The Queen of Swords Read online

“None, I think.”

  “No honour?”

  “None.”

  “No courage?”

  “I have no absolute qualities at all, I fear—save that, perhaps—save fear, itself.”

  “You are honest, however.”

  A deep laugh issued from the closed visor. “If you would believe it. Why have you come to my camp, Prince Corum?”

  “You know why, do you not?”

  “You hope to slay me, because I am the brain which controls all this barbarian brawn? A good idea. But I cannot be slain. Would that I could—I have prayed for death, often enough. You hope that if you defeat me you will buy time for building up your defenses. Perhaps you would do so, but I regret that I will slay you and thus rob Halwyg-nan-Vake of its chief supply of brain and resourcefulness.”

  “If you cannot be slain, why not fight me personally?”

  “Because I would not waste time. Warriors!”

  The misshapen beast-men arrayed themselves behind their master who mounted his white charger on which had been placed the high saddle of ebony and ivory. He settled his own spear in its rest and drew his own shield onto his arm.

  Corum lifted his jeweled eye-patch and looked beyond Prince Gaynor and his men, into the netherworld cavern where his last victims were. Here were the Chaos pack, all the more distorted since the Ghanh had taken them into the folds of its crushing wings. There was Polib-Bav, the pack’s horse-faced leader. Into the netherworld reached the Hand of Kwll and summoned the Chaos pack to Corum’s aid.

  “Now Chaos shall war once more with Chaos!” Corum cried. “Take your prizes, Polib-Bav, and be released from limbo!”

  And foulness met foulness and horror clashed with horror as the Chaos pack rushed into Gaynor’s camp and began to set upon their brother beasts. Dog-thing fought cow-thing, horse-thing fought frog-thing, and their bludgeons and their carvers and their axes rose and fell in a frightful massing. Screams, grunts, bellows, groans, oaths, squeals, cackles rose from the heap of embattled creatures and Prince Gaynor the Damned looked at it and then turned his horse so that it faced Corum.

  “I congratulate you, Prince in the Scarlet Robe. I see you did not rely upon my chivalry. Now, will both of you fight me?”

  “Not that,” Corum said, preparing his spear and lifting himself in his stirrups so that he was now seated on the high part of his saddle, almost standing upright. “My friend is here to report the outcome of this fight should I perish. He will only fight to protect himself.”

  “A fair tourney, eh?” Prince Gaynor laughed again. “Very well!” And he, too, put himself into the fighting position in his saddle.

  Then he charged.

  Corum spurred his own warhorse towards his foe, spear raised to strike, shield up to protect his face, for he lacked Gaynor’s visor.

  Prince Gaynor’s flashing armour half-blinded him as he galloped on, then he flung back his arm and hurled the great spear with all his might at Gaynor’s head. It struck full against the helm but did not pierce, did not appear to dent it. However, Gaynor reeled in his saddle and did not immediately retaliate with his own spear, giving Corum time to stretch out his hand and catch the haft of his weapon as it bounced back. Gaynor laughed when he saw this and jabbed at Corum’s face, but the Prince in the Scarlet Robe brought up his war-board to block the blow.

  Elsewhere the grisly fight between the two parties of beast-men went on. The Chaos pack was smaller than Gaynor’s force, but it had the advantage that it had already been slain once and therefore could not be slain again.

  Now both horses reared at once, hoofs tangling and almost throwing their riders off. Corum flung his spear as he clung to the reins. Again it struck the Prince of the Damned who was hurled backwards from his saddle and lay in the filthy mud of his camp. He sprang up at once, his spear still in his hand, and returned Corum’s cast. The spear pierced the war-board and its point came a fraction of an inch to entering Corum’s jeweled eye. The spear hanging in his shield, he drew his sword and charged down upon Prince Gaynor. Gaynor’s helm rang with a bitter glee and now his broadsword was in his right hand, his shield raised to take Corum’s first blow. Gaynor’s stroke was not at Corum but at the horse. He hacked off one of its feet and it collapsed to the ground, throwing Corum sprawling.

  Swiftly, in spite of his heavy plate armour, Prince Gaynor raised his sword and ran at Corum as he desperately tried to regain his footing in the mud. The sword whistled down and was met by the shield. The blade bit through the layers of leather and metal and wood but was stopped by the metal of Gaynor’s own spear which was still protruding from Corum’s war-board. Corum swiped at Gaynor’s feet, but the Prince of the Damned leapt high and escaped the blow while Corum rolled back and at last managed to climb to a standing position, his shield all split and near useless.

  Gaynor still laughed, his voice echoing in the helm that was never opened.

  “You fight well, Corum, but you are mortal—and I no longer am!”

  The sounds of battle had alerted the rest of the camp, but the barbarians were unsure of what was happening. They were used to obeying Lyr who had come to rely upon Gaynor’s commands and now Gaynor had no time to tell Lyr what to do.

  The two champions began to circle each other while to one side of them the beast-men of Chaos continued to fight to the death.

  In the shadows beyond the firelight, the faces of superstitious, wide-eyed barbarians watched the fray, not understanding how this thing had come about.

  Corum abandoned his shield and unslung his war-axe from his back, holding it in the six-fingered Hand of Kwll. He increased the distance between himself and his enemy, adjusting his grip on the axe. It was a perfectly balanced throwing axe, normally used by Vadhagh infantry in the old days when they had battled the Nhadragh. Corum hoped that Prince Gaynor would not realize what he intended to do.

  Swiftly he raised his arm and flung the axe. It flashed through the air towards the Prince of the Damned—and was caught upon the shield.

  But Gaynor staggered back under the force of the blow, his shield completely split in twain. He threw aside the pieces, took his broadsword in both hands and closed with Corum.

  Corum blocked the first blow and the second and the third, being forced back by the ferocity of Gaynor’s attack. He jumped to one side and aimed a darting thrust designed to pierce one of the joins in Gaynor’s armour. Gaynor shifted his sword into his right hand and turned the thrust aside, taking two steps backwards. He was panting now. Corum heard his breath hissing in his helm.

  “Immortal you may be, Prince Gaynor the Damned—but tireless you are not.”

  “You cannot slay me! Do you not think I would welcome death!”

  “Then surrender to me.” Corum was panting himself. His heart beat rapidly, his chest heaved. “Surrender to me and see if I cannot kill you!”

  “To surrender would be to betray my pledge to Queen Xiombarg.”

  “So you do know honour?”

  “Honour!” Gaynor laughed. “Not honour—fear, as I told you. If I betray her, Xiombarg will punish me. I do not think you could comprehend what that means, Prince in the Scarlet Robe.” And again Prince Gaynor rushed upon Corum, the broadsword shrieking around his head.

  Corum ducked under the whirling broadsword and came in with a swipe to Gaynor’s legs so powerful that one knee buckled for an instant before the Prince of the Damned hopped backward, darting a glance over his shoulder to see how his minions fared.

  The Chaos pack was finishing them. One by one the creatures Corum had summoned from the netherworld were gathering in their prizes and vanishing to whence they had come.

  With a cry Gaynor threw himself once more on Corum. Corum summoned all his strength to turn the lunge and thrust back. Then Gaynor closed in, grabbing Corum’s sword-arm and raising his broadsword to bring it down on Corum’s head. Corum wrestled himself free and the blade struck his shoulder, cut through the first layer of mail and was stopped by the second.

  And he w
as defenseless. Prince Gaynor had clung to his sword and now held it triumphantly in his left gauntlet.

  “Yield to me, Prince Corum. Yield to me and I will spare your life.”

  “So that you can take me back to your mistress Xiombarg.”

  “It is what I must do.”

  “Then I will not yield!”

  “So I must kill you, then?” Gaynor panted as he dropped Corum’s sword to the mud, took a grip with both hands on the hilt of his own broadsword, and stumbled forward to finish his foe.

  4

  THE BARBARIAN ATTACK

  INSTINCTIVELY CORUM FLUNG up his hands to ward off Gaynor’s blow and then something happened to the Hand of Kwll.

  More than once the hand had saved his life—often in anticipation of the threat—and now it acted of its own volition again to reach out and grasp Gaynor’s blade, wrenching it from the hands of the damned prince and bringing it rapidly up then down to dash the pommel against the top of Gaynor’s head.

  Prince Gaynor staggered, groaning, and slowly fell to his knees.

  Now Corum jumped forward and with one arm encircled Gaynor’s neck. “Do you yield, prince?”

  “I cannot yield,” Gaynor replied in a strangled voice. “I have nothing to yield.”

  But he no longer struggled as the sinister Hand of Kwll grasped the lip of his visor and tugged.

  “NO!” Prince Gaynor cried as he realized what Corum planned. “You cannot. No mortal may see my face!” He began to writhe, but Corum held him firmly, and the Hand of Kwll tugged again at the visor.

  “PLEASE!”

  The visor shifted slightly.

  “I BEG THEE, PRINCE IN THE SCARLET ROBE! LET ME GO AND I WILL OFFER THEE NO FURTHER HARM!”

  “You have not the right to swear such an oath,” Corum reminded him fiercely. “You are Xiombarg’s thing and are without honour or will.”

  The pleading voice echoed strangely. “Have mercy, Prince Corum.”

  “And I have not the right to grant you that mercy, for I serve Arkyn,” Corum told him.

  The Hand of Kwll wrenched for a third time at the visor and it came away.

  Corum stared at a youthful face which writhed as if composed of a million white worms. Dead, red eyes peered from the face and all the horrors Corum had ever witnessed could not compare with the simple, tragic horror of that visage. He screamed and his scream blended with that of Prince Gaynor the Damned as the flesh of the face began to putrefy and change into a score of foul colours which gave off a more pungent stench than anything which had issued from the Chaos pack itself. And as Corum watched the face changed its features. Sometimes it was the face of a middle-aged man, sometimes the face of a woman, sometimes that of a boy—and once, fleetingly, he recognized his own face. How many guises had Prince Gaynor known through all the eternity of his damnation? Corum saw a million years of despair recorded there. And still the face writhed, still the red eyes blazed in terror and agony, still the features changed and changed and changed and changed…

  More than a million years. Aeons of misery. The price of Gaynor’s nameless crime, his betrayal of his oath to Law. A fate imposed upon him not by Law but by the power of the Balance. What crime could it have been if the neutral Cosmic Balance had been required to act? Some suggestion of it appeared and disappeared in the various features that flashed within the helm. And now Corum did not grip Gaynor’s neck, but instead cradled the tormented head in his arms and wept for the Prince of the Damned who had paid a price—was paying a price—which no being should ever have to pay.

  Here, Corum felt as he wept, was the ultimate in justice—or the ultimate in injustice. Both seemed at that moment to be the same.

  And even now Prince Gaynor was not dying. He was merely undergoing a transition from one existence to another. Soon, in some other distant realm, far from the Fifteen Planes and the realms of the Sword Rulers, he would be doomed to continue his servitude to Chaos.

  At last the face disappeared and the flashing armour was empty.

  Prince Gaynor the Damned was gone.

  * * *

  Corum lifted his head dazedly and heard Jhary-a-Conel’s voice in his ears. “Quickly, Corum, take Gaynor’s horse. The barbarians are gathering their courage. Our work is done here!”

  The companion to champions was shaking him. Corum got up, found his sword where Gaynor had dropped it in the mud, let Jhary help him into the ebony-and-ivory saddle…

  …Then they were galloping towards the walls of Halwyg-nan-Vake with the Mabden warriors howling behind them.

  The gates opened for them and closed instantly. Barbarian fists beat uselessly on the iron-shod timbers as they dismounted to find that King Onald and Rhalina were waiting for them.

  “Prince Gaynor?” said King Onald eagerly. “Does he still live?”

  “Aye,” Corum answered hollowly. “He still lives.”

  “Then you failed!”

  “No.” Corum walked away from them, leading his foe’s horse, walking into the darkness, unwilling to speak to anyone, not even Rhalina.

  King Onald followed him and then paused, looking up at Jhary who was lowering himself from his saddle. “He did not fail?”

  “Prince Gaynor’s power is gone,” Jhary said tiredly. “Corum defeated him. Now the barbarians have no brain—they have only their numbers, their brutality, their Dogs and their Bears.” He laughed without humour. “That is all, King Onald.”

  They all stared after Corum who, with bowed back and dragging feet, passed into the shadows.

  “I will prepare us for their attack,” Onald said. “They will come at us in the morning, I think.”

  “It is likely,” Rhalina agreed. She had an impulse to go to Corum then, but she restrained it.

  * * *

  And at dawn the barbarian army of King Lyr-a-Brode joined with the army of Bro-an-Mabden and, still with the strength of the Army of the Dog and the Army of the Bear, began to close in on Halwyg-nan-Vake.

  Warriors were packed on all Halwyg’s low walls. The barbarians had no siege engines with them, since they had relied on Prince Gaynor’s strategy and his host of Chaos in their taking of all other cities. But there were many of them—so many that it was almost impossible to see the last ranks of their legions. They rode on horses and in chariots or they marched.

  Corum had rested for a few hours but had not been able to sleep. He could not rid himself of the vision of Prince Gaynor’s face. He tried to remember his hatred of Glandyth-a-Krae and sought the earl amongst the barbarian horde, but Glandyth was apparently nowhere present. Perhaps he searched for Corum still in the region of Moidel’s Mount?

  King Lyr sat on a big horse and clutched his own crude battle-banner. Beside him was the humpbacked shape of King Cronekyn-a-Drok, ruler of the tribes of Bro-an-Mabden. Half-idiot was King Cronekyn and well was he nicknamed the Little Toad.

  The barbarians marched raggedly, without much order and it seemed that the sunken-featured king looked about him nervously as if he were not sure he could control such a force now that Prince Gaynor was gone.

  King Lyr-a-Brode lifted his great iron sword and a sheet of flaming arrows suddenly leapt from behind his horsemen and whistled over the walls of Halwyg, setting light to shrubs which had dried from lack of watering. But King Onald had prepared for this and for some days the citizens had been preserving their urine to throw upon the flames. King Onald had heard of the fate of other besieged cities in his kingdom and he had learned what was necessary.

  Several of the defenders staggered about on the walls beating at the flaming arrows which stuck in them. One man ran by Corum with his face burning but Corum hardly noticed him.

  With a huge roar the barbarians rode right up to the walls and began to scale them.

  The attack on Halwyg had begun in earnest.

  But Corum watched for the Army of the Dog and the Army of the Bear, wondering when they would be brought against them. They seemed to be holding them in reserve and he could not quite see wh
y.

  Now his attention was forced back to the immediate threat as a gasping barbarian, brand in one hand, sword in his teeth, hauled himself over the battlements. He gave a yell of surprise as Corum cut him down. But others were coming now.

  All through that morning Corum fought mechanically, though he fought well. Elsewhere on the walls Rhalina, Jhary and Beldan were commanding detachments of defenders. A thousand barbarians died, but a thousand more replaced them, for Lyr had had the sense at least to rest his men and bring them up in waves. There was no chance of such strategy amongst those who manned the walls. Every warrior who could carry a sword was being used.

  Corum’s ears rang with the roar and the clash of battle. He must have taken a score of lives, yet he was hardly aware of it. His mail was torn in a dozen places, he was bleeding from several minor wounds, but he did not notice that, either.

  More flame arrows crossed the walls and the women and children came with buckets to douse the fires that started.

  Behind the defenders was a thin haze of smoke. Before them was a mass of stinking barbarian warriors. And everywhere was the hysteria of battle. Blood splashed all surfaces. Human guts smeared the walls. Broken weapons littered the ground and corpses were piled several deep on the battlements in a vain attempt to raise the walls and stem the attack.

  Below them, at the gates, barbarians used tree trunks to try to split the iron-shod wood, but so far they had held.

  Corum, only distantly aware of the noise and the sights of battle, knew that his fight with Prince Gaynor had been worthwhile. There was no doubt that Gaynor’s hell-creatures and Gaynor’s tactics would have taken the city by now.

  But how much time was there? When would Arkyn return with the substances needed by Prince Yurette? And did the City in the Pyramid still stand?

  Corum smiled grimly then. Xiombarg would know by now that he had slain her servant, Prince Gaynor. Her anger would be that much greater, her sense of impotence the stronger. Perhaps this would lessen the fury of her attack upon Gwlās-cor-Gwrys?

  Or perhaps it would strengthen it?

  Corum strove to banish the speculations from his mind. There was no use in them. He picked up a spear, hurled by a barbarian, and flung it back so that it pierced the stomach of a Mabden attacker who clutched the shaft and swayed on the wall for a moment before toppling head over heels to join the other corpses on the ground below.