King Kobold revived-Warlock-2.5 (5 page)

“That is a distinct possibility. Maybe if I go to the western coast and shout, ‘Cogito, ergo sum,’ they’ll all disappear.”

“Is that a mighty spell?”

“No, just wishful thinking; I’m putting Descartes before the horse.” There was a short, nasty buzzing in Rod’s ear; Fess didn’t think much of his sense of humor. “Seriously, though, Your Majesty, that
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shouldn’t be a problem. Anything alive and moving under its own power has some sort of neurological activity. I’ve got one young witch who can read an earthworm’s thoughts, and they don’t even have any.”

“But can they hear thoughts far enough away to give us time to set our battle line where they mean to land?”

“Don’t worry about that one, either. I had another young lady listen to the thoughts of one of the dino…

uh, ‘terrible lizard’ giants over on the mainland, once. She wasn’t herself again for three days…”

“Then thou hast thy sentry-force made.”

Rod frowned. “Yeah, but I just had another nasty thought. How come none of the witches ever heard beastman thoughts before?”

That stopped Tuan, too. He frowned and thought it over for a few seconds. Then he looked up with a bright smile. “Mayhap because they were not there?”

Rod sat still for a moment. Then he sighed and shrugged. “Why not? On Gramarye, anyway.” There was a local variety of fungus that was very sensitive. Not that its feelings could be hurt or anything; but if a projective telepath thought at it hard enough, it would turn into whatever the projective was think-ing about. Yes, it was very possible that the beastmen hadn’t been there before. All it would take was an old granny, one who didn’t know her own strength, telling horror stories to amuse the children…

He didn’t think he wanted to meet that granny. “Say, uh, Your Majesty… what happens when our sentries do find them?”

“Why, then we ride against them with steel and fire,” Tuan said grimly.

“Yes, but—Gramarye is a moderately big island. What if they strike some-place where our army isn’t?”

“As they have indeed done.” Tuan nodded. “Well, I have commanded each of the seacoast lords to muster a force of worthy size, and keep it ever ready. E’en so, the best of barons’ forces can only hold them till my armies come; if it can do more, I have more than beastmen to worry me.”

It was a good point; a baron who could defeat a party of raiders was bound to think of taking on the royal army. “But it could take a while for your army to get there—say, a few days.”

“Indeed.” Tuan turned to him, frowning. “Canst thou not discover a spell to move mine army to the battlefield ere the beastmen come to it, High Warlock?”

“ ‘Fraid that’s beyond even my powers.” Rod had a brief, dizzying vision of Tuan’s knights and men-at-arms clustered onto huge antigravity plates, skim-ming over the countryside; but he manfully thrust it from him, remembering that technology comes in whole chunks, not just bits and pieces. If he taught them how to make antigrav plates, they’d figure out very quickly how to make auto-matic cannon and television chains—and how much chance would democracy have in a land whose king had the technology for totalitarianism, and whose people still thought loyalty was the supreme virtue?

Right—about as much as a camel in a glacier. “But you don’t need magic to do it—just a complete force of horsemen.”

“Why, how is that?” Tuan looked worried; to him, “horseman” meant “knight.”

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“Well, I know it sounds like heresy—but you don’t have to have just the cap-tains mounted. Common soldiers can learn to ride too.”

Tuan stared, scandalized.

“Not on full-scale war-horses, of course,” Rod said quickly. “The rankers can ride ponies. They can go just as fast as the destriers on the long haul, where they keep it down to a canter, if they don’t wear much armor. And you can keep the whole force right there, in Runnymede, since it’s pretty close to being the center of the island. Then, when my witch-sentries send word, you can just yell, ‘Horse and hattock! Ho, and away!’ and they can be mounted up and gone in ten min-utes. Then, if you keep alternating canter and trot and give each soldier a spare mount, they can be anywhere within Gramarye in two days.”

“And the beastmen could land within one.” Tuan scowled, chewing at his lip. “E’en so, the idea has merit. A thousand men would suffice; certes these beast-men will not bring more. Then I could keep five such forces, placed so that any one of them could be at the seacoast in either of two provinces in less than a day.” He turned a beaming smile on Rod. “I’ truth, ’twill succeed! And if the footmen must ride, what of it? When they come to the field, they can dismount and fight as they always have!”

And, Rod realized with a sinking heart, the King would have discovered an excellent means of enforcing his will on the barons, whether they liked him or not. But what else could he do? Let bogeymen gobble up the taxpayers? “I think it’ll work, Your Majesty.”

“But a name! It must have a name!” Tuan’s eyes glowed with excitement. “They will fight better, these soldiers, if their force doth bear a name that may ring down the ages!”

Tuan was good at that—these little bits of nonsense that ultimately made a great deal of difference: honor, chivalry, things like that. Men fought harder for these intangibles than for cold cash, frequently. If Tuan said his men would fight harder if their regiment had a famous name, Rod wasn’t going to argue.

“How about the Flying Legion?”

“Will this truly be an army, my lord?” Gwen stood beside him on the hillside, looking out over the little valley that had sprouted tents and horses.

“Only the vanguard,” Rod assured her. “Tuan’s still got his standing army of five thousand—and most of them are standing because they don’t know how to ride. Here we’re gathering a thousand good riders from all over the island, ones who already have some experience in war. Tuan’s going to recruit another five thousand pedestrians for the main force, though.”

Far below, a lieutenant shouted, and his squadron leaped into a gallop, charg-ing down on another hapless unit with wicker swords.

Gwen watched and shuddered. “They are not terribly deft, my lord.”

“I said they were experienced, not talented.” Rod turned away and strolled along the flank of the hill, holding her hand. “Give ‘em a little training and prac-tice, though, and you’ll never see a better troop of cavalry—I hope. Who’s this?” He stopped, scowling at a brown-robed figure with a neat round bald spot who sat cross-legged about fifty yards ahead of them, a huge book open in his lap. He had an inkhorn in his left hand, and a quill in his right.

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“A good friar, it would seem,” Gwen answered. “Why art thou concerned, mine husband?”

“Because I don’t remember ordering any.” Rod strode up to the monk. “Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning to thee, goodman.” The priest turned a sunny, beaming countenance up to Rod. Then his jaw dropped and he scrambled to his feet. “Why, ‘tis the High Warlock!”

“Careful, there; don’t spill your ink.” Rod reached out a hand to steady the inkhorn. “It’s nice to be recognized, but I’m not worth jumping up for—not unless you’re in uniform, anyway.”

“Nay; I know thee for one of the greatest men ever to walk the soil of Gramarye.” Everything about the monk was round—his stomach, his face, his eyes. “Who else could have rescued Catharine the Queen from the peasant mob who sought her life and the band of barons who sought her throne?”

“Well, her husband did a pretty good job; he was in on that, too, if you re-member. In fact, that battle had a lot to do with his becoming her husband.”

“Yet, not so much as thyself,” the monk chirped.

Rod cleared his throat; the friar was coming unpleasantly close to the truth. Time for a change of subject.

“What’re you doing here, Father?”

“Oh!” The monk looked down at his book. “Only amusing an idle moment, Lord Warlock. A wise man will ever be doing; so, when there is naught else afoot, I fill the time with the writing of a chronicle of the events that occur whiles I live.”

“A Chronicle? Hey! History in the making!” Rod couldn’t resist. “Am I in it?”

“Indeed, Lord Warlock! What Historie of Gramarye could be complete with-out full accounting of thee?”

“I had rather account for him at home,” Gwen said dourly, coming up beside Rod. “Yet I do not think thou didst quite catch mine husband’s meaning, good Father.”

“Yeah? Oh! Yeah!” Rod looked up, and cleared his throat. “That’s right, Fa-ther. When I said,

‘What’re you doing here?’ I meant, here with the army, not just at this particular moment. What’s your business?”

“Why, the saving of souls,” answered the priest in round-eyed innocence. “Our good Abbot hath appointed me chaplain to the King’s Foot—but His Maj-esty did say to me that he had a surfeit of chaplains, and sent me to thee.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Rod could see Tuan doing it, too. The young King loved all his subjects, but the average medieval monk tended to be continually exhort-ing, which could try even Tuan’s patience. “I can see I’ll have to have a word with His Majesty. Well, at least he sent me an amateur historian.”

“Milord!” A squire came galloping up and reined in near Rod. “Lord O’Berin’s greetings, milord. He doth send to tell thee the folk from Loguire have come!”

“Oh, really!” Rod grabbed the priest’s hand and gave it a quick shake, quill-pen and all. “Well, it was a real pleasure to meet you, Father, but I’ve gotta run now… Uh, what was your name again?”

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“Brother Chillde, I am called. But do not stay to speak with a foolish friar, Lord Warlock, when matters of state await thee.”

“Well, military matters, really. Gwen, come listen.” He caught her hand as he turned away, pacing down the hill. “These’re a few of the survivors from the beastman attack.”

“Ah! I will listen, and gladly.” A frown puckered Gwen’s brow. “I misdoubt me that there may have been something of magic about these beastmen.”

“If there is, and they mention it, you’ll find it.” As they paced over the valley floor, Rod remembered his son. “Where’s Magnus?”

Gwen’s eyes flashed, and her chin came up. “Rather, ask why I have come here.”

“I did wonder, but not too much—I was just glad to have you. Why? What did Brom do?”

“He came to our home and told me that I could no longer sit idly by, playing at housewifery. As though

‘twere play!”

Rod winced, remembering how the dust flew at home—he couldn’t even be a little messy anymore—and the rotten (for her) mood Gwen was in by the end of each day. “Well, he can say that—he’s got a troop of elves to keep his quarters tidy. But he is right, dear—we need your talents in the field just now. The cave’ll have to gather dust.”

Gwen shuddered. “Well, mayhap; ‘tis after all folks’ lives we speak of, and we will not be home for some time, I think. Magnus, however, cannot wait; I must needs spend at least the half of my waking time with him, unless ’tis a day of battle.”

“Yeah, I know.” Rod winced at a twinge of conscience. “But where is the boy?”

“Brom found a half-dozen elfin beldams to watch over him. I took him to their grotto, and I could see they knew something of children, so I left him with them.”

“Not altogether willingly, I gather.”

“Oh, I will never feel easy with my babe out of my sight!” Gwen cried. “Yet it must be, and I know I am foolish to worry.”

“Yes, you probably are.” Rod squeezed her hand. “I’m sure any nursemaids Brom finds for you will be very capable.” Gwen couldn’t know just how sure—Brom had made Rod swear never to tell her that Brom was her father. He felt a little shy about it, being a dwarf. But he did care for Magnus like one of his own—which the child was, of course. No, any baby-sitter Brom picked would be extremely reliable.

“Even if they are elves.”

“Especially if they are elves.” Gwen skewered him with a glance. “Who else could keep thy son bound, Warlock?”

“Only another warlock, or witch.” Rod grinned into her glare. “Witch.”

“Well, that is true.” Her gaze softened. “Though the most of them are too young; and the ones who are
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aged enough are sour old spinsters and hermits, living midst the wild mountains. No, I do trust Brom’s elves.”

“After all, who else would he get?” Rod spread his hands. “He is the King of the Elves, after all.”

“Aye.” Gwen smiled, amused. “If Their Majesties only knew their Privy Councillor’s true nature—and office!”

“They’d kick him out of the household and try to sign a treaty with him. No, I think the current setup’s much more efficient.”

“Aye, with Brom ever at Tuan’s elbow.”

“And Magnus with the elves, and you with me.” Rod sighed. “My son, the changeling! Besides, you can keep checking on him, can’t you?”

“Oh, I do at all odd moments, I assure you!” Gwen stopped and stood stock-still, her eyes losing focus. Then she relaxed and began walking again, with a nod. “Aye, he is well.”

“Helps to be a mind reader, doesn’t it?” Rod grinned. “Which is, of course, one of the reasons why I like having you along on this trip.” He stopped at Brom’s tent, nodded to the sentries, and lifted the tent flap. “After you, dear.”

Inside, two servants stood near a long table, holding trays laden with food. A handful of peasants sat at the board, chewing huge mouthfuls and washing them down with ale. A dusty man sat at one end of the table, eating with equal gusto but in smaller bites—a knight out of armor, to judge by his clothes. At the other end of the table sat a man less than three feet high, with shoulders almost as wide as he was tall, arms and legs thicker with muscle than Rod’s, and a huge head with shaggy black hair and beard. His head snapped up as Rod entered; then he leaped down and strode over to the witch-pair, booming,