“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 manner of aiding dost thou have a-mind?”
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…”
“And warlocks,” Rod reminded. “Don’t forget the warlocks.”
Tuan frowned. “I trust I will not.”
“Good. Then you won’t mind seeking out some more of them.”
“Nay, I surely will not,” Tuan said slowly. “Yet where wilt thou discover them?”
Rod sighed and shook his head. “The ladies had the right idea, Tuan. We should’ve gone out recruiting.”
Tuan’s mouth twisted. “What young witch or warlock will join us now, with this crazed preacher raising the whole of the land against them?”
“Not too many,” Rod admitted. “That’s why I’ve realized Gwen had the right idea.”
Tuan’s frown deepened in puzzlement. “Of what dost thou speak?”
“The old ones, my liege—starting with Galen.”
For the first time since Rod had known him, he saw fear at the back of Tuan’s eyes. “Rod Gallowglass—dost thou know whereof thou dost speak?”
“Yeah—a grown wizard.” Rod frowned. “What’s so bad about that? Don’t we want a little more mystical muscle on our side?”
“Aye—if he’s on our side i’ truth!”
“He will not be,” croaked Agatha from a boulder twenty feet away. “He doth care for naught but himself.”
“Maybe.” Rod shrugged, irritated. “But we’ve got to try, don’t we?”
“My lord,” Gwen said softly, “I ha’ told thee aforetime, ’tis the lightning that lends them their strength—and not even old Galen can fight ‘gainst a thunderbolt.’‘
Rod turned slowly toward her, a strange glint coming into his eye. “That’s right, you did mention that, didn’t you?”
Gwen nodded. “We did free our soldiers from the Evil Eye—but the lightning flared, and the witches lay unconscious. ‘Twas then the soldiers froze, and the beastmen mowed them like hay in summer.”
“Lightning,” Rod mused.
He turned away, slamming his fist into his palm. “That’s the key, isn’t it? The lightning. But how? Why? The answer’s there somewhere, if only I could find it and FESSten to it.”
“Here, Rod,” his mentor murmured.
“Why would the Evil Eye be stronger right after a lightning flash?” Rod seemed to ask of no one in particular.
The robot hesitated a half-second, then answered. “Directly prior to a lightning flash, the resistance of the path the bolt will follow lowers tremendously, due to ionization, thus forming a sort of conductor between the lithosphere and the iono-sphere.”
Rod frowned. “So?”
Tuan frowned, too. “What dost thou, Lord Warlock?”
“Just talking to myself,” Rod said quickly. “A dialogue with my alter ego, you might say.”
Fess disregarded the interruption. “The ionosphere is also capable of functioning as a conductor, though the current passed would have to be controlled with great precision.‘’
Rod’s lips formed a silent O.
Gwen sat back with a sigh. She had long ago acquired the wifely virtue of patience with her husband’s eccentricities. He would’ve been patient with hers as well, if he could find any (he didn’t think of esper powers as eccentric).