King Kobold Revived Read online

  “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 re-member. 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 with-out 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, Fa-ther. 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 Maj-esty 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 exhort-ing, 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.”

  “Lord Warlock!” The knight jumped to his feet. “I am honored!”

  “Glad to hear it,” Rod said, inclining his head. “My wife, the Lady Gwendy-lon.”

  The knight bowed, and Gwen beamed.

  “And these poor folk be victims.” Brom clapped the nearest peasant on the shoulder. “But a week agone, they had houses. What hast thou now, goodman?”

  The peasant gulped his current mouthful. “Eh, we ha’ cottages again, mi-l
ord—or the half of us do, then. ‘Tis not so long, to build a wall of wattle.”

  “And daub,” Brom amplified. “I ha’ seen our folk at work, Lord Warlock. They build a house in but a day. Yet there were a score of cottages in their vil-lage.”

  Rod noticed the apprehensive way the peasants were eyeing him. “It’s all just a rumor, folks. I’m not really a warlock—just a bad scholar who’s learned a few tricks.”

  If anything, their apprehension deepened.

  “Well, I tried,” Rod sighed. “Tell me, goodman—what did these beastmen look like?”

  “Ah, terrible things they was, milord! Tall as houses, and horned like the moon!”

  “And hairy,” the woman across from him added. “All over covered with hair, they was.”

  “But not on their faces,” another woman chimed in. “Beardless, they was.”

  “And they rode on a dragon,” the man said firmly. “A dragon it was—and it swam away with ‘em on its back!”

  “Nay, ‘tweren’t a beast!” the first woman scoffed. “What would ye know about it? Ye was half dead with a cracked skull when they sailed away!” She turned to Rod. “We were blessed, milord. Seven of our menfolk dead, but he wasn’t one of ‘em.”

  “All of ‘em hurted, though,” the woman next to her muttered , “and six bairns killed.”

  Rod’s face darkened. “What were the dragons he was talking about, then?”

  “Ships, milord! Only their ship! But the front of it was carved into a dragon’s head, and the stern was carved into a tail!”

  “Dragon ships? Were they long and narrow?”

  “The very thing!” the woman chortled. “Hast seen ‘em, then, milord?”

  “Only in a history book—and those raiders did have beards. And not much body hair…”

  “And horns, milord?”

  “Helmets,” Rod explained, “helmets with horns on ‘em. At least, that’s what people thought they wore—but they didn’t really. Not in battle.”

  “Can’t be the same ones, then,” the man said firmly.

  “No,” Rod agreed, “I don’t think the originals could have sailed this far from their home ports. They were mighty sailors, but they did need water.”

  “Then, why would these beastmen be dressed like to them, my lord?” Gwen wondered.

  “Because somebody’s been telling ‘em stories. Speaking of which, do grannies tell folk tales about horned raiders in dragon ships?”

  The peasants shook their heads, wide-eyed.

  “Well, it was a chance,” Rod sighed. “But if the grannies haven’t been telling tales, who has?”

  “Didn’t look like just a ship in the moonlight, with them devils yellin’ and swingin’ their clubs,” the big peasant muttered, fingering his bandage gently.

  “Of course not,” Rod agreed. “That’s why they carved it that way—to scare the…” His eyes lost focus. “Wait a minute! Of course! That’s why whoever told ‘em about dragon ships and horned helmets… did tell ‘em! To help them scare poor people like you! After all, if it worked for the Vikings…”

  “What are ‘vikings,’ milord?” one of the women asked timidly.

  “The horned raiders I was telling you about.”

  “Could they freeze people with a look?”

  Rod shook his head. “No, of course not—though I suppose they wanted to. You mean these gorillas could?”

  “Froze us near to stone,” the man growled. “One of ‘em looked me in the eye, and all of a sudden, his eyes seemed to pierce right through to the back of me head. I tried to move, but I couldn’t.”

  “Ye was scared,” the second woman scoffed, “frighted stiff, like a babe with a snake.”

  The man’s face reddened. “Was ye there on the green with us, woman? Did ye look into their eyes? Oh, aye, those glittering eyes frighted me—but I’ve been frighted in battle afore, when our young Lord Anselm fought the Queen… and… um…” He eyed Brom furtively.

  “And his younger brother, who is now our King,” Brom growled. “None will fault thee for that, goodman. What choice hadst thou? When thy lord summons thee to fight, thou must needs fight. Yet, in that battle, did fear freeze thee?”

  “Nay, good my lord!” The peasant shook his head. “I swung my pike the harder for it. Yet when that grisly monster’s eyes pierced my brain, I sought to strike in wild anger—but mine arm would not answer! I strained, I tugged at it with all my will, but it would not…” He broke off with a shudder. “Lord in Heaven save me! May I never live through such a moment again! To not be able to budge, yet see that huge club swinging down at me…” He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, shaking his head.

  “Softly, now.” Rod clapped him on the shoulder. “You did bravely, goodman. You did all that a man could do.”

  “ ‘Twas the Evil Eye,” the man muttered. “ ‘Twas witch-craft.”

  Rod turned to Gwen with a questioning gaze.

  “There are tales of it,” she answered slowly, “of witches and warlocks who could freeze folk with a glance. Yet I never have met one with such a power.”

  “And you know most of the witches in Gramarye.” Rod turned back to the peasant, nodding. “So our enemy is something new, in more ways than one. But if it had not been for yourself, goodman, we would not have known that. My deepest thanks.”

  “At your lordship’s service.” The big peasant recovered a bit, and managed to smile up at Rod. “ ‘Twas… ’twas real, then?”

  “Is the lump on your head real?” Rod retorted. “Then, the club that made it certainly was, and so was the beastman who swung it. As to the Evil Eye—well, when a battle-tried veteran freezes, it couldn’t very well be anything else.” Not on this world, anyway, he thought.

  “Thank ye, milord.” The peasant smiled up at him.

  “Don’t worry. I would’ve frozen too.” Rod clapped him on the shoulder again, and turned to Gwen. “Know any counter-spells?”

  Her lips parted to answer as she spread her hands—and suddenly there was a baby in them, kicking and crowing, “Mama! Found you, Mama! Found you!”

  Gwen stared, startled. Then a delighted grin curved her lips, and she hugged the child close to her. “Hast thou indeed, thou naughty babe! Come, didst thou seek thy mother through thy mind only?”

  “Huh!” The baby nodded, very pleased with himself.

  “A telepathic tracker?” Rod was staring too. “My son’s a headhunter?”

  “ ‘Tis a head I’ll be having, though not his,” Brom growled. “Whose charge was this bairn? Hobgoblin!”

  Something small popped through the door and scurried over to Brom. “Par-don, King of Shadows!” It was a miniature man about a foot and a half tall, heavy in the shoulders and deep in the voice. “The elf-wives’ powers have waned; the babe lost interest in their games, and their spells could not hold him.”

  “Then, they must con new charms, and hold him by delight alone,” Brom growled. “Though ‘tis true, I know of nothing that could hold this bairn when he doth not wish it.”

  “Naughty babe!” Gwen reproved Magnus. He gurgled happily in reply.

  “At least, when he had ‘scaped I found him in the half of a minute,” the elf pointed out.

  “ ‘Tis true, and any who would wish to harm him would fare ill against thee,” Brom admitted. “Yet bid them hold him better, Robin.”

  “Naughty child!” Gwen scolded. “Though glad I am to see thee, yet must thou know thy mother hath a task which must be done. I cannot be with thee now, my sweet, much though I wish to. Come, hie thee back to thy nurse, and bide until I call thee.”

  “Uh-uh!” The baby scowled, and shook his head.

  “Magnus,” Gwen began, in a tone that implied a nuclear bomb (or, at least, a tactical warhead) was about to explode.

  But Brom interrupted. “Nay then, manikin! Hast never heard of bogeymen?”

  The child stared down at him in blue-eyed wonder.

  “Never?” Brom rumbled. “Ah, woefully dost thou ne
glect this child’s educa-tion if he ha’ not yet heard of childhood’s horror!”

  “Well, that’s kinda the point,” Rod answered, nettled. “I see absolutely no point in scaring kids half to death and giving them dread of perfectly ordinary things. If I tell him to be good, he’s got to do it simply because he believes in me.”

  “Pray he doth; if this bairn ceased to believe in me, I might cease to be!” Brom growled. “Yet what robbery is this, to take from him one of childhood’s most de-licious thrills—the dread of the horrible monster that he knows, at heart’s bot-tom, doth not truly live? The bogeymen, child, are huge, shambling things, all covered with hair, with tiny glowing eyes, and long, sharply pointed teeth!”

  Magnus cuddled back against Gwen with a delighted squall.

  “ ‘Tis true!” Brom held up a forefinger. “Vile things are they, that do seek to harm both children and parents! And thy mother and father must needs sally forth against them, to drive them from this land for good and all—yet they can-not go if they are not sure that thou art safe.”

  Magnus stared at Brom wide-eyed, beginning to understand.

  “So hie thee back to thy nurses!” Brom clapped his hands.

  “Hie thee hence, and bide with them till thy mother doth summon thee! Bide thee with thy nurses in safety, that thy mother and father may chase the bogey-men from this land!”

  Magnus looked up at Gwen out of the corner of his eyes. “Baby come too?”

  “I fear not,” Gwen said firmly, holding him up under the arms so that she could look directly into his eyes. “Thou must needs do as thine Uncle Brom…”

  Rod was the only one who noticed the shadow pass over Brom’s face.

  “… as thine Uncle Brom doth say, and flit back to Elfland, to thy nurses, there to bide whiles thy father and I do chase these monsters. Yet I’ll summon thee whene’er I may, to play awhile. Now, wilt thou go?”

  The baby glowered at her, then nodded reluctantly.

  “Good babe!” Gwen kissed him. “Now, hie thee hence!”

  Magnus looked up at Rod. He reached out to squeeze a chubby hand—then found himself holding empty air. Magnus had disappeared.

  “Bairns do understand more than we think,” Brom rumbled, “if we are but open with them.” He frowned at the peasants. “And what dost thou gape at, vil-lage fools? Hast never seen a babe afore?”