Rod hunkered down and muttered, “Just a little off-center—with English.”
Fess slammed into the Neanderthal, and he caromed off the horse’s chest with a howl. He landed twenty feet away, and was silent. His companions stood poised, wavering.
On the saddlebow, Gwen stirred, lifting her head with a pained frown. She took one look and grasped the situation.
The beastmen growled to one another, softly at first, but gaining volume and anger. They began to waddle back up the beach, their low, ugly rumble filling the air.
Gwen’s eyes narrowed, and the beastmen’s clubs exploded into flame.
They howled, hurling their clubs after the Gramarye soldiers, turned, and ran.
Gwen glared after them. Then her head began to tremble, and she collapsed again.
“Retreat!” Rod snapped. Fess pivoted and raced back up the beach after the soldiers.
They came to rest high in the rocks atop the cliff, behind the long, sloping beach. “You did well,” Rod assured the soldiers. “No one could have done better.”
One of the men spread his hands helplessly. “How can we fight an enemy who can freeze us in our tracks, milord?”
Rod dismounted and lifted Gwen down tenderly. “I think my wife’s given us the basic idea. I’ll work it out with her when she comes to.” He knelt, lowering Gwen to the ground behind two boulders, cradling her head and shoulders against his chest. He winced at a sudden pain in his arm and remembered a club hitting him there. He remembered a few other blows, too, now that he thought about it. With the adrenaline of battle beginning to wear off, the bruises were beginning to hurt. With surprise, he noticed a bright crimson streak across his chest—one of the ax-blows had come closer than he’d realized. When he understood just how close, he began to get the shakes. He clamped down on them sternly; there’d be time for that later. “What’re they doing, men?”
“They begin to feel brave again, milord.” One of the soldiers was lying among the seaward rocks, peering out between two boulders. “They are stepping away from their dragon.”
“Any sign of the villagers?”
“None, milord. All fled in time.”
Rod nodded. “Well, it’s a shame about the village, but they can rebuild it.”
“ ‘Tis not destroyed yet, milord.”
“Yet,” Rod echoed. “There’s a wineskin in my saddlebag, boys. Pass it around.”
A soldier leaped and wrenched the wineskin out. He squirted a long streak into his mouth, then passed it to his comrade.
“Toby!” Rod yelled. Nothing happened.
Gwen stirred in Rod’s arms, squinting against a raging headache, looked up, saw Rod, and relaxed, nestling against his chest, closing her eyes. “I am safe.”
“Praise Heaven,” Rod breathed.
“What doth hap, my lord?”
“We lost, darling. You came up with a good idea, but they outnumbered you.”
She shook her head, then winced at the pain it brought. “Nay, my lord. ‘Twas the lightning.”
“Lightning?” Even through his exhaustion, Rod felt something inside him sit up and take notice. “Well…”
“Milord,” the sentry called, “fire blossoms in the village.”
Rod nodded with a grimace. “Whole place’ll be one big torch in a few minutes. The beastmen won’t find much to pick there, though. Peasants don’t own much—and what they do have they can carry.”
“There is the granary, milord,” one of the locals pointed out, “and the smokehouse.”
Rod shrugged. “So they’ll have a picnic on the way home. Don’t worry, lad—the King and Queen will send you food for the winter. Grain they could’ve had for the asking.” He looked down at Gwen. “Can you find Toby, darling?”
Gwen nodded and closed her eyes, then winced. Rod felt a stab of guilt—but he needed the young warlock.
Air slammed outward with a soft explosion, and Toby stood before him. “Milord Warlock?”
One of the soldiers stared, then turned away, muttering and crossing himself.
Rod pretended not to notice. “Feel up to some action again?”
“Assuredly, an’ thou dost wish it, milord.” Toby’s knees were shaking with exhaustion.
“I do,” Rod said. “I hate to ask it of you, but we’ve got to salvage something out of this. When they ship out, can you follow them?”
Toby stared off into space for a moment, then nodded. “There are clouds. They will not see me.”
“You don’t have to go all the way,” Rod pointed out. “Just see ‘em on their way, then call for one of your mates. He can teleport out to you, and you can disappear. Just get them started.”
Toby nodded slowly. “Wise, milord. We will.”
“The flames slacken, milord.”
“Yes. Thank heaven for the rain.” But Rod looked up, frowning; the sentry’s voice had changed. A different soldier lay among the rocks, his arm in a fresh, gleaming sling.
Rod stared. “Hey—who gave you that?”
The sentry looked up, surprised, then nodded toward another soldier who sat, teeth gritted against pain, while a chubby figure in a brown robe wrapped linen around a long gash in his arm.
“Father Chillde,” Rod said slowly.
The monk looked up, then smiled sadly. “I fear I have come too late, Milord Gallowglass. At least I may be of some service now.”
“We appreciate it, of course—but the chaplain doesn’t have to come into battle.”
The sad smile stayed. “There are two ways of thinking of that, milord.”
Nice to know they had a dedicated one—and his mere presence was definitely a comfort to the soldiers. Him, and the wine.
“They move back toward their ships,” the sentry reported.
“There will be much work for me when they have gone,” the priest said sadly.
Rod shook his head. “I don’t think so, Father. From what I saw during battle, they didn’t leave any wounded.”
The priest’s mouth pressed thin. “ ‘Tis to be lamented. But there will be other work, more’s the pity.”
Rod turned toward him, frowning. “What…? Oh. Yeah—the Last Rites.” He turned back toward the beach. “But it won’t just be our dead down there, Father. How about the beastmen? Think they have souls?”
“Why—I had not thought of it,” the priest said, surprised. “But is there reason to think they would not?”
One of the soldiers growled a reply.
The monk shook his head. “Nay, goodman. I ha’ known Christian men to do worse—much worse.”
“I would, could I but get one of them alone,” another soldier snarled.
“There—do you see?” The priest spread his hands. “Still, souls or none, I misdoubt me an they be Christian.”
“They called upon their false god at the battle’s beginning, did they not?”
“Was that the burden of their chant?” another soldier wondered. “ ‘Go Bald,’ was it not?”
“Something of the sort,” the first growled.
Rod frowned; he’d heard ‘Cobalt,’ himself. Well, each interpreted it according to words he knew. What did it really mean, though? He shrugged; it could be some sort of heathen god, at that.
“They have boarded their ship,” the sentry called. “They are launching… they turn…”
“May I build a fire now?” Father Chillde asked.
Rod shrugged. “Please do, Father—if you can find shelter for it and anything dry enough to burn.” He turned to the young warlock. “Sure you feel up to it, Toby?”
The esper nodded, coming to his feet. He was looking a little better, having rested. “I will start them, at least. When I’ve learned the trick of following a ship without being seen, I’ll call another of our band and teach it to him.”
Rod nodded. “See you soon, then, Toby.”
“Thou shalt, Lord Warlock.” Toby sprang into the air. The soldiers stared after him, gasping, as he soared up and up, then arrowed away over the waves. A few crossed themselves, muttering quick prayers.