King Kobold Revived wisoh-3

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Yes, Mama,” the child said uncertainly.

  “Sleep sweetly, darling,” the mother said, and closed the door softly behind her.

  The oil lamp set the shadows dancing softly on the walls. The child lay awake awhile, watching the slow ballet of light and dark.

  He sighed, rolled over on his side. His eyes were closing as they strayed to the window.

  A huge misshapen face peered in, the eyes small and gleaming, the nose a glob of flesh, the mouth a gash framing great square, yellowed teeth. Shaggy brown hair splayed out from a gleaming, winged helmet.

  He grinned at the child, pig eyes dancing.

  “Mama! Mamamamamamamama! Bogeyman!”

  The bogeyman snarled and broke through the stout wooden wall with three blows of a great ironbound club.

  The child screamed and ran, yanking and straining at the heavy bedroom door.

  The bogeyman clambered through the broken wall.

  The door was flung wide; the mother stared in horror, clutching her child to her and screaming for her husband. She wheeled about and fled.

  The bogeyman gave a deep, liquid chuckle, and followed.

  In another cottage, a bogeyman seized a child by the ankles and swung his head against the wall. He lifted his huge club to fend off the father’s sword, then whirled the club into the father’s belly, swung it up to strike the father’s temple. Bone splintered; blood flowed.

  The mother backed away, screaming, as the beastman caught up the father’s fallen sword. He turned to the mother, knocked her aside with a careless, backhand swipe of the club, and stove in the family strong-chest with one blow.

  In the first cottage, the oil lamp, knocked aside in the beast-man’s passage, licked at the oil spilled on walls and floor.

  Other cottages were already ablaze.

  Women and children ran screaming, with chuckling beast-men loping after them.

  The men of the village caught up harpoons and axes, rallying to defend their wives and children.

  The beastmen shattered their heads with ironbound cudgels, clove chests with great, razor-edged battle axes, and passed on, leaving dismembered bodies behind them.

  Then drumming hooves and a troop of cavalry burst into the village; the fires had alerted the local baron. He sat now at the head of a score of horsemen drawn up in the beastmen’s path.

  “Fix lances!” he roared. “Charge!”

  The beastmen chuckled.

  Lances snapped down, heels kicked horsehide; the cavalry charged… and faltered, stumbled, halted, soldiers and horses alike staring at the beastmen for long, silent minutes.

  Each beastman flicked his glance from one soldier to another, on to a third, then back to the first, holding each one’s eyes for a fraction of a second.

  Jaws gaped, eyes glazed all along the cavalry line. Lances slipped from nerveless fingers.

  Slowly, the horses stepped forward, stumbled, and stepped again, their riders immobile, shoulders sagging, arms dangling.

  The beastmen’s little pig eyes glittered. Their grins widened, heads nodded in eager encouragement.

  Step-stumble-step, the horses moved forward.

  The beastmen shrieked victory as their clubs swung, caving in the horses’ heads. Axes swung high and fell, biting deep into the riders. Blood fountained as men fell. Heads flew, bones crunched under great splayfeet, as the beastmen, chuckling, waded through the butchered cavalry to break in the door of the village storehouse.

  The Count of Baicci, vassal to the Duke of Loguire, lay headless in the dirt, his blood pumping out to mingle with that of his cavalry before the thirsty soil claimed it.

  And the women and children of the village, huddled together on the slopes above, stared slack-jawed at their burning houses, while the dragon ships, wallowing low in the waves with the weight of their booty, swung out past the bar.

  And, as the long ships passed the headland, the wind blew the villagers an echo of bellowing laughter.

  The word was brought to King Tuan Loguire at his capital in Runnymede; and the King waxed wroth.

  The Queen waxed into a fury.

  “Nay, then!” she stormed. “These devil’s spawn, they lay waste a village with fire and sword, slay the men and dishonor the women, and bear off the children for bondsmen, belike—and what wilt thou do, thou? Assuredly, thou wilt not revenge!”

  She was barely out of her teens, and the King was scarce older; but he sat straight as a staff, his face grave and calm.

  “What is the count of the dead?” he demanded.

  “All the men of the village, Majesty,” answered the messenger, grief and horror just beneath the skin of his face. “A hundred and fifty. Fourteen of the women, and six babes. And twenty good horsemen, and the Count of Baicci.”

  The Queen stared, horrified. “A hundred and fifty,” she murmured, “a hundred and fifty.”

  Then, louder, “A hundred and fifty widowed in this one night! And babes, six babes slain!”

  “God have mercy on their souls.” The King bowed his head.

  “Aye, pray, man, pray!” the Queen snapped. “Whilst thy people lie broke and bleeding, thou dost pray!” She whirled on the messenger. “And rapine?”

  “None,” said the messenger, bowing his head. “Praise the Lord, none.”

  “None,” the Queen repeated, almost mechanically.

  “None?” She spun on her husband. “What insult is this, that they scorn our women!”

  “They feared the coming of more soldiers, mayhap…” the messenger muttered.

  The Queen gave him all the scorn she could jam into one quick glance. “And ‘twere so, they would be lesser men than our breed; and ours are, Heaven knows, slight enough.”

  The messenger stiffened. The King’s face turned wooden.

  He leaned back slowly, gaze fixed on the messenger. “Tell me, good fellow—how was it a whole troop of cavalry could not withstand these pirates?”

  The Queen’s lip curled. “How else could it chance?”

  The King sat immobile, waiting for the messenger’s answer.

  “Sorcery, Majesty.” The messenger’s voice quavered. “Black, foul sorcery. The horsemen rode doomed, for their foes cast the Evil Eye upon them.”

  Silence held the room. Even the Queen was speechless, for, on this remote planet, superstition had a disquieting tendency to become fact.

  The King was the first to speak. He stirred in his throne, turned to the Lord Privy Councillor.

  This meant he had to look down; for, though Brom O’Berin’s shoulders were as broad as the King’s, he stood scarcely two feet high.

  “Brom,” said the King, “send forth five companies of the King’s Foot, one to each of the great lords whose holdings border the sea.”

  “But one company to each!” the Queen fairly exploded. “Art thou so easily done, good mine husband? Canst thou spare but thus much of thy force?”

  The King rose and turned to Sir Maris the Seneschal. “Sir Maris, do you bring forth three companies of the King’s Guard. The fourth shall bide here, for the guarding of Her Majesty Queen Catharine. Let the three companies assemble in the courtyard below within the hour, provisioned for long and hard riding.”

  “My liege, I will,” said Sir Maris, bowing.

  “And see that mine armor is readied.”

  “Armor!” the Queen gasped. “Nay, nay, O mine husband. What wouldst thou do?”

  “Why, what I must.” The King turned to her, catching her hands between his own. “I am King, and my people are threatened. I must ride to the wreck of this village and seek out the trail of these beastmen. Then must I build ships and follow them, if I may, to their homeland.”

  “Oh, nay, good my lord!” Catharine cried, clinging to him. “Have we not men-at-arms enough in our armies but you also must ride forth to die? Oh, my lord, nay! What would I do if thou shouldst be—if thou shouldst take hurt?”

  The King held her close for one moment, then held her away, tilted her chin, and kissed
her lips gently. “Thou art Queen,” he said softly. “The brunt of this sorrow must thou bear; such is the office of Queens. Here in the place of power must thou bide, to care for our people while I ride. Thou must hazard thine husband for the good of thy people, as I must hazard my life—for such is the office of Kings.”

  He held her close for a long, timeless while, then kissed her lingeringly. He straightened, her hands clasped between his, then turned to go.

  An embarrassed cough stopped him.

  He turned, frowning. “Art still in this place, Brom? I had thought…”

  “My liege,” the dwarf interrupted, “what thou shalt command, I shall do—but wilt thou command nothing more?”

  The King’s face darkened.

  Brom’s voice was tight with determination. “If there is the Evil Eye in this, Majesty, ‘tis matter for witches.”

  The King turned away, glowering, his lips pressed thin.

  “Thou hast the right of it, Brom,” he admitted grudgingly. “Well enough, then, we must. Send to the witches in the North Tower, Brom, directing them to summon”—his face twisted with dislike—“the High Warlock.”

  The High Warlock was currently leaning his back against a tree trunk with his fundament firmly founded on terra firma, watching the sunrise with one eye and his wife with the other. Both were eminently worth watching.

  The sun was splendor itself as it rose orange-gold out of the oiled green of the pine-tops into a rose-and-blue sky; but his flame-headed wife was all that was grace and loveliness, singing lightly as she sank her hands into the tub of dishwater beside the cooking-fire in the dry warmth of their cave home.

  It wasn’t just the domesticity that made her lovely, of course. Her long, loose red hair seemed to float about her, framing a round face with large, sea-green, long-lashed eyes, a snub nose, a wide mouth with full, tempting lips. Her figure was spectacular under the white peasant blouse and tight bodice and long, full, bright-colored skirt.

  Of course, her figure was, at the moment, more a matter of inference than observation; but the Warlock had a good memory.

  The memory was a little too good; his wife’s beauty occasionally reminded him of his own—well, shall we say, plainness?

  No, we should say ugliness—or, rather, homeliness; for there was something attractive about his face. He had the appeal that is common to overstuffed armchairs, old fireplaces, and potbellied stoves. Hounds and small children loved him on sight.

  And by this quality he had won her (it would be, perhaps, more accurate to say that she had won him, after an extended battle with his inferiority complex); for if a beautiful woman is betrayed often enough, she will begin to value trustworthiness, warmth, and affection more than romance.

  At least, she will if she is the kind of woman to whom love is the goal, and romance just the luxury; such a woman was Gwen.

  Such a woman will eventually be capable of loving a man with a good heart, even though his face be a bargain assortment of inclined planes, hollows, and knobs in Expressionist juxtaposition; and such a man was Rod Gallowglass.

  He had a receding hairline; a flat, sloping forehead; prominent bushy eyebrows; deep eye-sockets with a matched set of gray eyes; a blade of a nose; high, flat cheekbones; and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. The mouth kept a precarious perch on top of a square, jutting chin.

  Nevertheless, she loved him, which fact was to Rod a miracle, a flagrant violation of all known laws of nature.

  Not that he was about to object, of course.

  He slid down onto the base of his spine, let his eyelids droop, and let the peace of the summer morning seep into him, lulling him into a doze.

  Something struck his belly, knocking the wind out of him and jolting him wide awake. He jerked upright, knife in hand.

  “Da-dee!” cooed the baby, looking enormously pleased with himself.

  Rod stared at the kid. Little Magnus was holding tight to the bars of his playpen; he hadn’t quite learned to stand by himself yet.

  Rod managed a feeble grin and levered the corner of the oak playpen off his belly. “Very good, Magnus!” He patted the baby’s head. “Good boy, good boy!”

  The baby grinned, fairly hopping with delight.

  The playpen rose six inches from the ground.

  Rod made a frantic grab and forced it back down, hands on the lid.

  Ordinarily, playpens do not have lids. But this playpen did; otherwise, the baby might have floated out.

  “Yes, yes, that’s a wonderful baby! Smart little fella, there! Very good baby—Gwen!”

  “What dost thou wish, my lord?” Gwen came up to the mouth of the cave, drying her hands on her apron.

  Then she saw the playpen.

  “Oh, Magnus!” she mourned in that tone of hurt disappointment only mothers can master.

  “No, no!” Rod said quickly. “He’s a good boy, Gwen—isn’t he? I’ve just been telling him what a good boy he is. Good boy, good baby!‘’

  The baby stared, tiny brow wrinkling in utter confusion.

  His mother had much the same look.

  But her eyes widened as she realized the only way the playpen could’ve moved out of the cave while her back was turned. “Oh, Rod!”

  “Yeah.” Rod grinned with more than a touch of pride. “Precocious, isn’t he?”

  “But—but, my lord!” Gwen shook her head, looking dazed. “Only witches can move things other than themselves. Warlocks cannot!”

  Rod pried open the playpen and took his son in his arms. “Well, he couldn’t have done it by levi—uh, flying, could he?”

  “Nay, he hath not strength enough to lift the playpen along with him—that he would have to do by his own bone and sinew. But warlocks cannot…”

  “Well, this one can.” He grinned down at the baby and chucked it under the chin. “How about that? I’ve fathered a genius!”

  The baby cooed and bounced out of Rod’s arms.

  “Whup! Come back here!” Rod jumped and snagged a fat little ankle before the baby could float off in the morning breeze.

  “Oh, Magnus!” Gwen was on them in a rush, cradling the baby in her arms. “Oh, my bold babe! Thou shalt most surely be a most puissant warlock when thou art grown!”

  The baby smiled back at her. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d done that was right, but he wasn’t going to argue.

  Rod beamed with fatherly pride as he hefted the oaken playpen back into the cave. He was amazed at his son; that playpen was heavy

  He got a hank of rope and started tying the pen down. “That kid!” he said, shaking his head. “Scarcely a year old—he can’t even walk yet, and… Gwen, what’s the age when they start levitating?”

  “ ‘Levi—’ Oh, you mean flying, my lord!” Gwen came back into the cave, the baby straddling one hip. “Thirteen years, or thereabouts, my lord, is the age for young warlocks to fly.”

  “And this kid started at nine months.” Rod’s chest swelled a trifle—his head, too. “What age do little witches start making their broomsticks fly?”

  “Eleven, my lord, or mayhap twelve.”

  “Well, he’s a little ahead of schedule for that, too—except that warlocks aren’t supposed to make broomsticks fly at all. What a kid!” He didn’t mention that Magnus was obviously a major mutation.

  He patted the baby’s head. The child wrapped a chubby hand around his father’s finger.

  Rod turned shining eyes to Gwen. “He’ll make a great agent when he’s grown.”

  “My lord!” Gwen’s brow knit in concern. “Thou wilt not take him from Gramarye?”

  “Perish the thought!” Rod took Magnus and tossed him up in the air. “He’ll have his work cut out for him right here.”

  Magnus squealed with delight and floated on up toward the roof.

  Rod executed a high jump that would have done credit to a pole-vaulter and snagged his errant son. “Besides, he may not even want to join SCENT—who knows?”

  Rod was an agent of the Society for the Conversion of Ext
raterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms, the subversive wing of the multi-planet Decentralized Democratic Tribunal, the first and only human interstellar government in history not to be based on Terra. The Senate met by electronic communications; the Executive resided on a starship which was usually to be found between planets. Nonetheless, it was the most efficient democratic government yet established.

  SCENT was the organization responsible for bringing the Lost Colonies of earlier Terrestrial empires back into the fold. Rod was on permanent assignment to Gramarye, a planet that had been colonized by mystics, romantics, and escapists. The culture was medieval, the people superstitious—and a small percentage of the population had “witch-powers.”

  Consequently, the DDT in general, and SCENT in particular, were immensely interested in Gramarye; for the “witches” and “warlocks” were espers. Some had one set of psi powers and some had another—but all were telepaths to some degree. And, since the efficiency (and, consequently, the viability) of a democracy varies directly with the speed of its communications, and since telepathic communication was instantaneous, the DDT treasured its only colony of espers very highly.

  So Rod had been assigned to guard the planet, and to carefully nudge its political system onto the road that would eventually lead to democracy and full membership in the DDT.

  “Hey, Fess,” Rod called.

  The great black horse grazing in the meadow outside the cave lifted its head to look at its master. Its voice sounded through a small earphone buried in Rod’s mastoid bone. “Yes, Rod?”

  Rod snorted. “What’re you cropping grass for? Who ever heard of a robot burning hydrocarbons?”

  “One must keep up appearances, Rod,” Fess reproved him.

  “Next thing I know, you’ll be keeping up with the Joneses! Listen, bolt-head—it’s an occasion! The kid pulled his first telekinesis stunt today!”

  “Telekinesis? I had thought that was a sex-linked female trait, Rod.”

  “Well, all of a sudden it ain’t.” He put the baby in the playpen and clamped the cover down before Magnus had a chance to drift out. “How about that, Fess? This kid’s gonna be a champion!”

  “It will be my great pleasure to serve him,” the robot murmured, “as I have served his forebears for five hundred years, since the days of the first D’Armand, who founded…”