“They see us now,” I said to young Tornweedi. “But it is much too late. They no doubt thought us lax in spirit so that we held behind. Now they are not so sure. Look, you! They slow even now to guard against us.”
“Aye,” Tornweedi answered exultantly. “And look, you, my lord. Fitz of Great Ortmund has swung bis flank to hold.”
And Hoggle-Fitz had done just that. In those few short minutes we reversed what could have been a signal defeat for Marackian arms. The charge across our front slowed, since they saw too late that we had not moved, and did not know whether to face us or to continue on. Their momentum lost, they were easy prey to the flights of arrows loosed in good order by our bowmen, to the shouts of the sergeants. From five hundred bows there flew as many arrows, and then again, and again, and again; each flight taking but five seconds for the notching, the draw, and the release. The distance was at some two hundred paces, a goodly shot for an archer. But though ours, like all Fregisian warriors, were careful so as to target riders only and not gentle dottles, the distance was too great for accuracy. The sun, too, was also an obstacle. This being true, tens of riders and dottles were already down and screaming.
Fitz’s flank did give somewhat at the impact of the Ortmundian charge. But it held. And because it did, that was the end for Ortmund. By slowing his center almost to a halt the bulk of Fitz’s five thousand had remained outside of arrow range. Om and Great Ortmund had but one meaningful alternative then: to fling their remaining three thousand in headlong assault of Fitz’s superior mass. They were confused. They hesitated at A time when to waver meant certain defeat or death.
Then we, too, moved forward, crossing the creek in a long green line; loosing flight after deadly flight into the dwindling ranks of the Ortmundian-Omnian soldiery, so that when the bulk of Ortmund’s rear guard could no longer contain themselves at the slaughter of their own, and moved against Fitz’s center and left, it was far, far too late. We moved with the men-at-arms and archers. We were approximately one hundred dottles and riders strong. Once through the screen of archers, we smashed into the melee with its remnants of mounted knights and men-at-arms. They were courageous, those warriors of Ortmund and Om. Either that or possessed of the sorcery of the Kaleen. They asked no quarter and gave none.
Through all the great dust cloud of battle, the wheeeing of the dottles, the death shouts of men, and the screaming of the wounded, I held back. I fought only to defend myself, keeping to the side of the young nephew of Per-Rondin. Strange paradox that I could not keep him from his death. He had, after bearing himself bravely in the hacking fests, been challenged by a hulking Yorn in armor of bronze and steel chain. He accepted the challenge. And, as was Fregisian custom, those who were not battling in close proximity stayed their weapons to see the outcome.
Tornweedi chose to rely upon his quickness and the point of his blade rather than compete in the hefty broadsword exchange of shattering blows, and the pate-cracking thump of mace and hammer. It proved his undoing in that after they had circled with a fast exchange of steel, he bent beneath his shield for a thrust of point to the armor chink between breastplate and greave. He missed in his forward lunge, and the Yorn, a huge, white-browed, and intelligently evil specimen, brought his great sword from across his left shoulder in one whistling sweep to dash the head from poor Tornweedi’s body. He then bent, ran sword through waxen cheeks, and shook it mightily above that bloodstained field for all to see.
I could say here that I avenged Tornweedi. But it would not be true. I didn’t have to. Indeed, I was not allowed to. The Yorn was attacked from all sides. And though he slew three more, be was brought down—as were all the others of that fated troop. They had asked no quarter. They received none. And, in the end, when the field was won and the pass open, I saw that at best there were a hundred prisoners. The field, for a full fifty acres around, was littered with the bodies of Marackians, Great Ortmundians, and Yorns alike.
It was high noon when the battle ended. Strange how time plays its tricks on the threshold of death. There are periods which are but minutes, but seem like hours. There are others which seem as minutes—such as our fighting before the pass. But four hours had gone by since the squadrons of cavalry had first burst from their ravine.
I accompanied Tornweedi’s guard to where the lord Breen Hoggle-Fitz waited on that stricken field. He leaned from the painted saddle of his great dottle to grip my hand and place an arm about my shoulder. His helm was off, his mop of gray hair a wrathful aureole. There were tears in his eyes, too, and he stank of blood.
“By Ormon, most noble Collin,” he shouted, to those hardened, black-furred warriors around him, as well as to myself. “By Wimbily and by Harris. Bless them! Blessed be their names! Bless them! And bless us all who have survived this field! And bless those—” He seemed carried away with himself again and I said softly, interjecting, “Ah, m’lord and most courageous companion, my confessor—” He beamed at that one. “I have bad news of the lady Caroween.”
His face paled. It was the first time I had seen this happen, a sure sign of where his heart lay. He took my arm. “Say you so? But how, and where?”
We rode back toward the base camp and I told bun as we rode. Tears rolled down his rugged, blustering face to such a degree that, I must confess, I was touched and shed a few myself. In the end I boasted of Caroween’s prowess in-that battle of the courtyard, so that he called all to gather around and bade me repeat the story to his warriors.
As I told the tale my voice took on the cadence of a minstrel. And that which came from my mouth as prose became poetry. Before the ending of it instruments accompanied me—a lute and a set of pipes such as Ongus had used so well. And all this in the bright light of Fomalhaut and its far binary. It was a strange thing, too, in that I spoke to men who had themselves just fought a noble battle; yet here they listened to salute the courage and prowess of another.
Then we held a war council and I told them what I had come to tell them in the first place: “Go not to Janblink city or Janblink castle,” I admonished them. “For the armies of Great Ortmund are not there. The king Feglyn is on his way now with all his host to join with Harlach before the gates of Corchoon in Kelb.”
‘To which site there goes our noble king Garonne,” a doughty young warrior shouted.
“Aye,” I said. “And to which site, too, there now comes from across the river-sea the greatest horde of Omnian soldiery that the world has ever seen.”
No one asked me, “How do you know this?” They asked instead, “How many?” And I told them.
There was a great stirring then, and a silence while all pondered. The first puffs of an early afternoon breeze blew around us, bringing a scent of wet earth and spring wildflowers to cancel the blood of the field and the smell of the sweat of our bodies. A flight of tuckle-birds flew over, too, with a spate of melodious chirps—like raindrops. The whole scene was highly incongruous.
The lord Hoggle-Fitz, in full command of the knights around him, then said, “It seems then that we go now to Corchoon or, as young Collin would have it, to the plain of Dunguring by the oblique south road beyond the pass. We shall of course send to those who follow, the lords of Fleege, Keeng, and Klimpinge with their fifteen thousand, that they do likewise—and instantly.”
“I would indeed suggest that,” I echoed him, smiling.
“And what of our lord Fon Tweel?” Fitz eyed me keenly.
“We will see, sir,” I answered softly. “And I promise you here and now that his thirty thousand will also be at Dunguring.”
Fitz stared hard at me, then lowered his eyes and his voice, and said simply, “We will await them.”
The others, too, looked at the ground. But no one questioned me. … I had their attention and they were waiting, so I spoke up and told them what they needed to know. “There will be a great battle,” I enjoined them. “It will be soon. Tomorrow, the next day, the day after. … It will last for as long as is needed to drive the hordes of Om from the nort
hern shores of the river-sea. Your twenty thousand— inclusive of the fifteen still to arrive—will join with the twenty thousand of our Marackian king Garonne. You must then hold until the full force of the lord Fon Tweel, plus the warriors of Oheese and Ferlach, arrive upon the field. Even then you will be but one hundred and ten thousand against perhaps three times as many.”
If I had thought they would be frightened, I would have been less blunt. But I now knew Camelot and its warriors. All around me eyes had lifted. They literally sparkled with a fierce and warlike joy. “And so then, Sir Collin”—a young knight spoke up boldly—”in no other battle could ever such glory be found. And this for us only; not for them, for we are the fewer. I, sir, would have it no other way.”
“Nor I! Nor I!” A full hundred voices shouted. I looked at the beaming countenance of Hoggle-Fitz and smiled.
He said, “Indeed, I join with them, Sir Collin. I would that my sons were alive to see this.”
“Well, sirrah,” I assured him, “though they be not there— your daughter will be.”
Tears sprang to his eyes, for he remained what he was other than a warrior of some courage and skill—namely an emotional, fanatical, and lovable old fool. I stepped forward and put my arms around him again. The others took this as some sort of signal in that they instantly moved to disperse. The camp came alive again with the saddling of dottles, the striking of tents, and the packing of gear. I walked then to my dottle, and Hoggle-Fitz followed.
“Do you not ride with us?”
His question was rhetorical, and he knew it.
“No,” I said. “I go to fetch the princess and your daughter. The lord Rawl, who has given your moppet to my safekeeping, would not forgive me were it otherwise; nor would the king—nor would you, my good friend… .”
“You are wrong, Collin. And I shall pray for you. For though I know not where you go, of a certainty, wherever it is, there lies great danger.”
“As stated,” I said, “I think the battle will be fought on Dunguring plain. If so, it is there that we shall meet again.”
“So be it, Collin.” Fitz stared after me as I kicked my dottle’s belly with both heels so that she pranced off through the camp to the south and east, and up the small hill and beyond to the grove of broad-leafed trees. …
Strange, I thought, as I dismounted and slapped her rump so that she would return to the others, the animals that had gathered to watch the battle still lay about, hypnotized by the man-made carnage. Were any of these of the planet Alpha? Had just one of those fleeing ships been, perhaps, an ark? Then I said the words to phase in the starship.
I lifted straight up for some fifty miles; a high parabola. The city and castle of Glagmaron were directly below on reentry. I hovered at one mile, scanned at sufficient magnitudes to be almost at ground level. It was as I expected. The great camp had not been broken. Fon Tweel’s thirty thousand were at ease. They played at skits and fiats, they gambled away their mustering fees, and they dueled in the sun. And that was about the extent of ft. As expected, Fon Tweel had no intention of going anywhere; neither to Gheese and Ferlach, to impress upon the rulers of those countries the urgency of their joining with Marack against Om—nor to Dunguring before Corchoon to the aid of King Caronne. Those loyal in the camp—and I supposed these generally to encompass the whole—would not know of his treachery until it was too late.
So be it I would return, for I had a most singular message for Fon TweeL …
I maintained an altitude of one mile, sweeping over the terrain in a southerly direction at slow speed. I had time. The countryside continued wild: great forests of oak and pine, wide rivers and serrated mountain chains which swept, I knew, down to the river-sea. These I naturally rose above, and down again until finally I had crossed into Gheese where its border joins both Marack and Ferlach. It was here, I knew,
Chat a battle was being fought. And it was here I hoped to find Rawl, hobnobbing with Oraslich, Ferlach’s king; waiting, perhaps, until Fon Tweel arrived, to do the same with Chitar of Cheese so that, impressed with Marack’s call to common cause and the strength of Fon Tweel’s army, a meeting of conciliation could then take place.
I was right in only one thing. Sir Fergis’s blazonry topped a field tent in the proximity of King Draslich, with both on a broad and boulder-strewn field overlooking a sparkling stream. Across that stream was a second army. The colors of the king of Oheese, Chitar, stretched for fully a mile over an equally grassy and boulder-strewn field. Here and there on both banks spears and lances stood erect in the ground, marking the spot where a fallen hero had been buried. From my vantage point I could see additional hundreds of unburied dead. The inconclusive fighting had been going on for quite some time. I brought the starship down as before in an area surroundered by wild clumps of bracken and’ heavy forest, careful so that I would come to ground on the far side of a hilL
It was done. I took time to bathe away the sweat and stiffness of the morning’s battle. Then, armor reburnished, surcoat and furred cloak most carefully cleaned and spotted, plus sundry other preparations—and I must say that I had the time for this since I had no intention of springing myself upon Rawl until dusk fell—I stepped forth. Again I was fully armed, with fal-dirk, shield, broadsword, and small mace. I waved the starship back to its exclusive warp and walked to the crest of the ridge.
It was most pleasant, like that first day when I had awaited the coming of the princess on the south road. The thought of Murie now—and that she was alone and miserable in a Vuun cave, awaiting my arrival—made me somewhat ill.
Oh, that magic did prevail, I thought. For then it would truly be that best of all worlds so sought after by humanoids across all space and time. A release from needed knowledge, from the constant search for the why and wherefore of it all. How simple life would be if that were so—no “Constant H,” no law of inverse squares—to be surrounded forever by the world of childhood with its ogres, its fairies, its sleeping princesses, and its never-never lands… .
I lay myself down on a broad and heavy spread of grass overlooking the martial camp of Ferlach’s king. Herds of dottles foraged below me. Beyond them were tents and cooking pots and fires. Above, in the bowl of a still azure sky, was a vast pattern of cirrus-cumulus clouds. Flights of strange birds and flitterings of smaller winged creatures were all around me. At one point during the afternoon’s progress I felt eyes upon me and clapped hand to sword and sat up smartly. Peering through a clump of heavy foliage was the double-horned head of a massive gerd, such as Hoggle-Fitz had used as a steed. He seemed possessed of a strange intelligence.
Then I dozed, to be awakened later by a blast of trumpet upon the still air. I noted with alarm that the sun was setting fast. I arose on both elbows to peer over the ridge. Of the two river fords visible from my vantage point, a group of knights were gathered at one—and this on the Ferlach side. From the tents of the Gheesian army, a line of mounted knights and warriors were trotting to the ford. At the head of the line were the banners of Chitar and sundry lords of Cheese. And, to Chitar’s right, waving splendidly and bravely on a single lance tip, there flew the three scarlet bars upon an azure field of Rawl Fergis. Good lad! I mentally cheered him. He was not waiting for the strength of Fon Tweel. How he had managed this tete-4-tete, I knew not. But he had achieved what I had planned—set the stage for a meeting between Chitar and Draslich. Even as I watched the royal banners of Draslich—an oak tree against a blood-red sky— moved out to greet the black-swan pennons of Chitar in midstream. Protocol, I remembered, demanded no less.
There was another round of trumpet blasts then, and a cheering and hurrahing. And someone, perhaps, nipped a Ferlachian obsol, and Chitar lost so that both sides then retired with all pomp and ceremony in the direction of Draslich’s war tent.
As stated, I had dozed far too long. Dusk was falling. It was obvious that they feared no dead-alives in such war camps as these, nor treachery either. For Camelot’s chivalry and its code said that Chitar would
stay with Draslich and no fal-dirk would find his ribs in the small hours.
Below me, and in hailing distance, was a small group of foraging dottles. I whistled shrilly and they looked up and wagged their doggy-ears and tails in unison, peering anxiously around them. I stood full up. Darkness was gathering so rapidly that just as the camp itself was dim to me now, I was, perhaps, equally dim to the dottles. I whistled again and they advanced toward me. One fat-tummied female approached me brazenly, her big blue eyes inviting nose pats and friendly thigh rubs. They gathered around and I spoke gently to them and mounted the female after tossing my furred cloak over her back for a saddle, so that my armor would not hurt her. Then we led off, and pranced our way down to the great camp with its teeming warriors.
Aboard the starship I had touched up the heraldry upon my shield so that the sprig of violets against its field of gold now glowed with a most delightful luminescence. Two other things had I done: One, the creation of a null magnetic field about my person which, if I had had the wisdom to use it before, might well have protected me from the power of the Kaleen at Goolbie’s keep. I doubted it on second thought, however, since Pawbi would not have allowed such an overt indication of the presence of an anti-Kaleen power. Two, I activated the ion-beam upon my belt and turned it upon myself so that my armor, like Hoggle-Fitz’s at the great tourney, glowed with a silvered brilliance. To say that my arrival in the camp of King Draslich evoked a measure of interest would be an understatement indeed.
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