Christopher Stasheff - King Kobold Revived

“I would so conjecture.” But Tuan still watched Toby. “Art thou certain there was no hint of treachery in his manner, nor in his thoughts?”

The young warlock shook his head firmly. “Nay, my liege—and I did probe. There might be summat hid in the fast-nesses of his heart… but if there is, ‘tis beyond my comprehension.”

“Mayhap there is,” Tuan said frowning, “but when there’s no sign, we would be fools to turn away their aid.”

“Still,” Rod pointed out, “we could try to be ready for a last-minute change of heart.”

“We must be so, indeed,” Tuan agreed. “Let us count the beastmen loyal only when the battle’s won.”

“Which will not be easy.” Rod stood, frowning down. “We’ll be on the beastmen’s home territory this time. They won’t need lightning to bring them their extra power; they’ll have it right there at hand.‘’

“Indeed, ‘twill be a most fell battle,” Tuan agreed. “Art thou certain of this ancient wizard’s aid?”

Rod started to answer, then hesitated.

“So I feared,” Tuan said grimly.

Rod nodded unhappily. “But if he jumped in to save his ‘son’ once, he’s almost certain to do it again.”

“Well, one can but pick the strongest ground and do one’s best,” Tuan sighed. “For, after all, no outcome’s certain in battle, commerce, love, or life. Godspeed ye, my commanders—and may we all meet again, when tomorrow’s sun hath dawned.”

The Neanderthal village breathed uneasily in its slumber, bathed by the moon. The sentries on cliff-top and in small boats were bone-weary but not at all sleepy, for Mughorck had filled them with fear of the wild-eyed, ferocious Flatfaces who were so powerful as to be able to throw off the effects of the Evil Eye. What other powers did they have? How soon would they descend upon the hapless people, filled with vengeful blood-lust?

But, countering these tales, was the rumor that filtered throughout the village now—that the Flatfaces’ anger was blunted; that Yorick had pled with them and brought them to see that this madness of raiding and invasion was only Mughorck’s doing, and that when the Flatfaces came they would be satisfied with only Mughorck, and his lieutenants. And, of course, the Kobold…

The sentries shuddered. What race of wizards was this, who could dare to strive against a god?

Thus their thoughts ran through the hours while the moon slowly drifted down toward the horizon, then slipped below it—and the land lay shadowed, its darkness lightened only by the stars. The sentries, weary to begin with, began to grow sleepy. The night was almost past; the Flatfaces had not come. For a few more hours, they were safe…

Then they started, staring. What were those dark shapes that scuttled over the water toward the beach, so many as to seem like a field of darkened stars? In disbelief, the sentries squeezed their eyes shut, shook their heads—but when they looked again the squat, dark shapes still drove toward the beach. Surely these could not be the Flatfaces, flooding in so silently…

But the dark shapes plowed up the beach, grinding to a halt, and scores of smaller shadows dropped off their sides. Nightmare though it seemed, this was no dream! The sentries clapped horns and conch shells to their lips, and blew the alarm!

Neanderthals tumbled out of their huts, pulling on helmets, hefting war axes, groggy but waking fast, calling to one another in alarm.

The Gramarye soldiers formed their line and marched toward the village.

The High Warlock rode back and forth behind the lines, cautioning, “No shouting yet! Remember, silence! The more noise they make, the more eerie we’ll seem.”

But the beastmen pulled a ragged line together and stumbled toward the Gramarye soldiers with querulous, ragged war cries.

“Now!” Rod bellowed, and the soldiers charged with a hundred-throated ear-splitting shriek.

The lines crashed together, and the long pikes did their murder. Axes chopped through their shafts, but the beastmen died. Then, here and there, a beastman began to catch a soldier’s eyes, and the Gramarye line slowed as its members began to freeze.

In the flagship’s cabin, the witches and warlocks sat in a circle, hands joined, staring at the ceiling.

The Gramarye line gained speed again as the numbing darkness lifted from the soldiers’ minds.

Frantically, the beastmen reached for the power of the Kobold.

A second wave of Gramarye soldiers charged up the beach, and new pikes poked through the line. The first wave retreated, minds dizzy from the Evil Eye.

“We are come, Lord Warlock,” Tuan called, as he reined in his steed next to Fess. “Do as thou must; Sir Maris and I will care for our men.”

“All thanks, my liege!” Rod called back. He ducked down, lying flat on Fess’s back. “Now, Steel Steed! Head for the low scrub!”

The robot-horse leaped into a gallop, heading for the brush and low trees at the edge of the beach. “Rod, this subterfuge is scarcely needed! My thoughts were not even growing fuzzy yet!”

“For once, I’m not worried about you having a seizure in the middle of a battle.”

“Then, why this retreat?” Fess slowed and halted behind a screen of brush.

“Just wait. Trust me.” Rod parted the bushes and peeked out toward the beach. The battle was raging nicely, he noticed. But that wasn’t his prime concern. He scanned the beach—more especially, the brush. It was very dark, so of course he couldn’t be sure. The Gramarye soldiers had lighted torches to see their enemy by, and the light spilled over, dimly illuminating the edges of the beach; he thought he could just barely make out some dim, amorphous mass, bulging very slowly, and growing larger—but he couldn’t be sure.

The second wave of soldiers had carried the charge almost into the Neanderthal camp before sheer reflex had made individual beastmen begin seeking out the eyes of single opponents. Power flowed into the beastmen; their eyes burned more brightly. The Gramarye line slowed to a grinding halt.

In the flagship’s cabin, Agatha and Gwen squeezed the hands of the witches to each side of them and shut their eyes, bowing their heads.

Pikes, spears, and swords began to move again, slowly, gathering force to block the beastmen’s swings.

The beastmen chopped hysterically in the desperation born of superstitious fear—but wildly, too, dropping their guards. The pikes drove in, and blood flowed out.

Coming down the gangplank, Brother Chillde tripped, stumbled, and fell, sprawling on the sand with a howl of dismay.

Puck chuckled, tossed aside the stick he’d jabbed between the monk’s feet, and scurried to his side, moving his hands in arcane, symbolic gestures, and chanting under his breath,

“Chronicler, whose zeal doth blind thee To the truth’t‘which sight should bind thee, Be thou bound in falsehood’s prison! For an hour, lose thy vision!”

“What… what doth hap?” Brother Chillde cried, pushing himself up out of the sand. He glanced about him, then squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and opened them again. “What! Is the night become so dark? Is there no light at all?” Then his face twisted into a mask of terror as the truth hit him. “I am blinded! Heaven forgive me—my sight is lost!”

“Here, now, fellow,” Puck growled in a deep and throaty voice as he strode up to Brother Chillde, “what ails thee? Eh, thou’rt o’ the cloth!”

“Oh, kind sir!” Brother Chillde flailed about him, caught Puck’s shoulder, and grasped it. “Have pity on me, for I’m struck blind!”

“What sins are these,” Puck rumbled, “that must needs meet such desperate punishment?”

“I cannot say.” Brother Chillde bowed his head. “Pride, mayhap—that I should dare to scribble down all that did hap within this war…” His head snapped up, sightless eyes staring. “The battle! Oh, stranger, take pity! I have labored all these months to record in writing each separate event of this war! I cannot miss the knowledge of the final battle! Pray, have mercy! Stay, and speak what thou dost see! Tell me the course of the day!”