A World Called Camelot

by Arthur H. Landis

“Most magnanimous,” I grunted, accepting the scene as reality.

  “You could say that.”

  “What will I do with it?”

  “Live there, idiot—away from ‘the madding crowd.’”

  “Thomas Hardy,” I mused reflectively. “It’s as if I were talking to myself, Master Boo.”

  “You are! You are! I’m only the intermediary—the ‘marriage counselor,” as it were.”

  “Great Gods!” I said.

  And we were no longer in the star-taxi. Now the scene was that of a Camelot-Fregis field of grass and trees. We were picnicking. …

  “Would you like some wine?” the Pug-Boo asked.

  “Room temperature?”

  “But of course.”

  “Look!” I informed him, sipping a tepid Riesling. “I’m suddenly aware that this dream, as one might call it, is not exactly of my choosing.”

  “And that’s indicative, right?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the fact that you’re something else, baby.”

  “What do you want with me?” I asked bluntly.

  “To know who you are.”

  “Why?”

  The Pug-Boo leaned forward above the white linen and the lunch basket, across which there now marched a file of ants. His little spine was rigid, his round button eyes snappingly sharp. “Because you are not of Fregis, Great Collin. And because in the things which will soon happen, you will most certainly die if you do not have my help.”

  Of a sudden my flippant, raised-eyebrow, tongue-in-cheek attitude (it was real in part) came an absolute cropper. For something happened. It was as if an icy, soul-destroying breeze swept softly over the dream meadow so that the nonexistent sound of insects became truly nonexistent. A monstrous tension grew within me. My features turned hard, stone cold. My pulse beat heavy, fast. It seemed, in what was left of my mind’s eye, that I would shortly witness my own death… .

  “Oh, say you so,” I said slowly, in the vernacular and above the keening of that odd death wind. “How would I know then—if my demise is near—that it did not come from you?”

  The non-wind in the non-meadow died as swiftly as it had been born. In its place came a great wave, a fog of horror, a mind-eating fear of an unfathomable something, intruding, reaching out to me, into me, so that the grass and the scene itself began to fade. My dream seemed now a three-way thing. And the Pug-Boo’s eyes became wide, strange, and wavering. A voice other than his—which was still mine—came on with a low humming: a moon-gibbering hysteria faint but all-pervasive. And there were words. But they seemed of a language such as banshees might have used between shrieks, had they a language, withal. I felt dread sickness seize my body. A nausea encompassed my very mind. It was such that I had never felt in all my life before. Then the Pug-Boo’s features, which had faded, became suddenly solid again. And he was staring listening, too. Apparently to something I could not hear. He spoke strangely again, with my voice, forced himself into my new dream. “Awaken, Harl Lenti,” he demanded. “For your life’s sake, awaken!”

  And, imbued with his quite obvious concern and my own fear, I tried to do just that. But it was too late. The soul sickness persisted so that the greater part of me wished only to die, to allow whatever was plaguing me to prevail. Then, before I succumbed entirely to this death-wish, a strobe-flashing crept into the sickness’s outer rim. It was a sun-laced, 3-D still of Murie Nigaard. It became animated and the scene was a section of our trip to Glagmaron, and she was peeping back at me over her shoulder as her dottle forged ahead. Her smile was elfish, and oh, so intimate; her blue-purple eyes and bouncing page-boy bob, an absolute of warmth and beauty. Each strobe-flash lasted but seconds longer. And the nausea and the sickness waned and the scene began to hold. I helped by concentrating on the face and thought of Murie, for I knew this was the Pug-Boo’s doing.

  Then I awoke.

  Though naked beneath the breeze from the window, I was bathed in sweat; trembling, too. I lay still for seconds, breathing hard. I walked to the opened windows, paused en route to pour myself a glass of water from an earthen jug.

  I leaned on the balustrade, drank, breathed deeply again, and scanned with unseeing eyes the view below. I had seen, I was sure—albeit, it was a small enough peek indeed—the very Hell of the Terran world, plus that of all the Gods who had ever evoked an “opposite” of their particular heaven. I thought, too, that for this very reason, what I had experienced, had seen, was not a product of Camelot alone. And if that was true, what then of the origins of Om? For the Kaleen and the Yorns of the Dark Lands were still—or were they— humanoid, indigenous to the planet. A thought came again, and it was almost an alien intrusion: I wondered suddenly just what the “opposite” of Pug-Boos would be. …

  Then, below in the courtyard, there was a great shouting of men, a wheeing of dottles, and the blast from a score of trumpets. A most important personage had evidently arrived. The fact failed to stir me, however. I was determined to know more of the other—and now!

  I crossed the room to the saffron-colored, lustily snoring heap that was Rawl Fergis. I shook him roughly so that he came wide awake, almost as I had done.

  “Ha, la!” he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes furiously, and then, “Great Ormon, Sir Lenti. Is it time already? Have the hours so soon fled?”

  “Indeed they have,” I replied. “But not in the way that you mean. I am sorely troubled, Sir Fergis. I have dreamed strange dreams of sickness and evil. And it seems that all that has happened since my mother received her bird of ill omen will be as naught to that which will happen now. Tell me of the Pug-Boos, Sir Fergis; all that you know of them. For they will play a most important role in that which will come to pass.”

  As I had done previously, Rawl stretched to the breeze, breathed deeply. He then went to the earthen jugs on the table, for there was more than one. He chose the mild, cool wine of Fregis, made from the filka fruit. It had a faintly maple taste and bubbled like champagne.

  He drank and then said sharply, “It would appear, Sir Lenti, that after knowing you for four days we still know you not. All know of Pug-Boos. Why not yourself?”

  “In sooth, I do not know,” I said. And I answered just as sharply: “But let be! If there are areas in which my memory fails me, this fact decrees no harm to you or Marack. If this memory is not refreshed, however, then, perchance, great harm can come. Trust me, Sir Fergis. Trust me, Rawl! For I am indeed a true friend of Marack and of Fregis.”

  “You are not of Fregis then? Are you from our moons?” Rawl’s grin was impish.

  “Let be,” I said again.

  And so be told me. And we sat in great fur-draped chairs before a middling fire and drank jointly from the jug of filka wine, passing it back and forth between us.

  “Pug-Boos.” Rawl explained, “as your memory would tell you, had you a memory to speak, are sacred in every way throughout all the lands to the north of the river-sea—though, and this must be understood, they are not of Ormon and the Trinity. To harm a Pug-Boo is to court instant death—and this to all and from all citizenry. There are but three Boos in Marack; two each in the lands of Ferlach, Gheese, et al. The Boos in Maracl are Hooli. who is with the princess; Jindil, who stays solely with the king; and Pawbi, who resides with the great sorcerer in the snow-lands to the north. In Gheese, Great Ortmund, and the like, the Pug-Boos were with the king and the court wizard, always. Hooli, I would point out to you, Sir Lenti, came to us with the birth of the Princess.”

  “From where?”

  He looked at me long and steadily and said, “And now I truly believe that what I said in jest was true. You are not of Fregis, Sir Lenti. It remains to be seen if you are of Best itself … though somehow, I do not think so. No one knows, sirrah, where a Pug-Boo comes from. And he who seeks to know will most certainly find his death.”

  “And they are always with our king and sorcerer?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Why, always?”

  “Because that is
the way it has been.”

  I mulled that over and then said slowly, “There is a question, Sir Rawl, which we—you and I—must ask the noble Hoggle-Fitz tonight.”

  “Which is?”

  “If the Pug-Boos of Feglyn, king of Great Ortmund, and of his court wizard have been seen at any time since the pact with the Kaleen of Om and the Dark Lands.”

  Rawl’s eyes glittered briefly, but he said simply, “Pug-Boos, as your memory would have told you, do not campaign to the wars.”

  “Aye,” I said. “This I know. But since there is no Boo above the river-sea, would one remain when the river-sea came north to Marack?”

  There was a knocking then upon the door. Two pages, resplendent in house livery, appeared bearing new raiment for the both of us—though Rawl’s wardrobes seemed already bursting with cloaks and hose and pantaloons and such.

  One of these young men informed us that we were to be received by the king and queen prior to the great feast, which now honored both the princess Murie Nigaard’s safe return, and the advent of tomorrow’s tournament.

  I had thought that we—Rawl, Hoggle-Fitz, and myself— were to be presented during the meal itself. The princess had so told us.

  We were informed by the same page that the hubbub and bustle which I had heard in the courtyard below had been nothing less than the arrival of the heir to the throne of Kelb, Prince Keilweir. He had come with an entourage of a hundred men-at-arms and sundry knights. Rumors already swept the castle, our page informed us, that this fair prince, in accordance with all custom, would seek the princess Murie Nigaard’s hand in marriage. He meant to bring her home with him.

  At this last Rawl glanced quickly at me, but managed to hold his tongue. To hide my own discomfiture—a sudden odd dissatisfaction that I had never thought to feel—I bent quickly to the page’s ear and whispered some instructions. At this he looked at me and grinned and then withdrew with his companion.

  We dropped the subject of the Pug-Boos and dressed, while outside dusk fell swiftly. Rawl had been given a suit of rich dark brown trimmed in heather blue. It went well with his saffron pelt. I, for my mink black, was given an outfit in ebony and silver; linen undergarments, hose, full shirt with pleated ruffles, boots of a soft and silken leather, and a thickly silvered jacket, hussarlike in its fit. The final item was a court saber. This weapon, to me, could very easily have been the deadliest blade on all Camelot; but to those who knew only the great broadsword, it was but a weapon of dalliance. I attached it to my many-stoned, silvered belt.

  Rawl chose to say, while running a comb and oil through my matted but cleanly washed hair (we exchanged this grooming favor), that he doubted, that the princess would favor this bold prince of Kelb. To which I smiled and said that I thought not, either.

  From our aerie windows, we could see a true river of torches and lanterns accompanying what seemed to be the wealth of Glagmaron city, plus the knights and lords from all the tents around. There was a wheeing of dottles such as to cause the very air to thrum like a cloud of locusts. This feast night promised to be a most gala affair.

  Then we were ready. The crude water clock gave us the proper time—something on the order of the fourth hour, Greenwich, or 7:00 P.M., sidereal. Just prior to this moment the page to whom I had given instructions returned. He carried a platter upon which was a cup covered with a linen napkin.

  I flipped the napkin off and nodded to Rawl. “Gog-milk,” I informed him, and I grinned from ear to ear. “I would see your skill, Sir Sorcerer.”

  He shook his head, saying, “If I had doubted you, sir, and thought you a thing of Best, I take it back, for you have a certain childlike humor untainted by Om’s blackness… .”

  I laughed and took the tray and held it out to him. He placed his hands upon the cup, screwed up his eyes, and intoned what seemed a funeral dirge of words, impossible to duplicate. Then he bent to the cup and sniffed.

  He looked up smugly.

  I raised it to my mouth arid sipped. It was sviss. He had done it! I smacked my lips. “Not bad,” I said.

  Then we shared it and left.

  Though Rawl knew well the way to the king’s reception chambers, protocol demanded that we be preceded by the page. It seemed a full fifteen-minute walk, through halls, courtyards, and great, tapestried rooms; all well-guarded by stalwart men-at-arms of the household troops. These saluted us smartly, while throngs of citizens and such promenaded and eyed us in bold speculation.

  The atmosphere of the king’s reception room reflected a royal informality of the king and queen. Splendor was their costume and splendor became them… . From there, all together, we would move to the great banquet room.

  The lord Breen Hoggle-Fitz was already present and he gave us a loud hello of greeting and seized my hand and pumped it vigorously. He looked as a great beribboned parakeet, so resplendent was his attire. Lady Caroween was present, too, an auburn-furred dainty wisp of peacock. I knew now who had chosen Rawl’s brown and heather clothes, for they matched the lady Caroween’s attire. She seized upon his arm possessively while he gazed back at me in feigned helplessness.

  But Hoggle-Fitz, the lady Caroween, the king and queen— all faded before the utterly ethereal iridescence of the gold, milk, and purple apparition that was Murie Nigaard. The one thing that the Galactic Foundation had not prepared me for was that I should be so smitten. At that very instant, had the Princess but crooked her finger in command, I would have taken on the prince of Kelb and all his entourage.

  I dropped to one knee instead, shook my head of silvered cobwebs, and sought composure. I brushed her small hand with my lips. Peering up at her to speak I saw that my attire, countenance, physique, general person, and twinkling contacts had had a like effect, and perhaps more. For I was the object of a possessive female gaze the like of which I had not seen before.

  And her thoughts affected her person. For when she sought to speak, to say: “Arise, Sir Lenti, it is best that your obeisance be given the king, my father, rather than myself,” her words came soft and trembling.

  “Ha, la,” I said boldly. “My very presence assures your father of my utmost loyalty. I bend my knee to you, my lady, as offer of myself to all your needs.”

  The princess blushed quite pinkly and the king, catching the faintest of humor in my voice, laughed loudly. “Now here indeed,” he admonished Murie, “is both a gallant and a warrior beyond your taming. And I want not your knee, young sir.” He had turned to me. “Rather would I have your hand. I welcome you as does my queen. And I give you our royal and fatherly thanks for the life of our daughter.”

  I bowed deeply to them both, making the intricate sweep of leg. plumed cap, and arm that I had made the princess four days before on the great south road. King Caronne was the bluff and hearty type—in contrast to the light and airy queen Tyndil. She was as blond as the king was dark. And I could see that though Murie favored her physically, it was her father’s ways that she had taken as her own.

  And Hooli was there, too. And he was not alone. He had a companion as like to himself as two toys on a rack. They sat side by side on a great fur-covered couch and watched us benignly—amusedly. Alike as two peas? Not exactly. At second glance I hardly believed what I saw, for the other Pug-Boo, known as Jindil, according to Rawl, had a large black circle around one eye. … I was reminded again of the dreams of my childhood.

  Directly behind the seated Pug-Boos there stood a tall and patriarchal individual whom I assumed to be the court sorcerer —which indeed he was. He waited silently until we, following the king’s suggestion, seated ourselves in something of a circle. The guards and the page were then ordered from the room, and the sorcerer, introduced as Fairwyn, and the king, began to talk.

  “Young sir,” the king began, “my good nephew, and, you, Lord Hoggle-Fitz and daughter, I bid you all a hearty welcome to Glagmaron. There is no question now that cruel and harsh winds are blowing from the river-sea. So speaks our sorcerer and seer, good Fairwyn; and so, indeed, does
all that has transpired. I had not thought to see or hear of Yorns and men of Om in our fair parts. But these things have come to pass—and even a Vuun of the dark creatures. I had not thought to see or hear of vile treachery such as that which lives in Castle-Gortfin—and with such rulers as Feglyn of Great Ortmund and Harlach of Kelb, who have bowed their necks to Om. I had not thought to hear these things. But now that I have heard and have taken council with certain lords of the realm, known to my nephew and to you, Sir Hoggle-Fitz, I will say to you all that Marack has picked up this gauntlet so deviously and so cowardly thrown… . Know this, young sirs, and all of you: Tentatively, and prior to your own good council, we have sent couriers so that within three days Castle-Gortfin will be under siege of men and magic.

  “Om has sought to use our princess in this game. It failed. But in similar ways it pursues its goal. This prince of Kelb is quite obviously here to achieve that which the dark power of the lady Elioseen could not.

  “I charge all of you therefore to forbear your anger at what may be said by them tonight. The prince comes to us under the Trinity Host of Peace, and so shall he be received. For we will not show our hand.” He paused then and drank from a crystal goblet.