King Kobold revived-Warlock-2.5 (9 page)

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 bet-ter.”

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 be-ginning 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 under-stood 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.”

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“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 min-utes. 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 smoke-house.”

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 explosion, and Toby stood before him. “Mi-lord 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.
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“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 dis-appear. 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 bat-tle.”

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 defi-nitely 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.”

The priest’s mouth pressed thin. “ ‘Tis to be lamented. But there will be other work, more’s the pity.”

Rod turned toward him, frowning. “What…? Oh. Yeah—the Last Rites.” He turned back toward the beach. “But it won’t just be our dead down there, Father. How about the beastmen? Think they have souls?”

“Why—I had not thought of it,” the priest said, surprised. “But is there rea-son to think they would not?”

One of the soldiers growled a reply.

The monk shook his head. “Nay, goodman. I ha’ known Christian men to do worse—much worse.”

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“I would, could I but get one of them alone,” another soldier snarled.

“There—do you see?” The priest spread his hands. “Still, souls or none, I misdoubt me an they be Christian.”

“They called upon their false god at the battle’s beginning, did they not?”

“Was that the burden of their chant?” another soldier wondered. “ ‘Go Bald,’ was it not?”

“Something of the sort,” the first growled.

Rod frowned; he’d heard ‘Cobalt,’ himself. Well, each interpreted it according to words he knew. What did it really mean, though? He shrugged; it could be some sort of heathen god, at that.

“They have boarded their ship,” the sentry called. “They are launching… they turn…”

“May I build a fire now?” Father Chillde asked.

Rod shrugged. “Please do, Father—if you can find shelter for it and anything dry enough to burn.” He turned to the young warlock. “Sure you feel up to it, Toby?”

The esper nodded, coming to his feet. He was looking a little better, having rested. “I will start them, at least. When I’ve learned the trick of following a ship without being seen, I’ll call another of our band and teach it to him.”

Rod nodded. “See you soon, then, Toby.”

“Thou shalt, Lord Warlock.” Toby sprang into the air. The soldiers stared af-ter him, gasping, as he soared up and up, then arrowed away over the waves. A few crossed themselves, muttering quick prayers.

“There is no need for that,” Father Chillde said sharply. “He is naught but a man, like to yourselves, though somewhat younger and with a rare gift. But he is not proof ‘gainst arrows or spears; if you would pray, beseech God for his safety.”

Rod stared at the chubby priest, surprised. Then he nodded his head in slow approval.

“He has gone through the clouds,” the sentry reported.

Rod nodded. “Wise, once he’s figured out which way they’re headed. He’ll probably drop down for a quick peek now and then, just to check on them.”

“They have crossed the bar,” the sentry reported. “They stand out to sea.”

Rod sighed and came to his feet, cradling Gwen in his arms. “It’s over, men. Let’s go.”

Below them, on the beach, the village smoldered.

“Nay, my lord. ‘Twas the lightning, I am certain of it!” Gwen spoke calmly, but her chin was a little more
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prominent than usual.

“Lightning!” Queen Catharine cried. She threw her hands in the air. “Why not the thunder, then? Or the wind, or the rain? Lightning, i’ sooth!”

“Nay, Majesty—hear her out.” Tuan touched her arm gently, restraining—but Rod noticed he’d become awfully formal all of a sudden.

“ ‘Majesty,’ indeed!” Catharine stormed, turning on him. “What wouldst thou, mine husband? To blame it on the lightning! Nay, ‘twas these beastmen only—themselves, and no more! They are vile sorcerers, and the spawn of Hell!”

“You may have a point there,” Rod admitted. “We’re not really disagreeing, you see—we’re just getting into the how of their sorcering.”

“Why, by peering into thine eye,” Catharine shrieked, whirling back on him. “Lightning, forsooth! Was it at lightning that thy soldiers stared?”

“Nay, certes,” Gwen said wearily. “ ‘Tis true, when they stared at the beast-men’s eyes, then could the beastmen cast their spell. And ’tis a foul spell!” She shuddered. “I had some taste of it when I sought to lift it. ‘Tis a vile thing that doth fascinate with ugliness!”

“ ‘Fascinate’ is the term,” Rod agreed. “They focused all the soldiers’ atten-tion on one single point—the beastmen’s pupils. Then…”

“Then they could spare no attention for fighting?” Tuan nodded heavily. “Vile, indeed, that will not even allow a soldier the chance of defense.”

Catharine rounded on Gwen. “Hast thou never encountered a spell like to this before?”

“There are tales of it,” Gwen said slowly, “of the Evil Eye. I, though, have never found it in life.”

“I have,” Rod said slowly, “though it was a milder version.”

Tuan frowned. “When?”

“In prefligh… uh, in apprenticeship,” Rod hedged, “when I was being trained in the, uh”—he took a deep breath and gave up on honesty—“in the wizardry I use. This particular form of magic was called

‘hypnotism,’ but it looked a lot like this Evil Eye. It came to the same thing in the long run; it’s just that they had to do it much more slowly.”

“Aye, therein is it most phenomenal.” Tuan frowned. “How can they fasci-nate so quickly?”

“Therein I have some experience,” Gwen said slowly. “ ‘Tis a matter of throwing one’s thoughts into another’s mind.”

Fess’s voice murmured in Rod’s ear, “Your wife is describing projective te-lepathy, Rod.”

“Scientific terminology is wonderful,” Rod growled. “It lets skeptics believe in magic. In fact, it transforms them into instant authorities.”

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Catharine turned on him, glowering. “Of whom dost thou speak, sirrah?”

Not you, Rod thought, remembering the rumors that the Queen had a touch of ‘witch-power’ herself. Aloud, he said, “To whom is more the point—and the problem is that the beastmen do it to whomever they want. I think we’ve got a pretty good idea of how they do it now—but how do we fight back?”

“Why, as we did.” Gwen looked up in surprise.

Rod frowned down at her. “ ‘We’?” He felt a chill trickle down his back.

“Toby and I,” Gwen explained. “What we did was even as thou didst say, mine husband—we cast our thoughts into the soldiers’ minds and made them see what the glowing point at which they stared was in truth—naught but a pair of tiny eyes. We made them see again the face around the eyes, and the body

‘neath the face.”

“Yeah,” Rod said with a curt nod. “Then they stepped up the strength of their Evil Eye and knocked you both out.”

But Gwen shook her head. “Not ‘they,’ milord. ‘Twas the lightning.”

Catharine threw up her hands in despair and whirled away.

“Lightning or not, they did knock you out,” Rod growled, “and you’ll pardon me, but I didn’t like the look of it.”

Gwen spread her hands. “What wouldst thou, my lord? There were but Toby and myself—and we acted at the same moment, but not in concert.”

“Huh?” Rod’s scowl deepened. “ ‘Not in concert’? What did you want—a drum-and-bugle corps?”

“Nay, my lord.” Gwen visibly fought for patience. “We could not join our powers—and there were too many soldiers for poor two of us. We did attempt to cast our thoughts into all their minds—but we did it side by side, not by blend-ing both our powers into one.”

“I take it you think it’s possible to merge your powers,” Rod said softly.

“Mayhap.” Gwen frowned, gaze drifting to the window. “When two who can hear thoughts do touch, there is ever some greater sense of contact—threat, I should say; for I’ve never known two who have risked reaching out through touch to thoughts.”

The door shot open, and Brom O’Berin stumped in, followed by two men-at-arms, each with a shoulder under one of Toby’s arms. The young warlock limped between them, panting, “Nay! I… I can bear mine own…”

“Thou canst scarcely bear thine head upon thy shoulders, now,” Brom growled. “Indeed, an thou wert a crab tree, thou couldst not bear an apple. There,” he said to the two men-at-arms, nodding toward a chair. They lowered the young warlock carefully, and he sagged back, mouth gaping open, eyes closed, panting in huge hoarse gasps.

“What ails him?” Gwen cried.

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“Naught but exhaustion.” Brom’s mouth held tight. “Were his news not vital, I would have sent him to his bed.”

“Young idiot! I told him to call for a relief!” Rod strode over to the teenager and caught up a wrist, feeling for the pulse. “Didn’t you bring any wine?”