“Nay, Lord Warlock.” Toby’s eyes were unfocused, watching the landscape of the mind rather than the world around him. “Whoever sent that one prayer, prays no longer.”
“Then, there’s no way of telling how close they are. Can’t be long now, though.”
In the distance, thunder rumbled.
Then it came, gliding out of the mist with muted splashing—a tall, gaunt serpent, mouth wide in a snarl, wicked horns probing from its forehead. Shadowy figures moved on its back.
Rod held his breath.
The dragon drove up onto the beach, slowing to a stop with the grinding of sand against wood. Beastmen began to drop off its back—squat, hulking, helmeted shapes, with round shields covering their torsos and heavy, double-bladed axes in their hands.
Rod squinted, trying to make out details through the rain, but it was no use. He could scarcely see more than a silhouette.
“Let me fight, Lord Warlock,” Toby hissed in his ear.
Rod whirled, pressing a finger to his lips and shaking his head with a furious scowl. Confound the kid, did he want to give away the whole ambush? Rod could’ve sworn his lieutenants could’ve heard that whisper a hundred yards away in the tree line. He wished Toby could read his mind—but he had to settle for a glare and a head-shake. The lad’s juvenile male hormones were getting the better of him, urging him on to glory and an early funeral. Which was his own business—but Rod’s business was making sure Toby’d still be alive afterwards for his main assignment. Which would be more than dangerous enough.
The young man stepped back, smoldering.
Rod turned back to the beach just as the beastmen saw Styenkov’s soldiers. Whatever they yelled to each other was lost in a rumble of thunder, but they quickly scuttled into place, pulling themselves into a rough semblance of a line. Then they began to move forward slowly.
One or two of Styenkov’s soldiers began to march toward the beastmen. He shouted them back into line. Good man. The rest of his men brandished their pikes, waiting for the enemy.
The beastmen were halfway up the beach now. Rod could hear a low rumble as they called to one another. They were beginning to realize something was wrong; their tone was one of alarm, and their advance was grinding down to a halt. What was tipping Rod’s hand? He darted a glance at Styenkov’s soldiers, then looked again. Here and there, a man had straightened up a little, pike drooping—and stood frozen at a completely improbable angle. Rod realized they were the ones who had forgotten the standing order and had looked the enemy square in the eye. Now they were temporary statues, frozen by the Evil Eye.
So it really worked! It wasn’t imagination!
But the rest of Styenkov’s men were watching the enemy’s hands, or feet—and were still very much a menace. The beast-men slowed and stopped—apparently they didn’t have too much taste for an even fight. They hunched in on themselves, heads hunkered down; they seemed to be waiting. For what?
The beastmen began to make bellowing noises in deep rumbling bass voices. Rod suddenly realized that they were calling out in unison. He strained, trying to pick intelligible phonemes out of booming voices. It was getting easier, because they were getting their timing better; it was almost one unified shout now. Rod listened, then shook his head; there was no way of saying what it meant in their own language. To him, though, it sounded like:
“Cobalt! Cobalt! Cobalt!”
… Which was ridiculous; at their level of technology, they couldn’t even have the concept of bombs, let alone atomic fission.
Thunder rocked the land, and the beach lit up with an explosion of lightning. Then there was only gloom again, darker for having had the sudden light. Rod peered through the murk—and stared. Sir Styenkov’s men stood frozen in their buskins!
A ragged cheer rumbled up from the beastmen, and they waddled forward, making a grating sound. With a shock, Rod realized they were laughing.
But they were moving so slowly! Why? Didn’t they want to reach their intended victims?
Then Sir Styenkov’s whole line lurched forward. Then they lurched again, and again—and, step-stumbling-step, they marched toward their butchers!
Something bumped into Rod’s shoulder. He whirled—just in time to catch Toby. The young warlock’s body was rigid, and his eyes had lost focus. Had he been tuned in on a soldier’s mind when the Evil Eye froze him?
Then Rod saw one of Styenkov’s soldiers slow and stop. His head lifted slowly; then he shivered, looked about him wildly, realized what had happened, set his pike on an enemy, and started marching again with grim purpose. Further down the line, another soldier began to waken, too.
Rod stared down at Toby. The young idiot had found a way to get into the fight after all!
Thunder broke over them, and lightning stabbed the land again.
The soldiers froze solid again, and Toby’s whole body whiplashed in a single massive convulsion; then he went limp, eyes closed.
Rod stared, appalled. Then he touched the carotid artery in the boy’s throat and felt the pulse. Reassured, he lowered the young warlock. “Fess!”
“Here, Rod.” The great black horse loomed up out of the darkness.
“Just stand over him and protect him.”
“But, Rod…”
“No ‘buts’!” Rod turned, sprinting away toward the battle-line, whipping out his sword. “Flying Legion! Charge!”
Fess sighed, and stepped carefully over Toby’s still form, so that the young warlock lay directly beneath his black steel body.
Rod caught up with Styenkov’s line just as they began stumbling toward the beastmen again. He looked from one to another frantically; their eyes were glazed, unseeing.
The beastmen began to waddle forward again, making the chugging, grating noise that passed for laughter with them. Rod whirled about, staring at them, just as they broke into a lumbering run. Rod glanced back at the stumbling soldiers, then ahead; the enemy were only huge, hulking shadows against the gray of stormclouds, great shadows looming closer.
Lightning flashed, and the beastmen roared a cheer. And Rod froze solid, but only with shock—because, for the first time, he had a really good look at a beastman.
And he recognized it.
Neanderthal.
There was no mistaking the sloping forehead, the brow ridges, the chinless jaw, the lump at the base of the skull… He had an overwhelming desire to look one in the mouth and check its dentition.
Then a chill hand clutched his belly. What could Neanderthals be doing on Gramarye?
Attacking, obviously. He noticed two war clubs swinging up, then starting to swing down toward him. He leaped aside just as the first whistled past him, then threw himself into a lunge, sword arrowing toward the other clubman. Its round shield swung up; the beastman caught Rod’s point neatly. For a moment, Rod stared directly into the little piggy eyes over the top of the shield—little piggy eyes that seemed to grow, and glow, with a bright, flaming bead at their centers that probed into his brain, leaving a trail of cold fire that didn’t burn, but froze. It fascinated; it held all his attention, numbing his brain, stopping all thought. Dimly, off to the side, he noticed the huge war club swinging up for another blow; but that didn’t matter. All that really mattered was that bright, burning bead at the center of the eyes…
A furious scream rang in his ears, blotting out the sounds of battle, a scream such as a Valkyrie might make if she were actually allowed to attack; and a sudden warmth seemed to wrap around his mind, pushing away the bright, burning bead, away and away until it was only a pair of eyes again… the eyes of a warrior beastman whose huge war club was windmilling down to crush Rod’s head.
He leaped back, yanking his sword free from the shield, and the club whistled past harmlessly. Behind the round shield, the beastman snarled and swung his club up again. Rod advanced and feinted high, at the face. The shield snapped up to cover, and Rod riposted and slashed downward. The sword-tip whipped across the creature’s thighs, tracing a line of bright red. It shrieked, clutching at its legs, and collapsed rolling on the ground. Rod didn’t stay to watch; he turned to glance at the battle-line—and saw a war ax swinging straight at his sinuses, with a broad gloating grin behind it (yes, the dentition was right). Rod leaped to the side and chopped down, lopping off the ax-head.