Brother Chillde’s gaze still swiveled back and forth from one to the other like a metronome. “But what… how…”
“By thyself,” Brom rumbled behind him. “It is thou who hath made this co-walker, friar, though thou didst not know it.”
Brother Chillde sighed as his eyes rolled up and his knees buckled. He collapsed in a dead faint.
“He’ll get over it,” Rod assured the company.
“Thy double will not,” Brom snorted as he watched the co-walker blur, sag, and melt into a huge heap of fungus.
A sponge rubber club hit Rod in the back of the neck, and a little voice demanded fretfully, “Gi’y‘up!”
Rod grinned, reached up, and plucked his son off his shoulders.
Magnus’s eyes went round and wide; foreboding entered his face. “Naw’y baby?”
“Not this time.” Rod tried hard to look severe, and failed. “No, good baby. By accident, maybe, but good baby, anyway.” He tickled Magnus’s tummy, and the baby chuckled and squirmed. “But Daddy’s busy just now, and I’ve got a job for you.”
Magnus bobbed his head. “Baby help!”
“Right.” Rod pointed to the heap of witch moss. “Get rid of that for me, will you?”
The baby frowned at the pile, then screwed his face up in intense concentration. The fungus began to twitch, to heave; it separated into fifty or sixty fragments, each of which stretched up, developed arms and legs, helmets, shields, and armor—and an army of toy knights stood waiting at attention.
“Pretty!” Magnus chirped, and drifted up out of Rod’s arms. “March!”
He drifted toward the doorway, calling commands that were frequently incomprehensible as his new model army marched before him out the cave-mouth and down the ramp.
A broomstick swooped in the entrance just before Magnus left it, and an arm reached out and pulled him firmly against a hip. “And where wouldst thou go, my bonny babe?”
“Mommy!” Magnus cried in delight and threw his arms around her neck.
Another broomstick wobbled in beside Gwen’s. Agatha cast a brief smiling glance at the pair, then came in for a landing.
“Hail, reverend dame!” Tuan called. “Are all thy witches well?”
“All,” Agatha agreed, hobbling forward. “But then, I’m certain the High Warlock could ha’ told ye as much.”
Tuan cast a questioning glance at Rod, who nodded. “I didn’t really know, you understand—but when the mental fog lifted for the third time, I was pretty sure.” He turned to Agatha. “And how’s your son?”
“Vanished,” Agatha retorted, “and with joy; for when that unholy weight lifted from our minds, Galen’s thoughts blended fully with mine and, from their combination, Harold was able to lift what he required. He’s homeward sped, to wake his body.”
Rod eyed her narrowly. “You don’t exactly seem heart-broken.”
“I am not.” Her eye glinted. “I’ve knowledge of the old stiff stick now; I’ve seen deeply into him, and know what he holds hid.”
Rod frowned, puzzled. “And that’s enough to make you happy?”
“Aye; for now I’ll invade his Tower truly.”
“But he’ll throw you out again!”
“I think not.” Agatha’s smile widened into a grin. “I think that he will not.”
Rod stared at her for a long moment; then he shrugged. “You must know something I don’t know.”
“Aye.” Gwen met Agatha’s eyes with a smile that held back laughter. “I think she doth.”
“Godspeed ye, then.” Tuan inclined his head towards Agatha. “And the thanks of a kingdom go with thee. If thou wilt come to Runnymede in some weeks time, we’ll honor thee as thou shouldst be.”
“I thank thee, Majesty,” Agatha rejoined, “but I hope to be too deeply occupied for such a jaunt.”
Tuan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but Agatha only dropped a curtsy, albeit a stiff one, and snapped her fingers. Her broomstick shot up beside her; she leaped astride it and floated up into the air.
“Milords, uncover!” Tuan snapped—entirely unnecessary, since no male present was wearing a hat. But they all dutifully pressed their hands over their hearts in respect as they watched the veteran witch sail out the cave-mouth and up into the night.
Rod turned to Gwen with concern. “That’s a long way to go, all the way back to the mainland—and after all the drain of the battle, too! Is she going to be all right?”
“Fear not, my lord,” Gwen said, with a secretive smile. “I believe she shall fare excellently.”
Rod frowned at her, wondering if he was missing something.
Then he sighed and turned away. “Oh, well, back to the aftermath. What do you think we should do with Brother Chillde, my liege?”
Tuan shrugged. “Tend him when he doth wake; what else is there to do? But why was he so taken at the sight of thy double?” He shuddered, “And, come to that, who did craft it?”
“He did,” Rod answered. “He’s a very powerful projective telepath, but he doesn’t know it—and he watched the battles very intensely, trying to remember everything that happened. But he wasn’t trained as an observer, so he kept getting what he really did see confused with what he wanted to see—and what he wanted to see most was the High Warlock performing feats of valor.” Rod had the grace to blush. “I’m afraid he’s come down with a bad case of hero-worship.”
“I comprehend,” Tuan said drily.
“Well, not completely. For this final battle, I’m afraid we used the poor young fellow. I persuaded Puck to make Brother Chillde temporarily blind and to describe the High Warlock the way Brother Chillde wanted to see him—bigger than life, impossibly perfect. The poor friar was sucked in totally, and unknowingly created a witch-moss High Warlock who helped the troops keep up their courage, and had everybody thinking I was down here so my visit to the High Cave could be a complete surprise. Not that it did much good,“ he answered, with a glance at the Kobold.
“Aye—the monster.” Tuan followed his gaze. “We must make disposition of it, must we not?”
The whole company turned to stare at the false god.
“What is this fell creature?” Tuan breathed.
“A Kobold,” Rod growled, face twisting with disgust and nausea. “Does it need any other name?”
“For you and me, yes,” Yorick growled. “What do you think it was, Lord Warlock? A chimpanzee?”
“Its parents were.” Rod turned away. “I can’t see much in the way of surgical scars, so I’m pretty sure they were; but the normal strain might be quite a few generations back. It’s obviously been genetically restructured; that’s the only way you could get a monster like that.” He turned back to the Kobold. “Of course, I suppose you could say it’s a tectogenetic masterpiece. They doctored the chromosomes to make the poor beast into a converter—feed current into it, DC, I suppose, and out comes psionic energy.” He dropped his gaze to the black box, then looked a question at Yorick.
The Neanderthal nodded, nudging the black box with his foot. “Atomic-power pack. Wish I could figure out how to shut this thing off permanently.”
“You mean it’s liable to go on again?”
“Not unless somebody flips the switch.” Yorick eyed the monster warily. “Still, it would be an almighty comfort if that were impossible.” He cocked his head on one side and closed one eye, squinting, looking the Kobold up and down. “I suppose it is a triumph of genetic engineering, if you look at it the right way. That bulging cerebrum can handle one hell of a lot of power. And no forebrain, did you notice that? Lobotomy in the womb. It can’t do anything on its own. No initiative.”
“Just a living gadget,” said Rod grimly.
“Which may be just as well,” Yorick pointed out. “We might conjecture about what it would do if it had a mind of its own…”