King Kobold revived-Warlock-2.5 (24 page)

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.
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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 specks 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…

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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.”

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“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?”

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“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.”

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“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.

“I did not say he had not been born,” Agatha hedged. She stared at the bouncing fruit, her gaze sharpening. “Yet I ha’ ne’er been able to see my son aforetimes.”

“Then, how come Magnus can?” Rod frowned.

“Why, ‘tis plainly seen! Thy son is clearly gifted with more magical powers than am I myself!”

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Rod locked gazes with Gwen. Agatha was the most powerful old witch in Gramarye. He turned back to Agatha. “Okay, so Magnus is one heck of a telepath. But he can’t see a body if there’s none there to see.”

“My son ha’ told me that he did have a body aforetime,” Agatha said slowly. “ ‘Twould seem that he doth send outward from himself his memory of his body’s appearance.”

“A projective telepath,” Rod said slowly. “Not a very strong one, maybe, but a projective. Also apparently a telekinetic. But I thought that was a sex-linked trait…”

Agatha shrugged. “Who can tell what the spirit may do when it’s far from its body?”

“Yes—his body,” Rod said softly, eyes locked on the point where the fruit bounced back toward Magnus. “Just where is this body he remembers?”