But Om’s center! That was a thing to see! They were one hundred thousand men and Yorns: all in squadrons, phalanxes, and spear squares. Though our front was but a half mile from theirs, their rear was a full mile beyond that—such was their strength. And in the core of that mass of steel and forest of banners was the red Hishian Towers, the standard of the greatest of lords, as pointed out to me—Gol-Bades, conqueror of Seligal and Kerch, overlord of Hish, “Voice of the Kaleen”! He was circled by all the lords of Hish, and a picked, praetorian band of Omnian warriors. Each of these was the equal, if not the superior, of any Yorn—and the lord Gol-Bades was superior to them.
And also, to his back, I saw the black cowls of five wizards, and I knew that he had not come alone….
To our front and theirs the kettledrums were already going. And, as was Fregisian custom, individual knights were dashing now between the lines to scream challenges and accept those given in return. As many as a dozen duels were already taking place before our eyes. A young Marackian squire— and he had no right to do this since he was no full knight— had ridden forth from a troop from Glagmaron. He seemed of an exceeding tender-age, and my focused contacts told me that his armor was so ill-fitting that he was most likely rattling around inside it like a Farkelian jumping bean. The whole cast-iron ensemble was no doubt borrowed, as was the war lance which he just barely managed to raise above his head, while he screamed insults at the Omnian host in a high, falsetto voice.
This last, I must mention, prompted Sir Rawl to lean toward me from his high saddle and say, “And did I not know that my lady was safe on Vuun-back, m’lord, I would swear that there she was on yonder piebald dottle.”
A wave of laughter ensued from all of us. But then a great knight of Seligal came out to face our challenger—except that he came out backward, blowing kisses to his comrades, and holding his shield over his shoulder in mock defense. Laughter swept all alike on both sides at this buffoonery. This caused our young squire to lose his head completely, so that he lowered his great lance and charged. The knight of Seligal, warned by his companions, turned quickly, advanced his shield, leveled his lance, and held his great dottle absolutely motionless. He avoided the wild charge of our neophyte at the moment of impact by twisting his massive body ever so slightly. Simultaneously with this his own lance tip dealt his adversary’s helm a glancing blow so that it turned around on gorget and neckguard, rendering our Marackian hero as blind as a Terran bat. In this condition he continued straight on into the ranks of that Omnian armor. They, with great hoots of laughter, withdrew on all sides so that he rode in aimless circles. When he thought finally to achieve open ground again, and thus return to his own lines, albeit in a most erratic manner, those Omnian warriors stopped him, relieved him of his lance, sword, and fal-dirk, turned his helm around properly—and gave his dottle’s rump a great whack to send her on her way back to us.
Though our “hero” was greeted with cheers, he seemed disconsolate withal. And I thought to ask later who he was.
The duels grew more intense. Coveys of threes and fours were already doing battle in the field. A point had been reached where, usually, the stronger of the two opponents moves to the attack. But such was not the case with Om. It seemed again that they were waiting for something. Ten great Vuuns perhaps? I wondered.
Then I had an idea. “My lord,” I said suddenly to the king. “May I take these gentle Pug-Boos—if they will come—and ride down the front of our array? It strikes me that some good may come of it, withal—”
He looked at me curiously. “If you think it serves a purpose, do so,” he answered. He gestured toward the Omnian hosts. “They do not move, surah. Therefore, perhaps there’s time for everything.”
The king’s eyes also scanned the sky—as did all those who knew of the great Vuun’s coming. I had time to wonder, as I called to Sir Griswall and Charney to accompany me, whether they, too, expected one Vuun—or ten. . . .
I rode with Hooli, Rawl with Pawbi, and Griswall with Jindil. Charney followed next with what .we assumed was the Kelbian Boo, Dakhti, flying Kelb’s royal colors from his lance tip. Tober had the Great Ortmundian Pug-Boo, Chuuk. Anyway, we rode down that mile-long front and there was a great thunder of cheers from our side, plus “ohs” and “ahs” at the very presence of the Boos. There were cheers, too, from the massed warriors of Kelb and Great Ortmund. These faded quickly, however, beneath the threats of their officers. But the fact that they cheered at all was indicative of a mood. My attempt at subversion had hit pay dirt, and I was pleased.
At the end of our ride I watched the Omnian warlords closely. Though they knew that Boos were court pets in the northland, I am sure they had no idea of the affection that was given them; they were therefore startled, even disturbed, at the cheering response to our flaunting of these small rodents. They were further confounded when we reached King Chitar’s hill. For it was there that Breen Hoggle-Fitz of Durst in Great Ortmund rode forth to bounce Chuuk—or was it Dakhti?—in his arms. An absolute roar of approbation came from the Ortmundian warriors at this, for loudmouthed Fitz had been well loved in Ortmund. I noted that these same warriors, undaunted now by their officers, looked back to their center where sat the false king, Feglyn, surrounded by his cohorts. They were curious; puzzled that the Ortmundian Boo should be in Fitz’s arms—and that Fitz, himself, should be in the ranks of Marack. This little show would make them think. And, I mused, if it helped to stay one hundred swords, the job was successful.
We returned to our positions on Garonne’s hill. And still the great host of Om remained at ease. The dueling continued.
The sorcerers of Marack, Gheese, and Ferlach then got their skinny selves together. They were all—as per agreement with Chitar and Draslich—on Marack’s hill. Their combined efforts finally sent a spate of whirlwinds romping over the waiting ranks of the enemy. This prompted Om’s dark wizards to counter with a dozen whirlwinds of their own, plus the moving of a large cloud of pumice ash from one of the ‘two volcanoes to a spot directly over our heads where, naturally, it fell. Within seconds Fairwyn, Gaazi, and Plati sprayed them with the ash from the second volcano. And so it went… .
In the midst of all this harmless folderol, a voice—Hooli’s, my own—said loudly in my head, “So what are you waiting for, Buby? Your public would like to see more than just me sitting on old Henry’s rump. Great Ap is on his way, now! Yonder is the lord Gol-Bades. I know your knees are shaking, because you just might be evenly matched for a change; but isn’t that what you’re here for?” “Hooli,” I replied mentally, “Hooli, you little son-of-a-bitch, someday—someday!” And then I turned again to King Caronne. “Sire,” I asked softly, “I would ask another boon of you.”
Caronne smiled and looked at me slyly. I think he knew what I wanted, had been waiting for the question. “Hey, Collin?” he answered, and then, “Really? And what could I give you?”
I smiled, too. He was wiser indeed than I had given him credit for. “I would,” I said loudly, so that the others would hear, “exchange blows with a certain lord of Om. It is in my mind, sire, that those over there wait for ten Vuuns, whereas, we wait for one. I would not have them idle longer, and I would disturb their ordered program.”
Caronne smiled again, nodded, and raised a hand. At that I signaled Rawl and Sir Griswall, told them what I was about to do, and up went the colors of the Collin. We rode forth to challenge Hish for Marack and the north.
We collected two young trumpeters on the way. At mid-field we halted, pranced our mounts in a complete circle, and ended facing the great mailed horde of Om. The cheers when we rode out had been thunderous. They continued that way. For, in a sense, they had been waiting for me to do exactly what I was doing, and there wasn’t a scarred warrior of all those northern lands who didn’t know where my challenge would be placed. When the royal trumpets blasted out— amplified, of course—the cheers rose to crescendo.
Henery and I had positioned ourselves so that we had become a motionles
s frieze of man, dottle, and rigid banner: no wind could flatten it, for it had Pug-Boo starch. Then out rode Rawl and Griswall, then-dottles doing a prancing, mincing, formal step, used whenever royal herald sought audience with his opposite or facsimile.
Then two black-armored Omnian warriors broke ranks and protocol to ride furiously toward us. They spun directly in front of my two advancing ambassadors. “What do you seek of our great lord of Om?” they screamed.
They were still but twenty yards to my front so that I could both see and hear the hoary Griswall when he answered icily, “We seek his life!”
“And just how do you propose getting it, you mewling cuuds of Marack?”
“We will take it with the arm of our champion, the Collin!”
“Well then! And first you must take ours,” they shouted, and simultaneously drew their swords. Both had circled Rawl and Griswall while they yelled, so that at this last they plunged in from either side, each taking a man. The dust from the whirlwinds had settled. The air was clear, and the action easily seen. But clarity was still needed. For the new whirlwind of steel that then ensued was a thing that the eye could scarce follow.
Griswall, wily old gerd that he was, did a bit of shield-work that was a marvel to see. He parried every one of his adversary’s blows. At a crucial point, when his man stood high in the stirrups for another sweeping blow, Griswall thrust out and up, sword penetrating the area of the fold between the two tassets of the man’s armor. This was a deadly gut-blow, in which the spinal cord is severed below the stomach. The man fell away in instant paralysis, upon which Griswall made the sign of Ormon and trotted grimly back to my side.
Rawl, in the meantime, had simply beaten his man from the saddle with the edge of his shield; then he dismounted and ran his sword through the fellow’s throat. At which point he, too, rejoined me where I continued motionless, flanked now by my two companions. Then it was my turn.
I rode forward slowly. And Henery—who after all was a castle mount—lifted all six pads in measured cadence as he had been taught to do for such occasions. I wasn’t glowing, but I had disrupted my magnetic field again. Though I, too, loved the Pug-Boos, I couldn’t trust them completely. Also, the thing of Hish, the Kaleen … if it were watching anything, it was watching met
I halted one hundred yards from the steel ranks of Om. The silence over that great field was like the aftermath of a thunderclap. Then I stood high in my stirrups and shook my lance and shield mightily above my head. “I call the great lord of Gol-Bades, himself, to answer,” I shouted. I used my own amplifying system in case the Pug-Boos failed me. My voice was truly stentorian—on the order of a gigantic brass gong; sufficient, I thought, to rattle the great Gol-Bades who, no doubt, at least until now, had thought he had seen and heard everything.
I continued: “I shall prove upon thy carcass, Gol-Bades, that you be base to the world of Fregis: that you be false to the Gods of Fregis; To Ormon, Wimbily, Harris; yea, even unto the ones of Kerch and Seligall. I call you seneschal of evil: slave of the thing in Hish called the Kaleen. A thing yourself who would make all others slaves… . Come, great Gol-Bades! I am named the Collin, called for this moment ‘The Champion of the Northlands.’ I call you coward and traitor to all men of Fregis. And, foul thing of Hish, I will prove this on your body!”
Under ordinary circumstances I would never expect a great lord such as Gol-Bades to, fall for such a crude provocation. But he did just that I remember thinking at the moment that perhaps he thought me just another idiot. Or perhaps he felt it necessary to slay me then and there so as to dominate completely that horde of superstitious warriors. Whatever his reasons, he did come forth.
And it was a sight to see! A path was hurriedly cleared for him at the wave of a hand. And his great dottle cantered slowly along it to the measured beat of a hundred Hishian drums. No one accompanied him. At approximately twenty paces from me he halted in all his mighty, black-steel and yellow-bronzed splendor. He spoke in a voice that carried the twenty paces and no more. He asked in a peculiar, hollow voice, “Just who are you, Sir Knight?”
“Sir Hart Lenti,” I answered calmly. “Called the Collin of Marack. Now have at me, great lord of Om, and we will settle this bickering.”
“Not yet,” he said, and I noted that there was a faint whistling sound to his words. “I would still know who you are.”
“Would you indeed?” I rode forward easily so that only ten paces separated us, and leaned toward him from my high saddle. “I am,” I whispered softly, mocking his secrecy, “your executioner! Now come, great slob, great butcher of men, and let us end this charade. For I would kill you now!”
It was my intent to upset him, to enrage him. Just watching him and hearing his last few words made me aware of one thing. Something was awry with the lord Gol-Bades. Indeed, I had the chilling sensation that I faced none other than the Kaleen himself, or his facsimile… .
All was silent then. Gol-Bades threw his lance to one side. I did the same. He moved his shield to the fore and drew his great sword. I did the same. Then he set spurs to dottle and charged. I did the same… .
I knew with his first great whistling blow that I had indeed met my match. Though his movements were sluggish, the strength of his blows, once in motion, were terrible. I successfully dodged the first two. He aimed a third. I moved to parry and he cleaved my shield to the vanbrace of my forearm. At which I—since I was strong also—hewed the very pauldron from his sword-arm shoulder! These two mighty blows evoked a soughing gasp from both armies that caused the dust to rise on all sides of that plain. We circled each other and fell to again. One smashing blow numbed my sword arm and caved in the right half of my breastplate. The pain was such that I knew some ribs were broken. I crushed his plates in like manner, though it slowed Lord Gol-Bades not one wit. Then we dodged, parried, and slashed, shield against shield, so that the sound alone was like to deafen me. Sweat streamed down my face beneath the heavy helm, the salt of it smarting my eyes so that I could scarce see. But I had to see! Whatever could be done, I had to do it. There were no Pug-Boos to help me now; no starship; no Deneb-3. Gol-Bades seemed never to tire, though. As stated, the strength behind his sluggish movements was fantastic—superior to mine!
The answer to all this came when I tried for the same blow dealt by Oriswall to his man, and missed—Gol-Bades brought his sword from over his shoulder with such force as to dash the very shield from my arm. But I was still faster than he. I stood in my stirrups, grasped my sword in both hands, whirled it around my head, and smote his shield with such force that shield and arm flew from his body. A hoarse and breath-drawn cheer came to me from Marack’s heights at this fantastic sight. And, indeed, I thought then that with his arm severed he surely could not last but seconds more. Such, however, was not the case. He came at me again, with great sword held at vance, prepared to sweep me from my saddle. I ducked beneath it, came up, whirled, and with one mighty blow struck both helm and head from his body.
Then I knew what I had sensed to be true all along—Gol-Bades was something else again… . That headless armor turned to fight me still. For there had been no head within that helm, nor arm within the severed rearbrace, cop, and gauntlet!
Over all the ranks of the northern armies there now arose a groan of fear and terror. And to exploit it still further, the black wizards of Om caused the skies to darken and the red of the volcanoes to give a hellish tint to all their massed and burnished armor. I did not flinch; indeed, I had no choice. I raised my sword on high, spurred Henery one last time, and struck deliberately with all my strength at the sword arm of the thing of Hish. His parry was such as to dash my great sword from my hand. And then, as if to mock me, he made as if to strike poor Henery’s head from his body. Having developed an affinity for dottles, I could not let that happen. I brought Henery’s head up short when I sensed the direction of the blow, so that only an ear was sacrificed to the Hishian horror’s humor—and simultaneously I grabbed that sword and chain-link gauntlet
with my metal-covered hands. Henery reared and screamed mightily for his lost ear; the saddle-girth burst, I fell to the ground, and Henery ran. But I still clung to the sword and arm of the thing of Hish—and I pulled all that remaining armor to the trampled greensward with me.
The mailed legs kicked, seeking purchase. But I had it now. I arose, still clinging to that sword arm. And I held the arm with both hands and began to whirl, turning faster and faster, until finally with a great screeching and clanging the armor literally flew apart in a burst of plates and broken rivets.
And I stood alone upon the field and held high the captured sword of Gol-Bades, lord of Hish—lord of Evil!
The roaring from both sides was deafening. But from the north it was for me alone. They yelled, “A Collin! A Collin! A Collin!”
And I, too, yelled. I faced the Omnian army and yelled for all to hear: “And so will it ever be for all who fight for Om and against true men!” My voice was amplified, of course.
A World Called Camelot Page 25