Christopher Stasheff - King Kobold Revived

“Me too, and it was a thoroughly nasty business. Still, we can’t exactly send out an emissary and ask the beastmen to come back on a clear day, can we? But we might manage a different kind of surprise for them. If you pull your men way back, Sir Styenkov, and mine hide behind those rocks, over there”—he gestured toward an outcrop over to his left—“and behind that shrubbery”—he pointed to a line of trees on the right, that grew down almost to the water’s edge.

Sir Styenkov’s eyes lighted. “Then the beastmen will charge up to hack at my men, and yours may close upon them, like to the jaws of a vise!”

“Before they get to your men,” Rod added. “Though, of course, when they see this beach with good cover at each side, they might smell a trap and decide to go look for easier game.”

“I would not object to that…”

A gust of wind fanned Rod’s cheek, and Toby said, “There is only the one of them, Lord Warlock.”

Sir Styenkov nearly swallowed his beard.

“He has to fly out there because he doesn’t know where he’s going,” Rod explained. “But when he wants to come back he knows where it is, so he can teleport. It’s faster that way.” He turned to Toby. “How many men?”

“An hundred on deck. There may be more below—but I think not; their ship is small.”

“It would have been an even fight without us,” Rod observed. “Still, maybe my men can make things move a little faster, save a few lives, things like that.”

“Touching that.” Sir Styenkov scratched his nose. “Shall we take prisoners?”

“Huh?” Rod reflected that Sir Styenkov’s mood had certainly improved. “Take prisoners? Of course!”

Sir Styenkov nodded. “I had thought so. Thou dost need information, and wish to set them talking, dost thou not?”

“Well, that too,” Rod agreed. “But mostly, I want to find out if they can talk. How far off shore were they, Toby?”

“Mayhap half a mile, milord.”

“That sounds like time to get into position.” Rod strode off toward his troops, bawling, “Places, everyone!”

As he came up to the Flying Legion, he noticed the locals pulling back up the beach. Good; Sir Styenkov wasn’t too overconfident. “Sir Lionel! Sir Hampden!”

“Aye, milord,” his lieutenants answered in chorus.

“Sir Lionel, take your hundred over to that outcrop of rocks and hide them. Sir Hampden, take yours over to that line of trees. Charge out to fall upon the enemy when you hear the pipes.”

“Aye, milord!” And the two lieutenants turned away, bawling orders to their sergeants. The sergeants started bellowing before the lieutenants had quite finished, and the beach filled with yells and the tramp of troops. In five minutes, it was clear. Rod turned, grinning, to wave to Sir Styenkov; then he turned and loped across the beach to the rock outcrop.

The beach lay empty, waiting. Tiny drops began to fall, scarcely more than a mist. Sir Styenkov’s soldiers shifted nervously, muttering to one another. Rod heard a few whispers here and there among his own troops. “Hear any thoughts, Toby?”

“Nay, Lord Warlock.” Toby’s eyes were unfocused, watching the landscape of the mind rather than the world around him. “Whoever sent that one prayer, prays no longer.”

“Then, there’s no way of telling how close they are. Can’t be long now, though.”

In the distance, thunder rumbled.

Then it came, gliding out of the mist with muted splashing—a tall, gaunt serpent, mouth wide in a snarl, wicked horns probing from its forehead. Shadowy figures moved on its back.

Rod held his breath.

The dragon drove up onto the beach, slowing to a stop with the grinding of sand against wood. Beastmen began to drop off its back—squat, hulking, helmeted shapes, with round shields covering their torsos and heavy, double-bladed axes in their hands.

Rod squinted, trying to make out details through the rain, but it was no use. He could scarcely see more than a silhouette.

“Let me fight, Lord Warlock,” Toby hissed in his ear.

Rod whirled, pressing a finger to his lips and shaking his head with a furious scowl. Confound the kid, did he want to give away the whole ambush? Rod could’ve sworn his lieutenants could’ve heard that whisper a hundred yards away in the tree line. He wished Toby could read his mind—but he had to settle for a glare and a head-shake. The lad’s juvenile male hormones were getting the better of him, urging him on to glory and an early funeral. Which was his own business—but Rod’s business was making sure Toby’d still be alive afterwards for his main assignment. Which would be more than dangerous enough.

The young man stepped back, smoldering.

Rod turned back to the beach just as the beastmen saw Styenkov’s soldiers. Whatever they yelled to each other was lost in a rumble of thunder, but they quickly scuttled into place, pulling themselves into a rough semblance of a line. Then they began to move forward slowly.

One or two of Styenkov’s soldiers began to march toward the beastmen. He shouted them back into line. Good man. The rest of his men brandished their pikes, waiting for the enemy.

The beastmen were halfway up the beach now. Rod could hear a low rumble as they called to one another. They were beginning to realize something was wrong; their tone was one of alarm, and their advance was grinding down to a halt. What was tipping Rod’s hand? He darted a glance at Styenkov’s soldiers, then looked again. Here and there, a man had straightened up a little, pike drooping—and stood frozen at a completely improbable angle. Rod realized they were the ones who had forgotten the standing order and had looked the enemy square in the eye. Now they were temporary statues, frozen by the Evil Eye.

So it really worked! It wasn’t imagination!

But the rest of Styenkov’s men were watching the enemy’s hands, or feet—and were still very much a menace. The beast-men slowed and stopped—apparently they didn’t have too much taste for an even fight. They hunched in on themselves, heads hunkered down; they seemed to be waiting. For what?

The beastmen began to make bellowing noises in deep rumbling bass voices. Rod suddenly realized that they were calling out in unison. He strained, trying to pick intelligible phonemes out of booming voices. It was getting easier, because they were getting their timing better; it was almost one unified shout now. Rod listened, then shook his head; there was no way of saying what it meant in their own language. To him, though, it sounded like:

“Cobalt! Cobalt! Cobalt!”

… Which was ridiculous; at their level of technology, they couldn’t even have the concept of bombs, let alone atomic fission.

Thunder rocked the land, and the beach lit up with an explosion of lightning. Then there was only gloom again, darker for having had the sudden light. Rod peered through the murk—and stared. Sir Styenkov’s men stood frozen in their buskins!

A ragged cheer rumbled up from the beastmen, and they waddled forward, making a grating sound. With a shock, Rod realized they were laughing.

But they were moving so slowly! Why? Didn’t they want to reach their intended victims?

Then Sir Styenkov’s whole line lurched forward. Then they lurched again, and again—and, step-stumbling-step, they marched toward their butchers!

Something bumped into Rod’s shoulder. He whirled—just in time to catch Toby. The young warlock’s body was rigid, and his eyes had lost focus. Had he been tuned in on a soldier’s mind when the Evil Eye froze him?

Then Rod saw one of Styenkov’s soldiers slow and stop. His head lifted slowly; then he shivered, looked about him wildly, realized what had happened, set his pike on an enemy, and started marching again with grim purpose. Further down the line, another soldier began to waken, too.