The Queen of Swords

by Michael Moorcock

  Glandyth’s brutal features would fill his dreams, dominating even the dead, tortured faces of his parents and his sisters, so that he would often awake in the middle of the night, fierce, tensed and shouting.

  Then only Rhalina could calm him, stroking his ruined face and holding his shaking body close to her own.

  Yet, during those days of early summer, there were moments of peace and they could ride through the woods of the mainland without fear, now, of the Pony Tribes who had fled at the sight of the ship Shool had sent on the night of their attack—a dead ship from the bottom of the sea, crewed by corpses and commanded by the dead Margrave himself, Rhalina’s drowned husband.

  The woods were full of sweet life, of little animals and bright flowers and rich scents. And though they never quite succeeded, they offered to heal the scars on Corum’s soul; they offered an alternative to conflict and death and sorcerous horror and they showed him that there were things in the universe which were calm and ordered and beautiful and that Law offered more than just a sterile order but sought to establish throughout the Fifteen Planes a harmony in which all things could exist in all their variety. Law offered an environment in which all the mortal virtues could flourish.

  Yet while Glandyth and all he represented survived, Corum knew that Law would be under constant threat and that the corrupting monster Fear would destroy all virtue.

  As they rode, one pretty day, through the woods, he cast about him with his mismatched eyes and he said to Rhalina, “Glandyth must die!”

  And she nodded but did not question why he had made this sudden statement, for she had heard it many times in similar circumstances. She tightened the rein on her chestnut mare and brought the beast to a prancing halt in a glade of lupines and hollyhocks. She dismounted and picked up her long skirts of embroidered samite as she waded gracefully through the knee-high grass. Corum sat on his tawny stallion and watched her, taking pleasure in her pleasure as she had known he would. The glade was warm and shadowy, sheltered by kindly elm and oak and ash in which squirrels and birds had made their nests.

  “Oh, Corum, if only we could stay here for ever! We could build a cottage, plant a garden…”

  He tried to smile. “But we cannot,” he said. “Even this is but a respite. Shool was right. By accepting the logic of conflict I have accepted a particular destiny. Even if I forgot my own vows of vengeance, even if I had not agreed to serve Law against Chaos, Glandyth would still come and seek us out and make us defend this peace. And Glandyth is stronger than these gentle woods, Rhalina. He could destroy them overnight and, I think, would relish so doing if he knew we loved them.”

  She knelt and smelled the flowers. “Must it always be so? Must hate always breed hate and love be powerless to proliferate?”

  “If Lord Arkyn is right, it will not always be so. But those who believe that love should be powerful must be prepared to die to ensure its strength.”

  She raised her head suddenly and there was alarm in her eyes as they stared into his.

  He shrugged. “It is true,” he said.

  Slowly, she got to her feet and went back to where her horse stood. She put a foot into the stirrup and pulled herself into the side-saddle. He remained in the same position, staring at the flowers and at the grass which was gradually springing back into the places it had occupied before she had walked through it.

  “It is true.”

  He sighed and turned his horse towards the shore.

  “We had best return,” he murmured, “before the sea covers the causeway.”

  A little while later they emerged from the forest and trotted their steeds along the shore. Blue sea shifted on the white sand and, still some distance away, they saw the natural causeway leading through the shallows to the mount on which stood Castle Moidel, the farthest and forgotten outpost of the civilization of Lywm-an-Esh. Once the castle had stood among woods on the mainland of Lywm-an-Esh, but the sea now covered that land.

  Seabirds called and wheeled in the cloudless sky, sometimes diving to spear a fish with their beaks and return with their catch to their nests amongst the rocks of Moidel’s Mount. The hoofs of the horses thumped the sand or splashed through the surf as they neared the causeway which would soon be covered by the tide.

  And then Corum’s attention was caught by a movement far out to sea. He craned forward as he rode and peered into the distance.

  “What is it?” she asked him.

  “I am not sure. A big wave, perhaps. But this is not the season of heavy seas.” He pointed. “Look.”

  “There seems to be a mist hanging over the water a mile or two out. It is hard to observe…” She gasped. “It is a wave!”

  Now the water near the shore became slightly more agitated as the wave approached.

  “It is as if some huge ship were passing by at great speed,” Corum said. “It is familiar…”

  Then he looked more sharply into the distant haze. “Do you see something—a shadow—the shadow of a man on the mist?”

  “Yes, I do see it. It is enormous. Perhaps an illusion—something to do with the light…”

  “No,” he said. “I have seen that outline before. It is the giant—the great fisherman who was the cause of my shipwreck on the coast of Khoolocrah!”

  “The Wading God,” she said. “I know of him. He is sometimes also called the Fisher. Legends say that when he is seen it is an ominous portent.”

  “It was an ominous enough portent for me when I last saw him,” Corum said with some humour. Now good-sized waves were rolling up the beach and they backed their horses off. “He comes closer. Yet the mist follows him.”

  It was true. The mist was moving nearer the shore as the waves grew larger and the gigantic fisherman waded closer. They could see his outline clearly now. His shoulders were bowed as he hauled his great net, walking backwards through the water.

  “What is he thought to catch?” whispered Corum. “Whales? Sea monsters?”

  “Anything,” she replied. “Anything that is upon or under the sea.” She shivered.

  The causeway was now completely covered by the artificial tide and there was no point in going forward. They were forced further back towards the trees as the sea rolled in in massive breakers, crashing upon the sand and the shingle.

  A little of the mist seemed to touch them and it became cold, though the sun was still bright. Corum drew his cloak about him. There came the steady sound of the giant’s strides as he waded on. Somehow he seemed a doomed figure to Corum—a creature destined to drag his nets for ever through the oceans of the world, never finding the thing he sought.

  “They say he fishes for his soul,” murmured Rhalina. “For his soul.”

  Now the silhouette straightened its back and hauled in its net. Many creatures struggled there—some of them unrecognizable. The Wading God inspected his catch carefully and then shook out the net, letting the things fall back into the water. He moved on slowly, once again fishing for something it seemed he would never find.

  The mist began to leave the shore as the dim outline of the giant moved out to sea again. The waters began to subside until at last they were still and the mist vanished beyond the horizon.

  * * *

  Corum’s horse snorted and pawed at the wet sand. The Prince in the Scarlet Robe looked at Rhalina. Her eyes were blank, fixed on the horizon. Her features were rigid.

  “The danger is gone,” he said, trying to comfort her.

  “There was no danger,” she said. “It is a warning of danger that the Wading God brings.”

  “It is only what the legends say.”

  Her eyes became alive again as she regarded him. “And have we not had cause to believe in legends of late?”

  He nodded. “Come, let’s get back to the castle before the causeway’s flooded a second time.”

  Their horses were grateful to be moving towards the sanctuary of Moidel’s Castle. The sea was rising swiftly on both sides of the rocky path as they began to cross and the hors
es broke spontaneously into a gallop.

  At last they reached the great gates of the castle and these swung open to admit them. Rhalina’s handsome warriors welcomed them back gladly, anxious for their own experiences to be confirmed.

  “Did you see the giant, my lady Margravine?” Beldan, her steward, sprang down the steps of the west tower. “I thought it another of Glandyth’s allies.” The young man’s normally cheerful, open face was clouded. “What drove it off?”

  “Nothing,” she said, dismounting. “It was the Wading God. He was merely going about his business.”

  Beldan looked relieved. As with all the inhabitants of Castle Moidel, he ever expected a new attack. And he was right in his expectations. Sooner or later Glandyth would march again against the castle, bringing more powerful allies than the superstitious and easily frightened warriors of the Pony Tribes. They had heard that Glandyth, after his failure to take Castle Moidel, had returned in a rage to the Court at Kalenwyr to ask King Lyr-a-Brode for an army. Perhaps next time he came he would also bring ships which could attack from seaward while he attacked from the land. Such an assault would be successful, for Moidel’s garrison was small.

  The sun was setting as they made for the main hall of the castle to take their evening meal. Corum, Rhalina and Beldan sat together to eat and Corum’s mortal hand went often to the wine jug and far less frequently to the food. He was pensive, full of a sense of profound gloom which infected the others so that they did not even attempt to make conversation.

  Two hours passed in this way and still Corum swallowed wine.

  And then Beldan raised his head, listening. Rhalina, too, heard the sound and frowned. Only Corum appeared not to hear it.

  It was a rapping noise—an insistent noise. Then there were voices and the rapping stopped for a moment. When the voices subsided the rapping began again.

  Beldan got up. “I’ll investigate…”

  Rhalina glanced at Corum. “I’ll stay.”

  Corum’s head was lowered as he stared into his cup, sometimes fingering the patch covering his alien eye, sometimes raising the Hand of Kwll and stretching the six fingers, flexing them, inspecting them, puzzling over the implications of his situation.

  Rhalina listened. She heard Beldan’s voice. Again the rapping died. There was a further exchange. Silence.

  Beldan came back into the hall.

  “We have a visitor at our gates,” he informed her.

  “Where is he from?”

  “He says he is a traveler who has suffered some hardship and seeks sanctuary.”

  “A trick?”

  “I know not.”

  Corum looked up. “A stranger?”

  “Aye,” Beldan said. “Some spy of Glandyth’s possibly.”

  Corum rose unsteadily. “I’ll come to the gate.”

  Rhalina touched his arm. “Are you sure…?”

  “Of course.” He passed his hand over his face and drew a deep breath. He began to stride from the hall, Rhalina and Beldan following.

  He came to the gates and as he did so the knocking started up once more.

  “Who are you?” Corum called. “What business have you with the folk of Moidel’s Castle?”

  “I am Jhary-a-Conel, a traveler. I am here through no particular wish of my own, but I would be grateful for a meal and somewhere to sleep.”

  “Are you of Lywm-an-Esh?” Rhalina asked.

  “I am of everywhere and nowhere. I am all men and no man. But one thing I am not—and that is your enemy. I am wet and I am shivering with cold.”

  “How came you to Moidel when the causeway is covered?” Beldan asked. He turned to Corum. “I have already asked him this once. He did not answer me.”

  The unseen stranger mumbled something in reply.

  “What was that?” Corum said.

  “Damn you! It’s not a thing a man likes to admit. I was part of a catch of fish! I was brought here in a net and I was dumped offshore and I swam to this damned castle and I climbed your damned rocks and I knocked on your damned door and now I stand making conversation with damned fools. Have you no charity at Moidel?”

  The three of them were astonished then—and they were convinced that the stranger was not in league with Glandyth.

  Rhalina signed to the warriors to open the great gates. They creaked back a fraction and a slim, bedraggled fellow entered. He was dressed in unfamiliar garb and had a sack over his back, a hat on his head whose wide brim was weighed down by water and hung about his face. His long hair was as wet as the rest of him. He was relatively young, relatively good-looking and, in spite of his sodden appearance, there was just a trace of amused disdain in his intelligent eyes. He bowed to Rhalina.

  “Jhary-a-Conel at your service, ma’am.”

  “How came you to keep your hat while swimming so far through the sea?” Beldan asked. “And your sack, for that matter?”

  Jhary-a-Conel acknowledged the question with a wink. “I never lose my hat and I rarely lose my sack. A traveler of my sort learns to hold on to his few possessions—no matter what circumstances he finds himself in.”

  “You are just that?” Corum asked. “A traveler?”

  Jhary-a-Conel showed some impatience. “Your hospitality reminds me somewhat of that I experienced some time since at a place called Kalenwyr…”

  “You have come from Kalenwyr?”

  “I have been to Kalenwyr. But I see I cannot shame you, even by that comparison…”

  “I am sorry,” said Rhalina. “Come. There is food already on the table. I’ll have servants bring you a change of clothing and towels and so forth.”

  They returned to the main hall. Jhary-a-Conel looked about him. “Comfortable,” he said.

  They sat in their chairs and watched him as he casually stripped off his wet clothes and stood at last naked before them. He scratched his nose. A servant brought him towels and he began busily to dry himself. But the new clothes he refused. Instead he wrapped himself in another towel and seated himself at the table, helping himself to food and wine. “I’ll take my own clothes when they’re dry,” he informed the servants. “I have a stupid habit concerning clothes not of my particular choosing. Take care when you dry the hat. The brim must be tilted just so.”

  These instructions done, he turned to Corum with a bright smile. “And what name is it in this particular time and place, my friend?”

  Corum frowned. “I fail to understand you.”

  “Your name is all I asked. Yours changes as does mine. The difference is sometimes that you do not know that and I do—or vice versa. And sometimes we are the same creature—or, at least, aspects of the same creature.”

  Corum shook his head. The man sounded mad.

  “For instance,” continued Jhary as he ate heartily through a piled plate of seafood, “I have been called Timeras and Shalenak. Sometimes I am the hero, but more often than not I am the companion to a hero.”

  “Your words make little sense, sir,” Rhalina said gently. “I do not think Prince Corum understands them. Neither do we.”

  Jhary grinned. “Ah, then this is one of those times when the hero is aware of only one existence. For the best, I suppose, for it is often unpleasant to remember too many incarnations—particularly when they coexist. I recognize Prince Corum for an old friend, but he does not recognize me. It matters not.” He finished his food, readjusted the towel about his waist and leaned back.

  “So you’d offer us a riddle and then will not give us the answer,” Beldan said.

  “I will explain,” Jhary told him, “for I do not deliberately jest with you. I am a traveler of an unusual kind. It seems to be my destiny to move through all times and all planes. I do not remember being born and I do not expect to die—in the accepted sense. I am sometimes called Timeras and, if I am ‘of’ anywhere, then I suppose I am of Tanelorn.”

  “But Tanelorn is a myth,” said Beldan.

  “All places are a myth somewhere else—but Tanelorn is more constant than most. Sh
e can be found, if sought, from anywhere in the multiverse.”

  “Have you no profession?” Corum asked him.

  “Well, I have made some poetry and plays in my time, but my main profession could be that I am a friend of heroes. I have travelled—under several names, of course, and in several guises—with Rackhir the Red Archer to Xerlerenes where the ships of the Boatmen sail the skies as your ships sail the sea—with Elric of Melniboné to the Court of the Dead God—with Asquiol of Pompeii into the deeper reaches of the multiverse where space is measured not in terms of miles but in terms of galaxies—with Hawkmoon of Köln to Londra where the folk wear jeweled masks fashioned into the faces of beasts. I have seen the future and the past. I have seen a variety of planetary systems and I have learned that time does not exist and that space is an illusion.”

  “And the gods?” Corum asked him eagerly.

  “I think we create them, but I am not sure. Where primitives invent crude gods to explain the thunder, more sophisticated peoples create more elaborate gods to explain the abstractions which puzzle them. It has often been noted that gods could not exist without mortals and mortals could not exist without gods.”

  “Yet gods, it appears,” said Corum, “can affect our destinies.”

  “And we can affect theirs, can we not?”

  Beldan murmured to Corum, “Your own experiences are proof of that, Prince Corum.”

  “So you can wander at will amongst the Fifteen Planes,” Corum said softly. “As some Vadhagh once could.”

  Jhary smiled. “I can wander nowhere ‘at will’—or to very few places. I can sometimes return to Tanelorn, if I wish, but normally I am hurled from one existence to another without, apparently, rhyme or reason. I usually find that I am made to fulfill my rôle wherever I land up—which is to be a companion to champions, the friend of heroes. That is why I recognized you at once for what you are—the Champion Eternal. I have known him in many forms, but he has not always known me. Perhaps, in my own periods of amnesia, I have not always known him.”

  “And are you never a hero yourself?”

  “I have been heroic, I suppose, as some would see it. Perhaps I have even been a hero of sorts. And, there again, it is sometimes my fate to be one aspect of a particular hero—a part of another man or group of other men who together make up a single great hero. The stuff of our identities is blown by a variety of winds—all of them whimsical—about the multiverse. There is even a theory I have heard that all mortals are aspects of one single cosmic identity and some believe that even the gods are part of that identity, that all the planes of existence, all the ages which come and go, all the manifestations of space which emerge and vanish, are merely ideas in this cosmic mind, different fragments of its personality. Such speculation leads us nowhere and everywhere, but it makes no difference to our understanding of our immediate problems.”