And they did. And I was left alone, except for the press of fifty thousand shouting, beaming aficionados from Glagmaron city. These continued to swarm like bees to see their tournament heroes—Rawl, Breen-Hoggle-Fitz (who was most pontifically distributing benedictions to everyone in hailing distance), and myself, the Collin, their hero-mythos, come to life.
I was human enough, and still young enough, so that every square-inch of my bruised body was suffused with a warm and pleasant glow of self-satisfaction at this show of mass support.
Our dottles wheeed, whooooed, and pranced, delighted to be a part of such downright adulation. My personal charger, who had enabled me to topple the mighty prince Keilweir, was a castle mount. And his name—for dottles were given names— was Henery.
Henery was a male, bigger than most, heavily muscled and mentally sharp—like a Terran dog is sharp. He was also a bit of a snob. If he were humanoid, he would most definitely be a name-dropper. From time to time he would look to me possessively, prance, roll his big blue and slightly bloodshot eyes, and wave his huge doggy-dottle tail like a pennant. His fat paws matched his eyes, for they had been painted blue for the occasion.
Lackeys, I had found, were not as profuse in Camelot society as in other feudal orders. Witness the fact that prior to yesterday’s dinner, Rawl and I had been left alone to take care of ourselves. Such was not the case now, however. We were very shortly being bathed and gently massaged while various oils, healing salves, and unguents were being rubbed into our bodies. This was done in a large common room beneath the castle. Apothecary bottles lined the walls, as well as various saws, knives, mallets, and whatever—the tools of the chirurgeon. The chirurgeons, lackeys, and masseurs, of course, were themselves in attendance.
This atmosphere of T.L.C. was so conducive to relaxation and sleep, that that is exactly what I did. And this time with no disturbing terror dreams from intruding Pug-Boos.
I awoke in Rawl’s apartment As before, Rawl was beside me snoring lustily. And, as before, the breeze through the stone-laced windows of the three-hundred-foot aerie was fresh, sweet, and soul-serving.
I arose and walked to the balustrade. History was repeating itself. For in the distance, I saw the prince Keilweir with his entourage, minus the sixteen dead knights. They were departing now, however, two abreast in a long line, with the prince and his ambassador to the fore. Even from a distance they seemed a dejected lot. As I watched in the swift-falling twilight, a wash of wind and rain swept the great meadow beyond the castle walls, touching the grass in such a way as to remind me of the beginnings of a squall at sea after a time of calm… . The prince would stop in the first village, I thought, as protection against the night and the dead-alives —-or would he?
Rawl and I were ordered to the king’s privy dining room to sup and to take conference. This time there was no formality, some pomp, but no ceremony.
Present were the king, the queen, the twelve lords and ladies of the realm; Fairwvn and a skinny, almost transparent young neophyte sorcerer named Ongus; a handful of hardened knights that I had not seen before; and Murie and Caroween and the two Pug-Boos.
We ate at the king’s table. The hall was redolent with the smell of food; of wet flagstones and straw—all cold with the lowered temperature; of the sweet rain-washed wind which penetrated the hall to blow gently around our seated persons, pat the tapestries upon the wall, and cause the fires to roar lustily.
Murie sat directly opposite me as did Caroween to Rawl. Supping being what h was on Camelot—a literal recharging of energies so wantonly spent in brawling, arguing, and in just plain staying alive—I fell into line and began stuffing myself, too. Lord knows I needed it!
Twice we were interrupted by young, lightly armored couriers who burst in, fell to one knee, and tendered messages to the king and his lords. The atmosphere, in contrast to the festivity of the preceding night, was absolutely warlike in its tense and abrupt urgency.
The king arose to inform us of the contents of the last note. “My lords,” he said. “There has been heavy fighting at Castle-Gortfin. In answer to our mirror signals the nearest garrison—in the town of Feldic—marched upon Gortfin but a few hours after the return of my daughter. The forces of my ‘sister,’ the lady Elioseen, were driven quickly back to within the castle walls. But this small victory cost us dearly. Indeed, the commander of our thousand, the young sir Bricht of Klimpinge, states that all this day they did but contain the enemy under siege. And that since there was little time for burial on the previous day, they were attacked last night by dead-alives. The situation is perilous.”
There was a stir of alarm at this—the fact that the dead were apparently being used against us. For, though I had noted much fear of supposed dead-alives, I had yet to meet the knight or warrior who had ever seen one. I had reached the point, in fact, where I had begun to doubt the matter. But here was proof.
They fell to discussing this new event without once breaking the rhythm of knife and meat from platter to jowl… . Through seven courses of salads, soups, meat, and fowl, I was totally conscious of the purple eyes of my most undainty (at sup at least) princess. At times she gazed at me with the same intensity as she had used upon the first platter of succulent pasties to pass her way. I was flattered. And, since I was now fully imbued with the true Camelot spirit, I understood. I beamed fiercely back at her and she loved it, even to the point of blushing. .
But yet another pair of eyes were upon me. The lord Fon Tweel’s. His stare was not welcome. I had yet to question him as to how he had arrived at Castle-Glagmaron while we wound up at Castle-Gortfin.
But time was passing, and I was acutely aware that just as I had sparked the move against Kelb the previous night, so must I force things now. There would be either a unity of purpose between the states of Cheese, Ferlach, and Marack, as opposed to Kelb and Great Ortmund, or Om would certainly prevail—and the sooner a discussion of all this, the better.
The wind had risen. It keened savagely outside and guttered the candles inside. Lackeys rushed to draw drapes over the slitted windows and to close tight the great wooden doors. I arose, wiped some kind of antelope grease from my face with a coarse napkin, and without further ado begged leave to speak.
It was granted me and I said, “Your majesty, as you well know I am new to these parts, and certainly new to court affairs and the ordering of armies. If this was not so, I would not be talking now, but would abide by protocol. But since it is true, may I beg leave to ask that we not delay one single second in approaching your neighbors of Gheese and Ferlach with offers of mediation—between the two of them—of support, generally, and of the creation of a unified fighting front to move instantly to the attack against Om in Kelb and Great Ortmund. I would ask, too, if Prince Keilweir received proper escort. For, since I have been given a certain task, according to your gracious daughter, I would know all of those who might chose to interfere, be they Vuuns, Yorns—or princes.”
There was a rattle of laughter. The king smiled, too, and said, “Young sir, you are right in your concern. The knights of Kelb are escorted, even to the very borders of Kelb, though at a distance. We will know if aught transpires that does not meet our wish.”
“And in the night?”
“There are ways, young sir.”
“Praise be,” I said. I honored them with a crossed Ormon circle. “But,” I persisted, “since there is much magic about these days—of which I have truly had my share—is it not possible, considering the stakes, that dark sorcery will aid the prince Keilweir again?”
A great lord arose from his striped skin-bedecked chair. He had been introduced to me as Per-Rondin, kolb of Blin. His hand was raised to the king. Caronne nodded and Per-Rondin spoke. His voice was strong as were his features. He was Hoggle-Fitz’s double in height and girth. “Young Gollin,” he said—and his ready smile was friendly. “You have traveled far from your dour province of Fleege with its moors, its snows, and its dark forests. I knew your father, young sir, thoug
h I remember him as a slower man than you. You honor him well. But to get to it. The ways of war are such that we oft lose much by panic and too hurried judgment; likewise, though studied countermoves are made, we cannot always foretell the movements of our enemies. You speak of magic. Well, so it has been. We cannot negate this phenomenon. So let there be magic!—magic on all sides. And if we are so fortunate as to have this magic work for us, we will truly thank our God—as you should thank him for his aid to you this very day. Conversely, if the magic of the cursed Kaleen prevails over ours, then we will fight him with our blood and with our hearts alone. And thus will we still prevail!
“We are entering into a bloody war, young sir, of a scope such as has not been seen since men first formed cities in this great world. All information brought by you, our noble cousin, Sir Rawl Fergis, and the great lord Breen Hoggle-Fitz, is substantiated. We shall decide now, with your counsel, for you have earned it, what we will do. With my lord, the king’s permission, I bid you welcome to our deliberations.”
Per-Rondin bowed deeply. And there was such a smattering of handclaps that, since Rawl and Fitz had both been mentioned, they stood up, too, to take their bows with me.
And then we talked and talked—and talked. Great quantities of sviss were drunk and certain wines, but not enough to boggle our minds. Most of the women left. Not so Caroween and my princess; nor the queen and two or three of the wives of the lords, including the lady Brist, wife to Lord Per-Rondin. In the ensuing discussion they proved by their brains and their courage that they were by no means mere chattels of their lordlings. The Adjuster in me welcomed this fact as a sign of health in the Fregisian body politic… .
The two Pug-Boos, Hooli and Jindil, sat silently watching. And there was such a feeling of well-being around us, of peace, and, yes, of protection, that I wondered if, perhaps it was not their doing; that this was the thing they could best provide, if one were but within their proximity—a sanctuary against evil. But I remembered Murie’s abduction, and knew that it could not be … and yet …
Despite the drapes and the closed shutters we were made aware of the mounting storm without by an absolute crescendo of lashing water, causing a rumbling thunder throughout the mains of the castle. And there developed such a howling of wind as to almost prevent the exchange of ideas about our plans for total mobilization. But we persevered.
And once, between the rise and fall of the wind’s howl, a voice—like Hooli’s, like my own—spoke softly in my ear. “Go not to the snow-lands, Harl Lenti. For your life—go not there!” I looked instantly to the Pug-Boos. But there was nothing in Hooli’s shoebutton eyes or placid, smiling mouth to tell me that it was he who gave the warning. Then the voice was gone, as if it had never been.
I was given command of a wing of the center army, which was to march immediately upon Kelb. This task I would assume upon my return from having delivered the princess to her place of sanctuary. No one suggested that I be replaced as escort to Murie—in view of the urgency of the move on Kelb—not even Fon Tweel, which I thought was passing strange. I was obviously in no position to make such a practical suggestion myself.
There would be three armies. The first, of twenty thousand men, was to advance upon Great Ortmund, with the Marackian warlords of the provinces of Keeng, Fleege, and Klimpinge in command. Breen Hoggle-Fitz, lord of Durst in Ortmund, was appointed to the council of this army, and was to reenter Ortmund with five thousand men in advance of the main forces and rouse the countryside against the false king, Feglyn. This he accepted with great gusto. The second army, also of twenty thousand men, would advance directly on Kelb. The lord Per-Rondin, of Glagmaron, would command it Two other lords, the king, and myself, the Collin, would be his war council. It was expected that I would arrive on the scene long before the crucial battle had been joined. As this army advanced it would settle Castle-Gortfin’s hash as an extra bonus… . Lastly, an army of thirty thousand was to march in the direction of Gheese. It would be under the direct command of Lord Fon Tweel, with a staff of three warlords of the southern provinces. Their objective would be to seek an immediate truce between the waning parties of Ferlach and Oheese, and to then direct those forces, concurrently, upon the flank of Kelb and the hordes of Om.
There were thirty thousand men-at-arms, archers, and knights in the proximity of Glagmaron at this moment Twenty thousand of these would be assigned to the first two armies, who would then complete their muster with border troops and levies gathered along the way. The call for muster had gone out by courier and mirror two days ago, upon Murie’s council with her father. Fon Tweel was to wait in Glagmaron with the remaining ten thousand until his forces were augmented to full strength by levies from the countryside.
And finally, Sir Rawl Fergis was given the unenviable job of riding on the morrow with the entourage of but one hundred knights and students—he had especially asked for some of those who had fought so bravely with us against the knights of Kelb—to Ferlach. He would act as direct emissary of King Caronne, and would petition the highly respected Draslich, king of Ferlach, to also desist in his altercation with Gheese, and to join in the final effort to drive the hordes of Om into the river-sea.
As the finishing touch to our deliberations, it was decided that the Marackian fleet, smaller than those of Ferlach or Gheese, would sail down the west coast from Klimpinge to Ferlach, to join with that country’s ships in the assault …
And thus did we deliberate.
And it seemed to me, while we did this, that there was no longer any starship, no Foundation—and no influences, malign or otherwise, to affect our course. When I spoke—and I spoke loud and often—I imagined myself as a lord of the house of Plantagenet during the Terran feudal wars, about which I had studied. It was as if our world depended upon our council, our deliberations, and upon our ability to carry them out. Thus, I imagined, too, would those who planned crusades have acted and, conversely, from the Mohammedan point of view, thus would those have also done who sought courageously to defend Islam from the depredations of the heathen.
Then it was over and we retired to our quarters through corridors wet with the rain’s penetration, and cold with the touch of the north wind.
Once there, Rawl said gruffly, grinning the while like an idiot dubot, “Well, I’ll leave you now, sirrah 1 You may plague but yourself this night, with your snores… .”
“How so?”
His grin became almost ridiculous. “Because I seek fairer company than you, great oaf. I would remind you that you are not the daintiest of bedfellows, and,” he finished slyly, “admit it. You serve me no purpose between the sheets.”
“I wish you well,” I said, laughing; thinking, too, that he was off, perhaps to pleasure some serving wench with his boots on. “But turn me a jug of milk,” I admonished, “before you go. I’ll then be reminded that you do serve a purpose.”
He looked at me owlishly. “Well, hey and hey then! Tis, perhaps, for me to tell you, Sir Collin, that did I remain in this room you would hate me beyond all reason. I do but leave to guarantee—among other things—your undying affection.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“Then divine them. Good night, Sir Lenti, Sir Collin. I wish you the pleasantest of dreams, though I doubt not that that which will happen in your waking moments will be the better.”
I shook my head. “Have done then. And since I see the jug already holds my sviss, I have no need of you at all.”
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he bowed out, still grinning. And, I thought, seeing him go, and showering myself with the now freezing water from the castle pipes, it was bard to believe that but ten short hours ago we had battled to exhaustion upon the field of Glagmaron. My skin felt unbruised. The shallow gash upon my forehead was well on its way to healing—a testimonial to the salves of Camelot not derived of magic but rather from her budding science. All this I pondered, then doused the candles and retired to the great fur-covered bed.
I deliberat
ely left the windows undraped. The keening north wind in and around the aerie was of the proportions of a baby hurricane.
I loved it
I had but clasped my hands behind my head upon the pillow when I sensed the presence of someone else in the great room. My sword hung from its belt by the bed’s coping— an awkward position. I instantly flung myself toward it to draw.
“Stay your impetuous hand, m’lord!”
The voice was softly intimate—as intimate as the instant and total caress I received from the small body of Murie Nigaard as she dived from wherever she had been hiding into the welter of furs and bedclothing to seize me in an embrace that was truly awesome.
I responded in kind. It was as if all Camelot’s magic, white, black, and piebald, had united for one great web of rainbows. I had experienced nothing like it I instinctively knew that I would probably not experience its like again—except, perhaps, with Murie. Humanoid women have the ability, if they but dare to exploit it, to so weld the male of their choice to them that said male will seek no other. To say that I welcomed this fantastically warm bundle of sweet-smelling female pulchritude would be the understatement of the millennium.
A World Called Camelot Page 11