The Sword of Rhiannon

by Leigh Brackett

  He heard the voice of Rhiannon—the real and godlike voice that he had only copied—ring forth from his own lips in anger that was beyond human power to know.

  “Behold your Lord, oh crawling children of the Serpent! Behold—and die!”

  The mocking laughter died away into silence. Hishah gave back and into his eyes came the beginning of fear.

  Rhiannon’s voice rolled out, thundering against the walls. The strength and fury of Rhiannon blazed in the Earthman’s face and now his body seemed to tower over the Dhuvians and the sword was a thing of lightning in his hands.

  “What now of the touching of minds, Hishah? Probe deeply—more deeply than you did before when your feeble powers could not penetrate the mental barrier I set up against you!”

  Hishah voiced a high and hissing scream. He recoiled in horror and the circle of the Dhuvians broke as they turned to seek their weapons, their lipless mouths stretched wide in fear.

  Rhiannon laughed, the terrible laughter of one who has waited through an age for vengeance and finds it at last.

  “Run! Run and strive—for in your great wisdom you have let Rhiannon through your guarding Veil and death is on Caer Dhu!”

  And the Dhuvians ran, writhing in the shadows as they caught up the weapons they had not thought to need. The green light glinted on the shining tubes and prisms.

  But the hand of Carse, guided now by the sure knowledge of Rhiannon, had darted toward the biggest of the ancient weapons—toward the rim of the great flat crystal wheel. He set the wheel spinning.

  There must have been some intricate triggering of power within the metal globe, some hidden control that his fingers touched. Carse never knew. He only knew that a strange dark halo appeared in the dim air, enclosing himself and Ywain and the shuddering Boghaz and Garach, who had risen doglike to his hands and knees and was watching with eyes that held no shred of sanity. The ancient weapons were also enclosed in that ring of dark force, and a faint singing rose from the crystal rods.

  The dark ring began to expand, like a circular wave sweeping outward.

  The weapons of the Dhuvians strove against it. Lances of lightning, of cold flame and searing brilliance, leaped toward it, struck—and splintered and died. Powerful electric discharges that broke themselves on the invisible dielectric that shielded Rhiannon’s circle.

  Rhiannon’s ring of dark force expanded relentlessly, out and out, and where it touched the Dhuvians the cold ophidian bodies withered and shriveled and lay like cast-off skins upon the stones.

  Rhiannon spoke no more. Carse felt the deadly throb of power in his hand as the shining wheel spun faster and faster on its mount and his mind shuddered away from what he could sense in Rhiannon’s mind.

  For he could sense dimly the nature of the Cursed-One’s terrible weapon. It was akin to that deadly ultra-violet radiation of the Sun which would destroy all life were it not for the shielding ozone in the atmosphere.

  But where the ultra-violet radiation known to Carse’s Earth science was easily absorbed, that of Rhiannon’s ancient alien science lay in uncharged octaves below the four-hundred angstrom limit and could be produced as an expanding halo that no matter could absorb. And where it touched living tissue, it killed.

  Carse hated the Dhuvians but never in the world had there been such hatred in a human heart as he felt now in Rhiannon.

  Garach began to whimper. Whimpering, he recoiled from the blazing eyes of the man who towered above him. Half scrambling, half running, he darted away with a sound like laughter in his throat.

  Straight out into the dark ring he ran and death received him and silently withered him.

  Spreading, spreading, the silent force pulsed outward. Through metal and flesh and stone it went, withering, killing, hunting down the last child of the Serpent who fled through the dark corridors of Caer Dhu. No more weapons flamed against it. No more supple arms were raised to fend it off.

  It struck the enclosing Veil at last. Carse felt the subtle shock of its checking and then Rhiannon stopped the wheel.

  There was a time of utter silence as those three who were left alive in the city stood motionless, too stunned almost to breathe.

  At last the voice of Rhiannon spoke. “The Serpent is dead. Let his city—and my weapons that have wrought such evil in this world—pass with the Dhuvians.”

  He turned from the crystal wheel and sought another instrument, one of the squat looped metal rods.

  He raised the small black thing and pressed a secret spring and from the leaden tube that formed its muzzle came a little spark, too bright for the eye to look upon, only a tiny fleck of light that settled on the stones. But it began to glow. It seemed to feed on the atoms of the rock as flame feeds on wood. Like wildfire it leaped across the flags. It touched the crystal wheel and the weapon that had destroyed the Serpent was itself consumed.

  A chain-reaction such as no nuclear scientist of Earth had conceived, one that could make the atoms of metal and crystal and stone as unstable as the high-number radioactive elements.

  Rhiannon said, “Come.”

  They walked through the empty corridors in silence and behind them the strange witchfire fed and fattened and the vast central hall was enveloped in its swift destruction.

  The knowledge of Rhiannon guided Carse to the nerve-center of the Veil, to a chamber by the great gate, there to set the controls so that the glimmering web was forever darkened.

  They passed out of the citadel and went back down the broken causeway to the quay where the black barge floated.

  Then they turned, and looked back, upon the destruction of a city.

  They shielded their eyes, for the strange and awful blaze had something in it of the fire of the Sun. It had raced hungrily outward through the sprawling ruins, and made of the central keep a torch that lighted all the sky, blotting out the stars, paling the low moons.

  The causeway began to burn, a lengthening tongue of flame between the reeds of the marshland.

  Rhiannon raised the squat looped tube again. From it, now, a dim little globule of light not a spark, flew toward the nearing blaze.

  And the blaze hesitated, wavered, then began to dull and die.

  The witchfire of strange atomic reaction that Rhiannon had triggered he had now damped and killed by some limiting counter-factor whose nature Carse could not dream.

  They poled the barge out onto the water as the quivering radiance behind them sank and died. And then the night was dark again and of Caer Dhu there was nothing to be seen but steam.

  The voice of Rhiannon spoke, once more, “It is done” he said. “I have redeemed my sin.”

  The Earthman felt the utter weariness of the being within him as the possession was withdrawn from his brain and body.

  And then, again, he was only Matthew Carse.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Judgment of the Quiru

  The whole world seemed hushed and still in the dawn as their barge went down to Sark. None of them spoke and none of them looked back at the vast white steam that still rolled solemnly up across the sky.

  Carse felt numbed, drained of all emotion. He had let the wrath of Rhiannon use him and he could not yet feel quite the same. He knew that there was something of it still in his face, for the other two would not quite meet his eyes nor did they break the silence.

  The great crowd gathered on the waterfront of Sark was silent too. It seemed that they had stood there for long looking toward Caer Dhu, and even now, after the glare of its destruction had died out of the sky, they stared with white, frightened faces.

  Carse looked out at the Khond longships riding with their sails slack against the yards and knew that that terrible blaze had awed the Sea Kings into waiting.

  The black barge glided in to the palace stair. The crowd surged forward as Ywain stepped ashore, their voices rising in a strange hushed clamor. And Ywain spoke to them.

  “Caer Dhu and the Serpent both are gone—destroyed by the Lord Rhiannon.”

  She turne
d instinctively toward Carse. And the eyes of all that vast throng dwelt upon him as the word spread, growing at last to an overwhelming cry of thankfulness. “Rhiannon! Rhiannon the Deliverer!” He was the Cursed One no longer, at least not to these Sarks. And for the first time, Carse realized the loathing they had had for the allies Gararch had forced upon them.

  He walked toward the palace with Ywain and Boghaz and knew with a sense of awe how it felt to be a god. They entered the dim cool walls and it seemed already as though a shadow had gone out of them. Ywain paused at the doors of the throne room as though she had just remembered that she was ruler now in Garach’s place.

  She turned to Carse and said, “If the Sea Kings still attack…”

  “They won’t—not until they know what happened. And now we must find Rold if he still lives.”

  “He lives,” said Ywain. “After the Dhuvians emptied Rold of his knowledge my father held him as hostage for me.”

  They found the Lord of Khondor at last, chained in the dungeons deep under the palace walls. He was wasted and drawn with suffering but he still had the spirit left to raise his red head and snarl at Carse and Ywain.

  “Demon,” he said. “Traitor. Have you and your hellcat come at last to kill me?”

  Carse told him the story of Caer Dhu and Rhiannon, watching Rold’s expression change slowly from savage despair to a stunned and unbelieving joy.

  “Your fleet stands off Sark under Ironbeard,” he finished. “Will you take this word to the Sea Kings and bring them in to parley?”

  “Aye,” said Rold. “By the gods I will!” He stared at Carse, shaking his head. “A strange dream of madness these last days have been! And now—to think that I would have slain you gladly in the place of the Wise Ones with my own hand!”

  That was shortly after dawn. By noon the council of the Sea Kings was assembled in the throne room with Rold at their head and Emer, who had refused to stay behind in Khondor.

  They sat around a long table. Ywain occupied the throne and Carse stood apart from all of them. His face was stern and very weary and there was in it still a hint of strangeness.

  He said with finality, “There need be no war now. The Serpent is gone and without its power Sark can no longer oppress her neighbors. The subject cities, like Jekkara and Valkis, will be freed. The empire of Sark is no more.”

  Ironbeard leaped to his feet, crying fiercely. “Then now is our chance to destroy Sark forever!”

  Others of the Sea Kings rose, Thorn of Tarak loud among them, shouting their assent. Ywain’s hand tightened upon her sword.

  Carse stepped forward, his eyes blazing. “I say there will be peace! Must I call upon Rhiannon to enforce my word?”

  They quieted, awed by that threat, and Rold bade them sit and hold their tongues.

  “There has been enough of fighting and bloodshed,” he told them sternly. “And for the future we can meet Sark on equal terms. I am Lord of Khondor and I say that Khondor will make peace!”

  Caught between Carse’s threat and Rold’s decision the Sea Kings one by one agreed. Then Emer spoke. “The slaves must all be freed—human and Halfling alike.”

  Carse nodded. “It will be done.”

  “And,” said Rold, “there is another condition.” He faced Carse with unalterable determination. “I have said we will make peace with Sark—but not, though you bring fifty Rhiannons against us, with a Sark that is ruled by Ywain!”

  “Aye,” roared the Sea Kings, looking wolf-eyed at Ywain. “That is our word also.”

  There was a silence then and Ywain rose from the high seat, her face proud and sombre.

  “The condition is met,” she said. “I have no wish to rule over a Sark tamed and stripped of empire. I hated the Serpent as you did—but it is too late for me to be queen of a petty village of fishermen. The people may choose another ruler.”

  She stepped down from the dais and went from them to stand erect by a window at the far end of the room, looking out over the harbor.

  Carse turned to the Sea Kings. “It is agreed, then.”

  And they answered, “It is agreed.”

  Emer, whose fey gaze had not wavered from Carse since the beginning of the parley, came to his side now, laying her hand on his. “And where is your place in this?” she asked softly.

  Carse looked down at her, rather dazedly. “I have not had time to think.”

  But it must be thought of, now. And he did not know.

  As long as he bore within him the shadow of Rhiannon this world would never accept him as a man. Honor he might have but never anything more and the lurking fear of the Cursed One would remain. Too many centuries of hate had grown around that name.

  Rhiannon had redeemed his crime but even so, as long as Mars lived, he would be remembered as the Cursed One.

  As though in answer, for the first time since Caer Dhu, the dark invader stirred and his thought-voice whispered in Carse’s mind.

  “Go back to the Tomb and I will leave you, for I would follow my brothers. After that you are free. I can guide you back along that pathway to your own time if you wish. Or you can remain here.”

  And still Carse did not know.

  He liked this green and smiling Mars. But as he looked at the Sea Kings, who were waiting for his answer, and then beyond them through the windows to the White Sea and the marshes, it came to him that this was not his world, that he could never truly belong to it.

  He spoke at last and as he did so he saw Ywain’s face turned toward him in the shadows.

  “Emer knew and the Halflings also that I was not of your world. I came out of space and time, along the pathway which is hidden in the Tomb of Rhiannon.”

  He paused to let them grasp that and they did not seem greatly astonished. Because of what had happened they could believe anything of him, even though it be beyond their comprehension.

  Carse said heavily, “A man is born into one world and there he belongs. I am going back to my own place.”

  He could see that even though they protested courteously, the Sea Kings were relieved.

  “The blessings of the gods attend you, stranger,” Emer whispered and kissed him gently on the lips.

  Then she went and the jubilant Sea Kings went with her. Boghaz had slipped out and Carse and Ywain were alone in the great empty room.

  He went to her, looking into her eyes that had not lost their old fire even now. “And where will you go now?” he asked her.

  She answered quietly, “If you will let me I go with you.”

  He shook his head. “No. You could not live in my world, Ywain. It’s a cruel and bitter place, very old and near to death.”

  “It does not matter. My own world also is dead.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, strong beneath the mailed shirt. “You don’t understand. I came a long way across time—a million years.” He paused, not quite knowing how to tell her.

  “Look out there. Think how it will be when the White Sea is only a desert of blowing dust—when the green is gone from the hills and the white cities are crumbled and the river beds are dry.”

  Ywain understood and sighed. “Age and death come at last to everything. And death will come very swiftly to me if I remain here. I am outcast and my name is hated even as Rhiannon’s.”

  He knew that she was not afraid of death but was merely using that argument to sway him.

  And yet the argument was true.

  “Could you be happy,” he asked, “with the memory of your own world haunting you at every step?”

  “I have never been happy,” she answered, “and therefore I shall not miss it.” She looked at him fairly. “I will take the risk. Will you?”

  His fingers tightened. “Yes,” he said huskily. “Yes, I will.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her and when she drew back she whispered, with a shyness utterly new in her, “The ‘Lord Rhiannon’ spoke truly when he taunted me concerning the barbarian.” She was silent a moment, then added, “I think whic
h world we dwell in will not matter much, as long as we are together in it.”

  Days later the black galley pulled into Jekkara harbor, finishing her last voyage under the ensign of Ywain of Sark.

  It was a strange greeting she and Carse received there, where the whole city had gathered to see the stranger, who was also the Cursed One, and the Sovereign Lady of Sark, who was no more a sovereign. The crowd kept back at a respectful distance and they cheered the destruction of Caer Dhu and the death of the Serpent. But for Ywain they had no welcome.

  Only one man stood on the quay to meet them. It was Boghaz—a very splendid Boghaz, robed in velvet and loaded down with jewels, wearing a golden circlet on his head.

  He had vanished out of Sark on the day of the parley on some mission of his own and it seemed that he had succeeded.

  He bowed to Carse and Ywain with grandiloquent politeness.

  “I have been to Valkis,” he said. “It’s a free city again—and because of my unparalleled heroism in helping to destroy Caer Dhu I have been chosen king.”

  He beamed, then added with a confidential grin, “I always did dream of looting a royal treasury!”

  “But,” Carse reminded him, “it’s your treasury now.”

  Boghaz started. “By the gods, it is so!” He drew himself up, waxing suddenly stern. “I see that I shall have to be severe with thieves in Valkis. There will be heavy punishment for any crime against property—especially royal property!”

  “And fortunately,” said Carse gravely, “you are acquainted with all the knavish tricks of thieves.”

  “That is true,” said Boghaz sententiously. “I have always said that knowledge is a valuable thing. Behold now, how my purely academic studies of the lawless elements will help me to keep my people safe!”

  He accompanied them through Jekkara, until they reached the open country beyond, and then he bade them farewell, plucking off a ring which he thrust into Carse’s hand. Tears ran down his fat cheeks.

  “Wear this, old friend, that you may remember Boghaz, who guided your steps wisely through a strange world.”