King Kobold Revived (Warlock Series)
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Christopher Stasheff wrote the original King Kobold in 1971. Twelve years later, based on feedback from readers as well as his own personal dissatisfaction with the book, he decided to rewrite the story. *** While King Kobold Revived follows the same basic outline as the original 1971 edition, the book has been totally redone. The author had twelve years between the two writings to mull things over and it shows. The plot is much tighter, the characters much more developed and the writing more fluid. *** Enter the fantastic world of Gramarye once again, where magic lives with science and the Warlock in Spite of Himself, Rod Gallowglass, is once again called upon to save the planet from marauding evil...if he can overcome the insidious mental fog that clouds his mind and threatens his powers.
the bar. And, as the long ships passed the headland, the wind blew the villagers an echo of bellowing laughter. The word was brought to King Tuan Loguire at his capital in Runnymede; and the King waxed wroth. The Queen waxed into a fury. “Nay, then!” she stormed. “These devil’s spawn, they lay waste a village with fire and sword, slay the men and dishonor the women, and bear off the children for bondsmen, belike — and what wilt thou do, thou? Assuredly, thou wilt not revenge!” She was not
Brom felt naked without his beard. He knew that if he had not shaved it, he would not have lasted a moment among the beardless beastmen. Still, the bush of black beard had clothed his cheeks since earliest manhood, and he felt strangely emasculated without it. And having been seemingly cut off at the waist didn’t exactly diminish the feeling. Even though he knew his own legs were still with him, firmly encased inside the ersatz flesh of his “belly,” he somehow felt weakened, and very, very
hung with velvet drapes, cobalt blue this time, and one huge tapestry. The floor boasted an Oriental carpet, with a great black carven wood chair at each corner. Roman couches, upholstered in burgundy plush, stood between the chairs. A large, round, black wood table stood in the center of the room, before a fair-sized fireplace. Six huge calf-bound volumes lay open on the table. Rod didn’t notice the splendor, though; at least, not the splendor of the furnishings. The splendor of his wife was
taking a deep red cape off a hook. He tossed it to Harold, who swung it about his shoulders, fastened the frogs at his collarbone, and immediately began strutting. “Say, now, that’s got some flair to it! Wouldn’t have a full-length mirror, would you, Major?” Rod smiled behind his hand. It never failed; put a cloak, doublet, and hose on a man, and he strutted like a bantam in April. “Catch!” he called, tossing the captain a rapier and dagger. Harold fielded the swordbelt, and buckled it on
free and swung about, eyes outward, guarding Rod. It was needed. Rod stood, sickened and trembling, staring at the raw, butchered meat that a moment ago had been human. Atylem’s men stared, frozen. Then, “We are lost!” howled one, dropping his ax, throwing up his arms in surrender. “The Kobold is dead; I have felt it! Atylem is dead, I have seen it! Lost, we are lost!” The cry “Atylem is dead!” echoed through the village, and cries of “We are lost!” “Mercy!” swept the field like a tidal wave.