Christopher Stasheff - King Kobold Revived

“Which may be just as well,” Yorick pointed out. “We might conjecture about what it would do if it had a mind of its own…”

Rod shuddered, but growled, “It couldn’t do much. Not with those atrophied limbs. All it can do is just sit there.” He swallowed hard and turned away, looking slightly green. “That forehead… how can you just sit there and look at it?”

“Oh, it’s a fascinating study, from a scientific viewpoint,” Yorick answered, “a real triumph, a great philosophic statement of mind over matter, an enduring monument to man’s ingenuity.” He turned back to Rod. “Put the poor thing out of its misery!”

“Yes,” Rod agreed, turning away, slightly bent over. “Somebody stick a knife in the poor bastardization!”

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

Rod frowned, lifted his head. “Didn’t anybody hear me? I said, kill it!”

He sought out Tuan’s eyes. The young King looked away.

Rod bowed his head, biting his lip.

He spun, looking at Yorick.

The Neanderthal looked up at the ceiling, whistling softly.

Rod snarled and bounded up to the dais, dagger in his hand, swinging up fast in an underhand stab.

His arm froze as he looked into the dulled eyes, looked slowly up and down the naked, hairless thing, so obscene, yet so…

He turned away, throwing down his knife, growling low in his throat.

Yorick met his eyes, nodding sympathetically. “It’s such a poor, pitiful thing when the power’s turned off, milord—so weak and defenseless. And men have done it so much dirt already…”

“Dogs!” roared Brom, glaring about at them. “Stoats and weasels! Art thou all so unmanned as to let this thing live?”

He whirled about where he stood on the dais, glowering at the silent throng before him. He snorted, turned about, glaring at them all.

“Aye,” he rumbled, “I see it is even as I have said. There is too much of pity within thee; thou canst not steel thyselves to the doing of it; for there is not enough pity in thee to force thee to this cruel kindness.”

He turned, measuring the Kobold up and down. “Yet must it be done; for this is a fell thing, a foul thing out of nightmare, and therefore must it die. And will no man do it this courtesy ?”

No one moved.

Brom looked long and carefully, but found only shame in each glance.

He smiled sourly and shrugged his massive shoulders. “This is my portion, then.”

And, before anyone quite realized what he was doing, the dwarf drew his sword and leaped, plunging his blade up to the hilt in the Kobold’s chest, into its heart.

The monster stiffened, its mouth wrenching open, face contorting in one silent, simian scream; then it slumped where it sat, dead.

The others stared, horrified.

Brom sheathed his sword, touched his forelock in respect where he stood on the arm of the Kobold’s stone chair. “Good lasting sleep, Sir Kobold.”

“ ‘Twas an ill deed,” said Tuan. “It could not defend itself.” But he seemed uncertain.

“Aye, but soulless it was, also,” Brom reminded. “Forget that not, Majesty. Is it dishonor to slaughter a hog? Or to stick a wild boar? Nay, surely not! But this thing ha’ wrought death and was now defenseless; and therefore no man would touch it.”

The cavern was still; the company stood awed by the event.

Yorick broke the silence. “Well, then, my people’s god is dead. Who shall rule them in his stead?”

Tuan looked up, startled. “Why, the Eagle! Say to him that I would fain parley with him that we may draw a treaty.”

But Yorick shook his head. “The Eagle’s gone.”

“Gone?” Tuan said blankly.

“Thoroughly,” Rod confirmed. “I saw him disappear myself.”

“But… why,” Tuan cried, “when his people were his again?”

“Because they don’t need him any more,” Yorick said practically.

“But… then… wherefore did he remain when he’d been overthrown?”

“To make sure they were freed from Mughorck,” Yorick explained. “After all, he’s the one who really masterminded my end of the invasion, you know.”

“Nay, I did not. Who now shall rule thee?”

Yorick spread his hands. “To the victor go the spoils.” He dropped to one knee. “Hail, my liege and sovereign!”

Tuan stared down at him, horrified.

“Thou canst not well deny him,” Brom said, sotto voce .

“Thus hath it ever been—that the victor governed the vanquished.”

And that, of course, settled it. In a medieval culture, tradition ruled.

“Well, then, I must,” Tuan said, with ill grace—but Rod noticed he stood a little straighter. “Yet how is this to be? I’ve a kingdom already, across the wide sea!”

“Oh, I could run the place for you, I suppose,” Yorick said, carefully casual, “as long as you’re willing to take the final responsibility.”

“That I can accept,” Tuan said slowly, “an ‘tis understood that thou wilt govern in my stead.”

“Glad to, I assure you! For the first year or so, anyway. But don’t worry about what happens after that; I’ve got a very likely-looking lieutenant who should fit the bill perfectly. He’s even learning English…”

The prisoners were assembled beneath the High Cave, all four thousand of them. Four soldiers stood on the ledge, two to either side of the cave-mouth. At some unseen signal, they flourished trumpets and blew a fanfare.

Inside the cave, Rod winced. They were beginning to get the idea that pitch wasn’t just a matter of personal taste, but they had a long way to go.

Four knights rode out of the cave in full armor, raising their lances with pennons at their tips. They sidestepped, leaving the center clear. After them came Yorick—and then, just as the sun rose, Tuan stepped out onto the ledge, gilded by the dawn.

An awed murmur ran through the crowd below.

Yorick stepped up a little in advance of Tuan and to his side, and began to bellow in the Neanderthal language.

“I’ll bet he’s telling them the sad news,” Rod muttered, “that the Eagle’s gone.”

A groan swept the crowd.

Brom nodded. “Thou hast the right of it.”

Yorick started bellowing again.

“Now he’s telling them they’ve got a new king,” Rod muttered.

“Emperor!” Yorick shouted.

Tuan looked up, startled.

Inside the cave, Gwen shrugged. “He is, in all truth—and Catharine’s an empress.”

“Sure,” Rod agreed. “It just hadn’t hit him before.”

A thunderous cheer split the air.

“I’d wager Yorick hath but now told them that he will rule as viceroy,” Brom said drily.

Rod nodded. “Logical guess.”

There was a pause, and they could hear Yorick’s stage whisper: “A speech might be appropriate, my liege.”

The pause lengthened; then Tuan cried out, “I am thy new ruler!” and Yorick bellowed the translation.

The crowd cheered again.

“Now they know it won’t be a real conquest,” Rod murmured.

Tuan went on, with frequent pauses for translation. “I am thy new ruler and will never forsake thee. Yet, since I cannot abide here with thee, I give to you a viceroy to rule in my stead. Thou hast called thyselves the People of the Kobold… and did worship a goblin… calling it thy god. This god was false… and the mark of it was… that it demanded thy worship, which should go to the One True Unseen God only. I shall not demand such worship… only fealty and loyalty. An thou wilt be loyal to me and my viceroy, I shall be true to thee.”

“He does it well, don’t you think?” Rod said softly.

Brom and Gwen nodded. “He ever hath,” said the dwarf. “Yet wilt thou, I wonder?”

Rod frowned. “What do you mean? I don’t have to do any speechifying!”