The Queen of Swords

by Michael Moorcock

  It was not these that Corum feared but the sorcery which Lyr-a-Brode might now command.

  The farmer was peering earthwards. “Is it all like this?” he asked grimly.

  “As far as we know. Two forces march on Halwyg—one from the east and one from the south-west. I doubt if the barbarians of Bro-an-Mabden are any more merciful than their comrades.” Corum turned away from the rail.

  “I wonder how Llarak-an-Fol fared,” said Rhalina as she cradled a sleeping child. “And did Beldan stay there or was he able to continue with our men to Halwyg? And what of the duke?”

  “We shall know all this soon, I hope.” Jhary allowed a little dark-haired boy to stroke his cat. The cat bore the assault with gravity.

  Corum moved nervously about the deck, peering ahead to seek Halwyg’s beflowered towers.

  Then, “There they are,” said Jhary softly. “There’s your host from hell.”

  Corum looked down and saw the tide of flesh and steel that swept across the land. Mabden horsemen in their thousands. Mabden charioteers. Mabden infantry. And things which were not Mabden—things summoned by sorcery and recruited from the Realm of Chaos. There was the Army of the Dog—huge, loping beasts the size of horses, more vulpine than canine. There was the Army of the Bear—each massive Bear walking upright and carrying a shield and a club. And there was the Army of Chaos itself—misshapen warriors like those they had met earlier in the yellow abyss, led by a tall horseman in dazzling plate armour which clothed him from head to foot—doubtless the messenger of Queen Xiombarg of whom they had heard.

  And just ahead of the host’s leaders were the walls of Halwyg-nan-Vake, looking from this distance like a huge, complicated floral model.

  Drums sounded from the ranks of the host of hell. Harsh trumpets cried out the Mabden bloodlust. Horrid laughter rose towards the sky ship and howls escaped the throats of the Army of the Dog—mocking howls that anticipated victory.

  Corum spat down on the horde, the stench of Chaos now strong again in his nostrils. His mortal eye changed to burning black with an iris of flaming gold as his anger seized him and he spat a second time upon the flowing vileness below. He made a noise in his throat and his hand went to the hilt of his sword as he remembered all his hatred of the Mabden who had slain his family and maimed him. He saw the banner of King Lyr-a-Brode—a crude, tattered thing bearing the Sign of the Dog and the Sign of the Bear. He sought to find his great enemy, Earl Glandyth-a-Krae, amongst the ranks.

  Rhalina called, “Corum—do not waste your strength now. Calm yourself and save your energy for the fight which must yet come!”

  He sank down upon the seat, his mortal eye slowly fading back to its original colour. He panted like one of the Dogs that marched below and the jewels covering his faceted, alien eye seemed to shift and glitter with a different rage from his own…

  Rhalina shivered when she saw him thus, with hardly any trace of the mortal about him. He was like some possessed demigod of the darkest legends of her people and her love of him turned to terror.

  Corum buried his ruined head in his grafted, six-fingered hand and whimpered until the mood was driven out of him and he could look up and seem sane again. His rage and his fight to vanquish it had exhausted him. Pale and limp he lay back in the seat, one hand on the brass rail of the sky ship as it began to circle down over Halwyg.

  “Not much more than a mile away,” Jhary murmured. “They’ll have surrounded the walls by the morning, if not stopped.”

  “What army of ours could stop them?” Rhalina asked him hopelessly. “Lord Arkyn’s reign is to be short-lived I fear.”

  The drums continued to rattle out their jubilation. The trumpets continued to blare their triumph. The howls of the Army of the Dog, the grunts of the Army of the Bear, the cacklings and shriekings of the Army of Chaos, the ground-shaking thunder of the ponies’ hoofs, the rumble of the iron-bound chariot wheels, the clatter of the war-gear, the creak of harness, the bellowing laughter of the barbarians, all seemed to come closer with each heartbeat as the horde of hell swept inevitably towards the City of the Flowers.

  2

  THE SIEGE BEGINS

  THE SKY SHIP circled lower and lower over the tense and silent city as the sun began to set and the towers echoed the sounds of the satanic horde still marching relentlessly towards it.

  The streets and parks of Halwyg were packed with weary soldiers, camped wherever they could find an open space. Flowers had been trampled underfoot and edible shrubs had been stripped to feed the red-eyed warriors who had been driven back to Halwyg by the barbarian force. They were so tired that only a few looked up when the sky ship passed over their heads on its way to the roof of King Onald’s palace. It landed on deserted battlements but almost immediately guards, in the murex helms and the mother-o’-pearl breastplates, bearing the round shell shields of Lywm-an-Esh, with spears and swords, rushed up to apprehend them, doubtless thinking they were enemies. But when they saw Rhalina and Corum they lowered their weapons in relief. Several of them were wounded from previous encounters with the barbarian host and all looked as if they would be improved by more than a night’s sleep.

  “Prince Corum,” said the leader, “I will tell the king that you are here.”

  “I thank you. In the meantime I hope some of your men will help these people here, whom we saved from Lyr’s men a short time back.”

  “It will be done, though food is scarce.”

  Corum had considered this. “The sky ship here can forage for you, though it must not be endangered. It may find a little food.”

  The steersman took a scroll from inside his jerkin and handed it to Corum. “Here, Prince Corum, are the rare substances our city needs if it is to attempt to crash once again through the Wall Between the Realms.”

  “If Arkyn can be summoned,” Corum told him, “I will give him this list, for he is a god and therefore more knowledgeable about such things than any of us.”

  * * *

  In Onald’s simple room, still covered with maps of his land, they found the grim-faced king.

  “How fares your nation, King Onald?” Jhary-a-Conel asked him as they entered.

  “It is scarcely a nation any longer. We have been forced further and further back until barely all that’s left of us is gathered here in Halwyg.” He pointed at a large map of Lywm-an-Esh and he spoke in a hollow voice. “The County of Arluth-a-Cal—taken by the sea-raiders from Bro-an-Mabden—the County of Pengarde and its ancient capital Enyn-an-Aldarn—burned—it flames all the way to Lake Calenyk by all reports. I have heard that the Duchy of Oryn-nan-Calywn still resists them in its most southern mountains, as does the Duchy of Haun-a-Gwyragh—but Bedwilral-nan-Rywm is completely taken, as is the County of Gal-a-Gorow. Of the Duchy of Palantyrn-an-Kenak, I do not know…”

  “Fallen,” said Corum.

  “Ah—fallen…”

  “They close in now from all quarters it seems,” Jhary said, looking carefully at the map. “They landed along each of your coasts and then systematically began to tighten their circle—the whole horde converging on Halwyg-nan-Vake. I would not have thought barbarians capable of such sophisticated tactics—or of keeping to them even if they thought of them…”

  “You forget Xiombarg’s messenger,” Corum said. “He doubtless helped them make this plan and trained them in its manipulation.”

  “You speak of the creature all in brilliant armour that rides at the head of his deformed army?” King Onald said.

  “Aye. What news have you of him?”

  “None that can help us. He is invulnerable, by all accounts, but, as you say, has much to do with the organizing of the barbarian army. He rides often at King Lyr’s side. His name, I have heard, is Gaynor—Prince Gaynor the Damned…”

  Jhary nodded. “He figures often in such conflicts. He is doomed to serve Chaos through all eternity. So now he is Queen Xiombarg’s lackey, is he? It is a better position than some he has attained to in the past—or the future—whichever it is�
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  King Onald looked oddly at Jhary and then continued. “Even without the aid of Chaos they would outnumber us ten to one. With our better weapons and superior tactics we might have resisted them for years—at least kept them on our coasts—but this Prince Gaynor advises them on every move. And his advice is good.”

  “He has had plenty of experience,” said Jhary, rubbing at his chin.

  “How long can you withstand a siege?” Rhalina asked the king.

  He shrugged and stared miserably out of the window at his crowded city. “I know not. The warriors are all weary, our walls are not particularly high, and Chaos fights on Lyr’s side…”

  “We had best hasten to the temple,” Corum said, “and see if Lord Arkyn can be summoned.”

  * * *

  Through the packed streets they rode, seeing hopeless faces on all sides. Carts cluttered the broad avenues and campfires burned on the lawns. Half the army seemed to bear wounds of one description or another and others were inadequately armed and armoured. It hardly seemed that Halwyg could stand Lyr’s first assault. The siege would not be long, thought Corum as he tried to make faster headway through the throng.

  At last they reached the temple. The grounds of this were packed with sleeping, wounded soldiers and Aleryon-a-Nyvish, the priest, was standing in the entrance to the temple as if he had known they were coming.

  He welcomed them eagerly. “Did you find aid?”

  “Perhaps,” answered Corum. “But we must speak with Lord Arkyn. Can he be summoned?”

  “He awaits you. He came not a few moments since.”

  They strode rapidly into the cool darkness. Mattresses filled it but they were at this time unoccupied. They awaited the wounded and the dying.

  The handsome shape which Lord Arkyn had chosen to assume stepped from the shadows. “How fared you in Xiombarg’s realm?”

  Corum told him what had transpired and Arkyn looked disturbed by what he heard. He stretched out his hand. “Give me the scroll. I will seek the substances needed by the City in the Pyramid. But it will take even me some time to locate them.”

  “And in the meanwhile the fate of two besieged cities is in doubt,” Rhalina said. “Gwlās-cor-Gwrys in Xiombarg’s realm and Halwyg-nan-Vake here. The destiny of one depends upon the other.”

  “Such mirrorings are common enough in the struggle between Law and Chaos,” murmured Jhary.

  “Aye—they are,” agreed Lord Arkyn. “But you must try to hold Halwyg until I return. Even then we cannot be sure that Gwlās-cor-Gwrys will still be standing. Our one advantage is that Queen Xiombarg now concentrates upon two battles—the one in my realm and the one in her own.”

  “Yet her messenger Prince Gaynor the Damned is here and seems to represent her adequately,” Corum pointed out.

  “If Gaynor were destroyed,” Arkyn said, “much of the barbarian advantage would go. They are not natural tacticians and without him there will be some confusion.”

  “But their numbers alone represent a mighty big advantage,” Jhary said. “And then there is the Army of the Dog and the Army of the Bear…”

  “Agreed, Master Jhary. Still, I say, your most important enemy is Gaynor the Damned.”

  “But he is indestructible.”

  “He can be destroyed by one as strong and as fate-heavy as himself.” Arkyn looked significantly at Corum. “But it would take much courage and could mean that both would be destroyed…”

  Corum inclined his head. “I will consider what you have said, Lord Arkyn.”

  “And now I go.”

  The handsome figure vanished and they were left alone in the temple.

  Corum looked at Rhalina and then he looked at Jhary. Neither met his gaze. They both knew what Lord Arkyn had asked of him—of the responsibility which had been put upon his shoulders.

  He frowned, fingering the jeweled patch on his eye, flexing the fingers of the six-fingered alien hand extending from his left wrist.

  “With the Eye of Rhynn and the Hand of Kwll,” he said. “With Shool’s obscene gifts which were grafted to my soul almost as wholly as they were grafted to my body, I will attempt to rid this realm of Prince Gaynor the Damned.”

  3

  PRINCE GAYNOR THE DAMNED

  “HE WAS ONCE a hero,” said Jhary as they stood on the walls that night, peering out at the thousand campfires of the Chaos army surrounding the city, “this Prince Gaynor. He, too, fought on the side of Law. But then he fell in love with something—perhaps it was a woman—and became a renegade, throwing in his lot with Chaos. He was punished—punished, some say, by the power of the Balance. Now he may never serve Law or know the pleasure of Law. Now he must serve Chaos eternally, just as you, eternally, serve Law…”

  “Eternally?” Corum said, disturbed.

  “I’ll speak no more of that,” Jhary said. “But you sometimes know peace. Prince Gaynor only remembers peace and can never, throughout all the ages, expect to find it again.”

  “Not even in death?”

  “He is doomed never to die, for in death there is peace, even if that death lasts only an instant before another rebirth.”

  “Then I cannot slay him?”

  “You can slay him no more than you can slay one of the Great Old Gods. But you can banish him. You must know how to do that, however…”

  “Do you know, Jhary?”

  “I think so.” Jhary lowered his head in concentration as he paced the walls beside Corum. “I remember tales that Gaynor can be defeated only if his visor is opened and his face looked upon by one who serves Law. But his visor can only be opened by a greater force than any mortal wields. Such is the familiar condition of a sorcerous fate. It is all I know.”

  “It is precious little,” Corum said gracelessly.

  “Aye.”

  “It must be tonight. They will expect no attack from us—especially on the first night of their siege. We must go against the Chaos host, strike swiftly and attempt to slay—or banish, whatever it is—Prince Gaynor the Damned. He controls the malformed army and they will be drawn back to their own realm if he is no longer present.”

  “A simple plan,” said Jhary sardonically. “Who rides with us? Beldan is here. I have seen him.”

  “I’ll not risk any of the defenders. They’ll be needed if the plan fails. We’ll ride alone,” Corum said.

  Jhary shrugged and sighed. “You’d best stay here, little friend,” he told his cat.

  * * *

  Through the night they slipped, leading their horses whose hoofs were bound in thick rags to muffle their sound, towards the Camp of Chaos where the Mabden reveled and kept poor guard.

  The smell was sufficient to tell them where Prince Gaynor’s hellish band was camped. The half-men shambled about in strange, ritual dances, resembling the movements of mating beasts rather than those of human folk. The stupid beast faces were slack-mouthed, dull-eyed, and they drank much sour wine to make them forget what once they had been before they had pledged themselves to the corruption that was Chaos.

  Prince Gaynor sat in the middle of this, near the leaping fire, all encased from head to foot in his flashing armour. It was sometimes silver, sometimes gold, sometimes bluish steel. A dark yellow plume nodded on the helm and on the breastplate was engraved the Arms of Chaos—eight arrows radiating from a central hub, representing, according to Chaos, all the rich possibilities inherent in its philosophy. Prince Gaynor did not carouse. He did not eat and he did not drink. He merely stared at his warriors, his metal-gloved hands upon the pommel of his big sword which was also sometimes silver, sometimes gold, sometimes bluish steel. He was all of a piece, Prince Gaynor the Damned.

  They had to skirt several snoring barbarian guards before they could creep into Gaynor’s camp, which was set some distance from the rest of the camp, just as the Army of the Dog and the Army of the Bear were camped the other side. Some of Lyr’s men staggered past them, but, because Corum and Jhary were swathed in cowled cloaks, hardly gave them a second glan
ce. None suspected that the warriors of Lywm-an-Esh would come in couples to their camp.

  When they reached the edge of the firelight and were close to the leaping throng of beast-men, they mounted their horses and waited for a long moment while they regarded the mysterious figure of Prince Gaynor the Damned.

  He had not moved once since they had first observed him. Seated on an ornate, high saddle of ebony and ivory, his hands on the pommel of his great broadsword, he continued to stare without interest at the caperings of his obscene followers.

  Then they rode into the circle of fiery light and Prince Corum Jhaelen Irsei, Servant of Law, faced Prince Gaynor the Damned, Servant of Chaos.

  Corum wore all his Vadhagh gear—his delicate silver mail, his conical helm, his scarlet robe. His tall spear was in his right hand and his great round war-board was upon his left arm.

  Prince Gaynor rose from where he was seated and lifted an arm to stop the revels. The legion of hell turned to regard Corum and they began to snarl and gibber when they recognized him.

  “Be silent!” Prince Gaynor the Damned commanded, stepping forward in his flickering armour and sheathing his sword. “Saddle my charger, one of you, for I think Prince Corum and his friend come to do battle with me.” His voice was vibrant and, on the surface, amused. But there was a bleak quality underlying it, a tragic sadness.

  “Will you fight me alone, Prince Gaynor?” Corum asked.

  The Prince of Chaos laughed. “Why should I? It is long since I subscribed to your ideas of chivalry, Prince Corum. And I have a pledge to my mistress, Queen Xiombarg, that I must use any means to destroy you. I have never known her to hate—but she hates you, Sir Vadhagh. How she hates you!”

  “It could be because she fears me,” Corum suggested.

  “Aye. It could be.”

  “Then you will set your whole host upon us?”

  “Why should I not? If you are foolish enough to enter my power…”

  “You have no pride?”