The Magick of Camelot

by Arthur H. Landis

  The creatures were humanoid! They also had blue-purple eyes, and showed here and there a patch of brown, black, or golden fur through cunning slits in their resplendent raiment. The creatures were, without a doubt, men. Moreover, they were Alphians!

  To my Marackians they must have seemed at first glance as nothing less than gods—and had not all men been created in the image of Ormon? Their clothing was of metallic silvers, golds, bronzes and shimmering iridescent weaves. They wore a sort of fitted jupon-suit over a white on white collared shirt beneath a spun-steel hauberk. Each jupon showed a blazonry of lords who had no doubt lived on destroyed Alpha so many years before. They wore short yellow boots and a broad belt with a tooled leather pouch attached. At the side of each belt was a bolstered weapon. To the left a blaster, I was sure, and to the right, perhaps a heat-ray or laser gage… . And then, and here was the anachronism of all anachronisms—across each individual back was a sheathed greatsword; each haft and pommel glistening, as did the sheath itself, with a wealth of jewels to dim the light of even those “baubles” which Lors Sernas had so desired. They were indeed as gods!

  And if they’d had but a single ounce of brains to match their beauty and then* manliness, they would have instantly been accepted as such. The ooohs and aaahs sweeping the field were solidly indicative of our Marackians’ pleasure. But they had neither brains nor that pinch of humanity that somehow exists in each true humanoid, else they could not have done what they did. More! That they were not gods could be excused; that they were to immediately prove themselves the opposite could not!

  Two fresh-faced squires raced forward on the orders of the king to halt in a swirl of dust and to cause their dottles to rear upon four of their six legs and to wave their painted forepaws in the intricate “court salute” to visitors.

  The act completed, they then called out in unison, their eyes gleaming with pleasure at what they saw: “Oh great lords from beyond our skies, hear now this greeting from our noble king. He salutes you all right kindly and begs that—”

  Which was as far as they got. The leader of the six—he’d been the first to step to the platform’s edge—held up a hand. His eyes were cold, contemptuous. In the face of the silence he had ordered, he then smiled fatuously, drew his blaster and deliberately sent two glowing shafts of crimson energy into the chests and stomachs of each of the youths. Their shrill death screams were instantly echoed by their dottles; indeed by all our dottles. For dottles, though they are used in war, do not themselves fight, since they cannot abide the sight of blood and slaughter… . The heralds’ cringing dottles too were then shot down.

  The effect was an instant total fear and loathing. A Fregisian warrior is quickly inured to blood himself. Still the sight of the wanton killings plus the brutal slaughter of the gentle dottles produced pure trauma.

  To a ground-swell roar of absolute rage a movement began toward the ship from the block of men-at-arms and warriors—to be held back only by the most frenzied efforts of the sergeants appointed by Fel-Holdt. But no such hindrance blocked the castled knights and gallants. At least a dozen of these dashed forward, swords drawn, to range themselves below the platform and to scream a demand that the visitors, “account for their cowardly act, and now!”

  But weapons had, now also leapt to the hands of all the insanely laughing half-dozen from the ship. The twelve and their animals were instantly cut down by blazing blood-red bolts and penciled shafts of blues and greens.

  The crowd, falling back of its own accord, moaned its terror. But still more white-faced but courageous Marackian swordsmen surged to the fore, and more. And the six slaughtered them; butchered the cringing, piteously crying dottles too, so that within seconds the field within the half-circle around the sky ship was a charnel house of blasted bits and pieces of the bodies of Marackians and dottles alike. Some even burned with an unearthly, hellish glow.

  It stopped only when the king, inclusive of myself and those with me in his entourage, deliberately put ourselves between those who’d still fight and the enemy who’d be only too happy to destroy them all if they tried.

  With the king’s first movement, I’d said quickly to Rawl and Dosh: “Now here’s the real danger. Prepare yourselves! For if they even begin to level their weapons at the House of Marack, I’ll kill them all as is my prowess. Which means, of course, that well have to attack the ship at once, to seize the entry. We’ll have little chance of victory, but we’ve not much choice either.”

  The satisfied, almost relieved hiss of their indrawn breaths was comforting. But the five and their leader made no move to destroy Caronne, so the moment passed.

  At that point they’d killed many hundreds, deliberately. There was then an awful silence, until the aliens bolstered their weapons, folded their arms upon their shining, emblazoned chests and stared contemptuously down at us.

  Their leader again stepped out. “Who among you barbarian scum,” he roared in great bell-like tones, “dares call himself the leader of this stinking, unwashed pack.” His insults, like the unwarranted killings, were intentional; designed to put down, intimidate—and destroy. “I am Tarkiis Rolls,” he continued, “of the great race of Kentii (the name of the original Alphians). I command a fleet of ships such as the one you see before you. We have come to give this world and all upon it to Diis, our god. Let him stand forth who is your leader!”

  “Now!” I again warned my stalwarts. But again their was no need.

  The language of Tarkiis was stilted and slurred of tonal inflections. Still it was understandable for it retained the words of protocol—and this across a full five thousand years. I thought it strange, to say the least, that this should be.

  The king came forward, pale, proud and unafraid. I noted his almost surreptitious gesture that none accompany him. He announced simply, “I am he.” “And what are you?”

  “I am the king, the ruler of this land. I am the head of the royal family of Marack, and of the Council of the kingdom of Marack.”

  .”Show me at once the others of this family and this council. And I warn all of you—” His voice lifted, became almost stentorian as he looked out over the gathered throng, “that an order from me, or from any of mine to any of yours, must be instantly obeyed—on pain of death! Pass the word on, for I will say it no more.”

  Murie, Caroween, and the trembling Queen Tyndil rode their mounts a few paces forward—as did we fifty of the privy council.

  Tarkiis’s grin revealed perfect teeth, capped or otherwise. “Come closer,” he demanded. “Two things do I know of you already: One, that you call yourselves warriors. Two, that you’re actually scum. I’d advise you, therefore, not to let the first confuse you as to your worth, for you have none. Moreover, do not attempt to test us again, else all that you’ve known will be as if it had never been. Halt now!” he ordered with an accompanying snap of his fingers.

  We halted.

  I could see Murie clearly; still, I flicked my contacts to four powers so that we were staring eye to eye. Hers were filled with icy anger. Tears of rage lay on her apple cheeks. Flecks of blood shone on her lips where she’d bitten them in helpless rage during the killing. Queen Tyndil, at best of a light and airy substance, was now out of it, her large eyes blank and staring. Just as well, I thought… . With few exceptions the looks on the faces of the rest of the council bespoke a simple suicidal hatred. Had not the king and others who’d clung to sanity held them back, they’d still have attacked—and we’d all be dead.

  The ascetic Per-Looris had, through it all, been able to maintain his limited “null’ around the king. Though uncertain of its potential against the Alphian’s weaponry, I knew it would have some effect. Indeed, I was tempted to press a belt stud for my “null,” but thought better of it. The reason? Well, since I was aware of Per-Looris’s limited “null,” perhaps Tarkiis would be too; which meant that their sensors would also hit in on me. Why take the risk?

  Tarkiis began to talk. His five companions, uncaring now and no longe
r watchful, simply relaxed, withdrew somewhat to his rear, lit small tubes of paper from their pouches and inhaled deeply. Interesting. They’d “turned us off,” so that for them we’d ceased to exist. So much for what they truly thought of us as opposed to the pleasures of their own company.

  Tarkiis, the would-be overlord, then spoke oddly, as if by rote; as if he were reciting something but with little knowledge of the content. “We are your forefathers,” he shouted, so that spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. “We are from that world which your elders fled in cowardice in the long ago to then degenerate and to become as animals upon this world, the second of your sun-star, Fletis. We’ve come to claim you. Not as our equals, but as beasts who once were men. In the far future, perhaps, your children will become again what they once were. In the meantime we are here to guarantee that you’ll sink no further in degeneracy than the level on which we’ve found you.”

  He continued on and on in this vein. And even as. he talked he seemed unaware that those he spoke to hadn’t the slightest idea as to what he was talking about beyond the fact that he intended ruling them against their will. Moreover, his wanton killing had already revealed the lack of even a barbaric morality within himself and his warriors.

  And finally, his dialogue suggested that he actually had but a limited understanding of anything. Indeed, it was as if he’d but recently been briefed on the very history he was expounding; and even that, superficially, from a book of fiction.

  Twilight was now hard upon us, and he chose to cut his speech short to demand abruptly that a dozen Marackians meet with him on the morrow, including the royal family, at which time he’d appoint new administrators and establish a new set of laws.

  I could not h’elp but note that when he’d mentioned the royal family, his eyes had fixed hard on Murie, while she glared back at him….

  Then two wealthy merchants of Glagmaron City, quick to sense an absolute shift in the power base, thrust themselves forward to beg Tarkiis that they be allowed to speak. On their knees, in obvious obeisance, they both then put their heads to the ground.

  The risk was great. The merchants did show courage. The possibility of gold and power is often the catalyst to change a Simple to a gerd. Tarkiis’s brow blackened, at first, so that the merchants trembled. Then, curious, he agreed.

  The leader of the two raised his head. “I am Rol-Tabis, lord of lords,” he began unctiously. “And this is Bar Tabis, my brother. Tis that we and our friends have long believed that there were other gods beyond those we’ve been forced to serve. The proofs now here, in yourselves! In your skyship. We but ask, lord, to be the first to serve you.”

  To show their ardor the two men touched their foreheads to the dirt again. Rol-Tabis continued. “We but wish too, great lord, to be but a small part of your glory and to aid in the administration of this land which is now yours. And we do assure you that you’ll find many like us who, with our help, see to it that all you wish will be carried out.”

  At which they again lowered their heads to the ground and were silent.

  Tarkiis’s immediate reaction was to laugh wildly, contemptuously, and to call to his compatriots. These bestirred themselves from their conversation to glance down at the object of his hilarity. One, still holding his blaster, pointed the weapon at Rol-Tabis. But Tarkiis stayed his hand, saying while still laughing, “Let be, Marques. If we’re to set up a game of rewards and punishments, why then I’d say that these two deserve the first reward. As for punishment, why that we can always give. Nay! They’ve set an example. Well see how h turns out.”

  He then ordered them to their feet, saying, “Attend on me tomorrow. And woe be to all the rest of you,” he threatened, “if you come not to my conference. Hey! Why, ni even drink to you in the liquor of the land. You there!” He pointed to a young student warrior who sat his mount next to Rawl. ‘Toss me that canteen at your beast’s saddle.”

  The student did so, lips tight compressed. If he’d had a choice, I knew, he’d be flinging his faldirk straight to the monster’s heart. He flung the canteen instead.

  Tarkiis caught it adeptly; uncapped it, put it to his lips and drank. He immediately spat the contents out shouting, “Faugggh! What filth is this you give me?”

  He hurled it back. But Rawl leaned in front of the young student to snatch it from the air and, in full view of the angered Tarkiis, to mumble a few words over it. Shouting boldly, “Try it again, my lord, I’ve taken the edge off it,” he tossed it back.

  Tarkiis tipped the canteen to his mouth, swallowed. A grin of pleasure split his handsome features. The gog-milk had been changed to sviss, the finest of Fregisian brandy. He said to Rawl, his eyes flat. “You’ll come to my hearing too. Now leave. All of you. And when I open this lock at high noon tomorrow, I expect our field to be cleansed of all this filth.” He pointed with a limp hand to the bloodied swaths of men and beasts. “Now, go!”

  And we went….

  But even as we withdrew, I saw that the two brothers had held back to exchange a few more hurried words with Tarkiis, who then dismissed them again, contemptuously.

  We trotted white-lipped toward the castle. Curious, I asked Rawl the simple question: “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “That business with the gog-milk.”

  He shrugged. “I meant to try them, Collin; to see if the bastard knew of our magick.”

  “And?”

  “Well, he does. Tis obvious, else he’d have said something.”

  “And if he knows?”

  “Why then, ‘tis useless. Moreover, what we have, hell have too—but ten times over.”

  “Nay, old comrade,” I chuckled happily. “It just may be that ‘tis the other way around. For I’m thinking that he not only knows nothing of our magick, but likewise knows nothing of how his own ship works. To him (like yourself, I could have added), the two facts are one and the same. You’ve saved Marack, sir! Not,” I exclaimed immediately to his instant whoop, “that it’ll be that easy. Indeed, there’ll be sufficient blood before the final act to satisfy even you. I promise it!”

  Returning through the main gates, I looked one last time toward the east to see the Tabis brothers already on the hill road and riding madly toward Glagmaron City. There would always be Tabis brothers, I mused. Without such opportunists, egocentrics, psychotics and the like, society, as we know it, would indeed mature in but half the time… . They disappeared in the swift moving shadows of night. And, as if it were ordained, great storm clouds rushed in again from the east, their rolling shapes all rent with slashing lightning.

  To hell with the Tabis brothers!

  We’d cross that bridge when we had to. We had now to snatch victory from defeat, and this with the scantest of weaponry and from under the very noses of our insane would-be overlords. Who, I wondered, in all the galaxy, had ever faced such odds? There sat a warship with a hole-

  punch-warp potential upon our jousting field. It surely had a crew of as many as forty to sixty heavily armed, in the truest sense of the word, Alphian warriors. Across the Cyr River at a distance of three miles-—and there was a most definite connection between the two—was the blue sphere, silent, brooding. As the sun set its color had changed from electric to slate-gray, to scabrous, so that it seemed to be dying. I prayed that such was the case.

  Those from the city below had returned to the city, bringing their tale of terror. Those from the castle, excepting for the privy council, were sent about their business. They went fearfully, for the image of the ship and its death-dealing shafts of light was ever with them. They would linger long over sup for the escape it afforded.

  The guards on the walls, with full knowledge of what had happened, were now finely alert to any action from the ship or sphere.

  We went directly to the king’s small council hall. Food, drink and other sundries were ordered up. A large fire was lighted against the beginning storm. More candles were brought to replace the nubs of yesternight.

  After sil
ently downing the first drink of our individual choice—there was no gaiety—we settled to the business at hand. Gen-Rondin summed up at length what had happened. He even had praise for me, for my having cautioned prudence so that our council, king, and indeed most of our castle lords still lived to, hopefully, fight another day. “As to what we’ve learned from all this,” he concluded dolorously, “well that remains to be seen. Do you wish to speak at this point, Sire?” he asked, turning to the king as was the custom.

  Caronne was wise enough to know his limitations. “I defer to all of you,” he replied calmly. “The wisdom of kings is derived from those with whom he surrounds himself. If he’s of a frivolous bent, ‘tis reflected in his council. Such kingdoms seldom survive their rulers. Tis my hope that I’ve chosen well. We are in your hands.”