Of course, if a warlord took over a whole nation, the distinction between warlord and dictator became rather blurry; but the anarchist’s technique was to keep several warlords fighting, and increase their number as much as possible.
“Dost thou truly believe,” Tuan asked, “that both are prongs of one single attack?”
Rod shook his head. “Can’t be sure; they could just as easily be two independent efforts, each trying to take advantage of the other. But for all practical purposes, we’re fighting two separate enemies, and have to split our forces.”
“Then,” said Tuan with decision, “the wisest course is to carry the fight to one enemy, and maintain a guard against the other.” He looked down at Catharine. “We must double the size of our army, at least, my love; for, some must stay here to guard whilst some go overseas to the beastmen’s domain.”
“Thou dost speak of war, mine husband—of war full and bloody.”
Tuan nodded gravely.
Catharine squeezed her eyes shut. “I had feared it would come to this pass. Eh, but I have seen men in battle ere now—and the sight did not please me.”
That, Rod decided, was another huge improvement.
Catharine looked up at Tuan again. “Is there no other way?”
He shook his head heavily. “There cannot be, sweet chuck. Therefore must we gather soldiers—and shipwrights.”
Tuan, Rod guessed, was about to invent a navy.
All Rod had said was, “Take me to the beastmen.” He hadn’t asked for a tour of the dungeons.
On second thought, maybe he had.
The sentry who guided him turned him over to a fat warder with a bunch of huge keys at his belt. Then the soldier turned to go. Rod reached out and caught his arm. “Hold on. The beastmen’re supposed to be our guests, not our captives. What’re they doing down here?”
The sentry’s face hardened. “I know not, Lord Warlock. ‘Tis as Sir Maris commanded.”
Rod frowned; that didn’t sound like the old knight. “Fetch me Sir Maris forthwith—uh, that is, give him my compliments and tell him I request his presence down here.” Then he turned to follow the warder while the sentry clattered off angrily.
Rod lost track of his whereabouts very quickly; the dungeon was a virtual maze. Probably intentionally…
Finally the warder stopped, jammed a one-pound key into a porthole lock in a door that was scarcely wider than he was. He turned it with both hands, and the key grated through a year or two’s worth of rust. Then the warder kicked the door open, revealing a twenty-foot-square chamber with a twelve-foot ceiling and five glowering beastmen who leaped to their feet, hands reaching for daggers that weren’t there any more. Then the flickering light of the warder’s torch showed them who their visitor was, and they relaxed—or at least Yorick did, and the others followed suit.
Rod took a breath to start talking, then had to shove his face back into the hall for a second one. Braced against aroma, he stepped through the doorway, looking around him, his nose wrinkling. “What in the name of Heaven do you call this?”
“A dungeon,” Yorick said brightly. “I thought that’s where we were.”
“This is an insult!”
Yorick nodded slowly. “Yeah… I’d say that was a good guess…”
Rod spun about, glaring at the warder. “These men are supposed to be our guests!‘’
“Men?” the warder snorted. Then he squelched his feelings under an occupational deadpan. “I but do as I am bid, Lord Warlock.”
“And what’s this?” Rod reached out a foot to nudge a wooden bowl next to Yorick’s foot.
“Gruel,” Yorick answered.
Rod felt his gorge rise. “What’s in it?”
“They didn’t bother telling us,” Yorick said. “But let me guess—an assortment of grains from the bottom of the bin. You know—the ones that fell out of the bag and spilled on the floor…”
“I hope you didn’t eat any of it!”
“Not really.” Yorick looked around. “To tell you the truth, it’s not what’s in it that bothers me. It’s how old it is.”
Rod scowled. “I thought that was a trick of the light.”
“No.” Yorick jerked his head up at a window set high in the wall—barred, of course. “We took it over into the sunshine while there still was some. It really is green. Made great bait, though.”
“Bait?” Rod looked up with foreboding.
“Yeah. We’ve been holding a rat-killing contest.” Yorick shrugged. “Not much else to do with the time.” He jerked his head toward a pile of foot-long corpses. “So far, Kroligh’s ahead, seven to four.”
Against his better judgment, Rod was about to ask who had the four when the warder announced, “Comes Sir Maris.”
The old knight stepped through the door, his head covered with the cowl of his black robe; but the front was open, showing chain mail and a broadsword. “Well met, lord Warlock.”
That’s debatable, Rod thought; but he had always respected and liked the old knight, so he only said, “As are you, Sir Maris.” He took a deep breath to hold down the anger that threatened to spill over now that it had a logical target. “Why are these men housed within a prison?”
Sir Maris blinked, surprised at the question. “Why—His Majesty bade me house them according to their rank and station!”
Rod let out a huge, gusty breath. “But, Sir Maris—they are not criminals! And they are not animals, either.”
“Assuredly they cannot be much more!”
“They can—vastly more!” Rod’s anger drowned under the need to make the old knight understand. “It’s the soul that matters, Sir Maris—not intelligence. Though they’ve enough of that, Lord knows. And their souls are every bit as human as ours. Just as immortal too, I expect.” Rod didn’t mention that there were two ways of interpreting that statement. “Their appearance may differ from ours, and they may wear only the skins of beasts; but they are free, valiant warriors—yeomen, if you will. And, within their own land and nation, the least of these is the equal of a knight.”
Sir Maris’s eyes widened, appalled; but Yorick had a complacent smile. “A little thick, maybe, milord—but gratifying. Yes, gratifying. We are refugees, though.”
Rod clasped Sir Maris’s shoulder. “It’ll take a while to understand, I know. For the time being, take my word for it: the King would be appalled if he knew where they were. Take them up to a tower chamber where they may climb up to the roof for air.”
“To walk the battlements, my Lord Warlock?” Sir Maris cried in outrage. “Why, they might signal the enemy!”
Rod closed his eyes. “The enemy has never come closer than the coast, Sir Maris—hundreds of miles away. And these men are not the enemy—they’ve fled from the enemy!” He glanced back at the Neanderthals. “And, come to that—please give them back their knives.”
“Arms!?” the old knight gasped. “Lord Warlock—hast thou thought what they might do with them?”
“Kill rats,” Rod snapped. “Which reminds me—give them rations fit for a fighting man. Bread, Sir Maris—and meat!”
The old knight sighed, capitulating. “It shall be as thou hast…”
“Dada!” Rod’s shoulder suddenly sagged under twenty pounds of baby. He reached up in a panic to catch Magnus’s arm, then remembered that, for Magnus at least, falling was scarcely a danger. He let out a sigh of relief, feeling his knees turn to jelly. “Don’t do that to me, Son!”