Kyrik and the Lost Queen

by Gardner F Fox

  It smelled of necromancy. Then he heard the laughter. Girlish, sweet laughter. And now Kyrik drew his sword. There was magic here, and he was not at all certain that cold steel, no matter how hard, would be of any use against it.

  He moved toward the sound of that elfin voice: “Yes, Kyrik. Come to me!"" It seemed he knew that voice. From long ago, and from more recently. It was not the voice of Myrnis, nor of Adorla Mathandis. Yet he knew it.

  He walked carefully between the buildings, alert to the slightest sound or sight of danger. He had drawn Bluefang, its blade glittered in the moonlight. Overhead the sky was black, spotted only here and there with a distant star. Suddenly, as he walked, the two moons swung above him and shed their reflected light downward into the , narrow street where he walked.

  Ahead was the black opening into a low building. His eyes studied that entryway, and then the cold white stones of the building itself. There was something strange-alien about that structure. It was as if its builders had adhered to no known laws of nature.

  And yet he knew that the summons had come from there.

  Warily he advanced, his right hand tight about the hilt of Bluefang. From time to time he paused as he crossed that open square, to listen. There was no sound in this dead city except for the moaning wind as it came across the barrens to whisper between the tumbled building blocks.

  He moved into the darkness of that doorway and stepped forward. Once inside the structure, he could see moonlight entering between spaces in the damaged roof. That moonlight showed him marble walls in which niches were set, and in those niches were statues of an unearthly beauty.

  Kyrik froze. He knew those statues Or rather, he knew the woman those statues represented. And suddenly, his heart began to pound.

  “Illis,” he whispered. Illis was a demon-goddess to whose love Kyrik had dedicated his life, long ago. From time to time she came to him in human guise, and when he needed her help, she was often there, in one form or another. By her help he had overthrown Devadonides and Jokaline his sorcerer, she had taken over the body of Myrnis when he had brought the bells of Salmalinda to recreate the forgotten city of Surrillione. By her help, he had been able to destroy that accursed city.

  He walked forward toward the remnants of an altar, where shattered bits of marble lay tossed upon the paving-stones, where once a statue of Illis herself had stood. There was no statue now, only debris and spiderwebs caught his eye as he advanced.

  Moonlight touched his sword blade, made it glow whitely.

  In that moonlight, he seemed to see a woman. A naked woman with languorous limbs and high breasts, a woman whose eyes gleamed with love, whose long golden hair drifted about as though blown by a breeze.

  "Kyrik of the Victories. Once again we join forces."

  Her voice was a mere whisper of sound, so faint that he could scarcely hear it. Yet her words were imprinted on his mind. He moved toward her but she withdrew, laughing softly, as though walking on silken-soft feet.

  Away from that shattered altar she led him, toward a corner of the building wall where a niche stood, and in that niche a marble representation of the goddess. Wavering and unsubstantial, as though she were formed of drifting smoke, Illis stood pointing.

  "Destroy that statue, Kyrik." He scowled dubiously, but she stamped her foot, though he heard no sound. “Do as I say, lover."

  His hands went out, caught that statue, shattered it on the paving-stones. Something rolled free, something colorless, yet—glittering as though with hoarfrost on a winter night.

  It was a crystal ball. Kyrik knew it was more than this, even as he reached for it. He took it in his hand, felt it warm —like living flesh—to his fingers. In the heart of that round ball was a face, the face of Illis of the Soft Breasts.

  That tiny image laughed happily. As if from far away he heard that laughter, faint and impish.

  "We meet again, my darling," that voice whispered.

  "Little good you'll do me, wrapped in this stuff."

  Her eyes softened. “Would you have me flesh and blood? To throw upon cold stones and take as you might a newly-bought slave-girl? Na, na, Kyrik. I love my comforts too much to wander about with you as once I did inside Myrnis."

  "Myrnis is a prisoner in Alkinoor.” The ethereal voice hooted with scorn. “A prisoner, the man says. She is its queen."

  "Not willingly."

  "Well, no. I suppose the little fool would rather be with you."

  There was tartness in that voice, and jealousy. Kyrik grinned. "Little fool or not, you're going to help me get her."

  The gray eyes laughed at him. "I ought not. I ought to let her die." The voice began to wheedle. "I could give you Adorla Mathandis in her place."

  "That cold wench The laughter rang out again. "She is not co—cold, Kyrik. Not—to you, at least."

  He snorted, and the tiny face inside the ball grimaced at him. Her voice went on, “Wed her and be king in Alkinoor, with my help.

  "I am king of Tantagol. Almorak and Aryalla rule there in my name."

  “While you wander the earth seeking only for excitement. Is that your goal in life, Kyrik?"

  He grinned, showing his big teeth. "And to worship you while I do."

  The gray eyes softened. "There is that, I suppose. Still, it seems to me that you might aspire to something better than a gypsy girl."

  "Are you going to keep this up? Because if you are, I'll just tuck you into my wallet."

  Elfin laughter hooted at him. "You're going to have to do that anyhow, because you can't walk around with this ball in your hand and fight. And you're going to have to fight, Kyrik."

  He grunted. “All right. What's to do, then?"

  "There is a place in these barren lands, accursed and nearly forgotten. A place of evil. You will go there."

  "Oh? And what about Adorla Mathandis?"

  "Do you always think of women?"

  "I feel I owe it to the girl. After all, she is—or was —a queen. She isn't able to care for herself the way some street women could."

  The gray eyes grew sly. "And when you steal Myrnis, you'll have to have Adorla to put in her place, won't you?"

  "Something like that, yes."

  "Well, then, stop talking and be on your way." The crystal ball went blank. No longer could he see that lovely face imprisoned, in its thickness. With a sigh, he slid the ball into his pouch and moved out of the ancient temple into the moon-drenched streets.

  He walked until he came to the crumbled stones to the south of the dead city, when tiredness came upon him. He found a building block, settled his back to it, and slept.

  Next morning he found another hare, killed and ate it, and drank long of the cold, sweet water in the marble basin. He drank his fill, slowly and carefully. He rubbed his mouth with his thick arm and stared southward at the empty land.

  He would have to cross that emptiness before he could hope to find Adorla. The sun beat down, touched his bronzed skin where the mail and his kilt did not protect it. Kyrik shrugged. The sooner at his task, the sooner it would be over.

  He began his walk. All—day he walked, with the sun beating pitilessly upon him. Once he found a little stream of water and lay there to drink, but he saw no food, and he understood grimly that there might be no food in this wasteland at all.

  When night tinted the world around him with its darkness, he lay down and slept. Hunger was alive in his middle, but he had been hungry before. When he found food, he would eat, and not before. Toward noon of the next day, he came to the broadly flowing river Thrumm. His belly tightened at the sight of that water, and he almost ran to its bank, where he lay and peered down into its crystal depths.

  He caught three fish and ate them, and lying in the shade of a pillar this tree which grew close to the river, he reached into his pouch and drew out the crystal ball.

  “Well? Where is she? Where can I find Adorla?" The crystal lost its cloudiness and the face of Illis peered out at him, frowning.

  “Have you no fait
h in me? I've guided your steps here, haven't I? The pirate lair is only a few miles away, downstream. You can reach it tomorrow."

  "Stay and talk with me," he urged. The gray eyes laughed at him. "Once you would 1have asked me to assume my mortal form so you

  could make love to me."

  "That, too, of course," he nodded. "Save your strength, you'll have need of it." With that, the face was gone. Kyrik scowled and shoved the crystal ball back into his pouch. Women! Aye, and goddesses, too. They were all alike. He growled in his throat and rolled over to sleep.

  For three hours he walked next morning before he saw the grim walls of the tiny citadel that was the pirates' stronghold. Kyrik stood on the edge of an embankment and studied the quays that ran out into the river, the high walls and parapets.

  Somewhere in that mass of stone was Adorla Mathandis.

  The problem was, how was he going to get in? And once he got inside those brooding walls, how was he going to get the girl out? His hand fell to the hilt of Bluefang. He lifted the sword, then dropped it back into its scabbard.

  He walked all around that citadel, searching for some spot over which he might clamber once night came to hide him. His experienced eyes went here and there, but he saw no opening other than for the gate which faced the river. He could scarcely walk in there.

  Not until the two moons were in the night sky did he move, and then he came down out of the low hills like an animal seeking its prey. He walked swiftly, he ran at times, until he was right beneath the wall.

  If worst came to worst, he would pretend to be a wandering man-at-arms seeking employment.

  "Fool!” a gentle voice whispered. His hand clawed at his pouch, brought out the crystal ball. It glowed faintly, and in that glow he could make out Illis” elfin features. In a soft voice, he asked, “The wall's too high to climb without being seen. I can scarcely force my way in through that gate."

  "There is the water," the voice replied. Kyrik turned his eyes from the ball to the gently lapping waters of the river. It looked cold and forbidding in the light of the twin moons.

  “Would you have me drown?" he growled. "There is a way in through that water. An old way, long forgotten by men—but not by me. Olyxus and his men do not know of it. Slide into the water. I shall guide you."

  He replaced the ball in his pouch and moved through the moon-cast shadows to the water's edge. He paused only a moment, then dove. The water closed around him, hid him.

  His eyes were open, but it was too dark to see. Yet he swam for the cold, slimy stonework of the quay, and eased his way along it until he was sheltered by an overhang of rock. He surfaced then, and drew in deep breaths of the night air.

  Swim, Kyrik of the Victories! He did what that inner voice required, and then he saw a darker opening before him. Into that he went and it was like being wrapped in cold wet velvet. His eyes were open, but were blind as those of any mole. Yet always, he swam on.

  In time he came to round metal. His fingers felt that metallic rim, made out the mouth of a forgotten tunnel, half filled with water. Kyrik moved into that opening, crawled along the damp metal until he came at last to a pipe that rose upward.

  His questing fingers found a rusted metal ladder. Testing it for strength, he worked his way up that ladder, listening to it groan protestingly under his weight. Yet it held, it accepted him and firmed slightly when he was away from the river water that had come into the pipe below it.

  Upward he went, until an opening yawned before him. That opening held a warmth to it that felt good to his chilled flesh. He clambered into the opening and discovered, after feeling about with his fingers, that he was on a tiny landing, and that the wall before him had been bricked over at one time. Warmth came from between those bricks, where the clay had loosened and fallen. Kyrik lifted his dagger into his hand and began to pick at that ancient clay.

  Slowly he loosed it, slowly he drew the chunks out from between the bricks and placed them on the stone landing where he knelt. When he had loosened enough clay, it was a simple matter to reach out to a brick and draw it forth from where it rested.

  He put his eyes to the opening he had made and peered through.

  Chapter FOUR

  He could see very little, just the suggestion of a hall, and that only by a very faint light that flickered from time to time as though it were blown about by a breeze. He listened, but he heard no sound.

  Once again he went to work on that old clay and the bricks, until he had hollowed out a section of wall large enough for him to slide through. Then he stood in the dark hall and let his eyes slide up and down it.

  Far off, a torch waved its flame in the faint breeze. Other than that, he saw nothing in that long corridor. He turned his eyes to the hole he had made.

  Yes, he saw it now, where ages ago someone had walled up that opening to the metal tube. He wondered why there had been an opening in the first place? Had some monarch used this stronghold as a summer palace, and kept this opening to fling out the bodies of men of women for whom he had no further use? It might well be.

  On his war-boots he went silently down that corridor, moving toward that cresset where the flame burned. There was an intersecting corridor there, which was also empty.

  “Where now?" he wondered in a whisper.

  Straight ahead, my lover. Kyrik chuckled. Trust Illis to be with him in spirit, at least. He did not wonder how she was able to guide him. She was a goddess, she could do such things from her lair in some other world. All she needed was an object to make contact with, like that crystal ball. Or as she had once used Myrnis.

  He went swiftly, but quietly. When he came to an open door out of which bright light was flowing, he paused to stare inside it. He looked into a room, the floor of which was covered over with rare and costly carpets, while the walls were shrouded in gaily tinted strips of silk.

  Silver chains dangled from the ceiling, which was also draped in silk, colored with all the shades of the rainbow. It was a sybaritic room, arranged to please the fancy of a sensualist. From those chains, a naked woman hung so that her toes could barely reach the carpeted floor.

  The woman was Adorla Mathandis. The breath caught in his throat as he stared at her loveliness. Oh, he knew that body: it was the twin of that of Myrnis, the Romanoy gypsy girl. Yet there was a difference.

  Where Myrnis was slim and brown, Adorla Mathandis was somewhat more plumply curved, and her skin was the color of mare's milk. Her breasts were slightly heavier, her nipples even larger. There was an added roundness to her hips and her buttocks were somewhat fuller. Her legs were just as shapely, though a trifle more full.

  She hung in those silver chains, head lowered, eyes closed. Traces of dried tears could be seen on her cheeks.

  Kyrik growled in his throat and moved into the room. Not until he was closer did he see the platters of food that had been placed close to her, just out of her reach. He also saw that the key to the silver manacles that held her lay on the silken floor.

  He came into that room like a hunting leopard, quiet but dangerous. He caught up that key, slid it into the manacle lock. As he did so, the faint grate of metal on metal made the girl open her eyes.

  “Kyrik," she breathed. There was welcome in those brown eyes, in the faint smile that twisted her soft red mouth. She whispered, "I thought you—dead."

  He unlocked one manacle, then caught her as she sagged weakly. "Don't talk," he told her. "I'll

  have you out of those things in a moment."

  He undid the other manacle and now he held the all but fainting Adorla tight to his body. She whispered, "I starve, Kyrik. I have not eaten since—they took me."

  Gently he lowered her to the silken floor. "Then we'll eat, the two of us." There were joints of beef, hot and smoking, and

  whole hams, surrounded by platters heaped high

  with vegetables, with fruits, with leafy salads. There were also loaves of bread, still warm from the ovens.

  They sat on the silk-shrouded floor an
d ate, Kyrik passing over his dagger to the girl so she could slice the meats she wanted. He was not so . dainty, his big hands went out and lifted up a haunch of venison and he sank his strong teeth into that dripping meat.

  She whispered after she had swallowed a few mouthfuls, “They change the food every so often, so that the aroma will torture me. Olyxus is a demon. In a little while—I would have given in to him.”

  She flushed when she saw his upraised eyebrows. Her chin tilted proudly.

  "He—wanted me. Oh, he could have taken me. Raped me, I mean. But he wanted more than that. He wanted me to come to him filled with lust. He hoped to break my spirit with the food."

  She sighed. "I suppose if I did not yield in the end, he would have raped and then killed me. Or maybe he would have sold me to some merchant, down in Tizone or in Uthapor.”

  “Well, you're safe enough now." She shook her head at him. "No. Neither of us is safe. Olyxus is the law, here in this pirate stronghold. Me he will rape and you—"

  Tears welled into her eyes. "You he will torture to death, Kyrik. He has two hundred men here in this stronghold. Even you cannot kill that many."

  Kyrik was a warrior, and a king in Tantagol, but behind him were countless generations of barbarians, used to danger in all its forms. He had long ago learned not to fret about that which had not yet happened. He merely put his hand on his sword-hilt and grunted.

  They ate until the food was gone. Kyrik stood, then, and put a hand to the girl. “We'll go now. I know a secret way."

  Adorla looked down at herself and flushed faintly, seeing her nakedness. She had forgotten in her pain and in the hunger which racked her body that she was unclad. Now she turned and ran to a far corner of the room and bent to tear the silks which formed a decoration there.

  She took long strips of silk and used it to fashion a garment of sorts from it. Kyrik thought that the silk was worse, almost, than sheer nakedness, for its thin stuff hinted at her flesh tints, revealed even as it hid.