King Kobold Revived

“It was a figure of speech,” the robot assured him. “Lower your anxiety level—you are quite definitely a singular personality.”

“I’d like to be sure of that.” Rod frowned down at the soldiers around him. He was walking through the camp, surveying what was left of Tuan’s army. Whether he’d been there during the battle or not, the mere sight of him was putting heart back into them. Personally, he felt sheepish, even guilty; but…

“Your presence is good for morale, Rod,” Fess murmured.

“I suppose,” Rod muttered. Privately, he wondered if he wasn’t “showing himself” to reassure himself that he was indeed himself. “I mean, the phenomenon is totally impossible, Fess. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Soldiers stared up at him in awe. Rod ground his teeth; he knew the rumor would fly through the camp that the Lord Warlock had been talking to his “familiar.”

“Certainly, Rod. Attribute it to mass hysteria. During the battle, they needed the reassurance that the Lord High Warlock stood by them, to oppose the beastmen’s magic. Then one soldier, in the heat of the fight, mistook some other knight for yourself, and doubtless cried out, ‘Behold the High Warlock!’ And all his fellows, in the gloom of a lightning-lit battle, also imagined that they saw you.”

Rod nodded, a little reassured. “Just a case of mistaken identity.”

“Lord Warlock?”

“Um?” Rod turned, looked down at a grizzled old sergeant who sat in the mud. “What’s the matter, ancient?”

“My boys hunger, Lord Warlock.” The ancient gestured to a dozen men in their young twenties, who huddled near him. “Will there be food?”

Rod stared down at him.

After a moment, he said, “Yeah. It’ll just take a little while. Rough terrain, and wagons—you know.”

The ancient’s face relaxed. “Aye, milord.”

As Rod turned away, he heard a soldier say, “Surely he will not.” The man beside him shrugged. “A king is a king. What knows he of a common man-at-arms? What matters it to him if we are slain and frozen?”

“To King Tuan, it matters greatly,” the other said indignantly. “Dost not recall that he was King of Beggars ere he was King of Gramarye?”

“Still… he is a lord’s son…” But the other seemed to doubt his own prejudice. “How could a lordling care for the fate of common men!‘’

“Assuredly thou’lt not believe he wastes his soldiers’ lives?”

“And wherefore should I not?”

“Because he is a most excellent general, if for no reason other!” the first cried, exasperated. “He’ll not send us to our deaths unheeding; he is too good a soldier! For how shall he win a battle if he has too small an army?”

His mate looked thoughtful.

“He’ll husband us as charily as any merchant spends his gold.” The first soldier leaned back against a hillock. “Nay, he’ll not send us ‘gainst the foe if he doth not believe that most of us will live, and triumph.”

The other soldier smiled. “Mayhap thou hast the truth of it—for what is a general that hath no army?”

Rod didn’t wait for the answer; he wandered on, amazed by Tuan’s men. They weren’t particularly worried about the Evil Eye. Di

“It is little more, to them,” Fess’s voice murmured behind his ear. He stood atop the cliff, far above, watching Rod walk through the camp. “They have grown up with magic, Rod—as did their fathers, and their grandfathers, and their ancestors—for twenty-five generations. The phenomena do not frighten them—only the possibility that the enemy’s magic might prove stronger.”

“True.” Rod pursed his lips, nodding. Looking up, he saw Brother Chillde winding a bandage around an older soldier’s head. The man winced, but bore the pain philosophically. Rod noticed several other scars; no doubt the man was used to the process. Rod stepped up to the monk. “You’re all over the field, good friar.”

Brother Chillde smiled up at him. “I do what I may, Lord Warlock.” His smile didn’t have quite the same glow it had had earlier.

“And a blessing it is for the men—but you’re only human, Brother. You need some rest yourself.”

The monk shrugged, irritated. “These poor souls do need mine aid far more, milord. ‘Twill be time enough for rest when the wounded rest as easily as they may.” He sighed and straightened, eyeing the bandaged head. “I’ve eased the passing of those who had no hope, what little I could. ‘Tis time to think of the living.” He looked up at Rod. “And to do what we can to ensure that they remain alive.‘’

“Yes,” Rod said slowly, “the King and I were thinking along the same lines.”

“Indeed!” Brother Chillde perked up visibly. “I am certain thou dost ever do so—yet what ma

The idea crystallized. “Witches—more of ‘em. We managed to talk one of the older witches into joining us this time.”

“Aye.” Brother Chillde looked up at the hilltop. “And I did see that she and thy wife, alone, did hold off the beast-men’s Evil Eye the whiles our soldiers did retreat. Indeed, I wrote it in my book whilst yet the battle raged.”

Rod was sure he had—in fact, that’s why he’d told the monk. He seemed to be the only medieval equivalent to a journalist available, there being no minstrels handy.

Brother Chillde turned back to Rod. “Thy wife must needs be exceeding powerful.‘’

Rod nodded. “Makes for an interesting marriage.”

Brother Chillde smiled, amused, and the old soldier chuckled. Then the monk raised an eyebrow. “And this venerable witch who did accompany her—she, too, must have powers extraordinary.”

“She does,” Rod said slowly. “Her name’s ‘Angry Agatha.’ ”

The old soldier’s head snapped up. He stared; and two or three other soldiers nearby looked up too, then darted quick glances at each other. Fear shadowed their faces.

“She decided it’s more fun to help people than to hurt them,” Rod explained. “In fact, she’s decided to stay with us.”

Every soldier within hearing range began to grin.

“ ‘Tis wondrous!” Brother Chillde fairly glowed. “And dost thou seek more such ancient ones?”

Rod nodded. “A few more, hopefully. Every witch counts, Brother.”

“Indeed it doth! Godspeed thine efforts!” the monk cried. And as Rod turned away, Brother Chillde began to bandage another damaged soldier, chattering, “Dost’a hear? The High Warlock doth seek to bring the ancient wizards and the hill-hags to aid us in our plight!”

Rod smiled to himself; just the effect he’d wanted! By evening, every soldier in the army would know that they were fighting fire with blazing enthusiasm—and that the witches were going out for reinforcements.

He stopped, struck by another thought. Turning, he looked back up the hillside. Tuan stood, silhouetted against a thundercloud, arms akimbo, surveying the devastation below him.

You shouldn’t lie to your army. That’d just result in blasted morale—and, after a while, they’d refuse to fight, because they couldn’t be sure what they’d be getting into, that you wouldn’t be deliberately throwing their lives away.

Rod started back up the hill. He’d promised the rank and file more witch-power; he’d better convince Tuan.

Tuan’s head lifted as Rod came up to the brow of the hill; he came out of his brown study. “An evil day, Rod Gallowglass. A most evil day.”

“Very.” Rod noticed the use of his name, not his title; the young King was really disturbed. He stepped up beside Tuan and gazed somberly down at the valley with him. “Nonetheless, it could have been worse.”

Tuan just stared at him for a moment. Then, understanding, relaxed his face; he closed his eyes and nodded. “I’ truth, it could have. Had it not been for thy rallying of the troops… and thy wife, and Angry Agatha… i’ truth, all the witches…”