Arthur H. Landis - Camelot 03

by The Magick of Camelot

  This act of failure in so small a thing elicited exactly what I wanted. A ripple of laughter came from the Alphians, to be joined by the snickers of everyone else. Good. One seldom fears that which he despises. I was waved away by the languid hand of Tarkiis. I bowed low, backed away and returned to our table.

  Sir Dosh, amazingly thick at times, was the first to comment, but in commiseration. He said stoutly, “Pay them no heed, my lord. A bit more practice and we’ll come at them again, turn the tables, as it were.”

  I smiled. I couldn’t help it.

  Then, from the king’s corridor that led to the room of the privy council and the erstwhile royal quarters, there came a, tramping of feet. The doors opened, the drapes were pulled aside and the king and queen were ushered in by armed guards, along with Murie and Caroween, and four daughters of certain slain Marackian lords, all quite young and fair. The four, as opposed to our two princesses, were white-faced, regal—and terrified.

  Murie and Caroween in pantsuits, sleeveless blouses and leathern half-boots, were as beautiful as ever, except for one thing. Their faces were naming red and a splash of black dots ranging in size from a pea to a penny covered their fore-. heads, cheeks, arms and throats. These blemishes continued, obviously, to belly, breasts and loins. By the looks of them, I could only assume that they had some sort of pox….

  The king and queen were still arrayed in what was once royal garb. Unfortunately the clothes were the same as those worn on the night of the coming of the Alphians. They’d been allowed no access to their wardrobe; still, the cloth of shirt, pants, gown and stockings was neat, though frayed; clean, though faded.

  The Alphians were applauding the sweating, red-faced threesome who had returned to the tables from the couches. A smattering of additional applause circled the tables. Some of this last may have been for the king, himself, we couldn’t tell. That he was alive at all was a surprise to our Kelbian contingent. A place had been kept for them at the upper part of that table which was at right angles to the high tables, the angle nearest the corridor to the royal chambers, which they apparently still occupied….

  Good. I relaxed somewhat. It was the ideal setup.

  The four daughters of the former lords of Marack were marched to the center of the open rectangle and forced to stand before the sky lords. Hearing the hissing of indrawn breaths from some tables and seeing the glittering eyes and florid faces of certain lords and merchants, I had the presentiment that what we were about to see was nothing new in this Alphian court.

  The priest-spokesman—and I’d already marked him as one to whom I’d devote some serious attention if the opportunity arose—cried out, “Well, now! The mounts have arrived. Where are the riders? Who among you, sirs, has a wish to play tonight? Our sky lords, who dearly love the game, have called for three races to be run, the winner to receive—” and he held up a great diamond on a golden chain for all to see—”this princely bauble. This to the man who’s still aboard when all others have failed! What say you all? Who’ll be the first to volunteer his prowess?”

  Four mattresses with sundry silken, down-stuffed pillows bad been brought by as many lackeys and placed directly before the center high table. Tarkiis, Marques and another whose name I’d heard shouted as Coriad all leaned forward in unbridled anticipation of what could only be a coupling of the four girls with whomever would volunteer themselves;

  I was not amused. The initiation of the likes of Tarkiis to sex was like introducing candy to a spoiled brat, honey to a Terran grizzly, or red meat to piranhas. There was no controlling it. I was reminded of a Terran historical work having to do with the inmates of an asylum taking over the asylum. The Alphians were not rational; ergo, there would be nothing rational in anything they did. The D.O.’s “uncle” had neither known nor cared that a smattering of knowledge derived of infantile tapes and discs “does not a human make”; especially when the clay itself has long been spoiled.

  Some things are like character and ethics: a social morality is not just talked about. It must be lived, nurtured across a millennium of time. The truism of the relationship of theory to practice crossed my mind.

  Watching the developing tableau, I also wondered about the two hundred guests from the five kingdoms. There were some, I’m sure, who would accept a Tarkiis as they would a long lost brother; for just as there are changelings, bad seeds and those who can destroy a man, a city, or a world without a qualm, so are there weaklings who but wait for someone to follow. Still, whatever they thought, they were here now and had little choice but to play along with Tarkiis’s game.

  The four young ladies in their white virginal shifts were thrust forward to await their would-be lovers. Tears wet their cheeks; this, despite their aplomb, poise and their downright contempt for the murderers of their fathers.

  A young Ferlachian had arisen, stocky, heavily muscled, brutal. “I’ll have a try, my lords,” he cried, while eyeing the four lewdly. “Just let me pick mine first”

  Tarkiis’s face grew instantly red. “You will take the one nearest you, scum,” he shouted, “and ready yourself.”

  Two more then leaped the tables to join the first; a heavy shouldered, black-furred rascal from Ortmund, and a small red-fur from Gleglyn who licked his lips and found it hard to keep his eyes from the well-rounded bottom of his appointed victim. A fourth man then came running from around the last table on the left. He yelled, “Well now, by Diis, since I’ve made up my mind, let no one deny me a right to the joust.”

  The burly priest, satisfied with these first four, cried out: “You will strip and present yourselves, sirs. All bets,” he announced to those at the tables, “must be down and covered ere the race begins.” The twenty Alphians were already examining the four as they would pit-bulldogs or pure-bred stallions in an elder time.

  Then Murie called out. And oddly enough, I’d half expected her to do something. “It would seem to me, Sir-Tarkiis,” she said clearly and loudly, “that sky men too should compete in this game which is yours alone. Not that the bastards would win,” she laughed. “Oh, no! But we of Fregis, who are true men and women, would at least see some comedy—in a charade that is lacking in anything else.”

  She stood alone in arrant defiance, eyes glaring. And at all the tables the “guests” had arisen to their feet. Whatever their reason, the action honored her.

  “Woman!” Tarkiis raged back. “Do you really seek your death so soon? Take your foulness from this hall, and now! Lest you contaminate us all.”

  She laughed again. “This foulness, I got from you, sir. So you, at least, are safe.”

  Tarkiis went white. He reached for his blaster, yelling, “By our great Diis, you bitch, you do tempt me.”

  “Oh? But not enough, apparently, for I still live. Cease your lies, sir. I and my companion are alive for but one reason—and all the castle knows it. You hold us as bait for my lord the Collin and his sword companion, my cousin, Sir Rawl Fergis. Your god orders it. So much for your personal anger.” And she dared to snap her fingers.

  There was quite a muttering at this forthrightness. And there were some, I’m sure, who, sensing the direction things were taking, would have liked to have gotten the hell out of there. Their fear, however, of what would happen if they tried was greater. I sensed too a resentment against Murie. Her very defiance was a threat to their own possibilities for power and riches as offered by the new god, Diis, and the sky lords.

  I’d felt the first tingling when Rawl was introduced and had gone to speak. It had been with me all this while, the sign that Elioseen was watching… . We had no set plan as to when I was to begin our move. Actually, I have always believed—indeed, been taught—that events will unfold of themselves and in certain ways, dependent of course, upon the objective and subjective conditions of the moment—plus one’s ability to insert the proper fulcrum and/or monkey wrench at the right time. An Adjuster’s teaching begins with the hoary Machiavelli—but moves on to greater things.

  And then the unex
pected; though not necessarily for me. Gen-Rondin, our paragon of legal and moral virtue, arose to walk around the tables and to say directly to Tarkiis, “Oh, great lord, if you would indeed rule in this land and world, think then on what you do. It is not right to prey on the children of the unjustly slam, who have no sword to speak for them. Nor is it meet, sir—”

  Tarkiis, in one liquid movement, drew his laser, leveled and fired. Nothing! He fired again. Nothing! Angered, he threw the weapon from him, drew his blaster and fired that—still nothing.

  My belt had long drawn the power from every energy pack of every weapon in the hall, save two: those captured weapons inside my bible from which the packs had been withdrawn and were no longer in positive negative contact.

  Others of the twenty white-robed angels had also drawn and fired; with the same results. They stared in puzzled wonder at the useless metal in their hands.

  Then it was truly the proper moment so that I too stepped out and took my place at Gen-Rondin’s side, while signaling my companions to stay where they were. To orchestrate it property was the thing.

  The Alphian called Coriad looked haughtily down at me and fingered his useless weapon. Ignoring him, I called bluntly to Tarkiis: ‘Tell your men,” I said, “to sheathe then-weapons, for your day, sir, is over. And what you have done to this world of Fregis you can no longer do.”

  I spoke more for the ears of those at the tables than for the Alphians. To hear a challenge such as mine go unanswered, or at the very least to hear it and see me alive and preparing to fight, could only point up the potentially “clay feet” of their new gods. … I would immobilize them if I could.

  The Alphians’ answer was to look at each other and laugh; Tarkiis, especially. His brow a storm cloud, he shouted, “Well, now, you red-eyed beast, you’ve played a trick on us for sure.” He threw his blaster at me. I dodged it. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

  And from all sides to the rear of the tables, from vestibules and corridors, there stepped more and more fully armed Marackians with the white-tab of the new god Diis upon their harness. There were at least two hundred, all led by burly sergeants and priests. I’d not thought there would be so many. Whatever. My prime concern was still limited to those swords that would place themselves between my group, with Murie, Caroween, and the king and queen; for it was obvious now that all must escape simultaneously, and to the corridor to the royal chambers. In that direction, I counted but fifty.

  “Hold!” My roar to the gathering warriors was sufficient to shake the wall tapestries. At the same time I signaled the others to me. They came, in a line to either side. “Hear me, all of you. You were men of Marack before ever you raised your blades to defend this mewling scum in white. I tell you now that they are not angels, and that their god’s an abomination. Look on us! We are but eight. Still will we dare to defy these murderers of the helpless; these despoilers of temples. We will do this. And we will take the king and queen and our two princesses from this place. But we, sirs, will return. For I spoke the truth. The days of the sky men are truly numbered. I therefore ask you to either stand aside or die with them, as you so please—or to return, now, to Marack and your rightful king.”

  On my signal, we then retreated some ten paces from the high tables; upon which I called, “Now!” and we held our hands wide in front of us… . Almost instantly there came a tingling and a roaring all around us as of a great wind from without. It was quite real: a gusty screaming across the courtyard to torture the very eardrums; a blasting and shrieking as of Terra’s fabled Erl-King, tearing at the mighty towers and crenellated battlements. Inside, a blackness grew to damp the glow of the torches, to weaken one’s vision. Like a monstrous distortion, great shadows marched down the walls, evil, grotesque, deformed. They appeared to reach out to touch the amazed Alphians with phantom fingers of ebon-blackness. Then there was a great keening so that the wind suddenly died and the shadows, too. The torches blazed up, sun-bright!

  And there, suspended before each of us, was a gleaming sword and shield. … A whistling sound of indrawn breaths circled the tables like the rustling of autumn leaves in a graveyard.

  Being basically practical, we snatched at them quickly lest Elioseen’s magick weaken and they fall to the floor. From the corner of an eye I’d spotted two smaller swords and shields appearing in the area of the king’s table. These were grabbed just as quickly by two pairs of slender hands. A couple of graceful leaps and the owners had joined us, Caroween and Murie, to take their rightful place in our small shield front.

  Tarkiis, his eyes bulging more with amazement than fear, yelled out, “Who are you, you red-eyed bastard?”

  “I’m who you’re looking for,” I yelled back. “And among these with me are the Lord Gen-Rondin, King’s Justice for Marack, and Sir Rawl Fergis, our King’s Champion. We’ll test those weapons you still wear, my Lord Tarkiis, if you’ve the courage for a real game. But I warn you, though we are ten and you are twenty”—I’d deliberately omitted the two hundred Marackians in the hope that phychologically they would then omit themselves—”we deem it that you’ve been rightly judged by our good Gen-Rondin and have been found wanting in every way. His sentence is death. We intend, sirs, to carry it out right here and now. I therefore ask you to come down.”

  Ah, the bravado of it. And all of Camelot-Fregis loved bravado. No matter that he who had taken the mask for his very own, me, was beginning to sweat the wrong kind of sweat, i.e., the sweat of fear, they loved it. How now, indeed, could our Marackians take the Alphian side? Unfortunately, I knew the answer to that, too. We’d win some and lose some. The question was—how many would we lose?

  But Tarkiis had fallen strangely silent, staring; his brows knit at something he apparently saw beyond my shoulders. The remaining Alphians, some with swords half drawn, stared, too. Indeed, all the court, including the many white-tabbed men-at-arms, were gazing hypnotically to our rear.

  I turned to risk a look. I had to.

  The great iron-bound doors had been flung open, wide. Little whirlwinds, zephyrs and a rain-washed breeze tore past us, bringing leaves from somewhere and a spate of perfumed raindrops. Touched by these seemingly disparate wind gusts, the candles and torches on every side now truly guttered, and the black shadows, as created by the downright witchery of Elioseen’s magick, returned, albeit this time quite ominous. Now they were possessed of life. In the entrance all was dark except for a number of guards straining to close the doors. They could not. The ponderous double weight of timber seemed wedged, and this by no human hand.

  And then I saw him as I’d so often seen bun in my dreams. He came strolling toward us with a quite natural aplomb; two feet, three inches of warm brown fur. His shades were gone. He wore no booties; no clothing of any kind. He held a single item in one paw—his flute. I thought, my god, would he dare to play it now? He did and he didn’t. He but placed it to his lips once as he walked and blew one small, melodious, ululating note—and the flute disappeared.

  I’d long known that one of its purposes was to trigger previously implanted suggestions, similar to the’ post-hypnotic kind. But what that single note had keyed in the Marackian’s subconscious this time, I didn’t know. Damn Hooli!

  Making his way around our sternly martial group, he paused for the briefest of seconds, to stare owlishly at me. He then continued on to climb the table leg where the royal family sat and to deposit himself into the lap of King Olith Caronne. He then deliberately extended a small paw to touch the hand of poor Queen Tindil; this, with a soft and loving pat. Already I could feel the “goodness” spreading.

  The question, however, was why? Why was he here? Why now?

  He had never in the past gone anywhere near the action. He’d even created the mind slogan which all northerners learned to repeat as if it were gospel: “Gentle Pug-Boos do not go to war.”

  Whatever the signal, most of the two hundred men-at-arms had got it; hard and clear. Some two dozen or so, for reasons of black deeds alread
y committed with and for the Alphians, moved woodenly to align themselves with the sky men. The handful of merchants and such still at the tables flanking Tarkiis’s made haste to withdraw to the tables below. They dared not flee the hall entirely.

  Another twenty of the white-tabbed swordsmen filtered through to us. If Hooli’s signal and presence, like my bravado, had been to neutralize the majority and to intimidate the minority that chose to stay with Tarkiis, well he, or we, had partially succeeded….

  The ensuing battle inside the great hall of Glagmaron Castle was as none in which I’d ever fought before. We actually maneuvered, exchanged insults and glared at each other for some minutes before the first sword was ever raised. The Alphians, though unafraid for reasons of pure stupidity, were still reluctant to come down from behind their table. I think that they actually had such contempt for us that even to contemplate a mano-a-mano engagement turned their stomachs. …

  Seizing the time to take Murie into my arms, I said lightly of the steel long-shirt which I felt beneath her blouse and pants, “I see you came prepared, my love.”