mind belaboring with emptiness. This did resemble the ‘sound of one hand clapping’ that the High Warlock had told me of, so I drifted toward where it seemed the loudest, and looked down. I was far past the beast-men’s village, and the feelings of their thoughts had thinned; but now I felt the thrust of several minds, mayhap threescore. Yet all I saw were treetops.”

  Rod nodded. “They hid well. What then?”

  “I listened close, till the un-clapping mind had begun to think of other matters—yet, even there, no inkling-thought of treachery did come. Therefore did I drift down into a treetop and clambered down into their midst, the less to afright them.”

  Tuan smiled thinly. “That might somewhat lessen their startlement, I wot—yet not abundantly. What said they when they beheld thee?”

  “Oh, the first beastman that laid eyes upon me shrieked and whirled up a war club, and I readied myself to disappear; but I also held up open
hands, and he stayed his blow, then nodded toward his left. I went thither, and he followed me, though with ne’er a bit of trust in’s eyes. And thus came I unto Master Yorick.”

  “Where?” Rod pounced on it.

  Toby looked up, surprised. “He sat beside a nearly smokeless fire with several others, only one among many, till he looked up and saw me. Then he stood, and grinned, and came up to me, hand upheld in salute.”

  Tuan had caught Rod’s point. “Ah, then. He sat among his men as an equal, with neither state nor honor.”

  “None that I could see. I’ truth, there were as many women as men around that fire—yet they did defer to him, that much was plain.”

  “How many were there?” the King demanded.

  “A score of men, at least; and he assured me others stood sentry-guard, the whiles a squadron patrolled the jungle’s edge, nigh to the village, to aid those who sought to escape. His force, he said, has strength of twoscore and more.”

  “How many women and children are there?” Catharine sounded anxious.

  “A dozen that I could see, of women; each had two babes, or three.”

  “Thriving little family group.” Rod smiled. “If we didn’t clean out Mughorck, Yorick’d have his own village going.”

  “Aye, and betimes the two villages would battle.” Tuan smiled with irony. “Mayhap we ought to keep our men at home and let our foemen slay one another.”

  “Thou canst not mean to say it!” Catharine flared.

  “Nor do I,” Tuan sighed, “for Yorick and his folk are allies now; and if Mughorck did battle him, Mughorck would surely win, since that he hath thousands. Nay, we must needs strike whiles yet we have a force to aid us. What did he say of the rumor he had hoped he’d seed?”

  “He said that in these few weeks time it hath increased amazingly.” Toby grinned. “Indeed, saith Master Yorick, ‘Tis ready to be reaped and sheaved, and gathered into barns.’ ”

  “The seed, then, fell on fertile ground,” Brom rumbled.

  Toby nodded. “Thus saith Yorick: ‘There are some hundreds of widows now where there were none two months agone—and what hath their blood bought? Why, naught—save the fear of vengeance.’ Aye, milord, these folk were more than ready to believe that vengeance would be aimed only at the Kobold and his priest Mughorck.”