Arthur H. Landis - Camelot 01 - A World Called Camelot

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A WORLD CALLED CAMELOT

e-book ver. 1.0

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.

"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 Marack. 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."

The story, too, of the wicked bird and his predilection to prophesy was straight from the crystal ball. Not

a word had been changed; nor any added.

The princess's eyes were wide now with puzzled anger. She said, "What say you to this?" directing her

query to the older woman, who drew close to answer.

It seemed that as of that very moment the swift-formed clouds changed to a whirling vortex of lowering

mists, smacking also of magic. They touched the forested hilltops . . . black, purple; roiling with a pent-up

fury that spoke of tempests, and a coming night in which all should seek shelter. Lightning flashed toward

the setting sun, followed by great thunder. The two knights made the circular sign of their god, Ormon,

upon their chests, then touched their lips. The old lady did likewise, as did the maid. The princess sat

quietly, holding tight to the reins of her mount, regarding them all with a frown of indecision.

I, too, made the sign of Ormon upon my chest.

They accepted the idea of abduction by magic as a very real possibility. They would .question my role in

that which would or would not happen—but the intervention of magic? Certainly not I That was

commonplace. And the damnable part of it was that they were right in thinking that way. Because it was

real. According to ten pairs of Watchers across two centuries, it was a part of their very lives. In a matter

of minutes, in fact, I was to be a witness, if not a participant, to the actuality of a sorcery to confound all

scientific law, as advanced by Galactic Control. . . .

The old lady's eyes remained closed while she talked. Her voice was soft, a monotone; it seemed a telling

of runes. She said, "I would ask you, m'lady, to heed the words of this young man. There is something of

this that I cannot scan. The auras are thick, m'lady. And the mists are such as I have never seen them.

This I know. The young lord means you no harm, thought he seems as a wraith—not of magic—but also,

not of this world."

Her concluding sentence startled me. The jolt was further enhanced when I saw, for the first time, that a

small and most peculiar animal had been peering at me from behind the delectable figure of the princess.

Its shape was round, symmetrical, hardly two feet in height. It had short sturdy legs and arms. Two

fur-tufted ears graced a puff-ball head punctured with curious, friendly, shoebutton eyes. It reminded me,

I thought whimsically, of a cuddly toy I had owned long ago in the dreams or the play of my childhood. . .

. Then I remembered what it was—a Pug-Boo. I smiled. I had been briefed on them, too—like the

dottles, the six-legged steeds, and a half hundred other lower-order species—but I hadn't expected to

meet with one so quickly. For the moment it clung to the princess's small waist, watching intently, almost

as if it knew what were taking place and must needs be informed of all pertinent particulars.

The thunder came again and the five mounts shied wildly. Their front legs lifted and forced their sleek,

thick-furred bodies back upon the remaining four, while their great blue eyes rolled to catch the attention

of their riders, and to thus indicate their fear and their desire to be elsewhere.

And they had reason to be afraid.

"My lord," the princess said, and in oddly submissive tones, "if my Watcher, the sweet dame Malion,

sees truth in the things you say and virtue and goodwill in your person, then we have naught but to follow

your advice—if—"

That was as far as she got. . . .

Though expected, I mused later, it came so suddenly that my own reaction was almost one of

amusement. Not so the others. ...

It was like a page from the book of the mythical Earth Sorcerer Merlin. The first sensation was

all-encompassing. The prick of a needle accompanied by the smell of fire, the roar of thunder, and an

instantaneous inundation of rain. I instinctively knew what to do. I literally flung myself at the princess,

pulled her from the saddle, and encircled her small body with the strength of my arms. . . . Wherever the

princess was going, I would go, too. There was an immediate physical numbness and disorientation. It

was as if we were at the bottom of a deep lake, held in place, as it were, by countless tons of water. The

great forms of the dottles, the dame Malion, the two knights, and the maid assumed a vague but

noticeable transfiguration. They then became amorphous, transparent, receded before my rapidly dulling

vision. As my brain whirled before this first onslaught of the magic of the planet Camelot, only one thing

continued real to me; that was the soft flesh and the heady, perfumed warmth of the Princess Nigaard. I

had wondered how real fur would feel (mine was artificial, naturally). I can only say it was wonderful. I

was pleasantly aware, too, as I sank into oblivion, that ft was not just a question of my arms around her

waist—she held me, too. Pressed tightly against me, in fact, with her small head buried deep in the

protection of the hollow of my shoulder. Hold! I thought. The stimulus of fear has its redeeming

features.

That was the last I remembered.

"Where did you come from, baby dear?"

The Pug-Boo's voice came softly, insidiously from the edge of darkness. His fat little body reclined in

midair, or so it appeared in the gray mist of my semiconsciousness.

"Great Flimpls!" I managed to groan in reply. I made an effort to shut my eyes, only to find that they were

already shut. This when you think about it, suggests a frightening situation indeed. I relaxed then, into the

dream. Who's afraid of Pug-Boos?

"You're the only flimpl here," the Pug-Boo informed me. "And besides, I asked you a question." One

shoebutton eye was about an inch from my own. But, as I said, mine were closed. So I was safe.

"I'm an Adjuster," I confessed to the little black nose and the fuzzy ears—thereby breaking the first law

of the Foundation: never to reveal one's presence, or the nature of one's business. . . . "I'm a bona fide

graduate of the Galactic Foundation. I hold four degrees and sundries. I've got an I.Q. that can be

equaled but never surpassed. You have to be chosen from five thousand of the best even to be

considered for the Foundation. An Adjuster is a troubleshooter, a man with a thousand skills. Like the

Earth's chameleon, he can adjust to any level of a developing civilization, merge completely with the

fauna. And our purpose is not idle games, sirrah. . . . We intervene only after carefully considering the

following. One: Is there a crisis sufficient to demand our aid? Two: Can it be 'intervened' safely? Three:

Will the intervention be beneficial, and if not, will it at least prevent a potential disaster and preserve the

status quo? You see, my fuzzy-headed friend, our real purpose, other than crisis control, is to judge the

level of development of a society, find an area where influence can be exerted—and then go to work.

With a little sweat, blood, and luck, we can sometimes advance a specific civilization as much as a

thousand years with no awareness on their part of any untoward influence."

All the time I was running off at the mouth I was thinking, Great Galaxies! What am I doing? But I

couldn't stop. It was as if I had been turned on; that I had become some sort of uncontrollable wind-up

doll. The only factor to reassure me that I hadn't actually flipped was that, after all, I was asleep; I

definitely was asleep.

"That's all very well," the Pug-Boo said. "But you've not answered my question—where did you come

from, baby dear?"

"I told you, Butterball."

"No you didn't. And you've not told me why you came here, to Fregis, either."

"And I never will, Button-Nose," I said. "What do you think of that?"

"Don't you love Pug-Boos?"

"Should I?"

"Should you? Should you? Great Flimpls, everybody loves a Pug-Boo."

I tried to snap my eyes open, and I did—but I didn't. The Pug-Boo was there, anyway. This time he

wore glasses and a mortar-board on his head. He said, "If you don't tell me why you came to visit me

today, you won't go to the head of the class. As a matter of fact I'll drum you out of the regiment. I'll strip

you of your red feather. And what's more, I'll see to it that you never get a crack at the princess."

"Hold it!" I yelled silently, trying desperately to open my wide-opened eyes. "Leave the princess out of

this. Or better, leave her in it and you get out."

Forcing my somnolent thoughts to dwell upon the princess, the image of the Pug-Boo began to fade. But

not without a struggle. Just before I completely hallucinated—kissing the princess's softly furred tummy

and straining her to me—the Pug-Boo managed an archaic nose-to-thumb at me. Then it got gray again,

gray and black. . . .

This time it lasted longer. So long that when I came out of it, I felt as if I had been encapsulated for a

myriad of parsecs of space-time.

The gray remained gray. But it wasn't in my head. I could see clearly that I was in some sort of stall, a

part of a stable. There was the equivalent of straw beneath me. I could feel it, wet. And I could smell it I

felt itchy-dirty. My rather fine pelt of quarter-inch black fur that laid so flat I looked like a mink didn't

help. I must smell, I thought, like some Farkelian peasant. So be it. My hands were bound loosely, my

feet not at all. I moved to the edge of the stall and peered out.

In one direction it was all black, night, with pouring rain. I tried infrared with the contacts. It was worse

than normal. I switched back to twenty-twenty. There were no doors to the place, just a large opening,

free to the wind and rain. There was a clump-clumping on either side of me and I surmised that dottles

occupied .those stalls. There were additional stalls across the way, but it was much too dark to see

anything. To my left, away from the rain-swept entrance, was the gargantuan guts of the place. It

-seemed, actually, that I was in a great cave, hollowed from the base of a mountain; which, in effect, told

me exactly where I was. ... In my week-long treetop scanning of Camelot, I had not only checked its two

great continents thoroughly—Camelot was largely a water world—I had also checked the towns and

villages, castles and keeps; the ice-world; the great swamps and deserts; and the far "terror-land" of

Om—called that, according to Watcher data, because from it sprang all evil, death, and horror. Therein

were the hordes of the dead-alives and the mutated spawn of the Yorns who served Om's rulers; therein,

and again according to the Watchers' soothsayer, was the very vortex of the gathering storm that

threatened all Camelot. Oddly enough, I had seen none of this through the scanners. Only volcanoes;

dank, mist-shrouded valleys; sea towns with plodding, gray people living in squat, salt-encrusted

buildings; and great lonesome moors.

I had scanned other areas pertinent to the supposed data of the princess's abduction, however; especially

in the great aerie, the Castle-Gortfin of the witch and sorceress, the lady Elioseen. . . . Therefore, I knew

where we were. But, strange thought—we had been but twenty miles from King Caronne's Glagmaron

when we were seized. Aerie-Gortfin was some two hundred miles to the east of Glagmaron.

Wall to wall, near the entrance of the cavern, it was at least one hundred and fifty feet. Inside, toward the

great room's farthest depths, I would have sworn it was carved from the solid rock had I not seen the

great and shadowy arches reaching aloft to a distant roof, the floor of Gortfin itself. Two fires burned in

the hall's depths. One of them outlined a singing, sprawling, drunken group of men-at-arms and some

others who seemed only vaguely human. These last cast weird shadows, bestial, deformed, against a far

wall. Some of them sat around a massive table, hulking, brutal. Others lay about on the cold stone floor.

It was difficult to tell if they were drunk, asleep—or just plain dead.

The second fire, the one nearest us (because the entrance to this huge tomb was to one side and not in

the center), outlined a smaller tableau. A heavily muscled man—or thing— sat cross-legged upon the

stone. His forehead sleepily touched a naked sword which he had placed across his knees. Directly

beyond him was a small table with food and a low couch covered with furs. On this couch was the

reclining figure of the princess Nigaard. She seemed still asleep. Her maid, the young girl with the

frowning face, was nowhere to be seen; neither was the Pug-Boo. The good dame Malion, however,

was there and awake. She sat on the couch's edge, stared at the fire, and swiped halfheartedly at the

princess's heavy tresses with a brush.

One last "scene" from the soothsayer's ball had been forwarded to us by the Watchers. It was one which

showed me as fleeing through a night-darkened forest valley, and into a red-gray dawn of today,

tomorrow, or next year—crystal balls seldom give dates. There would be Harl Lenti (me), the princess's

cocky young knight. Dame Malion, and the princess. So said the picture. For the moment, however,

there was no picture, only a reality, and a developing chess game that had a momentum and a purpose all

its own.

Keeping close to the wood of the stalls, and always in the direction of the princess, I explored each one

of them. In the last one I found her young knight. Again the soothsayer had been correct. His hands were

as tightly bound as mine had been, and he was still out. This time, with my hands free, I used a

detachable part of the belt. I ran a cardiovascular check on him to determine what condition he was in.

He checked out reasonably healthy, so that I gave him a shot in the arm to bring him out of it that would

have brought his great-grandfather to full salute.

His blue eyes opened, startled and wide. "Sirrah!" he shouted before I could get my hand over his mouth.

Fortunately his yell coincided with a great peal of thunder. And, as there seemed no reaction beyond the

stalls, I cautioned him to silence and took my hand away.

"Heed me," I said fiercely. "I do not know where your loudmouthed companion is, nor the maid of the

princess Nigaard. But the princess and her dame are just yonder, in the great room beyond the wall of

this manger. . . . Voices have told me," I improvised, "that this hall is guardroom, cellar, storehouse, and

stable to a great castle—possibly of a sorceress, the lady Elioseen. What lies without, I do not know. But

whether it be wall or moat, you, me, and the princess will soon know; for I propose to leave this place.

So up, and to your feet, sir! And I will unbind you."

He stared coolly back at me, and there was something of pleasure in his eyes. There was also, and for

the first time, something of fear.

He said curiously, softly, "You would go into the night, Sir Hart? You would risk your immortal soul?"

I had forgotten their aversion, if not terror, of the night's darkness; predicated, so Watcher data said,

upon the belief that they would be killed by sorcery, and their bodies taken across the thousands of miles

of unknown lands to Om—there to become a slave, a dead-alive. Considering their conditioning in this

matter, I marveled that the young knight had concealed his fear to the extent that he did.

"I am not afraid, sir," I told him bluntly. "I would do much for the princess, my lady, and for the brave

land of Marack."

"Well say you so, then, Sir Harl. And if it is for the Princess, my sweet cousin, I would share the danger

with you. My name, sir, since we have not been introduced, is Rawl Fergis, of the fief of Rawl. My

father, the onus, is brother to the Princess's queen and mother, and the lady Tyndil. . . . But one last

thing—how do you know so much, strange lord? And since when do you give me orders?"

At that point he peered around the stall's side to the fires and the guards beyond. His" eyes narrowed.

His jaws clenched. "Yorns," he said. "Devil's spawn."

He started to stumble forward, being off balance; but I grabbed him, lifted him bodily, as a feather, back

into the stall where I tackled the fibers of his bonds.

"By Ormon," he said when I had freed him. "You seem possessed of the strength of a Yorn yourself.

Whence comes it, sir? Is it more of your cursed magic?"

"Wrong on both counts," I said tersely. "I simply live according to Ormon's grace. . . . Now if you are

with me in this, you may follow after until such fortune as I may have provides you with a broadsword."

He tried once more with the "who is subordinate to who" business. But I ignored him, saying simply,

"Prepare four dottles—then follow or not, as your courage pleases you." At that he blanched angrily, but

thought better of it and ran to the stalls behind us, returning almost instantly to tell me that four stood

ready.

How would I do this so as to leave no questions of a kind that would betray my presence? A few guards

would be slain. The forces of King Caronne would be forewarned of the terrible dangers of the gathering

storm. That I would achieve this was beyond question. Fool's Mate would be blocked. And King's

Pawn—in this case, the princess Murie Nigaard:— would be rescued. This, so that 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, and that the forces of King Caronne depended not so much upon this power

as upon the few_ existing feudal universities with their rudimentary offerings in the arts and "sciences," we

knew, too, that if he 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.

During the interim of Rawl's preparing the four dottles for flight, a guard had detached himself from the

main group and stalked across the great hall in the direction of the princess. The situation, thereby, grew

slightly more difficult.

One would suggest, perhaps, that I simply switch the ion-laser at my belt to full power and destroy them

all. That would have been the easy way. But it was taboo. It was also impossible. I could neither do it,

use others to do it, nor even suggest that it be done. This, too, was a part of the preconditioning

process—built-in limitations to the use of any and all equipment I carried. The final limitation, to keep me

completely in line, was blackout. Before my hand ever could touch a stone for death or sentient

destruction, I myself would be made instantly immobile; protection for the natural development of

Camelot and, indeed, the evolutionary process of life on any intervened planet. Needless to say, I was

both aware of these limitations, and in complete agreement as to the need for them. In effect, the

Foundation would spawn no proconsuls. ...

Rawl had moved close to me; he stood peering into the double fireglow and breathing hard on my cheek.

"Take care," I cautioned. "We'll make our move now. You will follow at a distance of thirty paces. What

must be done, I will do. If I fail, you will proceed on your own. If I succeed, but am wounded unto

death, you will do me the kindness of killing me. You will then flee with the princess Nigaard. Do you

understand?" I looked him squarely in the eye.

My bravado was overwhelming. Despite his warrior's background, I was willing to bet he had never

heard anything as unequivocal and as carefree as that. He gulped, stared in awe, and just nodded

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AWORLDCALLEDCAMELOT COPYRIGHT©,1976,BYARTHURH.LANDISAllRightsReserved.e-bookver.1.0AnearlierandsomewhatdifferentversionofthisnovelwaspublishedasaserialunderthetitleLetThereBeMagickwiththeby-lineof"JamesR.Keaveny,"andiscopyright,1969,byCamelotPublishingCompany."Therearetwofundamentalprinciplesofmagic...

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