The Queen of the Swords

by Michael Moorcock

  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 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 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. H
e 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 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 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 win
e jugs balanced on their hips, squeezing themselves in and out of the 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.