Guttering candles showed young witches and warlocks sprawled crazily all over the floor, unconscious. In the center, Agatha slumped against one tent-post, her head in her hands, and Gwen huddled against the other, moaning and rubbing the front and sides of her head.
Fear stabbed. Rod leaped to her, gathered her into his arms. “Darling! Are you…”
She blinked up at him, managed a smile. “I live, my lord, and will be well again—though presently mine head doth split…”
“Praise all saints!” Rod clasped her head to his breast, then finally let the shambles about him sink in. He turned back to Gwen, more slowly this time. “He showed up, huh?”
“Aye, my lord.” She squinted against the pain. “When the second bolt of lightning struck, all the younglings were knocked senseless. Agatha and I strove to bear up under the brunt of that fell power, and I could feel Harold’s force aiding her. But we all feared a third bolt, knowing we could not withstand it…”
“And Galen was mentally eavesdropping, and knew you probably couldn’t hold out against it.” Rod nodded. “But he didn’t dare take the chance that his ‘son’ might be burned out in the process, even though that son wasn’t born of his body.”
“Do not depend on his aid again,” came a croak from across the tent, and the pile of cloth and bones that was Agatha stirred. “Beware, Warlock, he doth know that thou wilt now seek to use him by placing Harold at risk.”
“Of course.” Glints danced in Rod’s eyes. “But he’ll come, anyway.”
Tuan had left squadrons on both banks, chafing with anger at not being able to take part in the battle; but now, as they saw the dragon ships sailing down toward them, they yelled with joy and whipped out their swords.
The beastmen took one look and kept on sailing.
Frustrated, the young knights in charge gave certain orders; and a few minutes later, flaming arrows leaped up to arc over and thud into decks and sails. The archers amused themselves for a few minutes by watching beastmen scurry about the decks in a panic, dousing flames. But as soon as they were all out, the next squad down the river filled the air with fire-arrows, and the fun began all over again. So, even though Tuan sent a squad of revived witchfolk to fly alongside the fleet, keeping carefully out of arrow-range, they weren’t needed. Still, they stood by, watchful and ready, as the dragon ships sailed down the Fleuve and out to sea.
On the horizon, the dragon ships paused, as though considering another try. But a line of archers assembled on the sea-cliffs with telekinetic witches behind them, and the resulting fire-arrows managed to speed all the way out to the horizon before they fell to rekindle charred ships.
The dragon ships gave up, turned their noses homeward, and disappeared.
In the midst of the cheering and drinking, Rod shouldered through to Tuan. He grabbed the King by his royal neck and shouted in his ear to make himself heard. “You know it’s not really over yet, don’t you?”
“I know,” the young King replied with dignity, “but I know further that this night is for celebration. Fill a glass and rejoice with us, Lord Warlock. Tomorrow we shall again study war.”
He was up and functioning the next morning, though not happily. He sat in a chair in his tent, gray daylight filtering through the fabric all around him. The sky was still overcast, and so was Tuan. He pressed a cold towel against his forehead, squinting. “Now, Lord Warlock. I will hear the talk that I know I must heed: that our war is not done.”
Brom O’Berin stepped close to the King’s chair, peering up into his face. “I misdoubt me an thou shouldst speak of war when thine head is yet so filled with wine its skin is stretched as taut as a drumhead.”
Tuan answered with a weak and rueful smile. “ ‘Twill do no harm, Lord Councillor; for I misdoubt me an we shall speak of aught which I know not already.”
“Which is,” Rod said carefully, “that if we don’t follow them, they’ll be back.”
Tuan nodded, then winced, closing his eyes. “Aye, Lord Warlock. Next spring, as soon as thunderstorms may start, we shall see them here upon our shores again—aye, I know it.”
Brom frowned. “Yet hast thou thought that they’ll have reasoned out a way to conquer all the power our witches can brew up?”
Tuan grimaced. “Nay, I had not. It strengthens my resolve. We must needs bring the war home to them; we must follow them across the sea, and strike.”
“And the time to strike is now,” Brom rumbled.
Tuan nodded and looked up at Rod. “Yet how shall we bring our army there, Lord Warlock? Canst thou transport so many men and horses with a spell?”
Rod smiled, amused. “I don’t think even Galen could send that many, my liege. But we have discovered that Gramarye has a thriving merchant fleet who would no doubt be delighted to lend their services to helping wiping out a potential pirates’ nest.”
Tuan nodded slowly. “I do believe ‘twould gain their heartfelt cooperation, an thou wert to word it so.”
“It’s just a matter of figuring out their area of self-interest. We’ve also got an amazing number of fishing boats, and their owners will probably be very quick to agree we should forestall any poaching on their fishing-grounds, before it starts.”
The King nodded—again very slowly. “Then thou dost think we may have transport enow.”
“Probably. And what we lack, I think shipwrights can turn out with around-the-clock shifts by the time we’ve gathered all the provisions we’ll need. No, transportation’s not the problem.”
“Indeed?” The King smiled weakly. “What is, then?”
“Fighting the beastmen on their home ground when they’re battling for their lives—and for their wives’ and children’s lives, too.”
Tuan stared at him for a moment. When he spoke his voice was a ghostly whisper. “Aye, ‘twill be a bloody business. And few of those who sail shall be wafted home.”
“If we make it a fight to the death,” Rod agreed.
“What else can it be?” Brom demanded, scowling.
“A coup d’etat.” Rod grinned. “According to Yorick and our other beastman-guests, this invasion is the result of a junta managing to seize power in Beastland.”
Tuan shrugged, irritated. “What aid is that, if these people have adhered to their new leader?” But as soon as he’d said it, his gaze turned thoughtful.
Rod nodded. “After a defeat like this, they’re not going to be very happy with the leadership of that shaman, Mughorck, and his Kobold-god. And from what Yorick said, I kinda got the feeling that they never really were screamingly enthusiastic about him anyway—they were just bamboozled into putting him into power in the panic of the moment. If we can make it clear right from the beginning that we’re fighting Mughorck, and not the beastmen as a whole—then maybe they’ll be willing to surrender.”
Tuan nodded slowly. “Thou dost speak eminent good sense, Lord Warlock. But how wilt thou convey to them this intention?”
“That,” Rod said, “is for Yorick to figure out.”
“Nothing to it, m’lord.” Yorick waved the problem away with one outsized ham-hand. “Oldest thing in the book—a nice little whispering-campaign.”
“Whispering-campaigns are that old?” Rod had a dizzying vision of 50,000 years of slander. “But how’ll you get it started?”
Yorick glanced at his fellows, then shrugged as he turned back to Rod. “No help for it—we’ll have to go in ahead of you and do it ourselves.” When Rod stared, appalled, Yorick grinned. “What were you thinking of—leaflets?”
“I was really thinking we might be able to do something with telepathy,” Rod sighed, “but none of our projectives know the language. Yorick’s right—he and his men have got to get the word started somehow. The question is—can we trust them?”
“Trust a man of the foe?” Catharine cried. “Nay, Lord Warlock, I would hope you would not!”