Knight of the Swords

by Michael Moorcock

  The frightful screeching grew louder, more insistent, almost gleeful. They heard the flap of obscene wings over their heads, but they refused to look up, as this would have wasted a fraction of the energy they had left.

  They were looking now for shelter, for a crack in the rock into which they might crawl and defend themselves against the birds when, finally, they attacked.

  They could hear the sound of their own gasping breath, the scrape of their feet on the stone, mingling with the flappings and screechings of the black birds.

  Corum spared a glance for Rhalina and saw that there was desperate fear in her eyes and that she was weeping as she climbed. He began to feel that he had been tricked by Arkyn, that they had been sent, cynically, to their doom in this wasteland.

  Then the flapping filled his ears and he felt the slap of cold air against his face and a talon grazed his helmet. With a strangled cry he felt for his sword and tried to tug it from the scabbard. He looked up in terror and saw a mass of black, flapping, savage things with glaring eyes and snapping beaks.

  The sword came free and, wearily, he lunged out at the birds. They cackled sardonically as his sword failed to find flesh. Suddenly his six-fingered jewelled hand reached out instead, moving without his volition, and it clutched one of the birds by its scrawny throat and squeezed that throat as it had squeezed human throats before. The bird gave a single surprised squawk and died. The Hand of Kwll threw the corpse to the glassy rock. The birds flapped a little distance away in consternation and settled in the near-by crags watching Corum warily. It had been so long since the hand had acted in that way that Corum had almost forgotten its powers. For the first time since it had destroyed the heart of Arioch he was grateful to it. He displayed it to the birds and they made disturbed sounds in their throats, eyeing the corpse of their dead companion.

  Rhalina, who had not witnessed the power of the Hand of Kwll before, looked with relieved astonishment at Corum. But Jhary merely pursed his lips and took advantage of the pause to draw his sword and lay propped on his elbows against the hard rock, his cat still on his shoulder.

  And thus they sat, the birds and the human beings, regarding each other beneath the silent, brooding sky on the slopes of the bleak mountains, until it occurred to Corum that if the Hand of Kwll had saved them from their immediate danger, the Eye of Rhynn might prove even more useful. But he was reluctant to raise the eye-patch and look with the eye’s full powers into that strange nether-region from which he could sometimes summon ghostly allies - the dead men earlier slain at his command. And, particularly, he did not want to summon those last who had been slain at the command of the Hand and the Eye - Queen Ooresé’s subjects, the Vadhagh riders, his own race, who had been slain by accident. But something must be done to break this impasse, for none of them had the strength to resist a mass attack by the birds and even if the Hand of Kwll should slay one or two more it would not save Rhalina and Jhary-a-Conel. Reluctantly his hand began to rise towards the jewelled eye-patch.

  And then the patch was off and the horrid, faceted, alien eye of the dead god Rhynn glared into a world even more dreadful than the one they presently inhabited.

  Again Corum saw a cavern in which dim shapes moved hopelessly this way and that. And in the foreground were the beings he had least wished to see. Their dead eyes peered out at him and there was a frightening sadness about the set of their faces. They had wounds in their bodies, but the wounds did not bleed, for these were now the creatures of Limbo, neither dead nor alive.

  Their mounts were with them, too - creatures with thick, scaly bodies, cloven feet and nests of horns jutting from their snouts. The last of the Vadhagh folk - a lost part of the race which had once inhabited the Flamelands created by Arioch for his amusement. They were dressed from head to foot in red, tight-fitting garments, with red hoods on their heads. In their hands were their long, barbed lances.

  Corum could not bear to look upon them and he made to move the eye-patch back into place, but then the Hand of Kwll had reached out, reached into that frightful Limbo, and was gesturing to the dead Vadhagh. Slowly the score of corpses moved forward in answer to the summons. Slowly they mounted their horned beasts. Slowly they rode out of that ghastly cavern in a nameless netherworld and stood, a company of death, upon the slippery slopes of the mountains.

  The birds screeched in surprise and anger but for some reason they did not take to the air. They shifted from foot to foot and darted their beaks at the scarlet warriors who now advanced upon them.

  The black birds waited until the dead Vadhagh were almost upon them before they began to flap their wings and fly skyward.

  Rhalina was staring in horror at the scene. “By all the Great Old Gods, Corum

  - what new foulness is this?”

  “It is a foulness which aids us,” said Corum grimly. And he called out:

  “Strike!”

  And the barbed lances were flung by scarlet arms and found the heads of each black bird. There was an agitation in the air and then the creatures had fallen to the slopes.

  Rhalina continued to watch wide-eyed as the living dead riders dismounted and went to collect their prizes. Corum had learned what happened in that netherworld whenever he summoned aid from it. By calling upon his earlier victims he could have their aid if he supplied them with victims of their own

  - then these victims would replace them and presumably the souls of the first victims would be released to find peace. He hoped that this was so.

  The leading Vadhagh picked up two of the birds by their throats and slung them over his back. He turned a face that was half shorn away and looked through eyeless sockets at Corum.

  “It is, done, master,” droned the dead voice.

  “Then you may return,” said Corum, half-choking.

  “Before I go, I must impart a message to you, master.”

  “A message? From whom?”

  “From One Who is Closer to You than You Know,” said the dead Vadhagh mechanically. “He says that you must seek the Lake of Voices, that if you have the courage to sail across it then you might find help in your quest.

  “The Lake of Voices. Where is it? Who is this creature you speak of...”

  “The Lake of Voices lies beyond this mountain range. Now I depart, master. We thank you for our prizes.”

  Corum could bear no longer to look at the Vadhagh. He turned away, replacing the jewelled patch over his eye. When he looked back the Vadhagh had gone and so had the birds, all save the one which had been slain by the Hand of Kwll.

  Rhalina’s face was pale. “These "allies" of yours are no better than creatures of Chaos? It must corrupt us to use them, Corum...”

  Jhary got up from the position in which he had been before the arrival of Corum’s ghastly warriors. “It is Chaos which corrupts us,” he said lightly,

  “which makes us fight. Chaos brutalizes all - even those who do not serve it.

  That you must accept, Lady Rhalina. I know it is the truth.”

  She lowered her eyes. “Let us make our way to this lake,” she said. “What was its name?”

  “A strange one.” Corum looked back at the last dead bird. “The Lake of Voices.”

  They trudged on through the mountains, resting frequently now that the danger of the birds had been removed, beginning to feel a new threat - that of hunger and thirst, for they had no provisions with them.

  Eventually they began to descend and they saw sparse grass growing on the lower slopes and beyond the grass a lake of blue water - a calm and beautiful lake which they could not believe existed in any Realm of Chaos.

  “It is lovely!” Rhalina gasped. “And we might find food there - and at least we shall be able to quench our thirst.”

  “Aye...” said Corum, more suspiciously.

  And Jhary said: “I think your informant said we should need courage to cross it. I wonder what danger it holds.”

  They could barely walk by the time they reached the grassy slopes and left the harsh ro
ck behind them. On the grass they rested and they found a stream which sprang from a spring near by so that they did not have to wait until they reached the lake to quench their thirst. Jhary murmured a word to his cat which sprang suddenly into the air on its wings and was soon lost from sight.

  “Where have you sent the cat, Jhary?” asked Corum.

  Jhary winked at him. “Hunting,” he said.

  Sure enough, in a very short time the cat returned with a small rabbit, almost as big as itself, in its claws. It deposited the rabbit and then left to find another. Jhary busied himself with the building of a fire and soon they had feasted and were sleeping while one of their number kept watch until he was relieved by another.

  Then they continued on their way until they were less than a quarter of a mile from the shores of the lake.

  It was then that Corum paused, cocking his head on one side.

  “Do you hear them?” he asked.

  “I hear nothing,” Rhalina said.

  But Jhary nodded. “Aye - voices - as of a great throng heard in the distance.

  Voices...”

  “That is what I hear,” Corum agreed.

  And as they neared the lake, walking swiftly over the springy turf, the babble of voices increased until it filled their heads and they covered their ears in horror for they realized now why it would take courage to cross the Lake of Voices.

  The words - the murmurings, the pleadings, the oaths, the shouts, the crying, the laughter - they were all issuing from the blue waters of the apparently peaceful lake.

  It was the water that spoke.

  It was as if a million people had been drowned in it and continued to talk although their bodies had rotted and been dispersed by the liquid.

  Looking desperately about him, his hand still covering his ears, Corum saw that it would be impossible to try to skirt the Lake of Voices for it was apparent that on both sides of them there stretched marshland which they would be unable to cross.

  He forced himself to move closer to the water and the voices of the men and the women and the children were like the voices which must populate hell.

  “Please...”

  “I wish - I wish - I wish...”

  “Nobody will...”

  “This agony...”

  “There is no peace...”

  “Why... ?”

  “It was a lie. I was deceived...”

  “I, too, was deceived. I cannot...”

  “Aaaaaaa! Aaaaaaa! Aaaaaaa!”

  “Help me, I beg thee...”

  “Help me!”

  “Me!”

  “The fate which cannot be borne except with...”

  “Ha!”

  “Help...”

  “Be merciful...”

  “Save her - save her - save her...”

  “I suffer so much...”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha...”

  “It seemed so splendid and there were lights all around...”

  “Beasts, beasts, beasts, beasts, beasts...”

  “The child... It was the child...”

  “All morning it wept until the lurching thing entered me...”

  “Soweth! Tebel art...”

  “Forlorn in Rendane I composed that strain...”

  “Peace...”

  And then Corum saw that a boat was waiting for them on the shore of the Lake of Voices.

  And he wondered if he would be sane by the time they reached the other side.

  The Second Chapter

  The White River

  Corum and Jhary hauled on the boat’s long oars while Rhalina lay sobbing in the bow. With every pull upon the oars the water was disturbed further and instead of a splashing sound a new babble of voices broke out. They sensed that the voices did not come from beneath the water but from within it - as if every single drop of water contained a human soul which expressed its pain and the terror of its situation. Corum could not help wonder if every lake in existence were not like this and that this was the only one they could actually hear. He strove to shut his mind to such fearful speculation.

  “Wish that...”

  “Would that...”

  “If I...”

  “Could I...”

  “Love - love - love...”

  “Sad soothing songs seeking souls so soft so sensitive seeming smooth silken.

  . .”

  “Stop! Stop!” begged Rhalina, but the voices went on and Corum and Jhary pulled the harder on their oars, their lips moving in pain.

  “I wish - I wish - I wish - I wish...”

  “Curl awake in kitten time the condemnation of my...”

  “Once - once - once...”

  “Help us!”

  “Release us!”

  “Give us peace! Peace!”

  “Please, peace, please, peace...”

  “Opening without resort...”

  “Cold...”

  “Cold...”

  “Cold...”

  “We cannot help you!” Corum groaned. “There is nothing we can do!”

  Rhalina was screaming now.

  Only Jhary-a-Conel kept his lips tight shut, his eyes fixed on the middle distance, his body moving rhythmically back and forth as he continued to row.

  “Oh, save us!”

  “Save me!”

  “The child is - the child...”

  “Bad, mad, sad, glad, bad, sad, mad, glad, mad, bad, glad, sad...”

  “Be silent! We can do nothing!”

  “Corum! Corum! Stop them! Is there no sorcery at your command which will hush their voices?”

  “None.”

  “Aaaah!,

  “Oorum canish, oorum canish, oorum canish, sashan foroom alann alann, oorum canish, oorum canish...”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha...”

  “Nobody, nothing, nowhere, needless misery, what purpose doth it serve, which man benefits?”

  “Whisper softly, whisper low, whisper, whisper...”

  “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no...”

  Now Corum released one hand from his oar and slapped at his head as if trying to drive the voices out. Rhalina had collapsed completely on the bottom of the boat and he could not distinguish her cries, her pleadings and demands, from the others.

  “Stop!”

  “Stop, stop, stop, stop...”

  “Stop...”

  “Stop...”

  “Stop...”

  There were tears flowing down Jhary’s face, but he rowed on, not once altering the rhythm of his movements. Only the cat seemed undisturbed. It sat on the seat between him and Corum and it washed its paws. To the cat the water was like any other water and thus to be avoided as much as possible.

  Once or twice it cast nervous glances over the side of the boat but that was all.

  “Save us, save us, save us...”

  Then a deeper voice, a warm, humorous, pleasant voice, cut through the others and it said:

  “Why do you not join them. It would save you this misery. All you need do is to stop your rowing and leave the boat and enter the water and relax, becoming one with the rest. Why be proud?”

  “No! Do not listen! Listen to me!”

  “Listen to us!”

  “Listen to me!”

  “Do not listen to them. They are really happy. It is just that your coming disturbs them. They wish you to join them - join them - to join them - to join them...”

  “No, no, no!”

  “No!” screamed Corum. He plucked the oar from the row-locks and he began to beat at the waters of the lake. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

  “Corum!” Jhary spoke for the first time. He clung to the side as the boat rocked badly from side to side. Rhalina looked up in terror.

  “Corum! You will make it worse. You will destroy us if we fall into the lake!” Jhary cried.

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

  Keeping one arm on his own oar Jhary reached across and tugged at Corum’s scarlet ro
be. “Corum! Desist!”

  Corum sat down suddenly and looked strangely at Jhary as if he were an enemy.

  Then his expression softened and he put the oar back in its place and began to row. The shore was not too distant now.

  “We must get to the shore,” Jhary said. “It is the only way in which we’ll escape the voices. You must hang on a little longer, that is all.”

  “Yes,” said Corum. “Yes...” And he resumed his rowing and avoided looking at Rhalina’s tortured features.

  “Molten sleeping snakes and old owls and hungry hawks populate my memories of Charatatu...”

  “Join them and all the splendid memories may be shared. Join them Prince Corum, Lady Rhalina, Sir Jhary. Join them. Join them. Join them.”

  “Who are you?” Corum said. “Did you do this to them all?

  “I am the Voice of the Lake of Voices, that is all. I am the true spirit of the Lake. I offer peace and union with all your fellow souls. Do not listen to the minority of discontented ones. They would be discontented wherever they were. There are always such spirits...”

  “No, no, no, no.”

  And Corum and Jhary pulled even harder on their sweeps until suddenly the boat scraped up the shore and there was an angry motion in the water and a huge waterspout suddenly appeared and began to whine and roar and scream and shout.

  “NO! I WILL NOT BE THWARTED! YOU ARE MINE! NONE ESCAPES THE LAKE OF VOICES!”

  The water-spout assumed a form and they could see a fierce, writhing face there - a face full of rage. Hands, too, formed from the water and began to reach out for them.

  “YOU ARE MINE! YOU WILL SING WITH THE REST! YOU WILL BE PART OF MY CHORUS!”

  The three scrambled hastily from the boat and dashed up the shore with the water thing growing larger and larger behind them and its voice roaring louder and louder.

  “YOU ARE MINE! YOU ARE MINE! I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO GO!”

  But a thousand tinier voices all babbled:

  “Run - run swiftly - never return - run - run - run...”

  “TRAITORS! STOP!”

  And the voices stopped and there was silence until the roaring creature of water bellowed once more.