“Aye.” Gwen met Agatha’s eyes with a smile that held back laughter. “I think she doth.”
“Godspeed ye, then.” Tuan inclined his head towards Agatha. “And the thanks of a kingdom go with thee. If thou wilt come to Runnymede in some weeks time, we’ll honor thee as thou shouldst be.”
“I thank thee, Majesty,” Agatha rejoined, “but I hope to be too deeply occu-pied for such a jaunt.”
Tuan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but Agatha only dropped a curtsy, al-beit a stiff one, and snapped her fingers. Her broomstick shot up beside her; she leaped astride it and floated up into the air.
“Milords, uncover!” Tuan snapped—entirely unnecessary, since no male pre-sent was wearing a hat. But they all dutifully pressed their hands over their hearts in respect as they watched the veteran witch sail out the cave-mouth and up into the night.
Rod turned to Gwen with concern. “That’s a long way to go, all the way back to the mainland—and after all the drain of the battle, too! Is she going to be all right?”
“Fear not, my lord,” Gwen said, with a secretive smile. “I believe she shall fare excellently.”
Rod frowned at her, wondering if he was missing something.
Then he sighed and turned away. “Oh, well, back to the aftermath. What do you think we should do with Brother Chillde, my liege?”
Tuan shrugged. “Tend him when he doth wake; what else is there to do? But why was he so taken at the sight of thy double?” He shuddered, “And, come to that, who did craft it?”
“He did,” Rod answered. “He’s a very powerful projective telepath, but he doesn’t know it—and he watched the battles very intensely, trying to remember everything that happened. But he wasn’t trained as an observer, so he kept get-ting what he really did see confused with what he wanted to see—and what he wanted to see most was the High Warlock performing feats of valor.” Rod had the grace to blush. “I’m afraid he’s come down with a bad case of hero-worship.”
“I comprehend,” Tuan said drily.
“Well, not completely. For this final battle, I’m afraid we used the poor young fellow. I persuaded Puck to make Brother Chillde temporarily blind and to de-scribe the High Warlock the way Brother Chillde wanted to see him—bigger than life, impossibly perfect. The poor friar was sucked in totally, and unknowingly created a witch-moss High Warlock who helped the troops keep up their cour-age, and had everybody thinking I was down here so my visit to the High Cave could be a complete surprise. Not that it did much good,“ he answered, with a glance at the Kobold.
“Aye—the monster.” Tuan followed his gaze. “We must make disposition of it, must we not?”
The whole company turned to stare at the false god.
“What is this fell creature?” Tuan breathed.
“A Kobold,” Rod growled, face twisting with disgust and nausea. “Does it need any other name?”
“For you and me, yes,” Yorick growled. “What do you think it was, Lord Warlock? A chimpanzee?”
“Its parents were.” Rod turned away. “I can’t see much in the way of surgical scars, so I’m pretty sure they were; but the normal strain might be quite a few generations back. It’s obviously been genetically restructured; that’s the only way you could get a monster like that.” He turned back to the Kobold. “Of course, I suppose you could say it’s a tectogenetic masterpiece. They doctored the chromosomes to make the poor beast into a converter—feed current into it, DC, I suppose, and out comes psionic energy.” He dropped his gaze to the black box, then looked a question at Yorick.
The Neanderthal nodded, nudging the black box with his foot. “Atomic-power pack. Wish I could figure out how to shut this thing off permanently.”
“You mean it’s liable to go on again?”
“Not unless somebody flips the switch.” Yorick eyed the monster warily. “Still, it would be an almighty comfort if that were impossible.” He cocked his head on one side and closed one eye, squinting, looking the Kobold up and down. “I suppose it is a triumph of genetic engineering, if you look at it the right way. That bulging cerebrum can handle one hell of a lot of power. And no fore-brain, did you notice that? Lobotomy in the womb. It can’t do anything on its own. No initiative.”
“Just a living gadget,” said Rod grimly.
“Which may be just as well,” Yorick pointed out. “We might conjecture about what it would do if it had a mind of its own…”
Rod shuddered, but growled, “It couldn’t do much. Not with those atrophied limbs. All it can do is just sit there.” He swallowed hard and turned away, look-ing slightly green. “That forehead… how can you just sit there and look at it?”
“Oh, it’s a fascinating study, from a scientific viewpoint,” Yorick answered, “a real triumph, a great philosophic statement of mind over matter, an enduring monument to man’s ingenuity.” He turned back to Rod. “Put the poor thing out of its misery!”
“Yes,” Rod agreed, turning away, slightly bent over. “Somebody stick a knife in the poor bastardization!”
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
Rod frowned, lifted his head. “Didn’t anybody hear me? I said, kill it!”
He sought out Tuan’s eyes. The young King looked away.
Rod bowed his head, biting his lip.
He spun, looking at Yorick.
The Neanderthal looked up at the ceiling, whistling softly.
Rod snarled and bounded up to the dais, dagger in his hand, swinging up fast in an underhand stab.
His arm froze as he looked into the dulled eyes, looked slowly up and down the naked, hairless thing, so obscene, yet so…
He turned away, throwing down his knife, growling low in his throat.
Yorick met his eyes, nodding sympathetically. “It’s such a poor, pitiful thing when the power’s turned off, milord—so weak and defenseless. And men have done it so much dirt already…”
“Dogs!” roared Brom, glaring about at them. “Stoats and weasels! Art thou all so unmanned as to let this thing live?”
He whirled about where he stood on the dais, glowering at the silent throng before him. He snorted, turned about, glaring at them all.
“Aye,” he rumbled, “I see it is even as I have said. There is too much of pity within thee; thou canst not steel thyselves to the doing of it; for there is not enough pity in thee to force thee to this cruel kindness.”
He turned, measuring the Kobold up and down. “Yet must it be done; for this is a fell thing, a foul thing out of nightmare, and therefore must it die. And will no man do it this courtesy?”
No one moved.
Brom looked long and carefully, but found only shame in each glance.
He smiled sourly and shrugged his massive shoulders. “This is my portion, then.”
And, before anyone quite realized what he was doing, the dwarf drew his sword and leaped, plunging his blade up to the hilt in the Kobold’s chest, into its heart.
The monster stiffened, its mouth wrenching open, face contorting in one si-lent, simian scream; then it slumped where it sat, dead.
The others stared, horrified.
Brom sheathed his sword, touched his forelock in respect where he stood on the arm of the Kobold’s stone chair. “Good lasting sleep, Sir Kobold.”
“ ‘Twas an ill deed,” said Tuan. “It could not defend itself.” But he seemed uncertain.
“Aye, but soulless it was, also,” Brom reminded. “Forget that not, Majesty. Is it dishonor to slaughter a hog? Or to stick a wild boar? Nay, surely not! But this thing ha’ wrought death and was now defenseless; and therefore no man would touch it.”
The cavern was still; the company stood awed by the event.
Yorick broke the silence. “Well, then, my people’s god is dead. Who shall rule them in his stead?”
Tuan looked up, startled. “Why, the Eagle! Say to him that I would fain par-ley with him that we may draw a treaty.”
But Yorick shook his head. “The Eagle’s gone.”
“Go
ne?” Tuan said blankly.
“Thoroughly,” Rod confirmed. “I saw him disappear myself.”
“But… why,” Tuan cried, “when his people were his again?”
“Because they don’t need him any more,” Yorick said practically.
“But… then… wherefore did he remain when he’d been overthrown?”
“To make sure they were freed from Mughorck,” Yorick explained. “After all, he’s the one who really masterminded my end of the invasion, you know.”
“Nay, I did not. Who now shall rule thee?”
Yorick spread his hands. “To the victor go the spoils.” He dropped to one knee. “Hail, my liege and sovereign!”
Tuan stared down at him, horrified.
“Thou canst not well deny him,” Brom said, sotto voce.
“Thus hath it ever been—that the victor governed the vanquished.”
And that, of course, settled it. In a medieval culture, tradition ruled.
“Well, then, I must,” Tuan said, with ill grace—but Rod noticed he stood a lit-tle straighter. “Yet how is this to be? I’ve a kingdom already, across the wide sea!”
“Oh, I could run the place for you, I suppose,” Yorick said, carefully casual, “as long as you’re willing to take the final responsibility.”
“That I can accept,” Tuan said slowly, “an ‘tis understood that thou wilt gov-ern in my stead.”
“Glad to, I assure you! For the first year or so, anyway. But don’t worry about what happens after that; I’ve got a very likely-looking lieutenant who should fit the bill perfectly. He’s even learning English…”
The prisoners were assembled beneath the High Cave, all four thousand of them. Four soldiers stood on the ledge, two to either side of the cave-mouth. At some unseen signal, they flourished trumpets and blew a fanfare.
Inside the cave, Rod winced. They were beginning to get the idea that pitch wasn’t just a matter of personal taste, but they had a long way to go.
Four knights rode out of the cave in full armor, raising their lances with pen-nons at their tips. They sidestepped, leaving the center clear. After them came Yorick—and then, just as the sun rose, Tuan stepped out onto the ledge, gilded by the dawn.
An awed murmur ran through the crowd below.
Yorick stepped up a little in advance of Tuan and to his side, and began to bellow in the Neanderthal language.
“I’ll bet he’s telling them the sad news,” Rod muttered, “that the Eagle’s gone.”
A groan swept the crowd.
Brom nodded. “Thou hast the right of it.”
Yorick started bellowing again.
“Now he’s telling them they’ve got a new king,” Rod muttered.
“Emperor!” Yorick shouted.
Tuan looked up, startled.
Inside the cave, Gwen shrugged. “He is, in all truth—and Catharine’s an em-press.”
“Sure,” Rod agreed. “It just hadn’t hit him before.”
A thunderous cheer split the air.
“I’d wager Yorick hath but now told them that he will rule as viceroy,” Brom said drily.
Rod nodded. “Logical guess.”
There was a pause, and they could hear Yorick’s stage whisper: “A speech might be appropriate, my liege.”
The pause lengthened; then Tuan cried out, “I am thy new ruler!” and Yorick bellowed the translation.
The crowd cheered again.
“Now they know it won’t be a real conquest,” Rod murmured.
Tuan went on, with frequent pauses for translation. “I am thy new ruler and will never forsake thee. Yet, since I cannot abide here with thee, I give to you a viceroy to rule in my stead. Thou hast called thyselves the People of the Ko-bold… and did worship a goblin… calling it thy god. This god was false… and the mark of it was… that it demanded thy worship, which should go to the One True Unseen God only. I shall not demand such worship… only fealty and loy-alty. An thou wilt be loyal to me and my viceroy, I shall be true to thee.”
“He does it well, don’t you think?” Rod said softly.
Brom and Gwen nodded. “He ever hath,” said the dwarf. “Yet wilt thou, I wonder?”
Rod frowned. “What do you mean? I don’t have to do any speechifying!”
“Nay,” Brom agreed, “but thou’lt now have to be the mainstay of two na-tions, the power behind two thrones.”
“Oh.” Rod’s mouth tightened. “Yeah, I know what you mean. But honestly, Brom, I don’t know if I can handle all that.”
“Aye,” Gwen sympathized. “The two lands are more than thirty leagues apart!”
“I know,” Rod said heavily. “And I can’t be in two places at the same time, can I?”
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