A World Called Camelot

by Arthur H. Landis

  “My lord,” Rawl addressed’ the king, ignoring Keilweir. “Have you heard? I offer now my challenge to the prince— and he will prove his insult on my body, or I on his, and all else who would support him in this matter.”

  The roar had ebbed to heavy silence, with each pair of ears strained for every word.

  The ambassador, white-faced and acutely aware of what was happening, laid a restraining hand upon Keilweir’s arm. “We accept no challenge, my lord,” he said loudly and firmly. “And certainly not from sniveling glory-seekers with their baseless charges. It was our honorable intent to seek the princess Nigaard’s hand in marriage for our prince—that only. Now, with your gracious permission, sire, we will go to the road again and leave this matter for another day.”

  An intake of breath like a soughing wind swept through the gathered throng. The trap had been sprung, but the baited flig was about to escape the hunter, albeit against its will, for the prince of Kelb was literally frothing at the mouth.

  Whether he would win over his ambassador or not, I did not know. It was a chance, however, that we could not risk. I moved out to stand with Rawl before the king.

  “Oh, sire,” I asked calmly, “since much that does not meet the eye seems astir here, I beg one question of this man of Kelb.”

  The king glared down at me. The unity of telepathic urgings had apparently left him, for he said harshly, “We would have done with this, and now! But you, young sir, have earned your single question. Say it!”

  I turned slowly to the prince, caught his eye and held it. “My lord,” I said, “what I may lack in courtly knowledge, I make up for in folksy wisdom. It is known, for instance, that gentle Pug-Boos live only in the lands above the river-sea. Neither the Dark Land of Om, nor any vassal state thereof has ever seen a Pug-Boo. … I now submit to all within this hall that since Om has moved beyond the river-sea, there are no longer Boos in either Kelb or Great Ortmund—they have gone to whence they came. Is this not true, my lord?”

  The quiet was heavier still. The prince was shaken. And by this very fact I knew that I was right. He finally addressed the king, saying, “It is not true, sire.”

  “It is true!” I stated loudly. “And we shall prove it on your bodies. It is written,” I improvised, “that those who have no friendly Pug-Boos for the singing and the council are less than men. I see together with you here a hundred warriors, which in itself is passing strange company for he who brings a marriage vow. No matter. If you are less than men, then I, with this good knight, Rawl Fergis, the noble Breen Hoggle-Fitz of Great Ortmund—and forty-seven untried students from the Collegium of Glagmaron— do challenge the half of you to an Onset of Fifties, for that is all that is allowed. We propose—if I am right and you are less than men—to thrash you soundly. If I am wrong, good prince, if such is truly not the case, then we commend ourselves to Ormon, and may our God have mercy on our souls… .”

  The roar arose again, deafening now, especially from the student tables to the rear of the great hall. I knew that upon the instant of my word they would be at dice for entry to our ranks.

  Never had such a challenge been issued—students against seasoned knights. If I were wrong, though blades were dulled and points the same, we would lead our students to a slaughter. But I thought not. Already, just the thought of what I said had reached them—for, as stated, they knew there were no longer Pug-Boos in Kelb, and they were sore afraid.

  Only the prince and his hundred had remained silent amid the hubbub. They knew they were trapped, and that if they failed before so unlikely a foe, and if the populace of Kelb and Ortmund got wind of it—assumed the loss of Boos to be the reason—then Om would already be less solid upon our shores. …

  Touche! Check! And check again!

  All waited for Prince Keilweir’s reply. It was not long in coming. He looked at his ambassador and at his hundred lords and knights. He then stepped forward, saying simply, for he had no choice, “Oh, sire, what was a jolly wedding party is now a challenged company. We do, to clear our name, accept this offer of the strange knight. And further, now, and for this reason, we do beg your leave to withdraw to choose our heroes for the morrow.”

  Permission was granted.

  Amid the ensuing bedlam of cheers and catcalls following them through the hall, my eyes turned to Murie. Her hands were clasped beneath her chin. Her head was back, and from her throat came peal after peal of delighted girlish laughter. The fact that I, too, could easily be killed had apparently escaped her. But no matter. I was hooked. And I would not have had it any other way. When she quieted down, I grinned and winked from where I stood. She shook her head from sheer exuberance and dared throw me a kiss.

  Over her dainty shoulder the Pug-Boo without the circle around his eye winked, too… .

  When the history of Camelot-Fregis is finally written it will most definitely include the famed Onset, The Battle of the Fifties. For no more outlandish or preposterous a bickering has yet been seen in all the Galaxy. It began with magic. It may well have ended that way. But throughout the charade there was an element, too, of pure and simple guts.

  By morning all of Glagmaron city and many outlying villages had heard of the great challenge. Therefore, where normally half the countryside would rally to attendance, now it seemed that all had come. The area of battle, the lists, was approximately one hundred yards by fifty. The tiers of seats would hold ten thousand and no more. The tents of lords were placed to north and south. But fortunately all the area to the east sloped gently up from the lists, so that the fifty thousand gathered here could also see. The king’s guard patrolled the peripheral areas so that the peasants and tradesmen did not intrude upon the tents of the lords, or upon the field itself. All was carnival. All was pageantry. There seemed as many piemen, venders, sviss peddlers, and whatever, as to equal again the gathering itself.

  Rawl, Hoggle-Fitz, myself, and our forty-seven chosen students—and a choice bunch of heavy-shouldered, thick-necked street fighters they were—were gathered at the southeast point of the greensward. Kelb’s forces were at the northeast We had been given armor, a choice of dulled weapons, and shields—which we had hurriedly painted for the students with an amalgam of our three colors—and one great knobbed jousting lance each. Behind us, crouched and saddled, some belly-Sat upon the grass, were our fifty dottles. We were at ease.

  At quarter-day (10:00 A.M., Greenwich), the jousting and dueling would begin—but not for us. We were last on the card, the feature event A few minutes prior to quarter the king appeared at the castle gate. With his retinue he looked down upon the dark sea of heads, brightened here and there by the garb of women and the sparkling headpieces of archers and men-at-arms. The lists, from his vantage point, was but a narrow strip of green, marked only with the banners, pennons, and flags of heraldry. A path had been cleared to the tiered stands and down this he came, followed by the queen, the princess, Fairwyn, and all the great lords of the privy council. The Pug-Boos did not attend.

  Once the king was seated, to the blare of the trumpets and the roar of the crowd, the tournament began.

  For those familiar with a feudal culture and its concomitant nuances, that which then ensued was by no means new or strange. Great lords and knights rode forth fulfilling certain pledges, vows, and/or in answer to some challenge or fancied insult, and battle was joined… . Through all the morning men in suit armor went sailing through the air at the hefty nudge of a jousting lance; were beaten to the ground by sword or mace; were pounded to a pulp by other means so that they staggered dazedly in circles—and all to the constant blare of silvered trumpets, fanatic cheers of wagering supporters, and the accompanying roar of the crowd that will cheer any onset. They fought in singles, doubles, and sixes; on dottles, in chariots, and sometimes afoot When lunch was finally called the tents of the chirurgeons were already stuffed with those with broken limbs, cracked pates, and wounds of a hundred kinds.

  It was just then that Murie chose to visit us. She came with Caro
ween, five pretty maidens—which set our student crowd to roar their pleasure—and an armed guard to force a way through the crowd. They looked a lovely sight indeed, before us on their kneeling dottles. Actually it was the first chance I had had to be with Murie since our arrival. She looked delectable, as did the others in their furred and velvet jumpsuits of varied colors. Murie’s was milk white, matching the armor she had sent me.

  “How now, my lord,” she said in greeting, “we meet again.” She stepped from the kneeling dottle with a certain boldness and took my hand. The lady Caroween did likewise with Sir Rawl; while Hoggle-Fitz, somewhat perplexed by all this coupling, retired to sit beside his dottle. The young student-warriors pressed around admiringly till I shooed them off.

  I looked down into the purple eyes and said simply, “Murie, I would speak with you without the nonsense of court and custom.” I drew her to one side, to where my dottle rested. We leaned together against its rump and gazed out to the deserted lists.

  “I am still the princess, sir,” she chided me. “And it may be that you grow too bold.”

  For answer I drew her gently close. She stiffened, then relaxed, but made no move to draw away. “Enough,” I said softly. “I would rather be with you in silence for one second, than an hour with the childishness of protocol.”

  “You speak but strangely, sir.”

  “Do I, indeed? Do you really believe that?”

  “No, my lord.” She seemed suddenly subdued.

  “Then agree with me that our stars cross strongly. For I think, perforce, that we will be together.”

  She pressed closer at that so that I could feel the length of arm and thigh against me. Her voice was hardly audible. “I do agree, my lord.”

  I smiled at that, looked down into the purple eyes and elfish face, and said, “And since truly I do accept you as my lady, am I, indeed, your lord?”

  “In sooth you are.”

  “Well. Were we not in dead center of all of Glagmaron I would take you in my arms.”

  “And I would come, but, gladly.”

  “Great Gods,” I said. Then, “Look, my princess. This comes so sudden. After this nonsense is through—if my head not decorate a lance—I would see you alone, and for a space of time. There is much to say and I would say it.”

  She looked up at me and held my gaze. “That chance will come, my lord, more quickly than you think. For there is council of war of which you will be informed; ‘tis said that it will encompass all our world. But other than that, runes, too, have been cast. They tell of serious danger to myself if I remain in Glagmaron. My father, for this reason, sends me tomorrow morn to the great sorcerer in the snow-lands. There in his keep, they say, lies my only safety. You are to head my escort, my lord—for I would have no other.”

  Her words prompted the possessive look of yesterday. The shock was overwhelming. That this small fur-tummied female could so befuddle my eighteen years of Galactic training in all the logics was beyond belief. But at the moment I wanted nothing else, nor would I have it any other way.

  Across the field the trumpets blared again.

  “You will see my father tonight,” Murie said. “And you will see me, too.”

  “As to that last,” I murmured, “I would hope for nothing else.” Still holding her hand boldly, before all the others, I walked her to her dottle… .

  Caroween had already mounted. She now sat stiff-spined in the saddle, saying loudly to Rawl, “My lord, I shall watch you closely. And if it go against you and these good knights and my gracious father, then expect me on the field. For I do not hold with ritual nonsense; and I will thrash them all who dare to win against us.”

  “Have done!” The roar was that of Hoggle-Fitz. He had just bussed his daughter roundly in fond good-bye. But even he who knew her was not prepared for this. “I warn you, Caroween,” he shouted. “If you shame us, if you set your meddling foot upon yon green ere all these men of Kelb are soundly whipped, it will be your bottom that will receive the thrashing. Now think on that, and off with you.”

  The gathered students roared and Murie smiled. The five maidens smiled, too, and they, together with the escorts, saluted us. I stood at Murie’s stirrup; Rawl at Caroween’s. Undaunted, the lithe and headstrong redhead damned us all with her eyes, bent down to Rawl’s surprised face, and kissed him soundly.

  Murie followed suit—so swift, so soft, however, that her lips had barely touched my mouth ere they were gone. All in a Sash of lively color and painted dottle paws, to the cheers of our line of student-warriors and those who had gathered to watch.

  We moved together closely then, myself, Breen Hoggle-Fitz, and Rawl. They had not questioned my leadership, nor my commitment of their bodies to what might be a suicidal battle. In fact, they relished both the idea that I had made it, and that they were a part of it. Such was the conditioning of Camelot-Fregis. Ourselves and forty-seven untried warrior-students against the cream of Kelbic chivalry. Insanity? No one but me seemed to think so. I had said the loss of Pug-Boos would make our enemy less than men—and that was sufficient. Our students believed me—as did Rawl and Hoggle-Fitz. The deck was stacked, so they concluded. It but needed their courage now to tip the scales completely and this they were prepared to give.

  We had agreed on tactics and strategy. This being to use a light armor, a smaller shield, and to avoid, but lure, their onslaught. The jousting we could do nothing about. But after, well, we would bait them to a frenzy, tire them, and then smash them down—and we had chosen blunted swords and weapons but half the weight of theirs.

  A fresh breeze blew across the field, clouds gathered to our rear. And, since I had planned a bit of magic all my own, I frowned. I needed sunlight.

  “How now, Sir Lenti,” Rawl exclaimed softly. “It seems our time is come. Yon sortie of five knights of Glagmaron against those five from Klimpings appears to be the last.”

  “They are the last,” Hoggle-Fitz said. “And I for one am glad to see it.”

  “Then arm and mount,” I said curtly. And fifty students other than our forty-seven helped us to do just that. I wore white armor, Rawl, red, and Hoggle-Fitz, black; and all the students, green. I felt most smugly proud to see my heraldry upon their shields. It dripped in gaudy colors on my own. As stated, it was a sprig of violets upon a field of gold. Rawl’s blazonry was three scarlet bars upon an azure field, and that

  of Hoggle-Fitz, the dainty Dernim Tulip of fair Durst in Ortmund; as stated, too, all students wore our three designs upon their shields, for as yet they had none of their own… .

  “Once confronted with our enemy upon the green,” I said to Hoggle-Fitz, when we were mounted and all in line, “I wish that you, sir, would step forward and lead us all in prayer for both ourselves and Marack.”

  Hoggle-Fitz’s eyes, in his gnarled and craggy face, flashed gratitude for this request. “I will indeed,” he said. “But also for Great Ortmund.”

  I nodded. “As agreed, I will take the center; yourself to the right and Rawl to the left And, an of you would-be heroes,” I shouted, standing in my stirrups and moving my great dottle out and down the line, “remember well what we have agreed upon. Strike for their weapons, elbows, knees, or throat—and in that order. Above all else, let them attack; protect each other. But once your onslaught—at whatever target—follow through to the end. And so shall we win over this weighty mess of kitchenware from Kelb!”

  If nothing else my humor alone would have been sufficient inspiration for the first few minutes. With this gang, though, it was hardly needed. Rawl rode out, then Hoggle-Fitz, both standing in their stirrups. Beyond, on the field, the last of the knights of Klimpinge were either nobbling or being dragged away, while the victors of Glagmaron received gifts and prizes from the king and his lords.

  We spaced ourselves along the line of students as we had planned, made a turn, and headed single-file through the swarms of peasants, gentry, knights, and archers. We all stood tall in our stirrups, gripping our lances firmly. As our fi
rst rider paced out upon the green, Rawl bellowed in a voice I never knew he had: “For Marack! For the Collin! For Marack! For the Collin!” Our warrior-students picked it up, forty-seven strong and lusty voices bellowing in cadence. Long before we were in line and facing north it seemed that all the acreage and tiers of seats were echoing the same—only the hundred knights of Kelb were silent, and, I thought, somewhat morose.

  My interest in Hoggle-Fitz’s religious administrations was anything but pious. I was still Kyrie Fern, the Adjuster. I had a bit of personal parlor magic up my sleeve. And with some luck … The clouds were gathering still, however, which meant my luck was bad. In fact, the very moment that the king’s heralds rode forth with trumpet blare and scroll to proclaim in ritual the reason for our argument, a wash of rain swept across the field. Other than lousing up my magic it would be to our advantage, since we were the lighter force.

  The heralds were through with their ritual pronouncements and the trumpeters stepped forward. But before they could lift their instruments to their mouths to blow, our Hoggle-Fitz rode forth. His arms were raised above his head, his left arm held his sword, his right, his lance. He said nothing. But the trumpeters, seeing him, stayed their horns. A great silence fell over the field. Hoggle-Fitz turned around, dismounted, placed lance and sword beside his standing dottle, and knelt upon the greensward.