The Queen of Swords (5 page)

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!”

“I was told that now Lord Arkyn has returned he will attempt to regain all the power he once had over the world. But he needs mortals as his agents and of these agents Corum is the most important—but it is certain that most of the folk of Lywm-an-Esh will serve Arkyn, too, for they learned the ways of the—the Shefanhow—long since…”

“So all our suspicions were correct,” King Lyr said in quiet triumph. “We do well to ready for war against Lywm-an-Esh. We fight against that soft degeneration misnamed as Law!”

“And you would agree that it is my duty to destroy this Corum?” Glandyth asked.

The king frowned. Then he raised his head and looked directly at Glandyth. “Aye.” He waved his hand. “Now take that stinking Shefanhow from this hall. It is time to summon the Dog and the Bear!”

* * *

High on the central roof beam the little cat felt its fur stiffen. It was inclined to leave the hall there and then, but made itself stay. It was loyal to its master and Jhary-a-Conel had told it to witness all that passed during Lyr’s gathering.

Now the warriors had packed themselves around the walls. The women had been dismissed. Lyr himself left his throne and the whole centre of the hall was now barren of men.

A silence fell.

Lyr clapped his hands from where he stood, still surrounded by his Grim Guard.

The doors of the hall opened and prisoners were brought in. There were young children and women and some men of the peasant class. All were comely and all were terrified. They were wheeled into the hall in a great wicker cage and some of the children were wailing. The imprisoned adults made no attempt to comfort the children any longer, but clutched at the wicker bars and stared hopelessly out into the hall.

“Aha!” King Lyr cried. “Here is the food of the Dog and the Bear. Tender food! Tasty food!” He relished their misery. He stepped forward and the Grim Guard stepped forward too. He licked his lips as he inspected the prisoners. “Let the food be cooked,” he commanded, “so that the smell will reach into Yffarn and whet the appetites of the gods and draw them to us.”

One of the women began to scream and some of them fainted. Two of the young men bowed their heads and wept and the children looked out of their cage uncomprehendingly, merely frightened by the fact of their imprisonment, not of the fate which was to come.

Ropes were passed through loops at the top of the cage and men hauled on the ropes so that the entire contraption was raised towards the roof beams.

The little cat shifted its position, but continued to observe.

A huge brazier was wheeled in next and placed directly below the cage. The cage rocked and swayed as the prisoners struggled. The eyes of the watching warriors glowed in anticipation. The brazier was full of white-hot coals and now servants came with jars of oil and flung it upon the coals so that flames suddenly roared high into the air and licked around the wicker cage. A horrid ululation came from the cage then—a dreadful, incoherent noise which filled the hall.

And King Lyr-a-Brode began to laugh.

Glandyth-a-Krae began to laugh.

The earls and the counts and the dukes and the captains of his Court all began to laugh.

And soon the screams subsided and were replaced by the crackling of the fire, the smell of roasting human flesh.

Then the laughter died and silence came again to the hall as the warriors waited tensely to see what would happen next.

Somewhere beyond the walls of Castle Kalenwyr—somewhere out beyond the town—beyond the darkness of the night—there came a howling.

The little cat drew itself further back along the beam, close to the opening which led into the passage beyond the hall.

The howling grew louder and the flames of the great brazier seemed to be chilled by it and went out.

Now there was pitch darkness in the hall.

The howling echoed everywhere, rising and falling, sometimes seeming to die and then rising to an even louder pitch.

And then it was joined by a peculiar roaring sound.

These were the sounds of the Dog and the Bear—the dark and dreadful gods of the Mabden.

* * *

The hall shuddered. A peculiar light began to manifest itself over the vacant throne.

And then, wreathed in radiance of unpleasant and unnameable colours, a being stood on the granite dais and it turned its muzzle this way and that, sniffing for the feast. It was huge and it stank and it stood upon its hind legs like a parody of those who, quaking, observed it.

The Dog sniffed again. Noises came from its throat. It shook its hairy head.

Still from somewhere came the other sound—the sound of grunting and roaring. This now grew louder and louder and, hearing it, the Dog cocked its head on one side and paused in its sniffing.

A dark blue light appeared on the dais on the opposite side of the throne. It took a form and the Bear stood there—a great, black bear with long, black horns curling from its head. It opened its snout and grimaced, displaying its pointed fangs. It reached out towards the charred wicker cage and it ripped it down from where it hung.

The Dog and the Bear fell upon the contents of the cage, stuffing the roasted human flesh into their mouths, growling and snuffling and choking, crunching the bones with the bloody juices running down their snouts.

And then they were finished and they lounged on the dais and glared around them at the silent, fearful mortals.

Primitive gods for a primitive people.

For the first time King Lyr-a-Brode left his circle of guards and walked towards the throne. He lowered himself to his knees and raised his arms in supplication to the Dog and the Bear.

“Great lords, hear us!” he moaned. “We have learned that Lord Arag has been slain by our enemy the Shefanhow who is in league with our enemies of Lywm-an-Esh, the Sinking Land. Our cause is threatened and thus is your own rule in danger. Will you aid us, lords?”

The Dog growled. The Bear snuffled.

“Will you aid us, lords?”

The Dog cast its fierce eyes about the hall and it seemed that the same feral glint was in every other eye there. It was pleased. It spoke.

“We know of the danger. It is greater than you think.” The voice was clipped, harsh and it did not come easily to the canine throat. “You will have to marshal your strength quickly and march swiftly upon our enemies if those we serve are to retain their power and make you, in turn, stronger.”

“Our captains are already gathered, my lord the Dog, and their armies come to join them at Kalenwyr.”

“That is good. Then we shall send you the aid we can send.” The Dog turned its huge head and regarded its brother the Bear.

The Bear’s voice was high-pitched but easier to understand.

“Our enemies will also seek aid, but they will have greater difficulty in finding it, for Arkyn of Law is still weak. Arioch—whom you call Arag—must be brought back to his rightful place to rule these planes again. But if he is to do this a new heart must be found for him and a new fleshly form. There is only one heart and one form which will serve—the heart and form of his banisher, Corum in the Scarlet Robe. Complicated sorcery will be required to prepare Corum once he is captured—but captured he must be.”

“Not slain?”

It was Glandyth’s disappointed tones.

“Why spare him?” said the Bear.

And even Glandyth shuddered.

“We leave now,” said the Dog. “Our aid will arrive soon. It will be led by one who is a messenger to the Great Gods themselves—to the Sword Ruler of the next plane, Queen Xiombarg. He will tell you more than can we.”

And then the Dog and the Bear were gone and the stink of the cooked human flesh hung in the black hall and King Lyr’s quaking voice called through the darkness. “Bring brands! Bring brands!”

The doors were opened and a dim, reddish light fell down the middle of the hall. It showed the dais, the throne, the torn wicker cage, the extinguished brazier, and the kneeling, shuddering king.

Lyr-a-Brode’s eyes rolled as he was helped to his feet by two of his Grim Guards. He did not seem to relish the responsibility which his gods had implied was his. He looked almost pleadingly at Glandyth.

And Glandyth was grinning and Glandyth was panting like a dog about to feast on fresh-caught prey.

* * *

The little cat crept down the beam, along the passage, up the stairs to the tower. And it went away on weary wings, back to Castle Moidel.

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