Michael Moorcock - Corum 2 - The Queen of the Swords

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The Queen of the Swords
by Michael Moorcock
The Second Book of Corum
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE
Chapter One What the Sea God Discarded
Chapter Two The Gathering at Kalenwyr
Chapter Three Lywm-an-Esh
Chapter Four The Wall Between the Realms
BOOK TWO
Chapter One The Lake of Voices
Chapter Two The White River
Chapter Three Beasts of the Abyss
Chapter Four The Chariots of Chaos
Chapter Five The Frozen Army
Chapter Six The City in the Pyramid
BOOK THREE
Chapter One The Horde from Hell
Chapter Two The Siege Begins
Chapter Three Prince Gaynor the Damned
Chapter Four The Barbarian Attack
Chapter Five The Fury of Queen Xiombarg
BOOK ONE
In which Prince Corum meets a poet, hears a portent and plans a journey
CHAPTER ONE
What the Sea God Discarded
Now the skies of summer were pale blue over the deeper blue of the sea; over the
golden green of the mainland forest; over the grassy rocks of Moidel's Mount and
the white stones of the castle raised on its peak. And the last of the Vadhagh
race, Prince Corum in the Scarlet Robe, was deep in love with the Mabden woman,
Margravine Rhalina of Allomglyl.
Corum Jhaelen Irsei, whose right eye was covered by a patch encrusted with
dark jewels so that it resembled the orb of an insect, whose left eye (the
natural one) was large and almond-shaped with a yellow centre and purple
surround, was unmistakably Vadhagh. His skull was narrow and long and tapering
at the chin and his ears were tapered, too. They had no lobes and were flat
against the skull. The hair was fair and finer than the finest Mabden maiden's,
his mouth was wide, full-lipped, and his skin was rose-pink and flecked with
gold. He would have been handsome save for the baroque blemish that was now his
right eye and for the somewhat grim twist to his lips. Then, too, there was the
alien hand which strayed often to his sword-hilt, visible when he pushed back
his scarlet robe.
This left hand bore six fingers on it and seemed encased in a jewelled
gauntlet (not so - the 'jewels' were the hand's skin). It was a sinister thing
and it had crushed the heart of the Knight of the Swords himself - my lord
Arioch of Chaos - and allowed Arkyn, Lord of Law, to return.
Corum certainly seemed a being bent on vengeance and he was, indeed, pledged
to avenge his murdered family by slaying Earl Glandyth-a-Krae, servant of King
Lyr-a-Brode of Kalenwyr, who ruled the South and the East of the continent once
ruled by the Vadhagh. And he was also pledged to the Cause of Law against the
Cause of Chaos (whose servant Lyr and his subjects were). This knowledge made
him sober and manly, but it also made his soul heavy. He was also unsettled by
the thought of the power grafted to his flesh - the Power of the Hand and the
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Eye.
The Margravine Rhalina was womanly and beautiful and her gentle face was
framed by thick, black tresses. She had huge dark eyes and red, loving lips.
She, too, was nervous of the sorcerous gifts of the dead wizard Shool, but she
tried not to brood upon them, just as earlier she had refused to brood upon the
loss of her husband, the Margrave, when he had been drowned in a shipwreck while
on his way to Lywrn-an-Esh, the land he served and which was gradually being
covered by the sea.
She found more to laugh at than did Corum and she was his comfort, for once
he had been innocent and had laughed a great deal, and he remembered this
innocence with longing. But the longing brought other memories - of his family
lying dead, mutilated, dishonoured on the sward outside Castle Erorn as it
burned and Glandyth brandished his weapons which were clothed in Vadhagh blood.
Such violent images were stronger than the images of his earlier, peaceful life.
They forever inhabited his skull, sometimes filling it, sometimes lurking in the
darker corners and merely threatening to fill it. And when his revenge-lust
seemed to wane, they would always bring it back to fullness. Fire, flesh and
fear; the barbaric chariots of the Denledhyssi - brass, iron and crude gold.
Short, shaggy horses and burly, bearded warriors in borrowed Vadhagh armour -
opening their red mouths and bellowing their insensate triumph, while the old
stones of Castle Erorn cracked and tumbled in the yelling blaze and Corum
discovered what hate and terror were. . .
Glandyth's brutal face 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
lupins 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 forever! 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
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loved them.'
She kneeled 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 hooves 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
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the giant's strides as he waded on. Somehow he seemed a doomed figure to Corum -
a creature destined to drag his nets forever 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 horses 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 the 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
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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 traveller 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 traveller. 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 traveller 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 traveller?'
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
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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 traveller 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. She 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 Boatman sail the skies as your ships sail the sea - with
Elric of Melnibone 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 jewelled 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 fulfil my role 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
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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 in 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.'
'I'd agree with that,' Corum told him feelingly. 'And now, will you explain
in more detail how you came to Moidel?'
'I will explain what I can, friend Corum. It happened that I found myself at
a grim place called Kalenwyr. How I came there I do not quite remember, but then
I am used to that. This Kalenwyr - all granite and gloom - was not to my taste.
I was there but a few hours before I came under suspicion of the inhabitants
and, by means of a certain amount of climbing about on roofs, the theft of a
chariot, the purloining of a boat on a near-by river, escaped them and reached
the sea. Feeling it unsafe to land, I sailed along the coast. A mist closed in,
the sea acted as if a storm had blown up and suddenly my boat and myself were
mixed up with a motley mixture of fish, snapping monsters, men and creatures I
would be hard put to describe. I managed to cling to the strands of the gigantic
net which had trapped me and the rest as we were dragged along at great speed.
How I found breath sometimes I do not remember. Then, at last, the net was
upended and we were all released. My companions went their different ways and I
was left alone in the water. I saw this island and your castle and I found a
piece of driftwood which aided me to swim here. . .'
'Kalenwyr!' Baldan said. 'In Kalenwyr did you hear of a man called
Glandyth-a-Krae?'
Jhary frowned. 'An Earl Glandyth was mentioned in a
tavern, I think - with some admiration. A mighty warrior, I gathered. The whole
city seemed preparing for war, but I did not understand the issues or what they
considered their enemies. I think they spoke of the land of Lywm-an-Esh with a
certain amount of loathing. And they were expecting allies from across the sea.'
'Allies? From the Nhadragh Isles, perhaps?' Corum asked him.
'No. I think they spoke of Bro-an-Mabden.'
'The continent in the west!' Rhalina gasped. 'I did not know many Mabden
still inhabited it. But what moves them to plan war against Lywm-an-Esh?'
'Perhaps the same spirit which led them to destroy my race,' Corum suggested.
'Envy - and a hatred of peace. Your people, you told me, adopted many Vadhagh
customs. That would be enough to win them the enmity of Glandyth and his kind.'
'It is true,' Rhalina said. 'Then this means that we are not the only ones
who are in danger. Lywm-an-Esh has not fought a war for a hundred years or more.
She will be unprepared for this invasion.'
A servant brought in Jhary's clothes. They were clean and dry. Jhary thanked
him and began to don them, as unselfconsciously as he had taken them off. His
shirt was of bright blue silk, his flared panteloons were as bright a scarlet as
Corum's robe. He tied a big yellow sash about his waist, and over this buckled a
sword from which hung a scabbarded sabre and a long poignard. He pulled on soft
boots which reached the knee and tied a scarf about his throat. His dark blue
cloak he placed on the bench beside him, together with his hat (which he
carefully creased to suit his taste) and his bundle. He seemed satisfied. 'You
had best tell me all you think I need to know,' he suggested. 'Then I may be
able to help you. I have gathered a great deal of information in my travels -
most of it useless. . .'
Corum told him of the Sword Rulers and the Fifteen Planes, of the struggle
between Law and Chaos and the attempts to bring equilibrium to the Cosmic
Balance. Jhary-a-Conel listened to all of this and seemed familiar with many of
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the things of which Corum spoke.
When Corum had finished, Jhary said: 'It is plain that attempts to contact
Lord Arkyn for help would, at this moment, be unsuccessful. Arioch's logic still
prevails on these five planes and must be completely demolished before Arkyn and
Law can know real power. It is ever the lot of mortals to symbolize these
struggles between the gods and doubtless this war which seems likely between
King Lyr-a-Brode and Lywm-an-Esh will mirror the war between Law and Chaos on
other planes. If those who serve Chaos win - if King Lyr-a-Brode's army wins, in
fact - then Lord Arkyn may yet again lose his power and Chaos will triumph.
Arioch is not the most powerful of the Sword Rulers - Xiombarg has greater power
on the planes she rules and Mabelode has even more power than Xiombarg. I would
say that you have hardly experienced the real manifestations of Chaos's rule
here.'
'You do not comfort me,' said Corum.
'It is perhaps better, however, to understand these things,' Rhalina said.
'Can the other Sword Rulers send aid to King Lyr?' Corum asked.
'Not directly. But there are ways of manipulating these things through
messengers and agents. Would you know more of Lyr's plans?'
'Of course,' Corum told him. 'But that is impossible.'
Jhary smiled. 'I think you will discover that it is useful to have a
companion to champions as experienced as myself in your employ.' And he stopped
and reached into his bag.
He brought something out of the sack which, to their astonishment, was alive.
It seemed unruffled by the fact that it had spent a day at least inside the
sack. It opened its large, calm eyes and it purred.
It was a cat. Or, at least, it was a kind of cat, for this cat had resting on
its back a pair of beautiful black wings tipped with white. Its other markings
were black and white, like those of an ordinary cat, with white paws and a white
muzzle and a white front. It seemed friendly and self-possessed. Jhary offered
it food from the table and the cat ruffled its wings and began to cat hungrily.
Rhalina sent a servant for milk and when the little animal had finished
drinking it sat beside Jhary on the bench and began to clean itself, first its
face, paws and body and then its wings.
'I have never seen such an animal!' Beldan muttered.
'And I have never seen another like it in all my travels,' Jhary agreed. 'It
is a friendly creature and has often aided me. Sometimes our ways part and I do
not see it for an age or two, but we are often together and he always remembers
me. I call him Whiskers. Not an original name, I fear, but he seems to like it
well enough. I think he will help us now.'
'How can he help us?' Corum stared at the winged cat.
'Why, my friends, he can fly to Lyr's Court and witness what takes place
there. Then he can return with his news to us!'
'He can speak?'
'Only to me - and even that is not speaking as such. Would you have me send
him there?'
Corum was completely taken aback. He was forced to smile. 'Why not?'
'Then Whiskers and I will go up to your battlements, with your permission,
and I will instruct him what to do.'
In silence the three watched Jhary adjust his hat on his head, pick up his
cat, bow to them and mount the stairs that would take him to the battlements.
'I feel as if I dream,' said Beldan when Jhary had disappeared.
'You do,' said Corum. 'A fresh dream is just beginning. Let us hope we
survive it.
CHAPTER TWO
The Gathering at Kalenwyr
The little winged cat flew swiftly Eastward through the night and came at last
to gloomy Kalenwyr.
The smoke of a thousand guttering brands rose up from Kalenwyr and seemed to
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smear out the light of the moon. Square blocks of dark granite made up the
houses and the castles and nowhere was there a curve or a soft line. Dominating
the rest of the city was the brooding pile of King Lyr-a-Brode and around its
black battlements flickered oddly coloured lights and there was a rumbling like
thunder, though no clouds filled the night sky.
Towards this pile now flew the little cat, alighting on a tower of harsh
angles and folding its wings. It turned its large, yellow eyes this way and
that, as if deciding which way it would enter the castle.
The cat's fur prickled, the long whiskers for which it had been named
twitched, the tail went stiff. The cat had become aware not only of sorcery and
the presence of supernatural creatures in the castle, but of a particular
creature which it hated more than all the rest. Its progress down the side of
the tower became even more cautious. It reached a slotted window and squeezed
in. It was in a darkened, circular room. An open door revealed steps winding
down the inside of the tower. Tensely the cat made its way down the steps. There
were plenty of shadows in which to hide, for Castle Kalenwyr was a shadowy
place.
At last the cat saw brand-light burning ahead and it paused, looking warily
around the door frame. The brands illuminated a long, narrow passage and at the
end of the passage were the sounds of many voices, the clatter of arms and of
wine-cups. The cat spread its wings and flew into the shadows of the roof,
finding a long, blackened beam down which it could walk. The beam passed through
the wall with a little room to spare and the cat squeezed through to find itself
looking down at a huge gathering of Mabden. It walked further along the beam and
then settled itself to watch the proceedings.
In the centre of Castle Kalenwyr's Great Hall was a dais carved from a single
block of unpolished obsidian and upon this dais was a throne of granite studded
with quartz. Some attempt had been made to carve gargoyles upon the stone, but
the workmanship was crude and unfinished. Nonetheless, the half-shapes carved
there were more sinister than if they had been fully realized.
Seated upon this throne were three people. On each asymmetrical arm sat a
naked girl, with flesh tattooed in obscene designs. Each girl held a jug with
which she replenished the wine cup of the man who sat on the throne itself. This
man was big - more than seven feet tall - and a crown of pale iron was upon his
matted hair. The hair was long, with short plaits clustered over the forehead.
It had been yellow but was now streaked with white and it seemed that some
attempt had been made to dye these streaks back to their original colour. The
beard, too, was yellow and flecked with areas of stained grey. The face was
haggard, covered in broken veins, and from the deep eye sockets peered eyes that
were bloodshot, faded blue, full of hatred, cunning and suspicion. Robes clothed
the body from neck to foot. These were plainly of Vadhagh origin - brocades and
samite now covered in the marks of food and wine. Over them was thrown a dirty
coat of tawny wolfskin - just as plainly made by the Mabden of the East, whom
the man ruled. The hands were encrusted with stolen rings torn from the fingers
of slain Vadhagh and Nhadragh. One of the hands rested upon the pommel of a
great, battered iron sword. The other clutched a bronze, diamond-studded goblet
from which slopped thick wine. Surrounding the dais, their backs to their
master, was a guard of warriors each as tall or taller than the man on the
throne. They stood rigidly shoulder to shoulder, swords drawn and placed across
the rims of their great oval shields of leather and iron sheathed in brass.
Their brass helms covered most of their faces and from the sides escaped the
hair of their heads and beards. Their eyes seemed to contain a perpetual and
controlled fury and they looked steadily into the middle distance. This was the
Asper guard - the Grim Guard which was unthinkingly loyal to the man who sat
upon the throne.
King Lyr-a-Brode turned his massive head and surveyed his court.
Warriors filled it.
The only women were the tattooed, naked wenches who served the wine. Their
hair was dirty, their bodies bruised and they moved like dead things with their
heavy wine jugs balanced on their hips, squeezing themselves in and out of the
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ranks of the big, brutal Mabden men in their barbaric war gear, with their
braided hair and beards.
These men stank of sweat and of the blood they had spilled. Their leather
clothes creaked as they raised winecups to their hard mouths, their harness
rattled.
A feast had recently taken place here, but now the tables and the benches had
been cleared away and, save for the few who had collapsed and been dragged into
corners, all the warriors were standing, watching their king and waiting for him
to speak.
The light from iron braziers suspended from the roofbeams flung their huge
shadows on the dark stone and made their eyes shine red like the eyes of beasts.
Each warrior in the hall was a commander of other warriors. Here were Earls
and Dukes and Counts and Captains who had ridden from all parts of Lyr's kingdom
to attend this Gathering. And some, dressed a little differently from the
others, favouring fur to the stolen Vadhagh and Nhadragh samite - had come from
across the sea as emissaries from Bron-an-Mabden, the rocky land of the
North-West from which the whole Mabden race had originated long ago.
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 took 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 learnt 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
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摘要：

file:///G|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Michael%20Moorcock%20-%20Corum%202%20-\%20The%20Queen%20of%20the%20Swords.txtTheQueenoftheSwordsbyMichaelMoorcockTheSecondBookofCorumCONTENTSBOOKONEChapterOneWhattheSeaGodDiscardedChapterTwoTheGatheringatKalenwyrChapterThreeLywm-an-EshChapterFourTheWallBetweentheRea...

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