King Kobold Revived

Galen still watched Agatha, his expression blank.

“They named the son Harold,” Rod went on, “and he grew to be a fine young warlock—but more ‘war’ than ‘lock.’ Apparently, he enlisted, and fought in quite a few battles. He survived, but his parents passed away—probably from sheer worry, with a son in the infantry…”

Galen snapped out of his trance. “Do not seek to cozen me, Master Warlock! How could they have died, when this Agatha and I…” His voice dwindled and his gaze drifted as he slid toward the new thought.

“Time is no ranker, Master Wizard; he’s under no compulsion to march at the same pace in each place he invests. But more importantly, events can differ in different universes—or Harold would never have been born. And if the Galen and Agatha of his universe could marry, they could also die—from accident, or disease, or perhaps even one of those battles that their son survived. I’m sure he’d be willing to tell you, if you asked him.”

Galen glanced quickly about the chamber, and seemed to solidify inside his own skin.

“Try,” Rod breathed. “Gwen can’t hear him, nor can any of the other witches—save Agatha. But if you’re the analog of his father, you should be able to…”

“Nay!” Galen boomed. “Am I become so credulous as to hearken to the tales of a stripling of thirty?”

“Thirty-two,” Rod corrected.

“A child, scarcely more! I credit not a word of this tale of thine!”

“Ah, but we haven’t come to the evidence yet.” Rod gri

Galen’s face neutralized again.

“He was wounded, and badly,” Rod pressed. “He barely managed to crawl into a cave and collapse there—and his spirit drifted loose. But his body didn’t. No, it lay in a lasting, deathlike sleep; so his spirit had no living body to inhabit, but also had not been freed by death and couldn’t soar to seek Heaven. But that spirit was a warlock, so it didn’t have to just haunt the cave where its body lay. No, it went adventuring—out into the realm of chaos, seeking out that curving presence you spoke of, searching for its parents’ spirits, seeking aid…”

“And found them,” Galen finished in a harsh whisper.

Rod nodded. “One, at least—and now he’s found the other.”

Galen’s glances darted around the chamber again; he shuddered, shrinking more tightly into his robes. Slowly then, his frosty glare returned to Rod. “Thou hadst no need to speak of this to me, Lord Warlock. ‘Twill yield thee no profit.”

“Well, I did think Harold deserved a chance to at least try to meet you—as you became in this universe. Just in case.”

Galen held his glare, refusing the bait.

“We have the beastmen bottled up, for the time being,” Rod explained, “but they’re likely to come charging out any minute, trying to freeze our soldiers with their Evil Eye. Our young warlocks and witches will try to counter it with their own power, feeding it through our soldiers. They wouldn’t stand a chance against the beastmen’s power by themselves—but they’ll have my wife and Agatha to support them.”

“Aye, and we’re like to have our minds blasted for our pains,” Agatha ground out, “for some monster that we wot not of doth send them greater power with each thunderbolt. Though we might stand against them and win, if thou wert beside us.”

“And wherefore should I be?” Galen’s voice was flat with contempt. “Wherefore should I aid the peasant folk who racked and tortured me in my youth? Wherefore ought I aid their children and grandchildren who, ever and anon all these long years, have marched against me, seeking to tear down my Dark Tower and burn me at the stake? Nay, thou softhearted fool! Go to thy death for the sake of those that hate thee, an thou wishest—but look not for me to accompany thee!”

“Nay, I do not!” Agatha’s eyes glittered with contempt. “Yet, there’s one who’s man enough to do so, to bear up with me under that fell onslaught.”

Galen stared at her, frozen.

“Harold’s a dutiful son,” Rod murmured. “I thought you might like the chance to get acquainted with him.” He left the logical consequence unsaid. Could a spirit be destroyed? He hoped he wouldn’t find out.

“I credit not one single syllable!” Galen hissed. “ ‘Tis but a scheme to cozen me into placing all at risk for them who like me not!” He turned back to Rod. “Thou dost amaze me, Lord Warlock; for even here, in my hermitage, I had heard thy repute and I had thought thee lord of greater intellect than this. Canst thou author no stronger scheme to gain mine aid, no subtle, devious chain of ruses?”

“Why bother?” Rod answered with the ghost of a smile. “The truth is always more persuasive.”

Galen’s face darkened with anger. His arm lifted, forefinger upraised, to focus his powers for teleporting them away. Then, suddenly, his head snapped about, eyes wide in shock for a moment before they squeezed shut in denial.

Agatha winced too, but she gri

The wizard turned his glare to her. “I know not what trickery thou hast garnered to thus simulate another’s mind…”

“Oh, aye, ‘tis trickery indeed! Oh, I have studied for years to fashion the feel and texture of another’s mind, and all for this moment!” Agatha turned her head and spat. “Lord Warlock, let us depart; for I sicken of striving to speak sense unto one who doth seek to deafen his own ears!”

“Aye, get thee hence,” Galen intoned, “for thy scheme hath failed! Get thee hence, and come not hither again!”

“Oh, all right!” Rod shuddered at the thought of another broomstick ride. “I was kinda hoping to catch the express…”

“Thou wilt come to joy in it, husband,” Gwen assured him, pushing past, “if thou canst but have faith in me.”

“Faith?” Rod bleated, wounded. “I trust you implicitly!”

“Then thou’lt assuredly not fear, for ‘tis my power that doth bear thee up.” Gwen flashed him an insouciant smile.

“All right, all right!” Rod held his hands up in surrender. “You win—I’ll get used to it. After you, beldam.”

Agatha hesitated a moment longer, trying to pierce Galen’s impenetrable stare with her whetted glance, but turned away in disgust. “Aye, let him remain here in dry rot, sin that he doth wish it!” She stormed past Rod, through the curtains, and up the stair.

Rod glanced back just before dropping the curtain, to gaze at Galen, standing frozen in the middle of his laboratory, staring off into space, alone, imprisoned within his own invisible wall.

Rod clung to the broomstick for dear life, telling himself sternly that he was not scared, that staring at the gray clouds over Gwen’s shoulder, hoping desperately for sight of Tuan’s tent, was just the result of boredom. But it didn’t work; his stomach didn’t unclench, and the only object ahead was Agatha, bobbing on her broomstick.

Then, suddenly, there was a dot in the sky two points off Agatha’s starboard bow. Rod stared, forgetting to be afraid. “Gwen—do you see what I see?”

“Aye, my lord. It doth wear a human aspect.”

It did indeed. As the dot loomed closer, it grew into a teenage boy in doublet and hose, waving his cap frantically.

“Human,” Rod agreed. “In fact, I think it’s Leonatus. Isn’t he a little young to be out teleporting alone?”

“He is sixteen now,” Gwen reminded. “Their ages do not stand still for us, my lord.”

“They don’t stand for much of anything, now that you mention it—and I suppose he is old enough to be a messenger. See how close you can come, Gwen; I think he wants to talk.”

Gwen swooped around the youth in a tight hairpin turn, considerably faster than Rod’s stomach did. “Hail, Leonatus!” she cried—which was lucky, because Rod was swallowing heavily at the moment. “How dost thou?” “Anxiously, fair Gwendylon,” the teenager answered. “Stormclouds lower o’er the bank of the Fleuve, and the beastmen form their battle-line!”