King Kobold Revived

by Christopher Stasheff

  “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 earth-works.” 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!”

  “Yeah, and get chopped to pieces!”

  “I think not.” Tuan grinned with suppressed glee. “Not if we fight only when the sky is dear.”

  A slow smile spread over Rod’s face.

  Tuan nodded. “We will make fray whilst the sun shines.”

  “You must admit that the idea has merit, Rod,” Fess said thoughtfully. “Why not attempt it full-scale, immediately?”

  “Well, for one thing, those earthworks are a major barrier.” Rod sat astride the great black robot-horse on top of the cliffs in the moonlight. “And for an-other, well… we’re pretty sure it’ll work, Fess, but…”

  “You do not wish to endanger your whole army. Sensible, I must admit. Still, logic indicates that…”

  “Yes, but Finagle’s Law indicates caution,” Rod interrupted. “If we made a full-scale frontal attack by day, we’d probably win—but we’d lose an awful lot of men. We might be defeated—and Tuan only bets on a sure thing, if he has a choice.”

  “I gather he is not the only one who favors caution. Allow me to congratulate you, Rod, on another step towards maturity.”

  “Great thanks,” Rod growled. “A few more compliments like that, and I can hold a funeral for my self-image. How old do I have to be before you’ll count me grown-up—an even hundred?”

  “Maturity is mental and emotional, Rod, not chronological. Still, would it seem more pleasant if I were to tell you that you are still young at heart?”

  “Well, when you put it that way…”

  “Then, I will,” the robot murmured. “And to do you justice, Rod, you have never been a reckless commander.”

  “Well… thanks.” Rod was considerably mollified. “Anyway, that’s why we’re just gonna try a raid first. We’ll hit ‘em under a clear sky where they’re weak.”

  A dark shadow moved up beside them, about even with Rod’s stirrup. “The moon will set in an hour’s time, Rod Gallowglass.”

  “Thanks, Your Elfin Majesty.” Rod looked down at Brom. “Any particular point in the earthworks that’s weaker than the others?”

  “Nay. Yet should we spring up the riverbanks to attack them, then would they fall back amazed and confused, and elves might hap upon them and trip them in flight.”

  Rod grinned. “While our men relieve their camp of everything portable, eh? Not such a bad idea.”

  “I shall be amused,” Brom rumbled.

  “You shall? They’ll just die laughing.”

  The moon set, and Tuan gave the signal. A picked band of soldiers (all former foresters) clambered into the small boats Rod had hurriedly requisitioned from the local fishermen and rowed toward the beastmen’s camp with feathered oars.

  But the advance party was already at work.

  The sky was clear, the stars drifted across the hours; but there was no moon this night. The Neanderthal camp lay deep in gloom.

  There are superstitions holding that the dark of the moon is a time conducive to magical, and not always pleasant, events. They are justified.

  Watchfires dotted the plain locked within the semicircle of cliffs. Groups of beastmen huddled around the fires while sentries paced the shore. In the center of the camp, a large long hut announced the location of the chiefs.

  The beastmen were to remember this night for a long time, wishing they could forget. Looking back, they would decide the defeat itself wasn’t all that bad; after all, they fought manfully and well, and lost with honor.

  It was the prelude to the battle that would prove embarrassing…

  While one of the small groups gathered around one of the fires were compan-ionably swiping gripes as soldiers always have, a diminutive shadow crept un-seen between two of them, crawled to the fire, and threw something in. Then it retreated, fast.

  The beastmen went on grumbling for a few minutes; then one stopped abruptly and sniffed. “Dosta scent summat strange?” he growled.

  The beastman next to him sniffed—and gagged—gripping his belly.

  The smell reached the rest of the group very quickly, and quite generously. They scrambled for anywhere, as long as it was away, gagging and retching.

  Closer to the center of the camp, a dark spherical object hurtled through the air to land and break open in the center of another group of beastmen. With an angry humming sound, tiny black flecks filled the air. The beastmen leaped up and ran howling and swatting about them with more motivation than effect. Lit-tle red dots appeared on their skins.

  At another group, a series of short, violent explosions from the fire sent the beastmen jumping back in alarm.

  At still another fire, a beastman raised his mug to his lips, tilted his head back, and noticed that no beer flowed into his mouth. He scowled and peered into the mug.

  He dropped it with an oath as it landed on his toe, and jumped back with no-table speed, holding one foot and hopping on the other as a small human figure scampered out of the mug with a high-pitched, mocking laugh.

  The elf howled in high glee and scampered on through the camp.

  Another beastman swung after him, mouthing horrible oaths as his huge club drove down.

  A small hand swung out of the shadows and clipped through his belt with a very sharp knife.

  The loincloth, loosened, wobbled a little.

  In another two bounds, it had decidedly slipped.

  The elf scampered on through the camp, chuckling, and a whole squad of beastmen fell in after him, bellowing, clubs slamming the ground where the elf had just been.

  A small figure darted between them and the fugitive, strewing something from a pouch at its side.

  The Neanderthals lunged forward, stepped down hard, and jumped high, screaming and frantically jerking leprechaun shoe-tacks out of their soles.

  The fleeing elf, looking over his shoulder to laugh, ran smack into the ankles of a tall, well-muscled Neanderthal—a captain who growled, swinging his club up for the death-blow.

  A leprechaun popped up near his foot and slammed him a wicked one on the third toe.

  The captain howled, letting go of his club (which swung on up into the air, turning end over end) as he grabbed his hurt foot, hopping about.

  He hopped up, and the club fell down and the twain met with a very solid and satisfying thunk.

  As he went down, the fleeing elf—Puck—scampered away chortling.

  He skipped into a tent, shouting, “Help! Help! Spies, traitors, spies!”

  Three beastmen dashed in from the nearest campfire, clubs upraised and sus-picions lowered, as the tent’s occupants swung at Puck and missed him. Outside, a score of elves with small hatchets cut through the tent ropes.

  The poles swayed and collapsed as the tent fabric enfolded its occupants ten-derly. The beastmen howled and struck at the fabric, and connected with one an-other.

  Chuckling, Puck slipped out from under the edge of the tent. Within twenty feet, he had another horde of beastmen howling after him.

  But the beastmen went sprawling, as their feet shot out from under them, flailing their arms in a losing attempt at keeping their balances—which isn’t easy when you’re running on marbles. They scrambled back to their feet somehow, still on precarious balance, whirling about, flailing their arms, and in a moment it was a free-for-all.

  Meanwhile, the captain slowly sat up, holding his ringing head in his hands.

  An elf leaned over the top of the tent and shook something down on him.

  He scrambled up howling, slapping at the spec
ks crawling over his body—red ants can be awfully annoying—executed a beautiful double-quick goose step to the nearest branch of the river and plunged in over his head.

  Down below, a water sprite coaxed a snapping turtle, and the snapper’s jaws slammed into the captain’s already swollen third toe.

  He climbed out of the water more mud than man, and stood up bellowing.

  He flung up his arms, shouting, and opened his mouth wide for the hugest bellow he could manage, and with a splock, one large tomato, appropriately overripe, slammed into his mouth.

  Not that it made any difference, really; his orders weren’t having too much effect anyway, since his men were busily clubbing at one another and shouting something about demons…

  Then the marines landed.

  The rowboats shot in to grate on the pebbles, and black-cloaked soldiers, their faces darkened with ashes, leaped out of the boats, silent in the din. Only their sword-blades gleamed. For a few minutes. Then they were red.

  An hour later, Rod stood on the hilltop, gazing down. Below him, moaning and wailing rose from the beastmen’s camp. The monk sat beside him, his face solemn. “I know they are the foe, Lord Gallowglass—but I do not find these groans of pain to be cause for rejoicing.”

  “Our soldiers think otherwise.” Rod nodded back toward the camp and the sounds of low-keyed rejoicing. “I wouldn’t say they’re exactly jubilant—but a score of dead beastmen has done wonders for morale.”

  Brother Chillde looked up. “They could not use their Evil Eye, could they?”

  Rod shook his head. “By the time our men landed, they didn’t even know where the enemy was, much less his eyes. We charged in; each soldier stabbed two beastmen; and we ran out.” He spread his hands. “That’s it. Twenty dead Neanderthals—and their camp’s in chaos. We still couldn’t storm in there and take that camp, mind you—not behind those earthworks, not with a full army. And you may be very sure they won’t come out unless it’s raining. But we’ve proved they’re vulnerable.” He nodded toward the camp again. “That’s what they’re celebrating back there. They know they can win.”

  “And the beastmen know they can be beaten.” Brother Chillde nodded. “ ‘Tis a vast transformation, Lord Warlock.”

  “Yes.” Rod glowered down at the camp. “Nasty. But vast.”

  “Okay.” Rod propped his feet up on a camp stool and took a gulp from a flagon of ale. Then he wiped his mouth and looked up at Gwen and Agatha. “I’m braced. Tell me how you think it worked.”

  They sat inside a large tent next to Tuan’s, the nucleus of a village that grew every hour around the King’s Army.

  “We’ve got them bottled up for the moment,” Rod went on, “though it’s just a bluff. Our raids are keeping them scared to come out because of our ‘magic’—but as soon as they realize we can’t fight the Evil Eye past the first thunderclap, they’ll come boiling out like hailstones.”

  The tassels fringing the tent doorway stirred. Rod noted it absently; a breeze would be welcome—it was going to be a hot, muggy day.

  “We must needs have more witches,” Gwen said firmly.

  Rod stared at her, appalled. “Don’t tell me you’re going to go recruiting among the hill-hags again! Uh—present company excepted, of course.”

  “Certes.” Agatha glared. The standing cup at her elbow rocked gently. Rod glanced at it, frowning; surely the breeze wasn’t that strong. In fact, he couldn’t even feel it…

  Then his gaze snapped back to Agatha’s face. “Must what?”

  “Persuade that foul ancient, Galen, to join his force here with ours,” Agatha snapped. “Dost thou not hearken? For, an thou dost not, why do I speak?”

  “To come up with any idea that crosses your mind, no matter how asinine.” Rod gave her his most charming smile. “It’s called ‘brainstorming.’ ”

  “Indeed, a storm must ha’ struck thy brain, if thou canst not see the truth of what I say!”

  The bowl of fruit on the table rocked. He frowned at it, tensing. Maybe a small earthquake coming…?

  He pulled his thoughts together and turned back to Agatha. “I’ll admit we really need Galen. But how’re you going to persuade him to join us?”

  “There must needs be a way.” Gwen frowned, pursing her lips.

  An apple shot out of the bowl into the air. Rod rocked back in his chair, al-most overturning it. “Hey!” Then he slammed the chair forward, sitting upright, frowning at Gwen, hurt. “Come on, dear! We’re talking serious business!”

  But Gwen was staring at the apple hanging in the air; an orange jumped up to join it. “My lord, I did not…”

  “Oh.” Rod turned an exasperated glare on Agatha. “I might have known. This’s all just a joke to you, isn’t it?”

  Her head pulled back, offended. “What dost thou mean to say, Lord War-lock?”

  A pear shot out of the bowl to join the apple and the orange. They began to revolve, up and around, in an intricate pattern.

  Rod glanced up at them, his mouth tightening, then back to Agatha. “All right, all right! So we know you can juggle—the hard way, no hands! Now get your mind back to the problem, okay?”

  “I?” Agatha glanced at the spinning fruits, then back to Rod. “Surely thou dost not believe ‘tis my doing!”

  Rod just stared at her.

  Then he said carefully, “But Gwen said she wasn’t doing it—and she wouldn’t lie, would she?”

  Agatha turned her head away, disgusted, and ended looking at Gwen. “How canst thou bear to live with one so slow to see?”

  “Hey, now!” Rod frowned. “Can we keep the insults down to a minimum, here? What am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “That if I have not done it, and she hath not done it, then there must needs be another who doth do it,” Agatha explained.

  “Another?” Rod stared up at the fruit, his eyes widening as he understood. He felt his hackles trying to rise. “You mean…”

  “My son.” Agatha nodded. “Mine unborn son.” She waved a hand toward the spinning fruits. “He must needs fill the idle hour. Dost’a not know that young folk have not great patience? Yet is he good-hearted withal, and will not wreak any true troubles. Dismiss him from thy mind and care. We spake, just now, of the wizard Galen…”

  “Uh… yeah.” Rod turned back to the two ladies, trying very hard to ignore the fruit bobbing above him. “Galen. Right. Well, as I see it, he’s a true isolate, a real, bona fide, died-in-the-haircloth hermit. Personally, I can’t think of a single thing that could persuade him to join us.”

  “I fear thou mayest have the truth of it,” Gwen sighed. “Certes, I would not say that he is amenable.”

  Air popped and a baby was sitting in her lap, clapping his hands. “Momma, Momma! Pa’y cake! Pa’y cake!”

  Gwen stiffened, startled. Then a delighted smile spread over her face. “My bonny babe!” Her arms closed around Magnus and squeezed.

  Rod threw up his hands and turned away. “Why bother trying? Forget the work! C’mere, son—let’s play catch.”

  The baby chortled with glee and bounced out of Gwen’s lap, sailing over to Rod. He caught the boy and tossed him back to Gwen.

  “Nay, husband.” She caught Magnus and lowered him to the ground, sud-denly becoming prim. “ ‘Tis even as thou sayest—we have matters of great mo-ment in train here. Back to thine elf-nurse, child.”

  Magnus thrust out his lip in a pout. “Wanna stay!”

  Rod bent a stern glance on his son. “Can you be quiet?”

  The baby nodded gleefully.

  Gwen gave an exasperated sigh and turned away. “Husband, thou wilt have him believing he can obtain aught he doth wish!”

  “But just one bit of noise, mind you!” Rod leveled a forefinger at the baby. “You get in the way just one little bit, and home you go!”

  The baby positively glowed. He bobbed his head like a bouncing ball.

  “Okay—go play.” Rod leaned back in his chair again. “Now. Assuming Galen can’t be
persuaded—what do we do?”

  Agatha shrugged. “Nay, if he will not be persuaded, I can not see that we can do aught.”

  “Just the words of encouragement I needed,” Rod growled. “Let’s try another tack. Other veterans. Any other magical hermits hiding out in the forests?”

  “Magnus, thou didst promise,” Gwen warned.

  Agatha frowned, looking up at the tent roof. “Mayhap old Elida… She is bit-ter but, I think, hath a good heart withal. And old Anselm…” She dropped her eyes to Rod, shaking her head. “Nay, in him ‘tis not bitterness alone that doth work, but fear also. There is, perhaps, old Elida, Lord Warlock—but I think…”

  “Magnus,” Gwen warned.

  Rod glanced over at his son, frowning. The baby ignored Gwen and went on happily with what he had been doing—juggling. But it was a very odd sort of juggling; he was tossing the balls about five feet in front of him, and they were bouncing back like boomerangs.

  Rod turned to Gwen. “What’s he doing?”

  “Fire and fury!” Agatha exploded. “Wilt thou not leave the bairn to his play? He doth not intrude; he maketh no coil, nor doth he cry out! He doth but play at toss-and-catch with my son Harold, and is quiet withal! He maketh no bother; leave the poor child be!”

  Rod swung about, staring at her. “He’s doing what?”

  “Playing toss-and-catch,” Agatha frowned. “There’s naught so strange in that.”

  “But,” Gwen said in a tiny voice, “his playmate cannot be seen.”

  “Not by us,” Rod said slowly. “But, apparently, Magnus sees him very well indeed.”

  Agatha’s brows knitted. “What dost thou mean?”

  “How else would he know where to throw the ball?” Rod turned to Agatha, his eyes narrowing. “Can you see your son Harold?”

  “Nay, I cannot. Yet what else would return the apples to the child?”

  “I was kinda wonderin’ about that.” Rod’s gaze returned to his son. “But I thought you said Harold was an unborn spirit.”

  “Summat of the sort, aye.”

  “Then, how can Magnus see him?” Gwen lifted her head, her eyes widening.