Arthur H. Landis - Camelot 02

by Camelot in Orbit

  “You are Marack’s Collin,” they told me. “You are the savior of the North. How could we not-if you have asked us?”

  I smiled. “Even if you think me mad?”

  “That, too, considered.”

  “Give my your hands then, and pledge me.”

  They did, unmindful of the crowd around us-six callused, sword-scarred hands to grasp mine strongly….

  I smiled then to give them heart. “By this time tomorrow, sirs,” I told them, “we’ll be as close to Hish as Dunguring was to Kelb, on the eve of battle. I promise you-thirty miles, no more. From there we’ll scout the countryside-ere we advance to tweak the Kaleen’s scabby nose.”

  Their eyes shone again, as I had known they would. They gasped and believed me.

  For I was the Collin.

  And I? Well, I thrilled with them. And why not Hish? While we’d slept and played these last six months, the Dark One had acted. And he knew of me now-whereas before he’d only guessed. More! he knew of me as a link to a starship with its, to him, unknown potential for his destruction. What better place to hide then, than in Om itself-except we wouldn’t hide! A surge of adrenaline, born of the node’s first buzzing, was still with me. A danger, really, since the subconscious, oft’ times the victim of id-ego euphoria, plays perilous games. We spoke briefly then of plans to insure our safe departure.

  We were late to the royal reception room. The king, usually bluff and hearty, was tense, disturbed. At sight of me moved to speak but was stopped by a hurried whispering from Fairwyn who stood behind him. A cold and drafty castle-wind fluttered the aged sorcerer’s beard. He paid it no mind, which was interesting, for he was a confessed hypochondriac who wore quilted clothing e’en in the heat of summer.

  King Olith Caronne and Queen Murie Tindil led off to the dining hall. We took our places: myself to the princess’ right hand; Rawl to Caroween’s; Fitz to the rear of the four of us.

  Gen-Rondin was there, no longer friendly, but rather cold and haughty. A stranger peered from behind his eyes. Fel-Holdt of Svoss, commander in chief of the king’s armies, was also present, along with the two great “Kolks,” Lords Al-Tils and Kals of Logven.

  Fel-Holdt was free of the taint, and I was glad of that. They placed themselves behind us, their station in the hierarchy. To the rear came the Pug Boos, Hooli and Jindil-Jindil being recognized by a circle round one eye. They were asleep, lying on cushions carried by lackeys.

  “My Lady,” I murmured to Murie as we picked up the royal cadence, “my regrets in this thing of Gen-Rondin. A certain indisposition-“

  She gnawed her lip and eyed me angrily. “By the gods, sir,” she whispered, “play me no games. I know of your monster, love, and of poor Gen-Soolis….”

  Damn Rawl! I thought. He must have run to Caroween after all; though in Fregisian protocol, to tell his betrothed was in no way a breach of trust.

  “I also know of your ‘indisposition,” Murie was saying. “A seizure, sir? And I was not told?”

  “It was nothing, a lowly spell.”

  “Indeed? Look to my father. Is that, too a ‘lowly spell’? If you’d been here-“

  “The two are unconnected,”

  “By the pits of Ghast, Collin. I’m to be your wife, remember?”

  “Murie,” I said, still sotto voce, “we will indeed be wed. But Om is indeed again in Marack. And I must lead in this. Do you understand?”

  Tears brimmed her eyes, but she looked to me and nodded.

  The pomp and splendor of Marackian royalty is equaled in no feudal society anywhere; nor is it surpassed. This night, as usual, it was beauteous, dazzling. It was also tinsel and running dye. We, of course, sat at the king’s table; being doubly flanked by two lines of tables at right angles to our centered three. All rose to bow their heads to the king and to his light and airy queen. He simply seated himself and the nightly feasting began.

  Indeed, at that precise moment a veritable parade of trays and service poured forth from the kitchens. In the summer past, the viands had been great roasts and shanks of meat from all manner of strange beasts; tureens of gravies sufficient to drown a midget; puddings, pastries, birds in every shape and size-and an endless pouring of varied wines, sviss, and other alcoholic beverages. Now it was but a simple fare of gogmeat, winter vegetables, sviss, and thin wines… Gaiety too had waned, for winter’s grip was hard upon the Court: no partying; no hunting; no colorful tournaments-no bloody battles!

  The “solstice,” of course, would be celebrated shortly, along with the “Staading,” the day of the “granting of life” by the hallowed trinity of Ormon, the father, Wimbily, the mother, and Harris, the “lost child,” who, when found, would, like the Collin mythos, me, restores the Northern peoples to the greatness they once had owned. In this respect, I’d oft’ thought that the Pug Boos, who knew of their real history, had allowed a bit of race memory to remain so as to soften the trauma of true greatness, when it would one day be returned to them.

  Whatever, for the moment even the advent of this most religious of all days had yet to grab the citizenry.

  Our plain food done, we settled to drinks and entertainment. A trained snow-carnivore was first. It was a kuul, all white but with Fregisian blue eyes, great ripping fangs to scare a gerd, and taloned pads. It curled its huge, six-legged body into a ball and rolled this way and that to the command of its trainer. The kuul, possessing the high I.Q. of all Fregisian fauna, peered cautiously between the digits of one of its pads so as not to run into anything.

  Watching, Murie slipped a hand into mine and pressed her head to my shoulder. She was usually not demonstrative. Other than our pre-nuptial “carryings on,” I’d have thought her cold. Now, as I responded to this small advance, I saw two tears upon her cheeks, while her blue-purple eyes stared up at me, deliberately, and with a piquant sadness. By the gods, I thought, she’s at it again; though she loved me she’d ever be queen to my role of consort-in waiting…- In effect, she’d “control me” one way or the other. I grinned, squeezed her small hand in turn and winked at her.

  Among the many bits of wisdom that I, Kyrie Fern, will bequeath to posterity is the solidly researched fact that the female of the humanoid species, in transit from barbarism to what is preciously known as civilization, invariably attempts at one time or another in a relationship to make an utter ass, dubot, or flimpl, of the male of the species-even her beloved, or rather, especially her beloved; at the least she is at all times most willing to use her person to her advantage. I’d call it instinctive retribution for male-inflicted wrongs across the millennia of evolution. The pattern’s in-grained-programmed! I, for one, suspect a Puckish God! I speak from experience.

  Betrothals on Fregis-Camelot-in this case, mine to the Princess Murie Nigaard Caronne, only child to the king and queen of Marack-take exactly one year; this from a posting of banns to consummation. Prior to an official announcement of a marriage-to-be; anything is permissible ‘twixt the consenting parties. After the banns, the two parties are put on ice for the duration of the full twelve months!

  That the court had conspired to neglect to inform me of this fact was the understatement of the Fregisian year. Not that they hadn’t hinted, for indeed they had. But who, I ask, in the full euphoria of an “oft-requitted chase,” would believe in hints? For six months therefore I’d been forced to adapt myself to the burning fact that delightful dalliance in sylvan gog-meadows, camp tents, and castle “nooks,” were over-kaput! And, too, in my own eyes I had indeed become the “consort marionette” to my bit of saucy pulchritude as she seemingly went, uncaring, about her business of being the princess.

  Moreover, and this perhaps was the greater blow, the sure knowledge that I, at age thirty-I, a Foundation Adjuster with sufficient carnal knowledge (Galactic), to last a lifetime; 1, the hero-victor of Dunguring-that I could become so concerned by “non-access” to a certain delightful tush, had left me, to say the least-with a new Achilles heel.

  I stared again. She was beautiful. M
y fate. My trap! She wore a velvet dress of purple and silver which, together with her marigold hair, sparkling tiara, and soft-molded outline of breast and belly, near drove me to my knees. She was cameo-perfect. If ever I tired of being the Collin, I had only to think of Murie-of that I was certain.

  In control again, I thought to reassure her before telling her of our departure. In this last respect two tables below the salt held upwards of a hundred student-warriors all pledged to Grisswall and myself. Another table serviced a company of Fitz’s men, swordsmen fro Great Ortmund. Hoggle, of course, sat with us at the king’s table. And finally one section of the castle guards was commanded by a sergeant loyal to Fel-Holdt, whom Hoggle had warned ‘gainst Fairwyn’s eyes.

  At the “high table” were the lords, Gen-Rondin, Kol-Rebis of Gleglyn, the brave and courteous Rekisto, aging now but always full of fight; the kolbs (barons), Al-Tils and Kals of Logven, Caril, kolb of Doriis, Gen-Baios of Drees, Fel-Holdt of Svoss, and a dozen others.

  Counting ourselves, a majority of the Privy Council were in attendance.

  Of those present, I settled for Gen-Rondin, Fairwyn, Uurs of Klimpinge, Kol-Rebis-now that I’d seen him, watched his eyes-and Caril, the new commander of the castle guard, as definitely being the Kaleen’s men. A pity! I’d known them all as brothers at Dunguring.

  My job, in part, was to free them too.

  “Murie,” I began, “I’ve a serious thing to tell you. We’ll be leaving tonight, I, Rawl, Griswall, and Fitz. There is a thing we must do….”

  She went all white; stared at me as if I’d told her the world would end at cock’s-crow.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “But Collin, my lord-how can you leave my father now?”

  I said, “I’ll explain after-“

  A shouted ruckus interrupted from without, amid a caterwaul of loudly whoooing dottles. Two minstrels who’d taken the place of the kuul stopped-their playing. Knights and warriors stood yelling to their feet. Hands reached for sword hafts…. Then three young knights burst through the doors in a mad dash to fling themselves before the king. The guards, pursuing, seized them, put blades to their throats, and waited.

  The king stared silently, then gestured to the guards to withdraw. He nodded to Fairwyn who was court spokesman.

  Our aged sorcerer, struggling to his feet, cried out, “Who be you, sirs? How dare you thusly to come before our liege?”

  Murie’s hand clutched mine still tighter. Rawl, teeth bared in an evil grin, said sotto voce, “Well, Collin, here’s ‘entertainment,’ and that’s a fact.”

  Bidden to rise by the king, the three doffed their coats to reveal the heraldic colors of Kelb, the seacoast kingdom wherein Dunguring had been fought. Hard cakes of ice clung to their garments. A steam of fog rose round their persons. The leader was young, strong. His wild eyes reflected the rigors of a difficult journey.

  He shouted hoarsely: “Your most gracious majesties, and my lords and sirs,” he bowed his head briefly, “Forgive our rudeness. ‘Tis that we’ve no time for the protocol of entry. We bring the plea of Laratis, our newly crowned of Kelb. He begs your aid and sends warning of dire peril. I’m bidden to tell you, sire, that our capital of Corchoon is under siege!”

  Fairwyn angrily interrupted: “How speak you, sir, of peril and siege? The North’s at peace. Dunguring’s all behind us.”

  The young knight ignored him, turned direct to the king, crying, “Dunguring’s not behind us. For ‘tis the very dead from off that field who ring our capital!”

  There was a great silence then-followed by a gasp of total horror to sweep the hall like a soughing wind. An attack by two hundred thousand mouldering corpse-men was no pretty thing to contemplate. There were instant screams from the women and roars of anger and dread from the warriors. More! There began a weeping for the fact that if this were true, then among the dead would be the sons and brothers of those who sat this very moment at the king’s tables-‘ Fairwyn, normally prone to instant panic in any crisis, stood strangely calm.

  Corpse-men! Dead-alives! The curse of the North! So much so that for countless years no one would dare the night except with a company of armed men. ‘Twas a trick of the Dark One-to rule the night! He’d done it deliberately, sporadically, activating the dead to kill the living, or to seize a child or a woman, supposedly for some dark purpose in far-off Om.

  The fear instilled was quite effective.

  I’d been the first in living memory to challenge that fear; to shame others to join me in the challenge. Indeed, ‘twas I, the risen “Collin,” who’d brought the warrior hordes of Gheese and Ferlach to the rescue of Marack on the field of Dunguring, forcing them to ride through two nights to do it. And we’d fought dead-alives at Gortfln and other places.

  Now, however, the Kaleen had apparently conjured up an army, though we knew-I and the Pug Boos-that he had neither the skill nor the power to use such a horde effectively.

  I watched Fairwyn closely, certain that this risen horror was no surprise to him.

  Normally, a threat to the House of Marack would elicit his immediate “words” and a spinning of the proper “web” so as to insure the king’s protection.. Now he did nothing.

  The spoken “words” of a sorcerer-king-protector could produce a form of “null,” but with certain differences. It was degradable for one thing, and lasted but a few hours. It was also accompanied by a slight fog. Fregisians, the Dark One must have reasoned, needed visual proof that their sorcery was working….For it was he who was the originator of all magick on Fregis-Camelot. Actually, though I still did not fully understand it, it was derived of a certain power over the planet’s magnetic field, and he’d given it to the priests of the religion he’d created for the people in the south-the better to hold them in thralldom.

  Osmosis-wise, however, the “magick” had crept north. jumped the River Sea and come into the possession of Northern priests. The gestalt effect of five thousand years of practice was such that the practitioners of the North had surpassed in many ways the priests of the South, having found, through trial and error, new combinations of sound-the secret to it all-that worked. In no way, however, could they equal the Kaleen. And too, to all who practiced it, North or South-it still was magick!

  I watched the king closely. Indeed, I’d kept an eye on him since we’d first gone to the reception room. One thing was sure, though he was reacting to either the lies or threats of Fairwyn and the others, he was not Kaleen possessed. I wondered of that. Had the Dark One tried and failed? Had the king a power of which even I was unaware?

  He rose to speak, in defiance of Fairwyn’s glare, “Tell us,” he commanded, and his voice was heavy, tired, “of those risen dead. We know of the Dark One’s power. But never, to our knowledge, have those from a stricken field returned to attack the living.”

  Fairwyn stood suddenly rigid, his skinny hands all folded on his breast. King Caronne seated himself again and waited, chin in hand, for the “why” of it….

  To continued cries of dread and sounds of weeping, the young warrior told his tale:

  “They appeared a week ago,” he said. “The people of a village were killed and eaten. Since then the countryside’s been ravaged so that the folk have fled in terror to Corchoon. The fighting’s been fierce. ‘Tis a thing on our part of a hacking and a collecting of parts for burning. As for the dead-alives, when one of ours is seized he is torn asunder and his parts devoured, though our sorcerer, Kalfi, tells us that ‘tis not the flesh of life that sustains the life in them.”

  “And all is done at night?” Fel-Holdt questioned loudly.

  “At first, yes,” the young knight answered. “But on the morn I left Corchoon, thousands had gathered in the bright sun to come before the city’s walls. There were six of us when we started out. Three we lost while we chopped our way through a mile of corpses; our poor dottles screaming the while in their terror.”

  “When did you leave Corchoon, sir?”
the king asked courteously.

  “Two days ago, Sire.”

  “Then you rode the night.”

  “The night, sirs,” the young man said proudly, “will never again hold fear for Kelbians.

  For like your ‘Collin,’ we’ve fought the very fiends themselves.” His tired eyes flashed; the first sign I’d seen of pride in deed.

  There were thunderous cheers all around.

  Fel-Holdt, Lord of Svoss, stern, patriarchal, Marshall of all Marack’s armies, then rose to face the king. “Sire,” he cried, his voice icy-calm, “From unnatural battle such as this true men will naturally turn and shudder. Yet ‘tis thrust upon us and must be fought. Your army, in winter quarters at Castle Gortfin, is a third of the way ‘twixt here and Corchoon. I say send to that army now! Direct it at once to the aid of our Kelbian brothers. And more!” he cried fiercely to shouts of “Aye” throughout the hall, “Until the problem’s solved, guard all our graveyards day and night! See to it there’s no more burying. The pyre, the: burning vat, my liege, is the only way ‘til this new challenge is over….”

  Then the Baron Rekisto received the king’s nod and spoke, and the lords, Al-Tils and Kols of Logven, and Gen-Baios of Drees. All asked that aid be sent post-haste to Kelb.

  There was no disagreement.

  Then jen-Rondin rose to stand next to Fairwyn, who seemed again in a trance, also to endorse the need for action. But he took it one step further. Rondin was tall, heavy, his mien positive. A warrior-juror of Marack’s courts, he had earned much respect. And he deserved it-except for now. “My king,” he began, and his blazing eyes were of whatever it was that dwelt in Hishian darkness, “the task confronting our northern lands would be best served by sending our Collin to command the force at Gortfin. Where fighting’s simple, Sire, we need but strength and valor. But where there’s magick, there do we need the Collin. For above all other in the ‘art,’ our warlocks, sorcerers, witches-his magick is the best!”