A World Called Camelot

by Arthur H. Landis

  His voice echoed above the metallic snick-snack of broadswords plucked from their sheathes at my signal. In the immediate and continuing silence I also ordered all to dismount, upon which we sent our dottles with whacking rump pats to the protection of the arch of the gates. A Fregisian custom is not to have gentle dottles slaughtered needlessly….

  And there we stood and waited, all shields to the fore. We drew close in a tight line in that cold and ice-bound courtyard.

  Then, like wraiths, beyond the fall of sporadic snowflakes, there appeared a group of warriors to our left and from behind an arch across the yard. Simultaneously a second group moved forward from the protection of a similar arch to our right. Then the great doors of the hall’s entrance were thrown fully open and there issued forth a company of heavily armored men. They ranged themselves across the broad steps facing us. The deep breathing of my twenty-two warriors at this ghostly challenge was a thing to hear. Our silent adversaries stood quietly. Great Yorns were with them. This I could tell, despite the fact that features and bodies were, at best, indistinct

  Murie and Caroween, swords also drawn, thrust forward on either side of me to join our line. But I instantly thrust them back to stand with Ongus, who was now fingering his ‘set of pipes and frowning. Sweat stood out upon his pale forehead. I said to Murie, who angrily pushed back against my restraining arm, “Nay, my princess. If all this be what I think it is, the battle will eventually come to you, never fear! For there, finally, are the one hundred riders—and more! And we are but twenty-three. So hold back, and now! And you, my lady Caroween, guard her, as is your vaunted prowess.”

  We, our line of twenty-three, shuffled closer, forming a half-circle around the two maids and the sorcerer. Then the silent company of warriors before the entrance parted to allow two others through.

  Both were resplendent in heavy mail and flashing, jeweled swords. One strode before the other and stopped at twenty paces from me. I was not at all surprised to see that it was the prince of Kelb with his ambassador.

  “Greetings, oh mighty Collin,” the prince said loudly and sarcastically. “We meet again. I to collect my bride-to-be so that Marack will then join with Kelb; you to pay the price of insolence. … If you surrender the princess now, sir, we, on my honor, will grant you a quick death. If not—and remember, in battle you risk the princess, too—when taken, you and yours will wish for death a thousand times before you die.”

  Murie’s sibilant whisper came instantly to my ear. “Do not surrender me, my lord, for I would die with you; and if taken I would end my own life. Trust him naught in any way.”

  But I sought time and knowledge. His men drew nearer and I could see that a goodly quarter of them were Yorns. I called out sharply, “Stay! All! Or you will meet your deaths before your appointed time. I will speak now with your master —this boasting traitor to true men… . Hey, now,” I said directly to the black-browed prince, while a smattering of chuckles ran down our line. “I take it Vuun passage brought you here; perhaps with only remnants of your entourage, since I see that though the original hundred riders are here, this is not true of yours… . Now tell me: Where is the sainted sorcerer, Ooolbie, and his familiar, the Pug-Boo, Pawbi? And where, too, are the retainers of the castle? Before I die—if die, I must—I would have knowledge of how the magic of the dark Kaleen did prevail against that of Ooolbie.”

  The slowly encroaching line had halted upon my ringing command. They looked now to their leader. Their numbers were evident There were one hundred and fifty men and Yorns arrayed against us. The. prince’s features, while I talked, grew blacker still, assuming a Ghast-like look. And he seemed suddenly not the same man as had appeared at the council hall of Glagmaron. He seemed possessed.

  “The magic of your sorcerer,” he shouted, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth, “was powerless before that of Om and the Kaleen.” He seemed to grow visibly in stature when he said this and his voice had the ring of insanity. His eyes, too, I thought, flashed fire… . “Just so were the powers of the wizards of my father and of Feglyn also brought to naught. You ask of the castle retainers …” He half turned to his warriors who then joined him in what I assumed was a mutually shared joke, in that they all roared with laughter. “Know you, you sorry oaf, that the three you destroyed the other night were but a part of the castle’s fifty retainers who, but for poor timing on our part, would all have been upon the spot to do then what we do now. Our regret is that even the Vuun, who waits in yonder stable, is not sufficient carryall to hoist an army. And of the Pug-Boo, Pawbi? Where else do ‘sainted’ Pug-Boos go, who are but a form of rodent after all? To holes stupid sir—to holes and away, and that is that. If he were here, and if you lived, you would no doubt nave time to find him. But since you win not, you will not And that too, is that … Enough! Will you surrender the princess?”

  I stared straight into his eyes for the space of seconds, looked quickly then to right and left and back to him again, and said loudly in the crisp air, “I will not, sir!”

  I had caught Griswall’s and Charney’s eyes. During all the shouts and threats, except for a first long sigh, then the deep breathing of a warrior entering battle, they and the others had not flinched. They stood stoutly, legs apart, well grounded, with room on either side to swing: a solid shield wall. I continued, louder still, baiting them: “So come all, sirs and gentle Yorns. But know this well: We do not ask for quarter—nor will we give it ….”

  My bold statement had its designed effect, for some in the now advancing line hesitated, and some fell back. To face an outnumbered and terrified enemy is one thing; to face potential berserkers who are absolutely not afraid to die is another. It was then that Prince Keilweir decided for them. He turned, faced them, whirled his sword around his head just once, and screamed, “On them! On them now! Or you shall suffer such a fate at the hands of Om that death itself would be a thousand times more pleasant. On them! On them now!”

  Only thirty paces separated us. It took but three seconds for them to cross it Instantly, all was a hellish maelstrom of swords, shields, and clanging armor. I cleaved my first man’s shield in half, hacked his surprised head from his squat body. I whirled then, full circle for added sword weight, and caught my first great Yorn square on the shoulder, and cut him to the heart. Not pausing, even for a single breath, I plunged still forward, my sword a glittering sweep of absolute death for anyone within my reach. For I knew full well that could I but achieve what I sought—an instant and deadly fear of me—my men who fought for their very lives would not only take heart, but might even sense a possibility for victory, far fetched as that may-seem.

  I killed ten men In as many seconds—and saw the entire Kelbian line fall back before our swords in abject horror. In all, twenty of theirs had been slain, and but two of ours. Their charge had been hysterical; our defense the cold calm of hate. Griswall had slain two men; Charney, a Yorn, pulling his sword from the creature’s throat even as the others withdrew. My lusty students and warriors had accounted for the other seven—and more, since severed limbs and great gobbets of blood remained upon the flagstones to tell of wounded who would not fight again.

  I pursued our advantage.

  I stepped ten paces out before my shield line and yelled a personal challenge—knowing that our opponents were still men and Yorns of Camelot, and therefore conditioned by their very manhood to respond accordingly. I then killed five more. The first, the ambassador of Kelb himself, when I beat his shield to his knees and with one lightening blow cut him in half at the waist. A second knight, who charged straight forward blindly, was dispatched with a simple, iron-hard chop. My third opponent was a Yorn, of more intelligence and skill than most It availed him naught. I treated him as I did the second opponent; I shortened him by both legs, so that he toppled over and filled the courtyard with his bellowing. The last two came at me together, dazed by their own temerity. I killed them both so quickly that I surprised myself. They had not the heart for it Their arms and le
gs were leaden with their fear. I took no pleasure in their slaughter. Then no more came forward. The Prince of Kelb stood back to watch me, white-faced, trembling with hate and anger. My men, emboldened, also challenged. One student was answered, as were Griswall and Charney: each killed his man. And the space on the flagstones to our front ran crimson with blood. Only the torches gave us light now, for the sun was almost set

  “Come, my sweet Keilweir, prince of Kelb,” I yelled, thinking to lure him out against his better judgment “Come taste the magic of the Collin’s sword which defies you and calls you coward!” But he would not come. Indeed, at no time did he actually enter battle, but rather stayed behind his line to urge the others on.

  At a signal, they doused the torches and charged again. Their onslaught, despite their superior numbers, was one of desperation, now. For, psychologically, we were superior and acted so, whereas they were sore afraid. The second assault was a fantastic melee of grunting, sweating, hewing, howling men and swords and shields and armor. Again I killed to right and left in the half-light, as did my stalwarts. Once I slipped in a reeking mess of blood .and entrails; heard a shout from the enemy who charged over what they thought was my fallen body. But I arose mightily and cut down those who had made It beyond me—all but one, who had seized Murie, dropping his shield to do so. I need not have feared for her. For simultaneously with Murie’s shortsword to his heart, my other Valkyrie, Rawl’s shield-maiden, Caroween, drove her sword, with both hands, straight between his eyes, so that it stood out a hand’s-breadth beyond his skull.

  While we fought I heard Ongus’s pipes. The bellows began suddenly, at first low, then rising quickly to a shrieking skirl so that the very wildness of the music set our blood afire and lent a rhythmic cadence to our blows. We hacked, slashed, and butchered until the bodies around us looked like a charnel house. There were so many upon the stone that I gathered my remnant, formed a circle with Murie, Caroween, and Ongus in the center, and moved out across the courtyard.

  There then began a thing that passes all belief. Two of the hardened veterans that followed Griswall—and we were but twelve now, with four of Griswall’s men and five of Chamey’s still standing—began the death chant used only when some great warrior is borne to his grave. They chanted for themselves, I knew. And, considering the circumstances, they had earned the right to do this. We, all of us, picked up the hoarse, soul-smashing beat of the words—’A-la-la-la! A-la-la-la! A-la-la-la!” And over it all came the wildly shrieking, screaming, skirling, maniacal pipes of Ongus.

  We cut our way through them and back again. We killed till our arms and armor and surcoats were literally drenched with blood. We marched through them again and again, hacking and slaying—we drove full around the inner circle of the courtyard and none stood against us… . “A-la-la-la! A-la-la-la! A-la-la-la!” And the accompanying skirl—always the skirl. We crossed the flagstones, mounted the steps to the very entrance, and came down again. And the snow fell, and the torches, relighted, dimmed so that, finding it more difficult to see, we slaughtered the wounded, re-killed the dead, and destroyed the living alike. We were no longer human.

  They ran from us and we sought them out and killed them. They bore down upon us screaming their fear—and we hacked them to the ground, those Yorns and men of Kelb. Until finally, when there seemed no one left alive within the courtyard, we paused in its very center and leaned upon our bloodied, steaming weapons.

  There was a great stillness. There had been a stillness, really. For our chant had ceased some time ago, and the sound of Ongus’s pipes had died. The last minutes had seen us kill silently, horribly, with the detachment of cold fury… . The snow fell gently as we gasped and panted until our hearts slowed, until we were once more in possession of ourselves. But four torches placed in niches remained to illuminate that carnage, that abattoir of the courtyard of Goolbie’s keep.

  Prince Keilweir and eight men were all that survived of the one hundred and fifty who, but a short hour before, had so confidently sought to take our lives. They stood in sheer terror now, huddled upon the steps before the great hall.

  And we? Though conscious of a thinning of our ranks, I had had no time, or reason, to look before. I did so now. Griswall was alive. So Charney. But both were sorely wounded. Of Griswall’s men, all were dead; of Charney’s, only one redheaded brother named Hargis was on his feet, plus a troll-like student-warrior named Tober. Tober, squat and heavily muscled, now leaned upon an ax. When I looked at him he winked and whispered hoarsely, “Now are we indeed safely arrived, Sir Collin. And I would take that bath and rest we spoke of, and eat my fill”

  I nodded, mutely.

  Our piper Ongus was no longer with us. He lay across the courtyard, skinny figure in monkish garb. His still white fingers clutched the now silent bellows and pipes. The bellows, like his very heart and body, had been pierced with many sword thrusts. And finally I looked down to see a fierce-eyed Murie Nigaard, whose shield still linked with that of the read-head Caroween. Murie’s small sword was, and had been, at my left side. It, too, was red with blood. They had been a part of our “circle” in our last charge, and I knew it not I thanked whatever gods that watched over strong-willed, stubborn females that they were still alive.

  My single mistake was my last mistake. And it was simply that in pausing now instead of dispatching them all, we gave Keilweir, prince of Kelb, time to do that which he could not do before… . Perhaps he could have, on second thought. But there had been this to say him nay: If he had made a plea to the Kaleen for help while he still had thrice fifty warriors at his call, the shame would have been too much. But now, indeed, when all were dead, it was not so.

  And I stood stupidly—yes, stupidly—drugged with the smell of death around me, and let it happen.

  He said his words! He screamed them aloud before my very eyes, and I made no move until it was too late, until there came a thrumming in the air and the first touch of numbness to my body. I knew instantly that all that had been won was lost, and that the magic of the Kaleen, if not opposed, would bring my death. But how oppose? The others, just as I, now knew it, too. They, with Murie, looked to me with frozen horror.

  I had no choice. I pressed the useless stud of emergency contact upon my belt, though I knew full well that unless the Deneb-3 was directly overhead there was no chance—and damned little if it was. I mentally shouted across the void: “Ragan! Kriloy! Ragan! Kriloy!” But there was no answer. I knew with a fast-sinking heart that there would be none. I cursed the fact that the powers that lay within my belt were useless. I could not destroy—for I would first be destroyed.

  And then, in the very second of the first needles of paralysis, the weak but steady voice of Hooli—or his facsimile— came to me. “Be not afraid, Harl Lenti. You will not die here. You will lose the princess, for in that I cannot help you. But neither you nor those now living will die here.”

  I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, then opened them again. Then I echoed the words of Hooli, softly, briefly, to the others—not fully believing, not fully disbelieving. It was simply that I had no other recourse. But they believed me! And a measure of peace came to the stricken features of Griswall and the students. And as great thunder rose and blue-white lightning flashed to signal the absolute arrival, the presence of the untoward, the unexpected, I had time to look into Murie’s terror-filled eyes and say with the slowness of near paralysis, “Whatever happens, be not afraid. For if I live and I am with you, I will win. And if I am not, and live—I shall come to you. Wherever you are, I shall come to you. Remember that.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes and her lips moved. And though I could no longer hear, I knew that they formed the words:

  “I do believe you, my lord—and I will wait.” And I was satisfied.

  And now all the castle courtyard with its dead and its blood was filled with a strange and unreal blackness. It was as if a shroudlike, ebony patina lay over all. Black figures moved toward us, the men of the prince of Kelb. And throu
gh the great arch to the left of the massive keep came the Vuun, dragging its ponderous, stinking hulk, its leathern wings held tight to its hairy sides. As it moved across the bodies of the slain, its monstrous head, with reddened eyes like the pits of Best itself, turned slowly this way and that And our craven dottles, hiding within the dubious protection of the arched passage to the portcullis, screamed and moaned their terror.

  We lay where we fell, Griswall, Charney, Tober, Hargis, and I. And the prince and three others lifted the bodies of Murie and Caroween and carried them to the Vuun. The four remaining Kelbian warriors approached us, swords drawn.

  So now, I thought, we shall truly know the proof of this proverbial “pudding.” For either I hear voices and am insane, or I hear A voice, and am sane. And If I am sane, then I must indubitably have a date in time with a certain miserable Pug-Boo. I thought this, for at the moment I cared not who or what the Pug-Boo was—or what his role, if any, in the unraveling of the skein of fate of Camelot-Fregis. I knew only that if he did have the power—and still allowed my princess to be taken—then indeed we had a date in time… .

  I had noted that when Keilweir and the others carried Murie and Caroween to the Vuun, the very act of contact caused their movements to become somewhat sluggish, as if contaminated by the spell of Om. So it was with those who sought our lives—but more so.