The Queen of Swords Read online

  “I’d agree with that,” Corum told him feelingly. “And now, will you explain in more detail how you came to Moidel?”

  “I will explain what I can, friend Corum. It happened that I found myself at a grim place called Kalenwyr. How I came there I do not quite remember, but then I am used to that. This Kalenwyr—all granite and gloom—was not to my taste. I was there but a few hours before I came under suspicion of the inhabitants and, by means of a certain amount of climbing about on roofs, the theft of a chariot, the purloining of a boat on a nearby river, escaped them and reached the sea. Feeling it unsafe to land, I sailed along the coast. A mist closed in, the sea acted as if a storm had blown up and suddenly my boat and myself were caught up with a motley mixture of fish, snapping monsters, men and creatures I would be hard put to describe. I managed to cling to the strands of the gigantic net which had trapped me and the rest as we were dragged along at great speed. How I found breath sometimes I do not remember. Then, at last, the net was upended and we were all released. My companions went their different ways and I was left alone in the water. I saw this island and your castle and I found a piece of driftwood which aided me to swim here…”

  “Kalenwyr!” Beldan said. “In Kalenwyr did you hear of a man called Glandyth-a-Krae?”

  Jhary frowned. “An Earl Glandyth was mentioned in a tavern, I think—with some admiration. A mighty warrior, I gathered. The whole city seemed preparing for war, but I did not understand the issues or what they considered their enemies. I think they spoke of the land of Lywm-an-Esh with a certain amount of loathing. And they were expecting allies from across the sea.”

  “Allies? From the Nhadragh Isles, perhaps?” Corum asked him.

  “No. I think they spoke of Bro-an-Mabden.”

  “The continent in the west!” Rhalina gasped. “I did not know many Mabden still inhabited it. But what moves them to plan war against Lywm-an-Esh?”

  “Perhaps the same spirit which led them to destroy my race,” Corum suggested. “Envy—and a hatred of peace. Your people, you told me, adopted many Vadhagh customs. That would be enough to win them the enmity of Glandyth and his kind.”

  “It is true,” Rhalina said. “Then this means that we are not the only ones who are in danger. Lywm-an-Esh has not fought a war for a hundred years or more. She will be unprepared for this invasion.”

  A servant brought in Jhary’s clothes. They were clean and dry. Jhary thanked him and began to don them, as unselfconsciously as he had taken them off. His shirt was of bright blue silk, his flared pantaloons were as bright a scarlet as Corum’s robe. He tied a big yellow sash about his waist and over this buckled a sword belt from which hung a scabbarded sabre and a long poignard. He pulled on soft boots which reached the knee and tied a scarf about his throat. His dark blue cloak he placed on the bench beside him, together with his hat (which he carefully creased to suit his taste) and his bundle. He seemed satisfied. “You had best tell me all you think I need to know,” he suggested. “Then I may be able to help you. I have gathered a great deal of information in my travels—most of it useless…”

  Corum told him of the Sword Rulers and the Fifteen Planes, of the struggle between Law and Chaos and the attempts to bring equilibrium to the Cosmic Balance. Jhary-a-Conel listened to all of this and seemed familiar with many of the things of which Corum spoke.

  When Corum had finished, Jhary said, “It is plain that attempts to contact Lord Arkyn for help would, at this moment, be unsuccessful. Arioch’s logic still prevails on these five planes and must be completely demolished before Arkyn and Law can know real power. It is ever the lot of mortals to symbolize these struggles between the gods and doubtless this war which seems likely between King Lyr-a-Brode and Lywm-an-Esh will mirror the war between Law and Chaos on other planes. If those who serve Chaos win—if King Lyr-a-Brode’s army wins, in fact—then Lord Arkyn may yet again lose his power and Chaos will triumph. Arioch is not the most powerful of the Sword Rulers—Xiombarg has greater power on the planes she rules and Mabelode has even more power than Xiombarg. I would say that you have hardly experienced the real manifestations of Chaos’s rule here.”

  “You do not comfort me,” said Corum.

  “It is perhaps better, however, to understand these things,” Rhalina said.

  “Can the other Sword Rulers send aid to King Lyr?” Corum asked.

  “Not directly. But there are ways of manipulating these things through messengers and agents. Would you know more of Lyr’s plans?”

  “Of course,” Corum told him. “But that is impossible.”

  Jhary smiled. “I think you will discover that it is useful to have a companion to champions as experienced as myself in your employ.” And he stopped and reached into his bag.

  He brought something out of the sack which, to their astonishment, was alive. It seemed unruffled by the fact that it had spent a day at least inside the sack. It opened its large, calm eyes and it purred.

  It was a cat. Or, at least, it was a kind of cat, for this cat had resting on its back a pair of beautiful black wings tipped with white. Its other markings were black and white, like those of an ordinary cat, with white paws and a white muzzle and a white front. It seemed friendly and self-possessed. Jhary offered it food from the table and the cat ruffled its wings and began to eat hungrily.

  Rhalina sent a servant for milk and when the little animal had finished drinking it sat beside Jhary on the bench and began to clean itself, first its face, paws and body and then its wings.

  “I have never seen such an animal!” Beldan muttered.

  “And I have never seen another like it in all my travels,” Jhary agreed. “It is a friendly creature and has often aided me. Sometimes our ways part and I do not see it for an age or two, but we are often together and he always remembers me. I call him Whiskers. Not an original name, I fear, but he seems to like it well enough. I think he will help us now.”

  “How can he help us?” Corum stared at the winged cat.

  “Why, my friends, he can fly to Lyr’s Court and witness what takes place there. Then he can return with his news to us!”

  “He can speak?”

  “Only to me—and even that is not speaking as such. Would you have me send him there?”

  Corum was completely taken aback. He was forced to smile. “Why not?”

  “Then Whiskers and I will go up to your battlements, with your permission, and I will instruct him what to do.”

  In silence the three watched Jhary adjust his hat on his head, pick up his cat, bow to them and mount the stairs that would take him to the battlements.

  “I feel as if I dream,” said Beldan when Jhary had disappeared.

  “You do,” said Corum. “A fresh dream is just beginning. Let us hope we survive it…”

  2

  THE GATHERING AT KALENWYR

  THE LITTLE WINGED cat flew swiftly eastward through the night and came at last to gloomy Kalenwyr.

  The smoke of a thousand guttering brands rose up from Kalenwyr and seemed to smear out the light of the moon. Square blocks of dark granite made up the houses and the castles and nowhere was there a curve or a soft line. Dominating the rest of the city was the brooding pile of King Lyr-a-Brode and around its black battlements flickered oddly coloured lights and there was a rumbling like thunder, though no clouds filled the night sky.

  Towards this pile now flew the little cat, alighting on a tower of harsh angles and folding its wings. It turned its large, green eyes this way and that, as if deciding which way it would enter the castle.

  The cat’s fur prickled, the long whiskers for which it had been named twitched, the tail went stiff. The cat had become aware not only of sorcery and the presence of supernatural creatures in the castle, but of a particular creature which it hated more than all the rest. Its progress down the side of the tower became even more cautious. It reached a slotted window and squeezed in. It was in a darkened, circular room. An open door revealed steps winding down the inside of the tower. Te
nsely the cat made its way down the steps. There were plenty of shadows in which to hide, for Castle Kalenwyr was a shadowy place.

  At last the cat saw brandlight burning ahead and it paused, looking warily around the door frame. The brands illuminated a long, narrow passage and at the end of the passage were the sounds of many voices, the clatter of arms and of wine-cups. The cat spread its wings and flew into the shadows of the roof, finding a long, blackened beam down which it could walk. The beam passed through the wall with a little room to spare and the cat squeezed through to find itself looking down at a huge gathering of Mabden. It walked further along the beam and then settled itself to watch the proceedings.

  * * *

  In the centre of Castle Kalenwyr’s Great Hall was a dais carved from a single block of unpolished obsidian and upon this dais was a throne of granite studded with quartz. Some attempt had been made to carve gargoyles upon the stone, but the workmanship was crude and unfinished. Nonetheless, the half-shapes carved there were more sinister than if they had been fully realized.

  Seated upon this throne were three people. On each asymmetrical arm sat a naked girl, with flesh tattooed in obscene designs. Each girl held a jug with which she replenished the wine-cup of the man who sat on the throne itself. This man was big—more than seven feet tall—and a crown of pale iron was upon his matted hair. The hair was long, with short plaits clustered over the forehead. It had been yellow but was now streaked with white and it seemed that some attempt had been made to dye these streaks back to their original colour. The beard, too, was yellow and flecked with areas of stained grey. The face was haggard, covered in broken veins, and from the deep eye-sockets peered eyes that were bloodshot, faded blue, full of hatred, cunning and suspicion. Robes clothed the body from neck to foot. These were plainly of Vadhagh origin—brocades and samite now covered in the marks of food and wine. Over them was thrown a dirty coat of tawny wolfskin—just as plainly made by the Mabden of the east, whom the man ruled. The hands were encrusted with stolen rings torn from the fingers of slain Vadhagh and Nhadragh. One of the hands rested upon the pommel of a great, battered iron sword. The other clutched a bronze, diamond-studded goblet from which slopped thick wine. Surrounding the dais, their backs to their master, was a guard of warriors each as tall or taller than the man on the throne. They stood rigidly shoulder to shoulder, swords drawn and placed across the rims of their great oval shields of leather and iron sheathed in brass. Their brass helms covered most of their faces and from the sides escaped the hair of their heads and beards. Their eyes seemed to contain a perpetual and controlled fury and they looked steadily into the middle distance. This was the Asper Guard—the Grim Guard which was unthinkingly loyal to the man who sat upon the throne.

  King Lyr-a-Brode turned his massive head and surveyed his Court.

  Warriors filled it.

  The only women were the tattooed, naked wenches who served the wine. Their hair was dirty, their bodies bruised and they moved like dead things with their heavy wine jugs balanced on their hips, squeezing themselves in and out of the ranks of the big, brutal Mabden men in their barbaric war-gear, with their braided hair and beards.

  These men stank of sweat and of the blood they had spilled. Their leather clothes creaked as they raised wine-cups to their hard mouths, their harness rattled.

  A feast had recently taken place here, but now the tables and the benches had been cleared away and, save for the few who had collapsed and been dragged into corners, all the warriors were standing, watching their king and waiting for him to speak.

  The light from iron braziers suspended from the roof beams flung their huge shadows on the dark stone and made their eyes shine red like the eyes of beasts.

  Each warrior in the hall was a commander of other warriors. Here were earls and dukes and counts and captains who had ridden from all parts of Lyr’s kingdom to attend this gathering. And some, dressed a little differently from the others, favouring fur to the stolen Vadhagh and Nhadragh samite, had come from across the sea as emissaries from Bro-an-Mabden, the rocky land of the north-west from which the whole Mabden race had originated long ago.

  Now King Lyr-a-Brode placed his hands on the arms of his throne and levered himself slowly to his feet. Instantly five hundred arms raised goblets in a toast.

  “LYR OF THE LAND!”

  Automatically he returned the toast, mumbling, “And the Land is Lyr…” He looked around him, almost disbelievingly, staring for a long second at one of the girls as if he recognized her for something other than she was. He frowned.

  A burly noble with grey, unhealthy eyes, a red, shiny face, his thick black hair and beard curled and braided, a cruel mouth which was partly closed over yellow fangs, stepped from the throng and positioned himself just the other side of the Grim Guard. This noble wore a tall, winged helmet of iron, brass and gold, a huge bearskin cloak on his shoulders. There was a sense of authority about him and, in many ways, he had more presence than did the tall king who looked down on him.

  The king’s lips moved. “Earl Glandyth-a-Krae?”

  “My liege, I hight Glandyth, Earl over the estates of Krae,” the man assured him formally. “Captain of the Denledhyssi who have scoured your land free of the Vadhagh vermin and all who allied themselves with them, who helped conquer the Nhadragh Isles. And I am a Brother of the Dog, a Son of the Horned Bear, a servant of the Lords of Chaos!”

  King Lyr nodded. “I know thee, Glandyth. A loyal sword.”

  Glandyth bowed.

  There was a pause.

  Then, “Speak,” said the king.

  “There is one of the Shefanhow creatures who escapes your justice, my king. Just one Vadhagh who still lives.” Glandyth tugged the thong of his jerkin which showed over the top of his breastplate. He reached inside and brought out two things which hung by a string around his neck. One of the things was a withered, mummified hand. The other was a small leather pouch. He displayed them. “This is the hand I cut from the Vadhagh and here, in this sack, is his eye. He took refuge in the castle which lies at the far western shore of your land—the castle called Moidel. A Mabden woman possessed that castle—she is the Margravine Rhalina-a-Allomglyl and she serves that land of traitors, Lywm-an-Esh—that land which you now plan to crush because it refuses to support our cause.”

  “All this you have told me,” King Lyr replied. “And you have told me of the monstrous sorcery used to thwart your attack upon that castle. Speak on.”

  “I would march again to Castle Moidel, for I have learned that the Shefanhow Corum and the traitress Rhalina have returned there, thinking themselves safe from your justice.”

  “All our armies go westward,” Lyr told him. “All our strength is aimed at the destruction of Lywm-an-Esh. Castle Moidel will fall in our passing.”

  “The boon I beg is that I be the instrument of that fall, my liege.”

  “You are one of our greatest captains, Earl Glandyth, we would use you and your Denledhyssi in a main engagement.”

  “While Corum lives, commanding sorcery, our cause is much threatened. I speak truly, great king. He is a powerful enemy—perhaps more powerful than the whole land of Lywm-an-Esh. It will take much to destroy him.”

  “One maimed Shefanhow? How is this so?”

  “He has made an alliance with Law. I have proof. One of my Nhadragh lackeys has used its second sight and seen clear.”

  “Where is the Nhadragh?”

  “He is without, my liege. I would not bring the vile creature into your hall without your permission.”

  “Bring him now.”

  All the bearded warriors stared towards the door with a mixture of disgust and curiosity. Only the Grim Guard did not turn its gaze. King Lyr reseated himself on his throne and gestured with his cup for more wine.

  The doors were opened and a dim shape was revealed. Though it had the outline of a man it was not a man. The ranks broke as it began to shuffle forward.

  It had dark, flat features and the hair of its head
grew down its forehead to meet at a peak just below the eyebrows. It was dressed in a jacket and breeks of sealskin. Its stance was servile, nervous and it bowed frequently as it moved towards the waiting Glandyth.

  King Lyr-a-Brode’s lips curled in nausea. He gestured at Glandyth. “Make this thing speak and then make it leave.”

  Glandyth reached out and seized the Nhadragh by his coarse hair. “Now, filth, tell my king what you saw with your degenerate senses!”

  The Nhadragh opened its mouth and stuttered.

  “Speak! Quickly!”

  “I—I saw into other planes than this…”

  “You saw into Yffarn—into hell?” King Lyr murmured in horror.

  “Into other planes…” The Nhadragh looked shiftily about him and agreed hastily. “Aye, then—into Yffarn. I saw a creature there which I cannot describe, but I spoke with it for a brief time. It—told me that Lord Arioch of Chaos…”

  “He means the Sword Ruler,” Glandyth explained. “He means Arag the Great Old God.”

  “It told me that Arioch—Arag—had been slain by Corum Jhaelen Irsei of the Vadhagh and that Lord Arkyn of Law now ruled these five planes again…” The Nhadragh’s voice trailed off.

  “Tell my king the rest,” Glandyth said fiercely, tugging again on the wretch’s hair. “Tell him what you learned relating to us Mabden!”