King Kobold Revived wisoh-3

by Christopher Stasheff

  So it really worked! It wasn’t imagination!

  But the rest of Styenkov’s men were watching the enemy’s hands, or feet—and were still very much a menace. The beast-men slowed and stopped—apparently they didn’t have too much taste for an even fight. They hunched in on themselves, heads hunkered down; they seemed to be waiting. For what?

  The beastmen began to make bellowing noises in deep rumbling bass voices. Rod suddenly realized that they were calling out in unison. He strained, trying to pick intelligible phonemes out of booming voices. It was getting easier, because they were getting their timing better; it was almost one unified shout now. Rod listened, then shook his head; there was no way of saying what it meant in their own language. To him, though, it sounded like:

  “Cobalt! Cobalt! Cobalt!”

  … Which was ridiculous; at their level of technology, they couldn’t even have the concept of bombs, let alone atomic fission.

  Thunder rocked the land, and the beach lit up with an explosion of lightning. Then there was only gloom again, darker for having had the sudden light. Rod peered through the murk—and stared. Sir Styenkov’s men stood frozen in their buskins!

  A ragged cheer rumbled up from the beastmen, and they waddled forward, making a grating sound. With a shock, Rod realized they were laughing.

  But they were moving so slowly! Why? Didn’t they want to reach their intended victims?

  Then Sir Styenkov’s whole line lurched forward. Then they lurched again, and again—and, step-stumbling-step, they marched toward their butchers!

  Something bumped into Rod’s shoulder. He whirled—just in time to catch Toby. The young warlock’s body was rigid, and his eyes had lost focus. Had he been tuned in on a soldier’s mind when the Evil Eye froze him?

  Then Rod saw one of Styenkov’s soldiers slow and stop. His head lifted slowly; then he shivered, looked about him wildly, realized what had happened, set his pike on an enemy, and started marching again with grim purpose. Further down the line, another soldier began to waken, too.

  Rod stared down at Toby. The young idiot had found a way to get into the fight after all!

  Thunder broke over them, and lightning stabbed the land again.

  The soldiers froze solid again, and Toby’s whole body whiplashed in a single massive convulsion; then he went limp, eyes closed.

  Rod stared, appalled. Then he touched the carotid artery in the boy’s throat and felt the pulse. Reassured, he lowered the young warlock. “Fess!”

  “Here, Rod.” The great black horse loomed up out of the darkness.

  “Just stand over him and protect him.”

  “But, Rod…”

  “No ‘buts’!” Rod turned, sprinting away toward the battle-line, whipping out his sword. “Flying Legion! Charge!”

  Fess sighed, and stepped carefully over Toby’s still form, so that the young warlock lay directly beneath his black steel body.

  Rod caught up with Styenkov’s line just as they began stumbling toward the beastmen again. He looked from one to another frantically; their eyes were glazed, unseeing.

  The beastmen began to waddle forward again, making the chugging, grating noise that passed for laughter with them. Rod whirled about, staring at them, just as they broke into a lumbering run. Rod glanced back at the stumbling soldiers, then ahead; the enemy were only huge, hulking shadows against the gray of stormclouds, great shadows looming closer.

  Lightning flashed, and the beastmen roared a cheer. And Rod froze solid, but only with shock—because, for the first time, he had a really good look at a beastman.

  And he recognized it.

  Neanderthal.

  There was no mistaking the sloping forehead, the brow ridges, the chinless jaw, the lump at the base of the skull… He had an overwhelming desire to look one in the mouth and check its dentition.

  Then a chill hand clutched his belly. What could Neanderthals be doing on Gramarye?

  Attacking, obviously. He noticed two war clubs swinging up, then starting to swing down toward him. He leaped aside just as the first whistled past him, then threw himself into a lunge, sword arrowing toward the other clubman. Its round shield swung up; the beastman caught Rod’s point neatly. For a moment, Rod stared directly into the little piggy eyes over the top of the shield—little piggy eyes that seemed to grow, and glow, with a bright, flaming bead at their centers that probed into his brain, leaving a trail of cold fire that didn’t burn, but froze. It fascinated; it held all his attention, numbing his brain, stopping all thought. Dimly, off to the side, he noticed the huge war club swinging up for another blow; but that didn’t matter. All that really mattered was that bright, burning bead at the center of the eyes…

  A furious scream rang in his ears, blotting out the sounds of battle, a scream such as a Valkyrie might make if she were actually allowed to attack; and a sudden warmth seemed to wrap around his mind, pushing away the bright, burning bead, away and away until it was only a pair of eyes again… the eyes of a warrior beastman whose huge war club was windmilling down to crush Rod’s head.

  He leaped back, yanking his sword free from the shield, and the club whistled past harmlessly. Behind the round shield, the beastman snarled and swung his club up again. Rod advanced and feinted high, at the face. The shield snapped up to cover, and Rod riposted and slashed downward. The sword-tip whipped across the creature’s thighs, tracing a line of bright red. It shrieked, clutching at its legs, and collapsed rolling on the ground. Rod didn’t stay to watch; he turned to glance at the battle-line—and saw a war ax swinging straight at his sinuses, with a broad gloating grin behind it (yes, the dentition was right). Rod leaped to the side and chopped down, lopping off the ax-head.

  High above him, the Valkyrie screamed again—now he recognized it; he’d heard it just last week, when Gwen had caught Magnus teleporting the cookie jar over to the playpen. Confound it, didn’t the woman know he couldn’t fight as well if he was worrying about her safety?

  On the other hand, she was staying far above the battle—not really in any immediate danger, especially since the beast-men were limited to clubs and axes; not an arrow among the lot of ‘em. He swung about, chopping at another Neanderthal. Snarling, four of them turned on him. Beyond them, he saw with shock, half the soldiers lay dead on the beach, their blood pouring into the sand. Fury boiled up in him, and he bellowed even as he gave ground, sword whirling furiously in feints and thrusts, keeping his attackers back just barely out of club-range. Beyond them, he saw frozen soldiers coming to life again; and a ragged shout of rage went up as they saw their dead companions. The nearest beastman looked back over his shoulder, his swing going wide. Rod thrust in under his shield, and he screamed, doubling over. His companions gave ugly barks, and pressed in. Behind them, two soldiers came running up, blades swinging high. Rod darted back out of the way and braced himself at the sickening thud of steel into meat. Their targets dropped, and the remaining beastman whirled on his two attackers in desperation. Rod shouted “Havoc!” and darted in. Startled, the beastman whirled back to face Rod—and doubled over Rod’s steel. Rod yanked back just before a pike slammed down to end the warrior’s agony. Its owner gave a bloodlust-bellow of victory, and turned back to the battle-line. Rod followed, fighting down sickness. No time for it now; he had to remind the soldiers. “Their eyes! Don’t look at their eyes!”

  So, of course, half of the soldiers immediately confronted the enemy stare-to-stare, and froze in their tracks.

  The Valkyrie screamed again, and the soldiers jolted awake. Their pikes lifted just in time to block war axes…

  And lightning seared, thunder exploding around it.

  As the afterimages ebbed, Rod saw the soldiers standing frozen again. High above him, a sudden wail trailed away.

  “Gwen!” Rod bellowed. He stared into the sky, frantically probing the darkness—and saw the darker shadow hurtling downward. He spun, scrambling back up the beach, then whipped about, staring up at the swooping silhouette, running backward, t
racking it as it grew larger and larger…

  Then it cracked into him, rock, bone, and sinew. Pain shot through his head, and the sky filled with stars. A myriad of tiny stabs scored his back and sides, and a chorus of cracking sounds, like a forest falling, filled his ears. His diaphragm had caved in; he fought for breath in near-panic. Finally air seeped in; he sucked it thankfully, the more so because it was filled with the perfume he’d given Gwen last Christmas. He looked down at the unguided missile that had flattened him, and at a noble bush that had given its life for the cause. He felt gratitude toward the shrub; Gwen was delicate, but she was no lightweight, especially when she was coming down at twenty miles an hour.

  He struggled upward, lifting his wife clear of the bush and laying her carefully out just under the next shrub down the line. As far as he could tell, she was perfectly all right; no breaks or wounds. She’d have a hell of a bruise tomorrow, of course… And she was unconscious; but he was pretty sure that had happened before she fell.

  Rain suddenly drenched him. He remembered the last lightning-flash, and turned to look down the beach. Through the downpour he could just barely make out frozen forms toppling, and a dozen or so that fought back. Another lightning-flash showed them clearly laying furiously about them with their pikes; and they kept fighting, even as the lightning faded. A few, then, had heeded him and were watching their enemies’ hands and weapons instead of their eyes. Too late to do them much good, though—they were outnumbered three to one.

  Rod struggled back to his feet, ungallantly heaving Gwen up over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and stumbled blindly back over the scrubline in a shaky trot. “Fess! Talk me in!”

  “Turn toward the sea, Rod,” the robot’s voice murmured through the earphone set in Rod’s mastoid process. “Approach fifty feet… turn right now… another twenty feet…Stop.”

  Rod dug his heels in, just barely managing to counter Gwen’s momentum. He put out a hand and felt the synthetic horsehair in front of him. “Good thing they built your eyes sensitive to infrared,” he growled.

  He threw Gwen over the saddlebow, then dropped to one knee, reaching under the robot horse to lift Toby’s head in the crook of his elbow. He slapped the boy’s cheeks lightly, quickly. “Come on, lad, wake up! You’ve done your bit, contrary to orders; now it’s time to get out of here.”

  “What… Where…” Toby’s eyelids fluttered. Then he looked up at Rod, squinting against a painful headache. “Lord Warlock! What…”

  “You tried to get into the battle by proxy, and got knocked out in person,” Rod explained. “Gwen tried the same thing and got the same result. Now we’ve got to get out of here, before our few remaining soldiers get wiped out. Come on, lad—up in the air. Let’s go!”

  Toby stared up at him painfully. Slowly, he nodded. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face screwing up in concentration; then, suddenly, he was gone. Air boomed in to fill the space where he’d been.

  Rod leaped up and swung into the saddle, bracing his wife’s still form with one hand as he bellowed, “Retreat! Retreat!”

  The dozen soldiers left standing leaped backward, then began to yield ground a step at a time. The beastmen roared and followed, but the Gramarye pikes whirled harder than ever with the power of desperation, keeping the Neanderthals at a distance. There were too many beastmen ganging up on each soldier, though; given time, they’d wipe out the Gramarye force.

  Rod didn’t intend to give them that time. “All right, Iron Horse—now!”

  Fess reared back, pawing the air with a whinnying scream. The beastmen’s heads snapped up in alarm. Then the great black horse leaped into a gallop, charging down at them. At the last second, he wheeled aside, swerving to run all along their line. The beastmen leaped back in fright, and the soldiers turned and ran. Fess cleared the battle-line; the beastmen saw their fleeing foes, shouted, and lumbered after them.

  Fess whirled with another scream and raced back along the Neanderthal line. The beastmen shouted and leaped back—except for one who decided to play hero and turned to face the galloping horse, club raised.

  Rod hunkered down and muttered, “Just a little off-center—with English.”

  Fess slammed into the Neanderthal, and he caromed off the horse’s chest with a howl. He landed twenty feet away, and was silent. His companions stood poised, wavering.

  On the saddlebow, Gwen stirred, lifting her head with a pained frown. She took one look and grasped the situation.

  The beastmen growled to one another, softly at first, but gaining volume and anger. They began to waddle back up the beach, their low, ugly rumble filling the air.

  Gwen’s eyes narrowed, and the beastmen’s clubs exploded into flame.

  They howled, hurling their clubs after the Gramarye soldiers, turned, and ran.

  Gwen glared after them. Then her head began to tremble, and she collapsed again.

  “Retreat!” Rod snapped. Fess pivoted and raced back up the beach after the soldiers.

  They came to rest high in the rocks atop the cliff, behind the long, sloping beach. “You did well,” Rod assured the soldiers. “No one could have done better.”

  One of the men spread his hands helplessly. “How can we fight an enemy who can freeze us in our tracks, milord?”

  Rod dismounted and lifted Gwen down tenderly. “I think my wife’s given us the basic idea. I’ll work it out with her when she comes to.” He knelt, lowering Gwen to the ground behind two boulders, cradling her head and shoulders against his chest. He winced at a sudden pain in his arm and remembered a club hitting him there. He remembered a few other blows, too, now that he thought about it. With the adrenaline of battle beginning to wear off, the bruises were beginning to hurt. With surprise, he noticed a bright crimson streak across his chest—one of the ax-blows had come closer than he’d realized. When he understood just how close, he began to get the shakes. He clamped down on them sternly; there’d be time for that later. “What’re they doing, men?”

  “They begin to feel brave again, milord.” One of the soldiers was lying among the seaward rocks, peering out between two boulders. “They are stepping away from their dragon.”

  “Any sign of the villagers?”

  “None, milord. All fled in time.”

  Rod nodded. “Well, it’s a shame about the village, but they can rebuild it.”

  “ ‘Tis not destroyed yet, milord.”

  “Yet,” Rod echoed. “There’s a wineskin in my saddlebag, boys. Pass it around.”

  A soldier leaped and wrenched the wineskin out. He squirted a long streak into his mouth, then passed it to his comrade.

  “Toby!” Rod yelled. Nothing happened.

  Gwen stirred in Rod’s arms, squinting against a raging headache, looked up, saw Rod, and relaxed, nestling against his chest, closing her eyes. “I am safe.”

  “Praise Heaven,” Rod breathed.

  “What doth hap, my lord?”

  “We lost, darling. You came up with a good idea, but they outnumbered you.”

  She shook her head, then winced at the pain it brought. “Nay, my lord. ‘Twas the lightning.”

  “Lightning?” Even through his exhaustion, Rod felt something inside him sit up and take notice. “Well…”

  “Milord,” the sentry called, “fire blossoms in the village.”

  Rod nodded with a grimace. “Whole place’ll be one big torch in a few minutes. The beastmen won’t find much to pick there, though. Peasants don’t own much—and what they do have they can carry.”

  “There is the granary, milord,” one of the locals pointed out, “and the smokehouse.”

  Rod shrugged. “So they’ll have a picnic on the way home. Don’t worry, lad—the King and Queen will send you food for the winter. Grain they could’ve had for the asking.” He looked down at Gwen. “Can you find Toby, darling?”

  Gwen nodded and closed her eyes, then winced. Rod felt a stab of guilt—but he needed the young warlock.

  Air slammed outward with a soft e
xplosion, and Toby stood before him. “Milord Warlock?”

  One of the soldiers stared, then turned away, muttering and crossing himself.

  Rod pretended not to notice. “Feel up to some action again?”

  “Assuredly, an’ thou dost wish it, milord.” Toby’s knees were shaking with exhaustion.

  “I do,” Rod said. “I hate to ask it of you, but we’ve got to salvage something out of this. When they ship out, can you follow them?”

  Toby stared off into space for a moment, then nodded. “There are clouds. They will not see me.”

  “You don’t have to go all the way,” Rod pointed out. “Just see ‘em on their way, then call for one of your mates. He can teleport out to you, and you can disappear. Just get them started.”

  Toby nodded slowly. “Wise, milord. We will.”

  “The flames slacken, milord.”

  “Yes. Thank heaven for the rain.” But Rod looked up, frowning; the sentry’s voice had changed. A different soldier lay among the rocks, his arm in a fresh, gleaming sling.

  Rod stared. “Hey—who gave you that?”

  The sentry looked up, surprised, then nodded toward another soldier who sat, teeth gritted against pain, while a chubby figure in a brown robe wrapped linen around a long gash in his arm.

  “Father Chillde,” Rod said slowly.

  The monk looked up, then smiled sadly. “I fear I have come too late, Milord Gallowglass. At least I may be of some service now.”

  “We appreciate it, of course—but the chaplain doesn’t have to come into battle.”

  The sad smile stayed. “There are two ways of thinking of that, milord.”

  Nice to know they had a dedicated one—and his mere presence was definitely a comfort to the soldiers. Him, and the wine.

  “They move back toward their ships,” the sentry reported.

  “There will be much work for me when they have gone,” the priest said sadly.

  Rod shook his head. “I don’t think so, Father. From what I saw during battle, they didn’t leave any wounded.”