I gazed, too, at the Pug-Boo, and with new respect. He stared calmly back at me as if he knew that I had psyched a part of him, and glimpsed a purpose in his being, a small part of the iceberg. It bothered him not a whit. After holding my gaze for a time he clutched Murie’s waist, leaned his fat round head against the small of her back, and went to sleep.
The mists lifted. Fomalhaut shone brightly; all around us were the scenes and smells and rustlings of yesterday. On a promontory, at one point, we were calmly observed by a huge, six-legged striped creature which caused the dottles to roll their big blue eyes and feign indifference in their fear. At another point a great creature browsed in cane thicket and long grass. It resembled a dottle, but seemed half again its size and strength. It had a massive double horn protruding from the front of its heavy head.
“Have you ever ridden a gerd, Sir Lend?” Hoggle-Fritz asked, as we passed the creature by.
“I have not,” I said.
“I have, good sir, and all that you may know of them is true. They are absolute devils of Ghast. At this, since he had mentioned the name of Ghast, Ormon’s competitor for the souls of men, he made the triple circle and mumbled a few words.
“They are verily Vuuns from Best [Camelot’s Hell]. But once conquered, they are loyal to the death.” he finished.
“Was it so with the one you rode?”
“Aye. And I rode him unto death, and that but recently. We fought, my supporters and I, on the fields outside fair Durst, which was my fief in Great Ortmund. We fought all one day and into another. And in the end the thousand-man guard of the false king Feglyn, fresh and unused until that moment, did drive us from the field. And they did slaughter my brave gerd, using two squadrons of spearmen to do it. But even so I escaped.”
Hoggle-Fitz fell silent then, no doubt reviewing, in his mind’s eye, that bloody battle. … I looked back at the great gerd, who, from his far distance, seemed staring calmly back at me. It was indeed a noble beast.
We passed through our first village an hour after dawn, then another and another, spaced but one half hour apart. In each were those who told of a great thudding of dottle paws in the night, and of the muffled calls of men. We knew then that Om had passed this way. Almost at high noon we thundered over the lip of a great valley in which, at some ten miles distance, we saw a fair-sized city. It was Gleglyn, according to the princess. It was the last town before Great Glagmaron, though many villages still lay between. Halfway across the plain the north-south branches of a crossroad paralleled a fast-running river. We gathered then with Rawl and the lady Caroween at its apex and sought for signs of where the men and Yorns of Om had gone.
Though the tracks of a dewy morning had dried with the sun of noon, the path was easily evident. They had gone south. In the direction, Rawl said, of the borders of Gheese… . And we wondered why.
We dined in Gleglyn, being ushered through the great walls and into the town by the king’s garrison captain, who had been called to the gate. We ate at the town’s fairest inn, but we did not linger long. I had suggested, and the princess agreed, that we make all haste to Glagmaron. Since she had told me while riding of the powers of her father’s sorcerers, and since the sixth hour, Greenwich, had passed again twice with never a burn of the transmitter, I wished immediately for a place of some safety. I had no doubt that this, too, would be an illusion like the safety of mists and clouds. But at least we could take stock and plot what moves were available.
There had been much movement through the town. Young knights and squires, student warriors from the local Collegium, as well as others who were passing through for the spring gathering, thronged the streets. Many were headed for Glagmaron castle and the great, equinoctial tournament of the morrow. Little had been said of this by Rawl or Murie. And I, therefore, assumed that perhaps it did not touch upon the court. But during lunch Rawl suggested casually that we enter the lists. I was noncommittal, but Hoggle-Fitz was instantly for some sort of murderous “Onset of Fifties,” as he called it, with himself leading the charge.
Some twenty students most happily attached themselves to our entourage—honored to be so privileged. The troop was assigned to the command of Lord Hoggle-Fitz, who spaced them appropriately in front and rear, dividing them with Rawl. For the first time I was truly alone with Murie Nigaard —this with the exception of the dozing dame Malion and the sound-asleep Pug-Boo. I used the time to good advantage.
We rode side by side, each dottle matching perfectly the gait of the other. I could tell that Murie was as pleased as I. Her feminine arrogance of the previous day had waned somewhat. Her glances now seemed quite intimate and her countenance most warm and friendly. I sensed, knew actually, that with but the slightest pressure a conquest could be made here.
And this, together with the memory of her soft-furred figure in my arms in the race for the entrance to Castle-Gortfin, was heady mead indeed.
I told her more of Harl Lenti—all that I knew, in fact. And I hinted at other things. I told her truthfully of the imminence of great danger to all Marack; that somehow I knew this, and that she and Rawl and I, and others, were destined to share an adventure such as had been given to few men in all time. She listened, wide-eyed, thrilled. I spoke of memories that were not mine, but which were mine: of a knowledge of destiny and fate likened only to that of the old gods before the Trinity of Ormon, Wimbily, and Harris… . She believed it all. I half did myself. Then, as our shadows lengthened to the rear, the forests parted again to disclose in the distance the great walls and myriad faceted windows of the city of Glagmaron.
We rode so close, Murie and I, that my lips as I talked were at times within inches of either her ear or the nape of her neck. That she was aware of this was evident, for at such moments she would stare straight ahead, afraid to turn and look at me and risk the chance of further contact. At each instance she heard me laugh softly so that once I caught her smiling, too, and knew thereby that we had much indeed in common.
The lady Caroween and Rawl came up once, drew near, and laughed together. Murie Nigaard blushed a bright red against the gold, and they then withdrew with discretion.
Other than the hundreds of stone houses and market-stalls clustered at the base of the mighty, hundred-foot walls, Glagmaron was a fairy city to rival Glagmaron castle, high on its great hill to the south. I recalled that it was from that same south road that I had first seen it while awaiting the entourage of the princess. The pennons of the castle were now equaled by those of the city in display, variety, and color. Only those of the king’s household were at half-mast. This, we concluded quickly, was because of Murie’s disappearance.
I signaled Lord Hoggle-Fitz, my arm held high. He galloped to my side and we broke together from the center of the train and thundered to the fore to join Rawl and the lady Caroween. Then we rode across the plain to a distance of three hundred paces from Glagmaron’s mighty gates. We were followed by our men-at-arms, our twenty young student knights, and our dottles. At that point we hoisted the princess’s colors, made with silk sundries found in Hoggle-Fitz’s baggage. And these, together with those of Lord Hoggle-Fitz and Rawl, caused somewhat of a stir among the rapidly assembling squadrons of the great garrison, plus whole coveys of excited citizenry, peering from the walls.
Our dottles -wheed and -whooed, greeting the dottles of the garrison. And it was not long before a young knight in resplendent attire rode forth. He leaped from the saddle before the princess, made a sweeping bow with cap and outstretched hand, offering her, as was the custom, her father’s city.
As if on cue, heralds appeared. Silver horns blew a medley of pomp and acclaim. And all of us, to the very last dottle, made our weary but proud way into the sprawling, beauteous feudal sanctuary of Glagmaron city. …
I glanced to my wrist as we passed beneath the great arch of the gate, noting with some interest that once again it was the sixth hour, Greenwich.
We rode through the teeming city and beyond to the winding, stone-hewn highway tha
t led to the castle. For one long length of a half-mile or more, it was cut from the very granite cliffs upon which the castle rested, with the awesome sight of the rushing river named the Cyr some hundreds of feet below. The river had not been visible on our approach to the city, being on its opposite side beneath a bluff that fell off toward the south and west.
The city itself, I noted, was like every museum print, sketch, or woodcut that I had ever seen of medieval architecture. There were cobbled streets and stone, wood and slate-roofed houses and buildings. Some were as high as five stories. Here and there was a great square with a fountain, statuary, and a market; and all of it ringed by the city homes of noblemen and merchants. One great building had carved above its almost gothic entrance, in Glaedic, the root language of all Camelot: Marack Collegium. Home of Scholars, Students, Poets, Minstrels, and Those Who Teach. Below this was a list of courses offered. I had little time to study them since we went by so quickly. But my previous scanning had told me that they encompassed minstrelism, the playing of instruments; the telling of tales, the recital of poetry and singing; simple medicine; philosophy, as expounded by certain Gamelot sages; the law. And, since this was Camelot-Fregis, “Introductory Steps to Magick, Sorcery, and Astrology.”
Across the great square was another institute devoted to the study of theology and the Trinity. Despite their parallel existence there seemed to be no competition here.
The Collegium was coeducational. The square was literally filled with groups of young men and girls, all in light dress, though with some mesh armor. They were socializing, eating and drinking, or were being addressed in groups by a lecturer or an individual reading from a vellum textbook. Each student carried a slateboard and a small packet of waxed vellum sheets with stylus and chalk.
I thought as they cheered us with a youthful exuberance that here, indeed, was evidence of Camelot’s real worth. But I remembered, too, that though a contradiction existed in terms of the feudal society in which the Collegium functioned, still it presented no threat to the hierarchy, for it was but a mote in the total scheme of things.
As we passed through each great square that punctuated the maze of streets, all hailed the return of the princess, the students, seemingly, most of all. And all hailed the presence of Hooli the Pug-Boo. Hooli sat apart now as he rode with Murie Nigaard. His fat little legs bounced far back on the round rump of the dottle, while his furry round face was wreathed with a dimpled, half-moon smile. His eyes seemed to emote, to twinkle, to exude an aura of benign if not smug benevolence. And I sensed as I watched him and the crowds around us that the role he played far transcended what the Watchers had told us. I was determined, at the earliest, to find out why. …
I asked Rawl what he had majored in, in his Collegium. For I was aware that all the sons and daughters of aristocrats attended collegiums for from one to two years. The “trades”— such as those of the ironmongers, armorers, weavers, fletchers, tailors, masons, and carpenters—were left to the sons of burghers, guildsmen, and peasants. The alternative to these diverse schools, for everyone, were the parochial or theological seminaries of Ormon and the priesthood of the Trinity.
Rawl looked at me, his blue eyes twinkling. “The lute,” he confessed blithely. “Certain roundelays. A few poems—and a bit of magic… . And yourself, Sir Harl?”
I grinned. “The same—except we had no single sorcerer in far Timlake, the nearest city to my village. So I have no magic. But what of yours? What can you do?”
“A spell. A spell for love which lasts two weeks, and can be used three times—and one other.”
I stared, one eyebrow cocked quizzically, until he grinned and sheepishly said, “I can turn gog-milk into sviss… .”
“Great Ormon,” I said. “Always?”
“Almost always.”
“For a warrior,” I said, “in this matter of the sviss, you have a value beyond that of the weight of your sword. How do you do it?”
“The words, Sir Harl. The words, pronounced properly.”
“Aye,” I said. Then I was silent, hoping to hide my so foolishly displayed ignorance of the power of the words. The problem was that I had treated the idea of words, a normal concomitant of forensic magic, disparagingly—in my own mind that is. I shouldn’t have. For, as stated, on Gamelot they worked.
Rawl looked at me strangely and was about to say something, but his dottle chose that very moment to look at him fondly over her left shoulder, and thus distracted him. Murie was staring likewise in my direction. No doubt she wondered how I was making out in this great metropolis of some hundred thousand souls.
I smiled boldly back at her and we continued on.
The granite-hewn ledge above the Cyr was also a lengthy site for meditation and soul-searching, since the roar from the river below precluded all conversation.
But it was soon passed. Indeed, before I knew it there was suddenly nothing before us but a great field fronting the castle gates. In size it seemed a square mile or more, covered with a velvet carpet of grass upon which many hundreds of dottles grazed. Here and there were pleasant stands of broad-leaved trees, surrounded by carpets of wildflowers at their roots. To our right, as we progressed, was the field in which the tournament and sundry other battles would take place on the morrow. Silken tents with banners, flags, and pennons of heraldry were already spotted here and there around its periphery. On the side of the field nearest the castle a series of interlocking tiers of seats had been erected. And all was covered by a great canvased canopy. From moment to moment our ears were deafened by trumpet blasts. This was explained by Hoggle-Fitz, who said the custom was such that when one great lord signaled his trumpeters to blast, for some imagined reason or other, each of his neighbors replied in kind; their reason being that they would not be outdone in any way. Already certain knights, would-be heroes, and student warriors were to be seen going over the ground to check it for the morrow. We rode on and through them to the castle gate. These, though there was no moat, were beyond a sudden deep ravine fronted by a portcullis and drawbridge in classical style. Across this now-lowered bridge there thundered a half hundred knights and men-at-arms to join our already unwieldy entourage.
We were escorted across the bridge and through the gates to find that, once inside, the first great wall was paralleled by a second of equal size. We swung to the right for a full three hundred meters before reaching the second gate. Seeing the lay of this I wondered at what would happen within that narrow alley to a horde of invaders who had pierced the outer defense only.
In the ensuing melee of some two hundred wheeing dottles and shouting riders in the great castle courtyard, we were sorted for bed and station. The circumstances were recognized as such that there would simply have been no chance for a greeting by the king and queen. We were taken in hand, our dottles that is, and thereafter went straight to the chambers assigned to us.
Rawl claimed me as his personal guest.
After a labyrinth of great stone halls and stairs, we found ourselves in the apartment assigned to him, befitting his rank as nephew to the queen. It was large and airy, overlooking a section of the winding Cyr some three hundred feet below. And because it occupied one of the many jutting cornices, we were also given a view of the great flagstoned courtyard. The rooms possessed wall tapestries, and enormous beds with sleeping furs, a fireplace of immense proportions, and sundry closets and skin rugs. It was, indeed, quite livable.
Glagmaron castle, like all other castles, buildings, and keeps throughout Camelot-Fregis claimed ownership, too, to a thing few feudal societies in all the Galaxy would deem important—plumbing! The aforestated inordinate compulsion to cleanliness was such that long ago a crude pumping device had been invented. This, together with the use of sunlight and rooftop reservoirs, plus a veritable web of hollow cane-pole conduits, gave Glagmaron castle a plentitude of differently temperatured water.
Adventures over for the moment, we showered and soaped in an atmosphere akin to euphoria. We were like a coupl
e of student-warriors, fresh from the Collegium. All this, despite the fact that a part of my mind was apart from the scene and into the mesh of the job I had to do. There had still been no glow of stud upon my belt or wrist-band, nor voice of caution or advice from the metal node within my skull.
We slept then, taking advantage of the last hours of late afternoon. The bed was large enough for ten. Indeed, the citizenry oftentimes slept in just that way.
But again, desired sleep did not come. And when it did, it was forthwith interrupted by the image of the Pug-Boo which intruded along with sunlit patterns of laced stonework against the slate slabs of the floor, and the faint whoooing of dottles from the meadows beyond the walls… .
We were in a small star-taxi, the Pug-Boo and me, released (I supposed) from some great mother-ship. We were self-strapped into cushioned contour seats while we gazed through viewports and gyrated within the gravitational influence of a great ringed world with a covey of satellites, each with an atmospheric film.
“You can have that one there,” the Pug-Boo said seriously. “The one just tacking around the night-side. It’s listed as Miocene, lower primates only. It’s all yours, you and the princess.”
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