Christopher Stasheff - King Kobold Revived

“A good friar, it would seem,” Gwen answered. “Why art thou concerned, mine husband?”

“Because I don’t remember ordering any.” Rod strode up to the monk. “Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning to thee, goodman.” The priest turned a sunny, beaming countenance up to Rod. Then his jaw dropped and he scrambled to his feet. “Why, ‘tis the High Warlock!”

“Careful, there; don’t spill your ink.” Rod reached out a hand to steady the inkhorn. “It’s nice to be recognized, but I’m not worth jumping up for—not unless you’re in uniform, anyway.”

“Nay; I know thee for one of the greatest men ever to walk the soil of Gramarye.” Everything about the monk was round—his stomach, his face, his eyes. “Who else could have rescued Catharine the Queen from the peasant mob who sought her life and the band of barons who sought her throne?”

“Well, her husband did a pretty good job; he was in on that, too, if you remember. In fact, that battle had a lot to do with his becoming her husband.”

“Yet, not so much as thyself,” the monk chirped.

Rod cleared his throat; the friar was coming unpleasantly close to the truth. Time for a change of subject. “What’re you doing here, Father?”

“Oh!” The monk looked down at his book. “Only amusing an idle moment, Lord Warlock. A wise man will ever be doing; so, when there is naught else afoot, I fill the time with the writing of a chronicle of the events that occur whiles I live.”

“A Chronicle? Hey! History in the making!” Rod couldn’t resist. “Am I in it?”

“Indeed, Lord Warlock! What Historie of Gramarye could be complete without full accounting of thee?”

“I had rather account for him at home,” Gwen said dourly, coming up beside Rod. “Yet I do not think thou didst quite catch mine husband’s meaning, good Father.”

“Yeah? Oh! Yeah!” Rod looked up, and cleared his throat. “That’s right, Father. When I said, ‘What’re you doing here?’ I meant, here with the army , not just at this particular moment. What’s your business?”

“Why, the saving of souls,” answered the priest in round-eyed innocence. “Our good Abbot hath appointed me chaplain to the King’s Foot—but His Majesty did say to me that he had a surfeit of chaplains, and sent me to thee.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Rod could see Tuan doing it, too. The young King loved all his subjects, but the average medieval monk tended to be continually exhorting, which could try even Tuan’s patience. “I can see I’ll have to have a word with His Majesty. Well, at least he sent me an amateur historian.”

“Milord!” A squire came galloping up and reined in near Rod. “Lord O’Berin’s greetings, milord. He doth send to tell thee the folk from Loguire have come!”

“Oh, really!” Rod grabbed the priest’s hand and gave it a quick shake, quill-pen and all. “Well, it was a real pleasure to meet you, Father, but I’ve gotta run now… Uh, what was your name again?”

“Brother Chillde, I am called. But do not stay to speak with a foolish friar, Lord Warlock, when matters of state await thee.”

“Well, military matters, really. Gwen, come listen.” He caught her hand as he turned away, pacing down the hill. “These’re a few of the survivors from the beastman attack.”

“Ah! I will listen, and gladly.” A frown puckered Gwen’s brow. “I misdoubt me that there may have been something of magic about these beastmen.”

“If there is, and they mention it, you’ll find it.” As they paced over the valley floor, Rod remembered his son. “Where’s Magnus?”

Gwen’s eyes flashed, and her chin came up. “Rather, ask why I have come here.”

“I did wonder, but not too much—I was just glad to have you. Why? What did Brom do?”

“He came to our home and told me that I could no longer sit idly by, playing at housewifery. As though ‘twere play!”

Rod winced, remembering how the dust flew at home—he couldn’t even be a little messy anymore—and the rotten (for her) mood Gwen was in by the end of each day. “Well, he can say that—he’s got a troop of elves to keep his quarters tidy. But he is right, dear—we need your talents in the field just now. The cave’ll have to gather dust.”

Gwen shuddered. “Well, mayhap; ‘tis after all folks’ lives we speak of, and we will not be home for some time, I think. Magnus, however, cannot wait; I must needs spend at least the half of my waking time with him, unless ’tis a day of battle.”

“Yeah, I know.” Rod winced at a twinge of conscience. “But where is the boy?”

“Brom found a half-dozen elfin beldams to watch over him. I took him to their grotto, and I could see they knew something of children, so I left him with them.”

“Not altogether willingly, I gather.”

“Oh, I will never feel easy with my babe out of my sight!” Gwen cried. “Yet it must be, and I know I am foolish to worry.”

“Yes, you probably are.” Rod squeezed her hand. “I’m sure any nursemaids Brom finds for you will be very capable.” Gwen couldn’t know just how sure—Brom had made Rod swear never to tell her that Brom was her father. He felt a little shy about it, being a dwarf. But he did care for Magnus like one of his own—which the child was, of course. No, any baby-sitter Brom picked would be extremely reliable. “Even if they are elves.”

“ Especially if they are elves.” Gwen skewered him with a glance. “Who else could keep thy son bound, Warlock?”

“Only another warlock, or witch.” Rod grinned into her glare. “Witch.”

“Well, that is true.” Her gaze softened. “Though the most of them are too young; and the ones who are aged enough are sour old spinsters and hermits, living midst the wild mountains. No, I do trust Brom’s elves.”

“After all, who else would he get?” Rod spread his hands. “He is the King of the Elves, after all.”

“Aye.” Gwen smiled, amused. “If Their Majesties only knew their Privy Councillor’s true nature—and office!”

“They’d kick him out of the household and try to sign a treaty with him. No, I think the current setup’s much more efficient.”

“Aye, with Brom ever at Tuan’s elbow.”

“And Magnus with the elves, and you with me.” Rod sighed. “My son, the changeling! Besides, you can keep checking on him, can’t you?”

“Oh, I do at all odd moments, I assure you!” Gwen stopped and stood stock-still, her eyes losing focus. Then she relaxed and began walking again, with a nod. “Aye, he is well.”

“Helps to be a mind reader, doesn’t it?” Rod grinned. “Which is, of course, one of the reasons why I like having you along on this trip.” He stopped at Brom’s tent, nodded to the sentries, and lifted the tent flap. “After you, dear.”

Inside, two servants stood near a long table, holding trays laden with food. A handful of peasants sat at the board, chewing huge mouthfuls and washing them down with ale. A dusty man sat at one end of the table, eating with equal gusto but in smaller bites—a knight out of armor, to judge by his clothes. At the other end of the table sat a man less than three feet high, with shoulders almost as wide as he was tall, arms and legs thicker with muscle than Rod’s, and a huge head with shaggy black hair and beard. His head snapped up as Rod entered; then he leaped down and strode over to the witch-pair, booming, “Well, ‘tis time thou hast come! Here these goodfolk are near to surfeited with food and ale—and I sent for thee as soon as they did arrive.”

“Well, we’re never easy to find.” Rod stepped over to the table. “Who is this gentleman?”

“Sir Reginald De La Place, vassal to the Duke Loguire,” Brom explained. “He it is hath brought these peasants to us. Sir Reginald, this titled lout is Rod Gallowglass, Lord High Warlock.”