A World Called Camelot

  A WORLD CALLED CAMELOT

  Camelot #1

  by

  Arthur H. Landis

  COPYRIGHT ©, 1976, BY ARTHUR H. LANDIS

  All Rights Reserved.

  An earlier and somewhat different version of this novel was published as a serial under the title

  Let There Be Magick with the by-line of “James R. Keaveny,”

  and is copyright, 1969, by Camelot Publishing Company.

  Cover art by Thomas Barber

  “The opening gambit of the forces of chaos on the planet Camelot would be met and checked. The problem remained, however, that the Galactic Foundation, even now, had only the smallest knowledge of the nature of the power of Om. That it existed, yes! That its overt manifestations were as yet simply bloody war between opposing feudal factions, yes! But this war could well decide the control of the planet’s land surface. And since we knew of Camelot’s magic, we knew that if King Caroline and others like him were destroyed, all of Camelot would likewise go down—and with them all of civilization as it was now known.

  “What would then ensue we could only guess.

  “There were those of the Foundation who suggested ominously that since the nature of the forces in opposition were at best obscure, then the threat might extend beyond Camelot —to the very galaxy itself.”

  “There are two fundamental principles of magic. The first is that like produces like and effect resembles cause. The second is that things that have once been in contact ever afterward act on each other. Number One is the law of similarity, Number Two is the law of contagion. Practices based upon the law of similarity may be termed Homeopathic magic: those on the law of contagion, Contagious magic.” Both derive, in the final analysis, from a false conception of natural law. The primitive magician, however, never examines the assumptions upon which his performance is based—never reflects upon the abstract principles involved. With him, as with the vast majority of sentient life, logic is implicit, not explicit; he knows magic only as a practical thing. And to him it is always an art, never a science. The very idea of science is quite alien to his thinking.

  Sir James Frazer, The New Golden Bough

  (Anno: circa 2000) Introduction, p. 35.

  The road was a simple, well-traveled cart path, undulating gracefully through the forested hills and deep valleys that led to the distant river. Birds sang in the afternoon sunlight, their voices blending with the sound of bees and insects, completing a picture of summer quietude in a countryside that seemed both wild and virgin.

  It was something like Vermont-land, I mused, thinking of Earth and the Foundation Center. Or better yet, England-Isle. They were both like this. I shifted my weight from one heel to the other while I crouched lower on the flat rock of the promontory that overlooked the road some hundred yards below. Yes, they were like this: England-Isle naturally so, and Vermont-land deliberately, artificially. In fact, I recalled, there were great keeps and castles of runic and eld taste all over Vermont-land today, and they were owned by the most obviously “opportuned” people. I sighed inwardly.

  But, hey! Wouldn’t those same yokels be purple with envy at the wondrous rockpile which I estimated to be but a short twenty miles distant? My eyelids focused purple contact lenses to six magnitudes while I admired the crenelated ramparts, great turrets dour aeries, and brave pennons fluttering against a background of mountain crag and heavy, blue-black forest. Then I took a deep breath and returned regretfully to the cleft in the hill through which the road came.

  Just as the sun was sinking on the far horizon of late afternoon, so clouds were beginning to appear now, especially in the direction of the forested hills and the castle.

  Anyone looking in my direction from the road below would see a somewhat tall, rangy-looking Earth male (disguised), sporting a heavily tanned face and an air of smug complaisance. I was dressed—from the point of view of my adopted milieu—loudly and romantically. I wore green ski pants tucked into soft leather boots with golden spurs to show that I was a full heggle—or knight; a heavy green shirt opened to the waist in the purported style of the country, and a green jacket and green cap with a contrasting bright red feather. Over my left shoulder and around my waist, respectively, was a six-foot bow with a quiver of arrows, a broadsword, a dagger, and a leather pouch. It had been suggested aboard the Deneb-3 a few short hours ago that I could easily be from the mythical Sherwood Forest, or from fabulous Gabtsville on Procyon-4. Kriloy and Ragan, the Adjusters, and Foundation crewmates of the starship Deneb-3, had most enviously concurred. But just as the forest ensemble that elicited envy was not the natural state of affairs, neither were a lot of other things which just might put a damper to both their envy and my pleasure.

  The blue-purple contact lenses covered a pair of worried brown eyes—mine. The bow and the sword—except for neural preconditioning—were strangers to my hands. The ground I trod was alien to my feet. And, in just a few minutes perhaps, I would be witness to something which all the science of the Galaxy would deem impossible. The “something” was a part of a bigger thing that I was either to prevent or to control. I was to play it by ear, actually, for in terms of alternatives we of the Foundation were at a loss. The facts were that we did not know where failure would lead. We could only surmise, and our conclusions were anything but pleasant.

  The planet, in Galactic listings, was Camelot; to the natives it was Fregis. The situation, as stated, was a mixed-up mess. I was Kyrie Fern, thirty Earth years old, Foundation graduate cum-spectacular, and expert in the lore, customs, mores, and idiosyncrasies of feudal societies. I had been chosen as the Adjuster.

  We had known of Camelot for some time. Over a period of two Galactic centuries, ten pairs of Watchers had spent an equal number of months there. Unlike Adjusters, Watchers worked in opposite-sexed pairs of high compatibility potential. Their work was what their name implied—to observe, to avoid boredom and frustration (thus the pair), and to report accordingly.

  This they had done. And to read a Camelot report was a joy indeed; that is except the last one. The fun and games, it seemed, were over. Bloody war, though seemingly the usual state of affairs, was now of a scope to involve the entire planet. The circumstances were such that all we had watched, all that had evolved, in a positive sense, might well be destroyed.

  And how did we know all this?

  Well, that’s an introductory point, you see. For our last pair of Watchers—living in the guise of wealthy tavernkeepers in the seacoast village of Klimpinge in the land of Marack— had witnessed the unfolding of a predicted, most perilous series of events in which Camelot’s forces for progress were ruined, driven back upon their heartland by dark hordes, so that extinction threatened… . And all this in the crystal ball of a wandering soothsayer.

  But since the planet was Camelot-Fregis, second of the sun-star Fomalhaut, they believed it.

  And, since all the zaniness of the preceding nine reports, across two centuries of Camelot time, inclusive of prophesies, had proved true—we believed it, too.

  Even to the final point—that sorcery would pluck the princess Murie Nigaard, daughter of King Caronne of Marack, from the king’s highway on this very day. It would somehow be the opening gambit of the dark forces of Om for the disruption of the land of Marack, as a part of the total plan for planetary conquest. … I was here to prevent this—or at least to come up with an explanation as to how it was done.

  All things considered—the black arts were never a part of my curriculum as fact—I felt abysmally inadequate I awaited my fate with most ambivalent feelings The musical tinkle of bells preceded the fact. Then within s space of seconds, there came over the hill a dappled low-slung, and ponderous six-legged steed trotting dog fashion
and followed by another, then by three more in single file.

  I got to my feet and quickly pressed one of a series of brightly colored stones that adorned my belt. It glowed warmly pink. “Contact,” I said softly. “Contact, dear hearts. The sacrifice—to wit, me—is about to offer his throat to the fal-dirk. I’m going in now. The princess has arrived—with entourage.”

  “Why, the Adjuster’s palpitating,” a voice sang blithely in my brain. “His nerves are shot already.”

  The voice, coming like a webbed aura from the metal node imbedded at the base of my skull, was Ragan’s. “In the archaic,” he continued, “the princess is a woolly little dolly, and you are an ungrateful, cowardly flimpl.”

  “Bless you,” I said. Then I ignored him. “The lifeboat’s been damped,” I reported. “If you wish to recover, in case I can’t, the grid numbers are three-seven, two-nine, four-one.”

  Kriloy asked “Any butterflies? Any regrets?”

  “Lots of both.” I said. “But, sirs and gentlemen, the moment is one of action.” I was heading down the steep bank to the road below as I talked. “And I’m going to have to cut out. I’ll check back as arranged. Keep me open on the sixth hour, Greenwich. That’s it. Bless you again.”

  “Bless you.”

  Ragan and Kriloy echoed my farewell just as the stone Went cold and the realities of a predicted peril closed around me. I paused to gaze for a fleeting second at the blue sky, trying to penetrate its depths to the primal dark beyond, where a great ship became translucent, then disappeared from the environs of the second planet, Camelot, of the sun-star Fomalhaut.

  The last thirty feet was a seemingly solid wall of vines and brush. When I came out on the road, I was breathless. I halted to wipe the bits of dirt and leaves from the fur of my throat and chest. I had made it just in time. The first animal, all white, was rounding the bend. On its lacquered, wooden saddle sat a petite, .well-rounded, pouting young female in resplendent traveling attire. She had golden hair, golden fur, languid purple eyes that were almost blue, an elfish face, and an imperious demanding tilt to her chin.

  Behind her rode a somewhat dumpy, middle-aged female in austere gray; behind her a young girl, black-eyed and frowning. Two armored heggles, or knights, completed the company. At sight of me they shouted, snatched swords from then-scabbards, and instantly pushed their mounts to the fore. Right then and there I learned what I had already been taught: that fighting on Camelot was akin to eating and sleeping. If you didn’t swing at somebody at least once a day, you weren’t completely alive.

  I breathed deeply to still the pounding of my heart and moved arrogantly to the center of the road. “Stay your weapons, sirs,” I called loudly. “I am a friend and I mean you no harm.” My accent, syntax, and degree of sincerity were perfect. But if I had thought to halt them with mere words, I was dead wrong.

  Their advance was swift, silent, and purposeful. I barely had time to draw my own sword, throw the bow to the ground, whirl the sword once around my head and shout the equivalent of “Slow down, damn it!” when they were upon me.

  Though the broadsword was strange to my hand, a month of preconditioning with every known weapon of the planet had actually put me in the category of “expert.” I was expert, too, with the longbow and the fal-dirk, with the heavy lance in full suit armor, with mace, cudgel, sling—with everything, even the throwing sticks. And all of this expertise without once handling a single weapon … patterned, imposed neural conditioning, infused during the hours of sleep. It worked … and it worked well.

  I crouched low as if to avoid the sweep of the first blade. My opponent, as signified by the heraldry of his shield and embossed armor, was a lord of some stature. He was also huge, bearded, and grinning. At the moment he was leaning far out of the saddle, sword held for a flat vicious sweep. He was confident that I could not escape. One small thing he was totally unaware of, however, was that my muscular superiority was as much as one hundred percent of even his great hulk, since I came from a planet with more than twice the mass of Camelot.

  When his blow came, I arose to meet it, tossing my blade to my left hand and slashing up and out. The force of my sword’s swing almost broke the man’s arm. And while he bellowed and tried to hold to his weapon with fast numbing fingers, I sprang to the back of his clumsy saddle, holding my dagger to his throat while I simultaneously brought his mount to a halt with my knees and spun it around to face the second adversary.

  I now used the bearded bellower as a shield. “You will sheathe your weapon,” I said sternly to my new opponent, “else I will sheathe mine in the throat of this idiot—and in yours, too, I promise you.”

  The second knight was young, dark, slender, and possessed of a spring-steel tautness. The flash of untarnished spurs at his heels proclaimed him to have been but newly heggled, or knighted. And he did not lack for courage.

  He maneuvered his mount to circle me. “Oh, think you so, sir?” he said calmly. “You have bested but one man. Now let him go, as would befit your honor. Then we shall see whose throat will sheathe a fal-dirk.”

  I pushed my man to the ground, placed my foot at the back of his neck, and shoved. Then I pivoted my mount to face the young stranger.

  “It would be better,” said a sweetly imperious voice, “that you stay your arms—both of you. And that is a command.”

  I remained poised but calm, watching the eyes of my would-be opponent, which he finally lowered while he backed away. I pulled my own mount up sharply and also backed away from their circle.

  I had known that she would be lovely.

  I had actually been quite close to her for an entire week. In between treetop-level scanning of the land area of Camelot —and that took some doing—I had also watched her assiduously. The rather interesting result was that despite my programmed objective conditioning to the matter at hand, I had become intrigued with everything about her. In effect, I had never met anyone quite like the princess.

  And here she was, alive and vibrantly real. My breath came hard again, and for seconds I foolishly stared and lost a decided measure of control. I shrugged, breathed deeply, and then began strongly: “You,” I said, “are the princess Murie Nigaard. And I am Hart Lenti, son of Kerl Lenti, onus [earl], but of the least of your nobles. I meant no harm, my lady, and I truly beg your pardon and your grace.” I made a most artful bow from the clumsy saddle, and simultaneously whirled my feathered cap from my head in the intricate pattern of greeting and homage. “It was my intention,” I finished, “to be of some service to you.”

  I smiled boldly then as I straightened. I focused a twinkle in the contact lenses, calculated to put her at ease so that the beginnings of Adjuster control could be initiated. The young knight had reined in with the others and they had placed themselves in a semicircle around me—the old lady, the maid, the two men in suit armor (one afoot now and glaring), and the princess in the center.

  She stared haughtily back at me.

  My mention of the name “Lenti” should have connected me instantly in their minds with the fabled “Collin,” a folk hero slated to show up in Marack’s time of need. By their expressions, however, they hadn’t made the connection—either that or they were ignorant of the facts.

  But there was a Harl Lenti, and he did have a father, an earl or onus, so the role I played was real enough. He was but one peg up the ladder of nobility, however. His domain, if one could call it that, consisted of a few barns, a stone “big house,” and a peasant village of but fifty inhabitants. Its sole claim to fame was that in ancient times it had been the birthplace of the Collin. I had had a personal peek at it as well as its inhabitants. It was a bleak place, located far to the north of the heartland of King Garonne’s far-flung kingdom. I wore my “father’s” insignia at my shirt tab, a sprig of violets on a field of gold… .

  “I know naught of you, sir,” the princess announced, “nor of your father. Nor why you stand here in mid-road when the bans of travel have been proclaimed throughout the land of Ma
rack. You are without steed, sir. And you carry neither the insignia of my father, your lord, nor do you wear his livery as those upon the highway during the ban must do. What means your presence here?” The purple-blue eyes held mine in a steady gaze. They were guileless, naive—but insistently questioning.

  The bearded one stepped forward. His eyes continued hot, angry. He surveyed me with open hatred while he held his injured arm with his good hand. “You should have a care, m’lady,” he grumbled. “My blows are not to be turned aside so lightly. I’ll warrant there’s the strength of magic in his arm.”

  “He’s right,” I said quickly. “There is magic here. But not of my making.”

  The faces of the three women blanched. The scowls of the two men grew darker still… . “And,” I persisted, “I repeat, my lady, I am not here by accident.”

  “Then you will perhaps explain, sir?”

  I let my gaze rest solidly upon each of them in turn before beginning. I sought to calm them, to dominate whatever might ensue. “When I told you of my person,” I said quietly, “I explained that my father was of the least of your nobles; so much so that I, his son and only heir, have never appeared at Glagmaron castle and your father’s court. We are land-poor, my lady, and cannot afford the luxuries of court dalliance. This is why you do not know me, and why I do not wear your livery, nor the sign of your father, my lord’s grace. Nevertheless, as to my story: My mother, who is fey and with second sight, received a vision nine nights ago in which it seemed a great bird perched upon the lattice of her window and spoke of storms, red-war, men and blood, and an enjoining of enemies against your father, King Caronne. Within this alignment was the lady Elioseen, witch and sorceress. The bird of evil said that within nine days—this day my lady— you would be seized upon the road while journeying to your sister, the lady Percille’s manor. I have no mount now, my lady, because it lies dead of a burst heart, the result of a most wearisome ride. I have only my sword now. And I pray you accept it and that we turn back to your father’s castle without further delay.”