The Queen of Swords (18 page)

“It could be because she fears me,” Corum suggested.

“Aye. It could be.”

“Then you will set your whole host upon us?”

“Why should I not? If you are foolish enough to enter my power…”

“You have no pride?”

“None, I think.”

“No honour?”

“None.”

“No courage?”

“I have no absolute qualities at all, I fear—save that, perhaps—save fear, itself.”

“You are honest, however.”

A deep laugh issued from the closed visor. “If you would believe it. Why have you come to my camp, Prince Corum?”

“You know why, do you not?”

“You hope to slay me, because I am the brain which controls all this barbarian brawn? A good idea. But I cannot be slain. Would that I could—I have prayed for death, often enough. You hope that if you defeat me you will buy time for building up your defenses. Perhaps you would do so, but I regret that I will slay you and thus rob Halwyg-nan-Vake of its chief supply of brain and resourcefulness.”

“If you cannot be slain, why not fight me personally?”

“Because I would not waste time. Warriors!”

The misshapen beast-men arrayed themselves behind their master who mounted his white charger on which had been placed the high saddle of ebony and ivory. He settled his own spear in its rest and drew his own shield onto his arm.

Corum lifted his jeweled eye-patch and looked beyond Prince Gaynor and his men, into the netherworld cavern where his last victims were. Here were the Chaos pack, all the more distorted since the Ghanh had taken them into the folds of its crushing wings. There was Polib-Bav, the pack’s horse-faced leader. Into the netherworld reached the Hand of Kwll and summoned the Chaos pack to Corum’s aid.

“Now Chaos shall war once more with Chaos!” Corum cried. “Take your prizes, Polib-Bav, and be released from limbo!”

And foulness met foulness and horror clashed with horror as the Chaos pack rushed into Gaynor’s camp and began to set upon their brother beasts. Dog-thing fought cow-thing, horse-thing fought frog-thing, and their bludgeons and their carvers and their axes rose and fell in a frightful massing. Screams, grunts, bellows, groans, oaths, squeals, cackles rose from the heap of embattled creatures and Prince Gaynor the Damned looked at it and then turned his horse so that it faced Corum.

“I congratulate you, Prince in the Scarlet Robe. I see you did not rely upon my chivalry. Now, will both of you fight me?”

“Not that,” Corum said, preparing his spear and lifting himself in his stirrups so that he was now seated on the high part of his saddle, almost standing upright. “My friend is here to report the outcome of this fight should I perish. He will only fight to protect himself.”

“A fair tourney, eh?” Prince Gaynor laughed again. “Very well!” And he, too, put himself into the fighting position in his saddle.

Then he charged.

Corum spurred his own warhorse towards his foe, spear raised to strike, shield up to protect his face, for he lacked Gaynor’s visor.

Prince Gaynor’s flashing armour half-blinded him as he galloped on, then he flung back his arm and hurled the great spear with all his might at Gaynor’s head. It struck full against the helm but did not pierce, did not appear to dent it. However, Gaynor reeled in his saddle and did not immediately retaliate with his own spear, giving Corum time to stretch out his hand and catch the haft of his weapon as it bounced back. Gaynor laughed when he saw this and jabbed at Corum’s face, but the Prince in the Scarlet Robe brought up his war-board to block the blow.

Elsewhere the grisly fight between the two parties of beast-men went on. The Chaos pack was smaller than Gaynor’s force, but it had the advantage that it had already been slain once and therefore could not be slain again.

Now both horses reared at once, hoofs tangling and almost throwing their riders off. Corum flung his spear as he clung to the reins. Again it struck the Prince of the Damned who was hurled backwards from his saddle and lay in the filthy mud of his camp. He sprang up at once, his spear still in his hand, and returned Corum’s cast. The spear pierced the war-board and its point came a fraction of an inch to entering Corum’s jeweled eye. The spear hanging in his shield, he drew his sword and charged down upon Prince Gaynor. Gaynor’s helm rang with a bitter glee and now his broadsword was in his right hand, his shield raised to take Corum’s first blow. Gaynor’s stroke was not at Corum but at the horse. He hacked off one of its feet and it collapsed to the ground, throwing Corum sprawling.

Swiftly, in spite of his heavy plate armour, Prince Gaynor raised his sword and ran at Corum as he desperately tried to regain his footing in the mud. The sword whistled down and was met by the shield. The blade bit through the layers of leather and metal and wood but was stopped by the metal of Gaynor’s own spear which was still protruding from Corum’s war-board. Corum swiped at Gaynor’s feet, but the Prince of the Damned leapt high and escaped the blow while Corum rolled back and at last managed to climb to a standing position, his shield all split and near useless.

Gaynor still laughed, his voice echoing in the helm that was never opened.

“You fight well, Corum, but you are mortal—and I no longer am!”

The sounds of battle had alerted the rest of the camp, but the barbarians were unsure of what was happening. They were used to obeying Lyr who had come to rely upon Gaynor’s commands and now Gaynor had no time to tell Lyr what to do.

The two champions began to circle each other while to one side of them the beast-men of Chaos continued to fight to the death.

In the shadows beyond the firelight, the faces of superstitious, wide-eyed barbarians watched the fray, not understanding how this thing had come about.

Corum abandoned his shield and unslung his war-axe from his back, holding it in the six-fingered Hand of Kwll. He increased the distance between himself and his enemy, adjusting his grip on the axe. It was a perfectly balanced throwing axe, normally used by Vadhagh infantry in the old days when they had battled the Nhadragh. Corum hoped that Prince Gaynor would not realize what he intended to do.

Swiftly he raised his arm and flung the axe. It flashed through the air towards the Prince of the Damned—and was caught upon the shield.

But Gaynor staggered back under the force of the blow, his shield completely split in twain. He threw aside the pieces, took his broadsword in both hands and closed with Corum.

Corum blocked the first blow and the second and the third, being forced back by the ferocity of Gaynor’s attack. He jumped to one side and aimed a darting thrust designed to pierce one of the joins in Gaynor’s armour. Gaynor shifted his sword into his right hand and turned the thrust aside, taking two steps backwards. He was panting now. Corum heard his breath hissing in his helm.

“Immortal you may be, Prince Gaynor the Damned—but tireless you are not.”

“You cannot slay me! Do you not think I would welcome death!”

“Then surrender to me.” Corum was panting himself. His heart beat rapidly, his chest heaved. “Surrender to me and see if I cannot kill you!”

“To surrender would be to betray my pledge to Queen Xiombarg.”

“So you do know honour?”

“Honour!” Gaynor laughed. “Not honour—fear, as I told you. If I betray her, Xiombarg will punish me. I do not think you could comprehend what that means, Prince in the Scarlet Robe.” And again Prince Gaynor rushed upon Corum, the broadsword shrieking around his head.

Corum ducked under the whirling broadsword and came in with a swipe to Gaynor’s legs so powerful that one knee buckled for an instant before the Prince of the Damned hopped backward, darting a glance over his shoulder to see how his minions fared.

The Chaos pack was finishing them. One by one the creatures Corum had summoned from the netherworld were gathering in their prizes and vanishing to whence they had come.

With a cry Gaynor threw himself once more on Corum. Corum summoned all his strength to turn the lunge and thrust back. Then Gaynor closed in, grabbing Corum’s sword-arm and raising his broadsword to bring it down on Corum’s head. Corum wrestled himself free and the blade struck his shoulder, cut through the first layer of mail and was stopped by the second.

And he was defenseless. Prince Gaynor had clung to his sword and now held it triumphantly in his left gauntlet.

“Yield to me, Prince Corum. Yield to me and I will spare your life.”

“So that you can take me back to your mistress Xiombarg.”

“It is what I must do.”

“Then I will not yield!”

“So I must kill you, then?” Gaynor panted as he dropped Corum’s sword to the mud, took a grip with both hands on the hilt of his own broadsword, and stumbled forward to finish his foe.

4

I
NSTINCTIVELY
C
ORUM FLUNG
up his hands to ward off Gaynor’s blow and then something happened to the Hand of Kwll.

More than once the hand had saved his life—often in anticipation of the threat—and now it acted of its own volition again to reach out and grasp Gaynor’s blade, wrenching it from the hands of the damned prince and bringing it rapidly up then down to dash the pommel against the top of Gaynor’s head.

Prince Gaynor staggered, groaning, and slowly fell to his knees.

Now Corum jumped forward and with one arm encircled Gaynor’s neck. “Do you yield, prince?”

“I cannot yield,” Gaynor replied in a strangled voice. “I have nothing
to
yield.”

But he no longer struggled as the sinister Hand of Kwll grasped the lip of his visor and tugged.

“NO!” Prince Gaynor cried as he realized what Corum planned. “You cannot. No mortal may see my face!” He began to writhe, but Corum held him firmly, and the Hand of Kwll tugged again at the visor.

“PLEASE!”

The visor shifted slightly.

“I BEG THEE, PRINCE IN THE SCARLET ROBE! LET ME GO AND I WILL OFFER THEE NO FURTHER HARM!”

“You have not the right to swear such an oath,” Corum reminded him fiercely. “You are Xiombarg’s thing and are without honour or will.”

The pleading voice echoed strangely. “Have mercy, Prince Corum.”

“And I have not the right to grant you that mercy, for I serve Arkyn,” Corum told him.

The Hand of Kwll wrenched for a third time at the visor and it came away.

Corum stared at a youthful face which writhed as if composed of a million white worms. Dead, red eyes peered from the face and all the horrors Corum had ever witnessed could not compare with the simple, tragic horror of that visage. He screamed and his scream blended with that of Prince Gaynor the Damned as the flesh of the face began to putrefy and change into a score of foul colours which gave off a more pungent stench than anything which had issued from the Chaos pack itself. And as Corum watched the face changed its features. Sometimes it was the face of a middle-aged man, sometimes the face of a woman, sometimes that of a boy—and once, fleetingly, he recognized his own face. How many guises had Prince Gaynor known through all the eternity of his damnation? Corum saw a million years of despair recorded there. And still the face writhed, still the red eyes blazed in terror and agony, still the features changed and changed and changed and changed…

More than a million years. Aeons of misery. The price of Gaynor’s nameless crime, his betrayal of his oath to Law. A fate imposed upon him not by Law but by the power of the Balance. What crime could it have been if the neutral Cosmic Balance had been required to act? Some suggestion of it appeared and disappeared in the various features that flashed within the helm. And now Corum did not grip Gaynor’s neck, but instead cradled the tormented head in his arms and wept for the Prince of the Damned who had paid a price—was paying a price—which no being should ever have to pay.

Here, Corum felt as he wept, was the ultimate in justice—or the ultimate in injustice. Both seemed at that moment to be the same.

And even now Prince Gaynor was not dying. He was merely undergoing a transition from one existence to another. Soon, in some other distant realm, far from the Fifteen Planes and the realms of the Sword Rulers, he would be doomed to continue his servitude to Chaos.