Rod’s eyes widened. “Now it begins to make sense. What’d they expect the beastmen to do, take over right away?”
“I’m sure they did. Leastways, by the time we managed to find ‘em again they were running around in horned helmets and talking about going a-viking—and I don’t think they dreamed that up on their own.”
“So you hit the totalitarian force with everything you had and stole your Neanderthals back. But why couldn’t you have taken them someplace else?”
“Have pity on the poor people, milord! Would you want them to spend their whole existences being balls in a cosmic game of Ping-Pong? No, we figured it was better to let them stay and try to keep them under protection. We mounted a strong guard—but we forgot about infiltration.”
“Mughorck.” Rod’s mouth twisted. “Then he isn’t really a Neanderthal?”
“Oh, he’s the genuine article, all right—just as much as I am!”
Rod stared at Yorick. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I see. They ‘adopted’ him in infancy and raised him to be an agent.”
Yorick nodded. “A farsighted plan, but it paid off. When the fat hit the fire we couldn’t do anything about it. It was either kill the people we’d been trying to civilize, or run—so we ran.” For a moment, he looked miserable. “Sorry we slipped up.”
Rod sighed. “Not much we can do about it now, I suppose.”
“No, not really,” Yorick answered. “ ‘Fraid you’re stuck with ‘em.”
It was the perfect moment for Tuan to come charging into the cave.
He took one look at the Kobold and sawed back on the reins, freezing—just for a moment, of course; the monster was shut down. But it was a sight to give anyone pause.
Behind him, sandals and hooves clattered and Brother Chillde jerked to a halt to stare, paralyzed, at the monster. “My liege.. what…”
Tuan turned to him, frowning, then caught a glimpse of what was behind the monk. He looked again, and stared. “Lord Warlock!”
Rod turned, frowning. “Yes?”
“But how didst thou…” Tuan turned back to him, and whites showed all around his eyes. “But thou wert even now…” He jerked around to stare past Brother Chillde again.
Rod followed his gaze, and saw…
Himself.
A giant self, astride a behemoth of a horse; a handsome self, with the form of a Greek statue.
Brother Chillde stared at the double, then whipped around to stare at Rod, then back to the double, back to Rod—and the double began to shrink, the horse began to dwindle; the doppelganger’s face became more homely, its features more irregular, its muscles less fantastic—and Rod found himself staring at an exact duplicate of himself.
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.