Kyrik and the Lost Queen

by Gardner F Fox

  This would require thought. The serving maid brought them beakers of chilled Karanyan wine, wine which Kyrik drank as though it were water. Adorla Mathandis could not match him beaker for beaker, but she drank what she could, and the wine made her sleepy. From time to time her head nodded. She did not see the man who was at a far table set back against the brick wall. Nor did she notice when his eyes studied her features and widened slightly. From her face his eyes swung to the giant across the tabletop from her.

  The man who watched from those shadows drew a deep breath. His hand trembled as it reached for a wine goblet and lifted it to his mouth. A little wine spilled before he could drink from that goblet.

  The red Karanyan wine looked like blood in the candle-flames.

  After a time the man rose and walked to the Scot-counter, where he paid his tab. He moved easily, without hurry, until he reached the open air. Then he began to run.

  Kyrik stared at Adorla. The girl was very tired. Well, he was tired himself. The thought of a soft bed appealed to him.

  He finished off what was left of the wine, then summoned the serving maid. Were there rooms available on the second floor? There were? He and the girl wanted one, so they could sleep before setting out tomorrow for Domilik.

  He lifted Adorla and walked with her to the counter, where he paid for their meal and received a key to an upstairs room. He had to half-carry the girl up those steps. The wine had fuddled her wits and made her stumble at every step she took.

  He had to undress her and put her in the bed, then cover her. A few moments he stood looking down at her. There was that eternal restlessness in him. He would not be able to sleep, not yet.

  His eyes went to the window. He ought to walk the streets of Alkinoor, listen to what was said. That serving girl had hinted that there was fear in the city, that their queen was not the queen they had known.

  And Marrassa? Was that temple to that evil god built now and ready for—occupancy? If so, then sacrifices would be offered to Marrassa, living men and women from the streets and houses of the city.

  He must know. As strangers, he and Adorla would be among the first to be rounded up and given to the demon-god. Kyrik had an uneasy suspicion that Marrassa had known it was he who had smashed his altar there in the barren land. Marrassa might have an especially frightful death planned for him.

  He had to know Kyrik turned from the bed to the door. He opened it, locked it behind him. He ran down the stairs and stepped out onto the street.

  Usually, in such a city, there were people walking the streets at night. They would be flooding into the taverns to drink, and in the shadows would be men and women making love. It was the same way in Tantagol, in Domilik, in Uthapor and in Samakkan.

  But not in Alkinoor. Why? An unease lay upon the city, a fear. He could almost smell it in the air. It made him even more cautious as he eased away from the doorway and moved along the street in the shadows of its buildings.

  He came to an empty square and stood a moment, listening. Faintly he heard a woman laugh, laughter that was choked off in an instant. What was it in this place that made women fearful of their own laughter?

  He moved on, his war-boots making no sound. Something moved to his right, in the blackness of a doorway. Something darted out at him, hand outstretched.

  That hand was at his belt-pouch, seeking entry. Kyrik moved, his hand stabbing downward like lightning. His iron fingers closed around a wrist and he swung his arm.

  A little man crouched there, his wrist caught and held, his eyes fearful and wary under thick brows. Long hair fell in unkempt fashion about lean cheeks.

  "So, little brother. You're clumsy,"" Kyrik grin med.

  The man licked his thin lips. In the patois of the thieves' guild, which he spoke as well as he did his native Tantagolian, Kyrik asked, "How are you named, brother of the pack?"

  A little of the man's fear ran out of him. He straightened slightly, but he was still wary.

  “Men call me Raknid. I am of the brotherhood." He paused to draw a deep breath. “But who are you who walk so boldly through the streets of Alkinoor? Surely you're a stranger."

  "A stranger to the city, but not to the ways of thieves. You go about your business poorly. Pah! A run—and—grab. Is this the way you were taught by your master thief?"

  Raknid smiled faintly. The pressure on his wrist was less, and he felt more confidence. Yet his eyes slid up and down that empty street, and Kyrik saw there was fright in those eyes.

  "We could talk better in a tavern," the thief whispered.

  The hand went away from his wrist. He rubbed it as he added, "These streets are dangerous—after dark."

  "Take me,"" Kyrik nodded. They went at as trot down that street and through a narrow alleyway into a cul-de-sac. At the end of that cul-de-sac was a narrow doorway. It was into this that Raknid pushed his way, with Kyrik as close to him as his own shadow.

  The door opened onto a corridor. The corridor turned, after a few paces, into a room filled with men and woman, lighted by tapers and candles. The air was smoky and smelled strongly of cheap Wine.

  Eyes touched them and fell away as Raknid seated himself in a corner. Kyrik slid onto a bench beside him and when a girl came, ordered goblets of wine and—sensing the little thief's hunger—food as well. Raknid grinned and ran his eyes over this big man who seemed so generous.

  "There seem to be small pickings in this place." Kyrik began, as they waited for their order.

  Raknid snorted. "Small? Say none, rather, and you'd be in the right."

  “Now, why is that?"

  The little thief glanced around him, then leaned closer over the tabletop. "Marrassa," he whispered, and sat back to observe the result of that one word.

  Kyrik grinned and shook his head. “Na, na. Marrassa was put away by the gods long ago, little man. He lives in the hells created for him. He takes no more interest in the affairs of men."

  Triumphantly, the thief whispered. "Marrassa is here in Alkinoor City. Or will be soon. Already, men and women have been taken to be his—sacrifices."

  Kyrik pretended astonishment. "Can this be so? I had a plan in mind—to steal palace jewels—but now...."

  Greed lighted the eyes of Raknid. To steal the jewels of Adorla Mathandis Truly this idea was worthy of attention. He hunched even closer to the big warrior-warlock.

  "They would catch you. They would offer you to Marrassa. It cannot be done.

  Kyrik shrugged. "I make no boasts. But once I went into the palace at Uthapor and brought Ruthvale the king out of his own palace and hung him in a cage. Why should the theft of a few jewels stop me?"

  Raknid gaped. Rumors of such a happening had come this far north and had been whispered from one thief to another over lighted candles in the dark of night. No one as yet knew who that thief might be.

  “You did that?” he asked. “But why? What profit was in it for you?"

  Kyrik chuckled. “It helped me win the lost treasures of Nath."

  "And you're still a thief?"

  "I have enough gold, enough jewels. It's the excitement of the game I miss."

  The girl came then with platters of food and goblets of strong wine. She put them down as Kyrik eyed the manner in which her breasts bulged out the scanty blouse she wore.

  His arm hooked her middle, pulled her against him. She smiled down at him out of slanted eyes.

  "Are you busy later, little one?" Her eyes considered his great bulk. He looked to be a veritable stallion of a man, and it had been a long time since Patara had known the embraces of a male. She shrugged a shoulder, but her mouth smiled.

  "Not too busy, if it's worth my while." Kyrik slid a gold piece into her hand. Her eyes grew enormous when she saw it was a gleaming griff and the breath caught in her throat. Her fingers snatched it up and hid it.

  "There are two more of those for you, if you prove as lovable as you look," he grinned.

  Patara nodded dumbly. She would make this big man feel she had invented the art
s of love, if he were as generous as he seemed. She walked away with her head in a whirl.

  Kyrik pushed the platters toward a rather dazed Raknid. For the first time in his evil life, he wondered if he should have a partner. This barbarian-thief seemed to have a winning way with him.

  Raknid ate and Kyrik drank. It seemed to the thief that Kyrik must have an empty leg into which all that wine flowed, for the big man showed no signs of intoxication. Raknid shoveled food into his mouth—it had been two days since he had eaten, the pickings in Alkinoor City were that poor—and tried to match Kyrik in the wine goblets that he emptied.

  After a time, Raknid felt sleepy. His head nodded, and his eyelids were like leaden weights.

  Kyrik leaned closer. "Sleep for a while. When you're rested, we'll have more wine."

  Raknid needed little encouragement. He was snoring when Patara came swishing her hips to the table and Kyrik rose to hook her middle with an arm and guide her out the door.

  Kyrik said, “We'll walk a little, pretty one. I've a fancy to see this city of yours."

  She shivered. "It isn't safe. Men and women disappear off the streets in the dark hours of the night." She glanced around her. "It's why they're all so empty."

  He kissed her in the shadow of a doorway and his lips burned her own so pleasantly that Patara thought of nothing but the pleasure that lay before her. She walked now where he guided her, an arm about her middle, and she rested her weight on his. An onlooker would have judged them sweethearts.

  From time to time, Kyrik stopped the girl and turned her, bringing her in against his body to caress and kiss her. She shivered and urged her soft loins closer to his own, and but for the passion that surged in her flesh, she was oblivious to the world about her.

  Not so Kyrik. He had heard the soft patter of feet from time to time as those feet walked in the echoes of his own. Out of the corners of his eyes, he had seen furtive movement.

  Soon now, the attack would come.

  Chapter NINE

  From her lips, his mouth ranged to her soft throat, then up to her ear. Patara hung in a cloud of bliss. It had been so long since a man had made love to her like this. She wished he would hurry. Her room lay not far away, and by running fast, they could be there within moments.

  "When I let you go, girl—you run," Kyrik said gently.

  His hand slid gold pieces from his belt-pouch into her hand. Her fingers closed down on that wealth, and her heart nearly stopped beating.

  “But you?"

  She saw the men, half a dozen of them in the scarlet and gray livery of the high priest. They came in a rush, and for an instant, her every muscle was paralyzed.

  But his hand was at the small of her back and shoving. "Run!” he rasped, and swung about to face that attack.

  Patara fled.

  Kyrik saw the men coming for him, but he did not draw his sword. He wanted no noise to tell all Alkinoor what was going to take place before the palace walls where he stood.

  His massive fist drove out and landed. A man with his nose crushed went back and fell. Another felt four fingers and a thumb close on his windpipe, and lost the power to breathe.

  Vaguely the choking man felt himself lifted and swung sideways so that his skull could crack into the head of a third man. Then he felt himself dropped and knew no more.

  Kyrik was like a wounded lion. He fought with his fists like war-hammers, driving them solidly into the faces of his attackers. If an onlooker had seen this fight, he might have suspected that Kyrik had thrown himself at all six men.

  They had no chance to do more than draw their daggers. They had no opportunity to use them. They wanted this man alive, to be a sacrifice to Marrassa. Six men had been thought by Lyrrin Odanyor to be enough.

  In moments, those six lay unconscious on the street cobbles. A cool wind came down that avenue and ruffled their garments. Otherwise, they did not move.

  Kyrik glanced up and down the deserted street. Except for those fallen men and himself, the street was deserted.

  He turned and flung himself at that wall, arms held high. His fingers closed down on the coping-stones and he hauled himself upward. A moment he paused on top of that wall, then dropped over it and into a clump of bushes.

  He froze there, listening. There was no outcry. The night was silent. Kyrik grinned. The fear of the people was standing him in good stead. No one would see what he had done or what he was about to do.

  He loped through the night, passing always from one shadow to another. As he ran, his eyes scanned the face of the palace buildings. The stonework was smooth and polished. It would afford no hand-holds.

  He walked around that great pile, his eyes alert. He skirted the great entryway, remaining always in the shadows and racing through the moonlight where no cover was given. At any moment he expected to hear the cry of a sentry, yet none came.

  He began to realize that this palace was perhaps the most secure place in his entire world. No man in his right mind, or woman either, would come to this place where they might be taken as gifts to Marrassa.

  In time he found a narrow doorway that led out into an herb garden. Cooks used this door, he reasoned, emerging from it to pick what they might need for their seasonings.

  His big hand touched the knob, turned it. The door was locked. Well, he had faced locked doors before now. His hand dipped into his belt-pouch, came out with a pick-lock. It was a useful tool to him in his wanderings. He had used it at other times to gain admittance where he was not wanted.

  The door opened. He stood in a narrow hallway that held traces of recently cooked meals. He moved through the darkness, feeling his way with outstretched hands. Like a cat he moved, with no more sound.

  At a staircase, he mounted upward. There was a light far down an upper hall, and he caught the faint sound of men's voices and the click and roll of dice. A few guardsmen, no more. Somewhere in this great building, Myrnis slept. Kyrik scowled. He could not search every room for her. Morning would come before then, and he would be discovered. He cursed himself for not questioning Adorla Mathandis about her palace. If anyone would, she would have known where the queen slept.

  He brought out the crystal ball and scowled at it. Illis could help him, if she would. But the ball was dead, lifeless, and he muttered under his breath about the ingratitude of goddesses.

  There was no help for it. He had to explore this place.

  He moved away from the guardroom and the soldiers, and as he walked he peered into one room after another. It was like trying to find a nut in a maze. Myrnis could be anywhere.

  Kyrik walked on. When he came to a section of wall that was decorated more elaborately than those past which he had walked, he came to another stop. He ran his hands over those carvings.

  His own chambers back in Tantagol City were so decorated, carved by none other than Grindol Averthan, who had been a master sculptor in the time of Kyrik's great-grandfather. What Grindol Averthan had done in Tantagol, some other artisan had done here. These were the royal quarters. Somewhere in here, Myrnis would be sleeping.

  He crept forward noiselessly. When he felt a faint breeze, he turned and slid inside an elaborate doorway. There were two floor candles burning, off to one side, and by their light he could make out a huge bed and, lost in its immensity, a sleeping form.

  Kyrik moved to the bed, stared down into the sleeping face of Myrnis. She lay on her side, and her mouth was slightly parted. The covers were up about her bare shoulders. He stared about the room, seeing the open windows.

  Aye! She would not have forgotten how she liked the fresh night winds blowing across her as she slumbered. Usually, unless it stormed, Myrnis slept on the bare ground. His eyes ran around the room.

  Its luxury almost took the breath away. The candlesticks were of gold, as were the wall ornaments and the chains from which hung torches, unlighted now. The massive bureaus and armories were of Albonian mahogany. It was a sybaritic room, and Kyrik wondered why Myrnis chose to sleep in it.

&n
bsp; She had always loved the open spaces, the whisper of wind and the glimpses of the two moons above, as she slumbered.

  She had changed—no doubt of that. Frowning, he stepped toward the bed, extending a hand to wake her. But at the last moment, instead of touching her bared shoulder, that hand went to her mouth, covering it.

  Instantly, she was awake. Her eyes stared up into his face, and there was no glad recognition in them. They were wide, fearful. Under his palm, her lips moved, trying to open into a scream.

  “Myrnis," he breathed. "Don't you know me?" It was useless, he knew. To her, he was no more than an intruder into her bedchamber. He was not the beloved companion with whom she had ridden the roads of her world, the man who had shared her embraces in the light of their campfires.

  His heart knew an awesome sorrow. "I'm Kyrik, he said softly. And still the eyes stared up at him fearfully, scanning his features. Her head shook a little, as though she tried to answer him.

  He spoke to her, telling her of how they had met for the first time in that lonely little cabin that had been his hunting lodge a thousand years ago, before Aryalla had brought him back to life out of that statue he had been. All this she knew in a remote corner of her mind—or had known—but she did not recall it now.

  They had taken away her memory. They had made her into a different woman by their wizardries. She was no longer Myrnis, the Romanoy girl who loved him. She was Adorla Mathandis, and more a queen than Adorla herself had been. She was the figurehead on which Ulmaran Dho rested his power, as did the high priest, Lyrrin Odanyor.

  Those men had made her like this: cold and strange.

  Anger rumbled in his deep chest. He wanted to lift her out of that bed and hold her against him, to cover her face with kisses.

  But if he took his hand away from her mouth, she would scream for help. She would give orders to take him and slay him, and she would have no memory of the love they shared. A part of Kyrik dried up inside him.

  What was he going to do now? He had had an idea that Myrnis would fall into his arms with tears and kisses, that she would beg him to take her away from this palace which was a prison to her. He knew now that nothing like this would happen.