“May I have leave to speak, my lord?” I asked.
“Indeed, young sir.”
“What thought your council of the Yorns and the Vuun who passed us in the night, and who seemingly turned south in the direction of Cheese?”
He studied me carefully before he answered. He finally said, “That this force seeks to penetrate both our land and Cheese, to scout from the rear. For Om is still held in the mountain passes. Perhaps, too, they would move through us to Ferlach, for like purpose.”
“And if they have remained in Marack?”
“To what purpose?”
“I know not. But it occurs to me, my lord, that they are a fighting force rather than scouts. Why else the Vuun?”
“As eyes, young sir,” the king said testily, “from aloft”
“Nay, sire,” I said boldly. “We—Sir Rawl, myself, and the good lord Hoggle-Fitz—have seen this force which, in all sooth, the princess and the lady Caroween did not. They were great Yorns and men-at-arms and knights. They traveled not lightly, lord, as is the way of scouts, but with strong weaponry and three hundred dottles. The Vuun, I warrant, has a purpose other than ‘eyes aloft’”
“And that would be?”
“To fly with something they have taken—out of the land of Marack; something of great value which, once captured, they could not trust themselves to hold.”
“What say you, Fairwyn?” The king spoke bluntly to his sorcerer, who still stood watch behind the flatly staring Pug-Boos. I thought as I glanced to Fairwyn and caught Hooli’s eye—he being the one without the circle—that he was keenly alert to all that went on. Indeed, seeing that I saw him, I will swear that he deliberately allowed a quicksilver smile to touch his furry lips.
Fairwyn had a most thin and reedy voice. It was direct, however, and without pretense or guile. He said simply, “It seems as the runes suggested, my lord. But I would add now, in view of this young man’s words, that not only is the princess endangered by this prince of Kelb—but it is quite possible that the Vuun is meant to carry a living human captive.”
Queen Tyndil gasped. Murie’s hand went to her throat and her eyes grew big. Hoggle-Fitz lunged to his feet, an oath on his lips and his hand on the hilt of his court saber. His lithesome daughter fled the arm of Rawl Fergis to move to the side of Murie Nigaard.
The king then turned again to me. “It would appear,” he said sharply, “that there may be something of the Collin in you after all. But no mind. We will leave this now, to talk again when we have dined and seen this prince of Kelb.” He arose, bowed to us all, and said, “My lords, my ladies. We ask that you accompany us to the dining hall.” He touched a small silver bell, then took the queen’s hand and led off toward the now opening doors… .
I would not let this chance go by. I moved instantly to the princess, offered my arm, and said simply, “My lady?”
Murie smiled, her visions of the Vuun erased. She put her small hand on mine and we fell in behind the king, the queen, and the Pug-Boos, who had somehow managed to step in front of us. I knew without looking that Rawl and his auburn-haired vixen were directly in back of us, with the towering Hoggle-Fitz and the almost ethereal sorcerer, Fairwyn, bringing up the rear.
We went down one short hall to the king’s private entrance and waited for the formal blare of trumpets to announce us. We then stepped boldly forward as the great doors opened.
The banquet hall of Glagmaron castle on tournament night was a sight to see. Here indeed was the true panoply of feudalism. All that epitomized the most romantic but brutal phase of the socioeconomic evolution of humankind was present. It was dazzling; it was also tinsel and running dye. It was the absolute in insouciance for those who sat above the salt. Rank upon rank of lords and ladies, knights and squires, banners and pennons were gathered. And on the periphery of it all were even a number of tables for the graduating class of student-warriors. To say the scene was less than fantastic would be to deny all reason… .
We advanced down a great aisle separating a double row of tables, to the king’s table. It was on a raised platform and at right angles to those below. The roars and aves for the rulers, for the princess, and yes, for me, too—for they had heard somewhat of our adventures—were deafening.
But protocol was such that I was not to eat with Murie. She sat at her father’s table, to his left; the queen, her mother, was on his right. On either side of them were a half dozen great lords of the realm, including—and I stared in surprise— the lord Fon Tweel, kolb of Bist, whom I had bested prior to our abduction.
He scowled darkly when he saw me. I bowed ever so slightly and sneered back at him. Then Rawl, Caroween, Hoggle-Fitz, and I were shunted to the first table to the right, below that of the king.
Behind each diner was a liveried servant. The feast had needed only the king’s arrival to begin. Indeed, at the very point of the king’s seating himself a veritable parade of trays and service poured from the kitchens: great roasts and shanks of meat from all manner of strange beasts; tureens of gravies sufficient to drown a child; huge pasties of a conglomerate of fish and fowl; vegetable puddings; birds in every shape and size, and each with its feathers returned for dress-up; fruits and ices; deep-dish pies and curries. There seemed no end to it. And certainly there was no end to the varied wines and the sviss that swept like the river Cyr through that monstrous hall.
For one brief moment I felt the heavy hand of Hoggle-Fitz upon my shoulder. His voice rose, booming above the bedlam, saying, “How now, Sir Collin. We shall see if you are as good a trencherman as you are swordsman and gallant. I would beseech you to honor our God, good sir, by eating all that is placed before you—for food is truly the end product of all his works.” Upon saying this, Hoggle-Fitz sat down, said grace quickly, and fell to. …
I was ravenous, and I ate wolfishly with knife and fingers. The roar around us subsided to a hum, with but here and there a shriek or scream to denote some conversational point or well-placed bon mot.
What with the flow of wines and such, I drank a goodly quantity. So much so that had I not eaten as Hoggle-Fitz suggested, I would have, indeed, been drunk.
Through it all my eyes but seldom left the princess. And only then to view the table opposite to my own. There sat Keilweir, prince of Kelb, surrounded by his lords and entourage. No court gallants they, but obvious fighting men, as was the prince himself. He was tall, slender of waist, and heavy of shoulder. And, too, he was no down-faced youth. He was past thirty. His tanned and weathered features were marked with two great sword slashes. I noted that my companions were also intensely alert to the table of the prince of Kelb.
As time passed and eating died—to be replaced by drinking only—the hum increased to roar again. Here and there were shouted challenges for the morrow’s games. Napkins were brought and bowls of water. We cleaned our hands and faces. Relaxed and at my ease I turned to Rawl. “What do you think of those men of Kelb?” I asked.
“That they are less of court-train and sweet reason than one would hope to see,” he replied pointedly.
“Aye, and aye again,” Hoggle-Fitz put in. “Where I, for one, would hope to see a royal wedding party, I see instead most hardened warriors. And, Master Lend, the one to the left of the prince, he with the spade beard, is not of Kelb but of Great Ortmund. He is the onus of Hilless, a truly stout and resolute sword.”
“Why would a knight of Ortmund be with a prince of Kelb?” Rawl asked.
“I know not,” said Hoggle-Fitz.
“The Yorns and the hundred riders came, too, from Kelb’s direction,” I pointed out. “Perhaps they have much in common. For they are all, as our worthy Hoggle-Fitz observes, most seasoned warriors.”
“You suggest, sir, that perhaps they are not two groups, but truly one?” Rawl asked.
“I do; or that if they are truly two, they will soon be one. If this is true, however, it may be that we can dent their power. A challenge or two for tomorrow, for example.”
“Better,” Hogg
le-Fitz insisted fiercely, his eyes upon the onus of Hilless, “though it is somewhat awkward to do this to a wedding party, that we ask for an Onset of Fifties, and strike down half of them.”
“‘Tis not meet, Father,” Caroween put in bluntly. “It is against all laws of chivalry. A visiting prince who comes a-wooing beneath a flag of peace? For shame!”
“Yon pennants are peaceful?” Rawl almost shouted. “I do adore you, m’lady, but I would remind you that all is topsy-turvy now. Om is in Kelb. And the laws no longer hold.”
“We could,” Hoggle-Fitz continued, ignoring his spitfire daughter, “and with the help of Ormon, of course, provoke them to challenge us.”
“A point,” Rawl said with enthusiasm. “And it will not be difficult. I warrant there will be sufficient insult, for the atmosphere between here and there already reeks of it Look! The prince’s ambassador asks leave to speak.”
Certain young knights were even now before the king, petitioning the royal favor for the morrow’s assignments in tourney listings. Their pleas for redress against supposed discrimination had become quite loud. With the advance of the prince’s ambassador, the prince, and two stalwarts to the place before the king’s table, all this was swept aside.
A great and sudden hush seemed all-pervasive now. Those seated knew quite well what was afoot, and dearly welcomed the interplay that would ensue.
At the ambassador’s approach, Fairwyn, the king’s sorcerer, arose. His hands worked rapidly at some invisible web and he intoned what seemed a litany. When he had finished I was not surprised to see an intrusive skein of fog surrounding himself, the Pug-Boos, and the royal family. … No one so much as batted an eye. And I knew that this magic—for that’s exactly what it was—was both an expected, protective thing, and at the same time commonplace.
There then began an exchange of compliments and formal folderol, including a listing of the king’s lineage, that of his wife, plus the illustrious background of the prince of Kelb. This done—and while the prince was still slightly bent in protocol obeisance to the king—the ambassador began the purpose of their visit.
The bluntness of his first few words were indicative of the tactic he would follow. “And now, oh mighty sire,” he said, “we do, upon the orders of our king Harlach, present his son for other than your grace and scrutiny. The prince Keilweir, of Kelb, being desirous of a bride of his class and blood does settle his choice upon your daughter, the most beauteous and demure of creatures, the princess Murie Nigaard. To firmly base his suit in something else than talk, he asks that your princess, together with a goodly train and entourage, return with him to Kelb, whereby, and during the duration of her stay, she will be made most welcome and satisfied of the person and intention of our prince… . We ask this in the name of Kelb and of her rightful ruler, Harlach… .”
No bridal go-between had ever been more curt, nor a request more terse than that It had been, in fact, more of a directive than a request. I looked to the others for affirmation of my thoughts. A hissing of indrawn breath all around us gave voice to the silent tension. Then the silence began again so that the patter of a dubot’s feet would have been thunderous had they been there.
The princess had arisen, her face white, her two hands clenched; Rawl, likewise. And two hundred others at the tables nearest us. Each great lord around the king was also on his feet.
The reedy voice of Fairwyn came floating over this baited throng—diplomatic, soothing, and deliciously negative. “We hear, oh gentle sirs,” he said. “And though we be honored at your request and continence, we would suggest to you and yours that such pursuit of marriage bears thought and much discovery. We ask, in sooth, that time be spent on this. And that you, good sirs, do spend your time with us in likewise contemplation.”
Hurrah for Fairwyn! He had managed to say exactly nothing, and say it well. But if I had thought that even he could assuage the tender skins of Marack—or of my princess—I had forgotten Camelot …
Murie’s voice rang out insultingly above the resultant murmurs. “Oh, gentle sir from Kelb. Would you have sufficient gogs for me to milk upon my visit? For in sooth it seems that a wife of yours must need to learn such arts and more. And tell me of your fair land. Has H plumbing for my daily bath, or would I—since you are at least in that way favored—be forced to use the open sea upon your shores?”
Her sally was greeted with a roar of laughter from all that great hall, so that the knights of Kelb and those of Marack, too, clapped hands to court sabers.
“Most gracious sire,” the voice of the ambassador called put “We seek no quarrel here. We come in peace and good intent. Is this then to be our answer?” He waved an idle band at the aroused revelers.
“You came in peace, and so ‘tis true,” Fairwyn replied. “And in like manner you may go—whatever is your wish, good sirs. Your point is made and we, in due time, will give our studied answer. A toast,” he cried out suddenly, “to your good choice, Sir Prince, and to all those who, in honor, seek our princess.” He lifted a frail hand with crystal cup and wine. And, the tension punctured, a thousand hands did likewise.
“Nay,” Rawl muttered. “We cannot let them go like this.” I watched the others quietly—for Rawl, like Hoggle-Fitz and the king and Fairwyn, too, sensed what I now knew. The “tactic” was simply to provoke and thereby distract, to focus Marack’s anger upon Kelb alone for whatever days would then ensue. During this time of a misdirection of energies, other peripheral and important actions would be brought to fruition, including that of the hundred riders and the Vuun. Om’s methods were not only skillfully divergent but manyfold, selective, and masterful. That Om’s tools were composed of lesser clay was something else again… .
“Well, let us provoke them further then,” I suggested, above the shouting of the prince.
Keilweir, given a glass from the king’s table, drank it down, recovering from the princess’s sally. Refilled, he held the flagon high and said above the bedlam, “A second toast to the fairest of damsels, our princess, who I would hope will honor our request, and soon.”
“Stay your glasses one sweet second,” Murie called out “For if we must toast, then let’s have done with tedious gallantry. Sirs and my lords all. I would salute a truly brave and worthwhile knight without whose strong arm I would still be locked in Castle-Gortfin.” She raised her glass. To Sir Harl Lend—descendant of the Collin!”
Well done! I chuckled mentally. My princess was, indeed, a master of the duel. While drinks were tossed I rose and bowed in the direction of the prince of Kelb, who had been put aside most prettily. His face was a storm cloud as were those of his cohorts. At that very moment Rawl chose to force our move. He, too, arose, stepped forth from between the tables, and shouted loud for all to hear.
“As one of those who shared adventures with Sir Collin [he was getting them all accustomed to the name], and my sweet cousin, I beg your leave, my liege, to speak.”
The king answered loudly, brushing aside the mutterings of Fairwyn, “It appears, my nephew, that you have done just that. Say on. You have my leave.”
And indeed he did. Instinctively, I think, even the sorcerer Fairwyn and the lords at the king’s table deferred to those of us who knew of Om in Kelb, the witchcraft of the lady Elioseen, and the mystery of the Vuun and the hundred riders. Except for the frowning Fon Tweel the floor was left to Rawl. Indeed, there was such a deep understanding among all those close to King Caronne, such unspoken unity, that one would suspect an outside influence.
I thought of this phenomenon as Rawl began to speak. I was certain of two things, and knew that through some strange telepathy the others were certain of them, too. These were that the men of Prince Keilweir and the hundred riders had a purpose in Marack other than wedding feasts and scouting; and that to circumvent or blunt this effort—while simultaneously planning a counteraction of our own—we had to deal with them. We would have to do this in a way that would reflect just the usual Camelot-Fregis reaction to slight and slur, na
mely, with bravado, challenge, and clouted heads— and nothing more.
“My lords,” said Rawl, “though all of Marack knows of the pact of mutual aid concluded between foul Om and those of Kelb and Great Ortmund, do they know, too,” and he raised his voice, “that Yarns and dead-alives are seated now in those fair lands?”
An instant roar grew to a crashing wave around us, and all eyes were focused in rage upon the men of Kelb.
The prince’s face clouded. He shouted in defiance: “This is a foul and vicious lie.”
“Indeed, sirrah?” Rawl laughed. “With mine own eyes I have seen them: first in Castle-Gortfin and then last night Last night on the great road—Yorns and men of Kelb. Where are they now, Sir Keilweir? And tell us true, who rules in Kelb? Your father, Harlach, or that miserable fiend from below the river-sea?”
“I say again that you lie,” Keilweir screamed. “How could you know that those were men of Kelb?”
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