Christopher Stasheff - King Kobold Revived

Brom froze.

In the witches’ cabin, the air seemed to thicken next to Agatha, like a heat haze. It began to glow.

A young witch slumped unconscious to the ground. A fourteen-year-old warlock followed her into a blackout, then a fifteen-year-old. A few moments later, a seventeen-year-old witch joined them, then a young warlock in his twenties.

One by one, the young psis dropped, to sprawl unconscious.

Agatha and Gwen caught each other’s free hands, bowing their heads, every muscle in their bodies rigid, hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles whitened.

Then Gwen began to sway, only a centimeter or so at first, then wider and wider till suddenly her whole body went limp and she fell.

Agatha dropped Gwen’s hands, clenched her fists; her face tightened into a granite mask and a trickle of blood ran down from the corner of her mouth.

Above her, the heat haze brightened from red to yellow. Then the yellow grew brighter and brighter.

A blast shook the tent, a hollow booming, and Galen knelt there before Agatha. He clutched her fists, and his shoulders heaved up, hunching under some huge, unseen weight. He bowed his head, eyes squeezing shut, his whole face screwing up in agony.

The heat haze’s yellow dimmed, became orange.

On the beach, the soldiers began to move again, slowly at first, then faster and faster, stepping aside from ax-blows, returning pike-stabs.

The beastmen howled in fear and fought in panic.

But the High Cave lay silent, like some fantastic Hall of Horrors in a wax museum. An occasional whine or grunt escaped the Neanderthals frozen body-to-body in combat, straining each against the other—Kobold’s men to Eagle’s partisans, Mughorck locked with Yorick.

Rod and Brom stood frozen, the Kobold’s glittering, malevolent eyes fixed on them, holding its frozen prey in a living death.

There was agony in Rod’s eyes. A drop of sweat ran down from his hairline.

Silence stretched out in the glimmering, ghostly elf-light.

On the beach, the soldiers slowly ground to stasis again, their muscles locking to stone.

The Neanderthals roared and swung their axes like scythes, mowing through the Gramarye ranks, their victory song soaring high.

In the cabin, Galen bent low, the black weight pressing down, squeezing, kneading at his brain. The other soul was still there with him, fighting valiantly, heaving with him against the dark cloud.

And the High Cave lay silent.

A crowing laugh split the air, and a wriggling infant appeared on Rod’s shoulders, straddling his neck, chubby hands clenched in his hair, drumming his collarbone with small heels. “Horsey! Gi’y‘up! Da’y, gi’y’up!”

The Kobold’s gaze focused on the baby boy.

Magnus looked up, startled, and stared at the creature for a moment, then darted a glance at his frozen father. Terror started to show around the edges of the boy’s expression; but hot, indignant anger darkened his face faster. He clutched his father’s temples and glared back at the monster .

Rod shuddered, his neck whiplashing as the dark mantle wrenched free of his mind.

He tore his eyes from the Kobold’s, saw Mughorck and Yorick locked straining in the embrace of hatred.

Rod leaped forward, ducking and dodging through the paired immobile Neanderthals, and sprang. His stiffened hand lashed out in a chop at the back of Mughorck’s neck. The skinny tyrant stiffened, mouth gaping open, and slumped in Yorick’s arms.

Yorick dropped the contorted body and lunged at the black box, slapping a switch.

Slowly, the Kobold’s eyes dulled.

Galen’s body snapped upward and back.

His hands still held Agatha’s.

For a moment, minds blended completely, point for point, id, ego, and conscience, both souls thrown wide open as the burden they had strained against disappeared—open and vulnerable to the core. For one lasting, soul-searing moment, they knelt, staring deeply into each other’s eyes.

Then the moment passed. Galen scrambled to his feet, still staring at Agatha, but his eyes mirrored panic.

She gazed up at him, lips slowly curving, gently parting, eyelids drooping.

He stared, appalled. Then thunder cracked, and he was gone.

She gazed at the space he’d filled with a lazy, confident smile.

Then a shout of joy and triumph exploded through her mind. Her gaze darted upward to behold the heat haze one last time before it vanished.

On the beach, the Gramarye soldiers jerked convulsively and came completely to life, saw the carnage around them, the mangled remains of friends, brothers, and leaders, and screamed bloody slaughter.

But a howl pierced the air, freezing even the soldiers. They stared as a beastman in the front line threw down his ax and shield and sank to his knees, wailing and gibbering to his mates. They began to moan, rocking from side to side. Then, with a crash like an armory falling, axes and shields cascaded down, piling up in waist-high windrows.

Then the beastmen sank to their knees, hands upraised, open, and empty.

Some of the soldiers snarled and hefted their pikes; but Tuan barked an order, and knights echoed it; then sergeants roared it. Reluctantly, the soldiers lowered their weapons.

“What hath happed?” Sir Maris demanded.

“I can only think ‘tis some event within their minds,” Tuan answered in a low voice, “mayhap to do with that fell weight being lifted from ours.”

“But why have they not fought to the death?”

“For that, haply we may thank Master Yorick’s rumormongering.” Tuan squared his shoulders. “Yet, when we bade him spread that word, we did effectively make compact with him, and with all his nation. Bid the men gather up the weapons, Sir Maris—but be certain they do not touch a hair of any beastman’s head!” He turned his horse away.

“Why, so I shall,” the old knight growled reluctantly. “But whither goest thou, my liege?”

“To the High Cave,” Tuan said grimly, “for I misdoubt me as to what occurreth there.”

Fess’s hooves lifted, slamming down at the back of a Neanderthal’s head. The beastman slumped.

Rod caught two beastmen by the neck, yanked them apart, and smashed their heads back together. He turned away, letting them drop, and saw a pair of rocks flying through the air to brain two beastmen “Tag!” cried Magnus; and, as the Neanderthals fell, he gurgled, “Fun game!”

Rod repressed a shudder, and turned just in time to see Brom heave at a beastman’s ankles. The Neanderthal fell like a poleaxed steer, and Brom sapped him with the hilt of his knife.

But beastmen came in mismatched pairs here, and Brom had guessed wrongly. The other half roared and lunged at him.

The dwarf grabbed an arm and pulled sharply. The beast-man doubled over, his head slamming against the rock floor.

“Nice work,” Rod called approvingly. “That’s why I’ve been knocking out both halves of each couple. We can winnow out the friends from the foes later.”

Yorick finished trussing up Mughorck like a pot roast, and turned to join the battle; but just as he did, Fess nailed the last beastman. “Aw-w-w! I always miss the fun!”

Rod looked around the huge cave and saw that there was nothing left standing except himself, Brom, Fess, Yorick, and Magnus. Though Magnus wasn’t really standing, actually; he was floating over an unconscious beastman, lisping, “S’eepy?”

“Hey, we did it!” Yorick strode around Mughorck’s inert form with his hand outstretched—but he kept on rounding, circling further and further toward the mouth of the cave as he came toward Rod. Rod suddenly realized Yorick was pulling Rod’s gaze away from the back of the cave. He spun around just in time to see the black doorway behind the monster glow to life, a seven-by-three-foot rectangle. Its light showed him a short twisted man. From the neck down, he looked like a caricature of Richard III—an amazingly scrawny body with a hunched back, shriveled arm, shortened leg—and so slender as to seem almost frail.