Fess plowed on. “The ionosphere is thus capable of functioning as a conductor between any two points on earth—though it would tend toward broadcast; to avoid loss of power some means of beaming would need to be developed. There are several possibilities for such limiting. Signals may thus travel via the ionosphere rather than by the more primitive method of…”
“Power, too,” Rod muttered. “Not just signals. Power.”
Gwen looked up, startled and suddenly fearful.
“Precisely, Rod,” the robot agreed, “though I doubt that more than a few watts would prove feasible.”
Rod shrugged. “I suspect psi powers work in milliwatts anyway.”
Tuan frowned. “Milling what?”
“That’s right. You wouldn’t need much for a psionic blast.”
Tuan eyed him warily. “Rod Gallowglass…”
“All that would be needed,” said Fess, “is a means of conducting the power to ground level.”
“Which is conveniently provided by the ionization of the air just before the lightning bolt, yes! But how do you feed the current into the ionosphere?”
Tuan glanced at Gwen; they both looked apprehensive.
Old Agatha grated, “What incantation’s this?”
“That,” said Fess virtuously, “is their problem, not ours.”
Rod snorted. “I thought you were supposed to be logical!”
Tuan’s head came up in indignation. “Lord Warlock, be mindful to whom you speak!”
“Huh?” Rod looked up. “Oh, not you, Your Majesty. I was, uh… talking to my, uh, familiar.”
Tuan’s jaw made a valiant attempt to fraternize with his toes. Rod could, at that moment, have read a gigantic increase in his reputation as a warlock in the diameters of Tuan’s eyes.
“So.” Rod touched his pursed lips to his steepled fingertips. “Somebody overseas lends the beastmen a huge surge of psionic power—in electrical form, of course; we’re assuming psionics are basically electromagnetic. The beastmen channel the power into their own projective telepathy, throw it into the soldier’s minds—somehow, eye contact seems to be necessary there…”
“Probably a means of focusing power. Unsophisticated minds would probably need such a mental crutch, Rod,” Fess conjectured.
“And from the soldiers’ minds, it flows into the witches’, immediately knocking out anyone who’s tuned in! Only temporarily, thank Heaven.”
“An adequate statement of the situation, Rod.”
“The only question now is: Who’s on the other end of the cable?”
“Although there is insufficient evidence,” mused the robot, “that which is available would seem to indicate more beast-men as donors.”
“Maybe, maybe.” Rod frowned. “But somehow this just doesn’t seem like straight ESP… Oh, well, let it pass for the moment. The big question is not where it comes from, but how we fight it.”
Tuan shrugged. “Thou hast said it, Lord Warlock—that we must seek out every witch and wizard who can be persuaded to join us.”
“We tried that, remember?” But Rod smiled, a light kindling in his eyes. “Now that we’ve got some idea about how the Evil Eye gains so much power so suddenly, we should be able to make better use of the available witch-power.”
The phrase caught Tuan’s military attention. A very thoughtful look came over his face. “Certes…” He began to smile himself. “We must attack.”
“What!?”
“Aye, aye!” Tuan grinned. “Be not concerned, Lord Warlock—I have not gone brain-sick. Yet, consider—till now, it has not been our choice whether to attack or not. Our enemy came in ships; we could only stand and wait the whiles they chose both time and place. Now, though, the place is fixed—by their earthworks.” He nodded contemptuously toward the riverbank below. “We do not now seek a single long ship in the midst of a watery desert—we have a camp of a thousand men laid out before us! We can attack when we will!”
“Yeah, and get chopped to pieces!”
“I think not.” Tuan grinned with suppressed glee. “Not if we fight only when the sky is dear.”
A slow smile spread over Rod’s face.
Tuan nodded. “We will make fray whilst the sun shines.”
“You must admit that the idea has merit, Rod,” Fess said thoughtfully. “Why not attempt it full-scale, immediately?”
“Well, for one thing, those earthworks are a major barrier.” Rod sat astride the great black robot-horse on top of the cliffs in the moonlight. “And for another, well… we’re pretty sure it’ll work, Fess, but…”
“You do not wish to endanger your whole army. Sensible, I must admit. Still, logic indicates that…”
“Yes, but Finagle’s Law indicates caution,” Rod interrupted. “If we made a full-scale frontal attack by day, we’d probably win—but we’d lose an awful lot of men. We might be defeated—and Tuan only bets on a sure thing, if he has a choice.”
“I gather he is not the only one who favors caution. Allow me to congratulate you, Rod, on another step towards maturity.”
“Great thanks,” Rod growled. “A few more compliments like that, and I can hold a funeral for my self-image. How old do I have to be before you’ll count me grown-up—an even hundred?”
“Maturity is mental and emotional, Rod, not chronological. Still, would it seem more pleasant if I were to tell you that you are still young at heart?”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
“Then, I will,” the robot murmured. “And to do you justice, Rod, you have never been a reckless commander.”
“Well… thanks.” Rod was considerably mollified. “Anyway, that’s why we’re just gonna try a raid first. We’ll hit ‘em under a clear sky where they’re weak.”
A dark shadow moved up beside them, about even with Rod’s stirrup. “The moon will set in an hour’s time, Rod Gallowglass.”
“Thanks, Your Elfin Majesty.” Rod looked down at Brom. “Any particular point in the earthworks that’s weaker than the others?”
“Nay. Yet should we spring up the riverbanks to attack them, then would they fall back amazed and confused, and elves might hap upon them and trip them in flight.”
Rod grinned. “While our men relieve their camp of everything portable, eh? Not such a bad idea.”
“I shall be amused,” Brom rumbled.
“You shall? They’ll just die laughing.”
The moon set, and Tuan gave the signal. A picked band of soldiers (all former foresters) clambered into the small boats Rod had hurriedly requisitioned from the local fishermen and rowed toward the beastmen’s camp with feathered oars.
But the advance party was already at work.
The sky was clear, the stars drifted across the hours; but there was no moon this night. The Neanderthal camp lay deep in gloom.
There are superstitions holding that the dark of the moon is a time conducive to magical, and not always pleasant, events. They are justified.
Watchfires dotted the plain locked within the semicircle of cliffs. Groups of beastmen huddled around the fires while sentries paced the shore. In the center of the camp, a large long hut announced the location of the chiefs.
The beastmen were to remember this night for a long time, wishing they could forget. Looking back, they would decide the defeat itself wasn’t all that bad; after all, they fought manfully and well, and lost with honor.
It was the prelude to the battle that would prove embarrassing…
While one of the small groups gathered around one of the fires were companionably swiping gripes as soldiers always have, a diminutive shadow crept unseen between two of them, crawled to the fire, and threw something in. Then it retreated, fast.
The beastmen went on grumbling for a few minutes; then one stopped abruptly and sniffed. “Dosta scent summat strange?” he growled.
The beastman next to him sniffed—and gagged—gripping his belly.
The smell reached the rest of the group very quickly, and quite generously. They scrambled for anywhere, as long as it was away, gagging and retching.