Closer to the center of the camp, a dark spherical object hurtled through the air to land and break open in the center of another group of beastmen. With an angry humming sound, tiny black flecks filled the air. The beastmen leaped up and ran howling and swatting about them with more motivation than effect. Little red dots appeared on their skins.
At another group, a series of short, violent explosions from the fire sent the beastmen jumping back in alarm.
At still another fire, a beastman raised his mug to his lips, tilted his head back, and noticed that no beer flowed into his mouth. He scowled and peered into the mug.
He dropped it with an oath as it landed on his toe, and jumped back with notable speed, holding one foot and hopping on the other as a small human figure scampered out of the mug with a high-pitched, mocking laugh.
The elf howled in high glee and scampered on through the camp.
Another beastman swung after him, mouthing horrible oaths as his huge club drove down.
A small hand swung out of the shadows and clipped through his belt with a very sharp knife.
The loincloth, loosened, wobbled a little.
In another two bounds, it had decidedly slipped.
The elf scampered on through the camp, chuckling, and a whole squad of beastmen fell in after him, bellowing, clubs slamming the ground where the elf had just been.
A small figure darted between them and the fugitive, strewing something from a pouch at its side.
The Neanderthals lunged forward, stepped down hard, and jumped high, screaming and frantically jerking leprechaun shoe-tacks out of their soles.
The fleeing elf, looking over his shoulder to laugh, ran smack into the ankles of a tall, well-muscled Neanderthal—a captain who growled, swinging his club up for the death-blow.
A leprechaun popped up near his foot and slammed him a wicked one on the third toe.
The captain howled, letting go of his club (which swung on up into the air, turning end over end) as he grabbed his hurt foot, hopping about.
He hopped up, and the club fell down and the twain met with a very solid and satisfying thunk.
As he went down, the fleeing elf—Puck—scampered away chortling.
He skipped into a tent, shouting, “Help! Help! Spies, traitors, spies!”
Three beastmen dashed in from the nearest campfire, clubs upraised and suspicions lowered, as the tent’s occupants swung at Puck and missed him. Outside, a score of elves with small hatchets cut through the tent ropes.
The poles swayed and collapsed as the tent fabric enfolded its occupants tenderly. The beastmen howled and struck at the fabric, and connected with one another.
Chuckling, Puck slipped out from under the edge of the tent. Within twenty feet, he had another horde of beastmen howling after him.
But the beastmen went sprawling, as their feet shot out from under them, flailing their arms in a losing attempt at keeping their balances—which isn’t easy when you’re running on marbles. They scrambled back to their feet somehow, still on precarious balance, whirling about, flailing their arms, and in a moment it was a free-for-all.
Meanwhile, the captain slowly sat up, holding his ringing head in his hands.
An elf leaned over the top of the tent and shook something down on him.
He scrambled up howling, slapping at the specks crawling over his body—red ants can be awfully annoying—executed a beautiful double-quick goose step to the nearest branch of the river and plunged in over his head.
Down below, a water sprite coaxed a snapping turtle, and the snapper’s jaws slammed into the captain’s already swollen third toe.
He climbed out of the water more mud than man, and stood up bellowing.
He flung up his arms, shouting, and opened his mouth wide for the hugest bellow he could manage, and with a splock, one large tomato, appropriately overripe, slammed into his mouth.
Not that it made any difference, really; his orders weren’t having too much effect anyway, since his men were busily clubbing at one another and shouting something about demons…
Then the marines landed.
The rowboats shot in to grate on the pebbles, and black-cloaked soldiers, their faces darkened with ashes, leaped out of the boats, silent in the din. Only their sword-blades gleamed. For a few minutes. Then they were red.
An hour later, Rod stood on the hilltop, gazing down. Below him, moaning and wailing rose from the beastmen’s camp. The monk sat beside him, his face solemn. “I know they are the foe, Lord Gallowglass—but I do not find these groans of pain to be cause for rejoicing.”
“Our soldiers think otherwise.” Rod nodded back toward the camp and the sounds of low-keyed rejoicing. “I wouldn’t say they’re exactly jubilant—but a score of dead beastmen has done wonders for morale.”
Brother Chillde looked up. “They could not use their Evil Eye, could they?”
Rod shook his head. “By the time our men landed, they didn’t even know where the enemy was, much less his eyes. We charged in; each soldier stabbed two beastmen; and we ran out.” He spread his hands. “That’s it. Twenty dead Neanderthals—and their camp’s in chaos. We still couldn’t storm in there and take that camp, mind you—not behind those earthworks, not with a full army. And you may be very sure they won’t come out unless it’s raining. But we’ve proved they’re vulnerable.” He nodded toward the camp again. “That’s what they’re celebrating back there. They know they can win.”
“And the beastmen know they can be beaten.” Brother Chillde nodded. “ ‘Tis a vast transformation, Lord Warlock.”
“Yes.” Rod glowered down at the camp. “Nasty. But vast.”
“Okay.” Rod propped his feet up on a camp stool and took a gulp from a flagon of ale. Then he wiped his mouth and looked up at Gwen and Agatha. “I’m braced. Tell me how you think it worked.”
They sat inside a large tent next to Tuan’s, the nucleus of a village that grew every hour around the King’s Army.
“We’ve got them bottled up for the moment,” Rod went on, “though it’s just a bluff. Our raids are keeping them scared to come out because of our ‘magic’—but as soon as they realize we can’t fight the Evil Eye past the first thunderclap, they’ll come boiling out like hailstones.”
The tassels fringing the tent doorway stirred. Rod noted it absently; a breeze would be welcome—it was going to be a hot, muggy day.
“We must needs have more witches,” Gwen said firmly.
Rod stared at her, appalled. “Don’t tell me you’re going to go recruiting among the hill-hags again! Uh—present company excepted, of course.”
“Certes.” Agatha glared. The standing cup at her elbow rocked gently. Rod glanced at it, frowning; surely the breeze wasn’t that strong. In fact, he couldn’t even feel it…
Then his gaze snapped back to Agatha’s face. “Must what?”
“Persuade that foul ancient, Galen, to join his force here with ours,” Agatha snapped. “Dost thou not hearken? For, an thou dost not, why do I speak?”
“To come up with any idea that crosses your mind, no matter how asinine.” Rod gave her his most charming smile. “It’s called ‘brainstorming.’ ”
“Indeed, a storm must ha’ struck thy brain, if thou canst not see the truth of what I say!”
The bowl of fruit on the table rocked. He frowned at it, tensing. Maybe a small earthquake coming…?
He pulled his thoughts together and turned back to Agatha. “I’ll admit we really need Galen. But how’re you going to persuade him to join us?”
“There must needs be a way.” Gwen frowned, pursing her lips.
An apple shot out of the bowl into the air. Rod rocked back in his chair, almost overturning it. “Hey!” Then he slammed the chair forward, sitting upright, frowning at Gwen, hurt. “Come on, dear! We’re talking serious business!”
But Gwen was staring at the apple hanging in the air; an orange jumped up to join it. “My lord, I did not…”