Chapter 05 - Kyrik Warlock Warrior by Gardner Fox

1975 Genre: Vintage Paperback / Sword and Sorcery

KYRIK THE MIGHTY:

Kyrik the mighty-muscled warlock swordsman is a hero for this or any other age. From Mankind's darkest and most unremembered past he comes striding, the ever-unvanquished sword Blue Fang glittering in his granite-like hand. Through the mists of Man's pre-history he comes a-questing for those who would enslave or destroy him for their evil gain. The greatest champion of all the known world, from the Endless Green Sea to the Red Desert, Kyrik dominated his world and his era.

You can download the whole story for FREE from the Fox Library. This is a limited-time offer!

Chapter 5

He stared into those gray eyes.

“Wizardry?”

“What else?” Her smooth shoulders shrugged. “This sorcerer of Devadonides is powerful. Jokaline, his name is. He has placed many spells here and there about the castle. I learned of this from an imp that I caught trying to slip into my own world to do me harm."

She smiled cruelly. "He was sorry, afterward. But his tongue ran as does one of your mountain freshets, when he saw there was no hope. Now this I know: that if you think to become a guardsman, to come close to Devadonides and slay him—think no more of it. Those traps would close on you, you'd be whisked off into some region where even I might not help you. We goddesses, we demon lords and ladies, have only so much power, you know."

Kyrik scowled blackly. "I gave my word to aid Aryalla in her quest for vengeance. I won't abandon it."

Illis sighed, “I know. You’re a proud man. I’ll do what I can, naturally. Since you brought the Lust-stone back, I can come and go in your world as once I did, when the name of Kyrik was a power in the land. My worry is, that power may not be enough where the incantations of Jokaline are concerned."

"Then I'll put my trust in Bluefang." She pouted as might a human woman. "I will help, I will. But the way will not be as easy as you hoped. I should be with you at all times, you know. But how can I be? I can scarce walk through Tantagol City by your side. Besides," and here her mouth curved with hidden laughter, "you already have two girls at daggers' points over you."

He grunted. "If you had your sword. . ." He scowled at her. “Bluefang?"

“Yes, Bluefang. Go fetch it here." He rose, put her down on the cold marble bench. "I'll be back—very soon."

"Oh, Kyrik," she mocked. "So easily? Can you walk along the corridors of these dungeons and come and go as you please? Aren't you afraid of a dagger?”

"There are ways," he laughed. He walked across the room to a narrow door on one side of the chamber. This he opened, the rusted lock squealing protestingly, and stood a moment to stare back at her. His stare feasted on her nude beauty, which she knew well enough for she preened for him, flushing a little. Then he turned and closed the door and walked along a narrow way between thick stone walls until he came to a section of that wall which opened, after a time, to his fingers' grip.

He stepped into the outer corridor and walked confidently forward toward the guards’ room.

To his surprise, it was empty. His great sword was inside the sack on the floor. He reached for it, drew out his weapons belt, buckled that thick leather belt about his lean middle. A moment he stood, head bent in thought.

The guards officer would have become curious that the three men and their prisoner had not yet appeared. He might have gone to find them. In which case, they might be returning to this room in search of the escaped man. He picked up the sack and hurried back toward the entryway into the chamber.

He was ten feet away when the guards captain and the three men whom he had left within his cell turned the corner. Their eyes got big at sight of him, the guards captain shouted and drew his blade. They came in a rush, blades out and up. The men were raging, their eyes glinted fury and hate. The guards officer was more cautious, he remembered what Kyrik had told him about his swordplay. Kyrik pulled Bluefang free of the scabbard. He caught their blades with a sweep of his own, said, "I don't wish to harm you. Go your way without me. I have—business—in these pits."

"Fool!" scoffed the officer, and thrust. Kyrik met his blade with a riposte, thrust so swiftly that his point was in and out of the man's shoulder before he could return his sword to its guard position. Almost in the same moment, the barbarian whirled on the others, drove them back and back. His point was always before their eyes, the edges slashing at exposed hands or when he bent, at their knees. They began to pant, and Kyrik mocked them. "If I was your officer, I'd see you spent less time swilling ale and wenching and more in practicing your swordplay. You three aren't fit to guard a dung-heap!"

One man he felled by bringing the flat of his blade across his skull. A second he wounded with a sideways slash at his arm that he laid open to the bone. The third would have turned and fled, but Kyrik was too close behind him. His left arm darted out, he caught the man and drove his head against the closest stone wall. The man sank in a heap.

Kyrik turned on the wounded man who clutched his gashed arm and glared at him. "I am sorry, friend, but—" His fist hammered into the man's face.

The way was clear, now. No man could see how he touched the stone wall and the manner of its opening. The four men lay unconscious on the stone floor. Kyrik moved into the narrow opening, closed it.

He hastened back toward Illis in her worshiping chamber. She was moving about the room, graceful, lissome, and once more Kyrik wondered at her shape and form in those demon lands that called her mistress. She laughed at sight of him and his bloody sword and ran to him on bare feet.

Her fingertips touched the bloody blade, wiped it clean. As might a child, she put that finger to her mouth, licked off the blood. Her blonde eyebrows rose questioningly.

"Do I shock you, Kyrik darling? Is my thirst for blood so baffling to your human mind?"

His wide shoulders lifted, fell. "There are night creatures who need blood for life. To you it's a tasty thing. Who am I to condemn your demon ways?"

Her palm patted his jaw. "Nice Kyrik. You always say the right thing. But come, put your sword upon my altar."

He placed it where she said, watched as she bent to put her hands upon its hilt. A moment she stood thus, and Kyrik held his breath. Then her naked body shimmered, faded, grew nebulous. He cried out in his surprise, started forward. Yet he did not touch her, he had learned a long time ago to humor the whims of this demon-woman whom his family had worshiped since the days his people had built Tantagol City.

Then, Illis was gone. And, in her place—Kyrik stared down at his sword-hilt about which was now entwined a golden, glittering serpent. It was wrapped about the hilt, the quillions. His hand wrapped fingers about that snake-sheathed grip. The snake was warm, as female flesh is warm, and a sense of life came to his hand where he held it.

"I shall be with you, this way," a voice whispered in his head.

He grinned at the glittering eyes of the golden serpent. "And be an embarrassment to me when I make love to the gypsy girl, next time."

"I shall bite her, Kyrik"

“Na, na. I only take her to worship you.” The snake glared at him. He sheathed the sword, doffed his gypsy clothes, donned his habergeon and mail shirt, his war-boots Then he went out into the corridor through the first stone wall so that he stepped into a part of the pits on the far side of that hall where the guards lay unconscious. As he moved along the tunnel, he thought back on his memories of the dungeons, he knew little passageways that he felt sure were not used in these days of that first Devadonides' descendant.

He saw no one. There were few guards stationed in the pits, he realized. What was there in these cold, dank prisons to require a guard? The few prisoners who waited in their cells were helpless, half-starved men. At times he trotted, he went up worn stone steps that had been old when he had borne the golden scepter of Tantagol in his hand. In time he came to a street door, bolted.

With his dagger-point he picked the lock, stepped into sunlight. He sauntered casually, being to any casual viewer nothing but a sell-sword out of employment. And as he went, he wondered about Aryalla and where she might be.

“You can help me, Illis,” he breathed. “Find the sorceress."

"At least, you haven't had her yet. Wait Kyrik walked while Illis quested in her demoniac way. He entered a tavern, downed slices of meat and bread and cheese, swallowed two tankards of ale. He made no disturbance, he stayed in the darker shadows, for he sought only anonymity here, and despite his size and appearance, few did more than glance at him.

And then: "Hurry, Kyrik The woman is in danger."

“Where away?" He felt something brush his mind. He turned, went where that subtle pull took him, along wide thoroughfares and mean, narrow streets, until he came to a row of houses black with age. Into one of these he turned, put hand to doorknob, turned it and went into a hallway hung with cheeses. A narrow stair led upward to the second floor. Kyrik took the stairs, went where the snake-thoughts brought him, to a blue door warped with years. His knuckles rapped.

Something stirred inside the room. "It's Kyrik," he breathed, and the door opened. Aryalla stared at him with huge black eyes, half fearfully. She reached out, caught his arm, dragged him into the tiny room. There was the smell of Frankonian incense in the air, the acrid bite of magic.

"You've been making spells," he said. "I had to find you! Where in the name of the gods have you been?"

“In gaol, as I told you.” Her face was almost ludicrous in surprise. "In Devadonides' prison cells? And you walk out a free man?”

"I cracked a skull or two. But I wanted to let you know we must leave Tantagol City."

Suspicion touched her eyes. "You've given up your quest for vengeance?"

"We're helpless against Devadonides while he sits inside his castle. It's set with demoniac traps. How many, I can't guess. But they're there."

"How can you know this?"

“Illis told me. The goddess I worship for her beauty."

“A goddess—pah She's helpless in Tantagol." It seemed to Kyrik that a snake hissed inside his head.

Aryalla gave him a sly glance. “Besides, Illis is dead, except when you call her name. And I don't think she's as lovely as you make her out to be."

Now Kyrik knew a snake hissed. "Just the same, I know it. I also know something else, that Jokaline will trace out the remnants of that spell you used to try and find me. Not much goes on in Tantagol City that the wizard doesn't learn, and tell Devadonides. So gather up your things, and let's be on our way."

“Where? Where is there a better place for us than here?"

“Illis! Will you argue with me?” Aryalla turned to lift up her cloak and the little coffer in which she carried certain necessities of her trade. But already it was too late. The heavy feet coming up the worn staircase swung Kyrik around. He growled low in his throat, put a hand on his serpent-twined hilt and drew his sword. It came into the light, long and bright, the blued blade glittering with rune-work

"Get behind me," he told Aryalla. “Be rid of her, Kyrik darling." He ignored the serpent voice, he lifted the sorceress in an arm and carried her toward a window. He glanced out and up. There were eaves overhanging the wall and window: alone and with time he might have made his escape. The door burst inward. Mailed men came into the room. At sight of Kyrik when they had been expecting only a woman, they drew their weapons.

"Surrender," commanded the captain. Kyrik charged. Bluefang swung in his hand as though alive, he slashed at faces and arms, he parried steel. His bull rush carried him upon and past the soldiers before they realized that he meant to fight. Three were down, but now the other were cutting at him and he dodged, ducked beneath the swing of sword-blades, to make his way toward the narrow door. His back to that opening, he fought as he had been wont to fight against his foes a thousand years before. And the human magic that was in his sword-hand had not deserted him. Two more men fell before the others drew back, gaping at him. Kyrik spared them no more than a swift glance before he turned his back and yanking at Aryalla, fled down the hall. Swiftly he went, with his war-boots barely touching the planks, then plunged down the stairs at breakneck speed.

Aryalla slipped and stumbled; she would have fallen but for his hand that kept her upright. They plunged out into the street; above their heads the guards captain was bellowing, shouting.“

“Stop that man! Stop him or die in his place!”

They ran, bent over and heeding not whether their feet splashed into slop that made little splotches on the cobblestones. Aryalla was whimpering, panting, able to run only because the barbarian was dragging her along.

“Let her go,” whispered Illis. “You’ll never make it with her as an anchor to your feet."

He disregarded the serpent voice, he owed a dept to the sorceress, a debt he meant to pay. He also had the feeling that he might have need of her necromantic powers if ever he were to take his place on the throne that belonged to him. And so Kyrik rumbled curses in his throat as his war-boots barely skimmed the cobblestones, while he dragged Aryalla sobbing in his wake.

The captain's shouts echoed overhead. In answer to those cries, men began to tumble from the taverns, moving out of wine-shops and alehouses to stare with big eyes as they saw the huge barbarian careening down on them with the sorceress racing to keep up. One or two men tried to stop him, they were battered aside as though they were no more than children. Kyrik disdained to use his sword on them.

But the streets were aroused. Men shouted, women screamed. Though life under Devadonides was none so pleasant that they wanted to die, still these people must cover themselves against reprisals, and so a hubbub went at his heels as he fled through the narrow streets and alleyways of the Old City. He knew this section well. The leather gambeson he wore under his shirt of fine mesh had been softened at the tannery he could see in the next block, he had come with his war captains to quench battle—fevered thirsts in an alehouse past which he was racing, long ago. A broken culvert he saw in the next block once had carried water into the palace.

No man knew him now, even his name was almost forgotten in this day and age. To these onlookers he was no more than a wandering sell-sword who dared to steal a woman and was making off with her. A few greedy ones might covet his great sword with the golden serpent twined about its handle, but Kyrik had a rough and ready look; he gave the impression that he knew how to use that blade, and would, were any to be so stupid as to try and intercept him. They would leave that to the soldiers.

And the soldiers were coming. As he dove with Aryalla into a cul-de-sac, Kyrik could hear their war-horns blowing, the cries of their officers striving to make order out of the chaos of a street chase.

Lookouts were being posted, fast runners were being dispatched down one street and then another to locate him.

"We're going to have to fight," he panted. "With—what?"

“My sword and your sorcery, girl." He swung her sideways off her feet so that her spine bumped into a cracked wooden door. "By Illis! You're a sorceress! Can't you think of some incantation that will hide us from the men who seek us?"

Aryalla licked her lips. "I—I can make conjurations—yes! But I need time!"

Kyrik grinned coldly. "Not even a simple spell, like drawing darkness upon the city and giving us the eyes to see through it?"

"Of course," she exclaimed indignantly. "The druidical priests of distant Albiona can do such tricks. I can do more."

"Then do it, woman. Or—too late!" Three warriors rounded the corner at the far end of the street. They saw Kyrik, bellowed, ran for him with naked swords. The barbarian cursed, yanked out Bluefang and went to meet them. Steel rang, drew sparks. Kyrik fought on the defensive, he had no wish to wound these men or slay them. And so he battled with blurring blade, seeking opportunities only to bring the flat of his blade down upon their skulls. One man fell, and then another. The third man turned and fled.

"He'll be back," groused Kyrik, "with others." His hand yanked Aryalla from the doorway, made her run as he ran, lightly and conserving energy. This was a mean section of the Old City, it was its most ancient part. Wandering tribesmen had settled here centuries before Kyrik had been born, driven from the south-lands by hordes of little dark men who fought like lunatics with short bows from horseback, and who worshiped a god called Alyut. Here had settled the Scyts, the Vandars, the Gotts; here had they lived in peace, out of necessity, their men and women mating and forming one mixture of races. They were barbarians, blonde and golden-haired, for the most part, with white skins that tanned darkly in the sun of Tantagol. Their greatest warriors were their chiefs, and the chiefs met when their supreme chieftain died, to select a new ruler. Until the advent of Kyrik's own grandfather, Kornak, that is, who led his armies east and west, north and south, and captured a great territory; Kornak then declared that his son and his son's son should be kings in Tantagol even when he died.

Now Kyrik was the last of his line. Ah, but not the least of that long heritage of warriors, chieftains and kings. In his veins was the blood of Kornak, of Erikin, of Kyron. Great warriors, these, and mighty chiefs. He would not be taken by Devadonides' mercenaries! Better to dare death itself.

Kyrik knew where death lay waiting for him and the woman who stumbled in weariness and fell against him from time to time as she staggered. In the middle of the Old City, which his ancestors had ruled, was the Well of Emptiness, a great hole in the ground-made by an extinct geyser, the wise men used to say—that had no bottom. He would make his last stand there, with the well-stones at his back and the woman in the crook of an arm. If his sword failed to cut a way to safety for them, he would leap into that well with Aryalla.

He came at last to the thoroughfare that stretched straight ahead toward the circle of stones that was the well. In front of him were armed mercenaries in the black and gold livery of Tantagol. They saw him, they shouted, they came with their swords and battleaxes glinting in the sunlight. Kyrik ran to meet them, a hand on Aryalla's wrist.

Bluefang flashed, darted. Kyrik could spare no time for the niceties of his swordplay. He must beat a path toward that well, turn his back to it and fight as he had never fought before. And so men went down before his point and edges, they fell to lie unmoving as his steel clove a way between them.

Aryalla sobbed at his side, teeth to her knuckles. Three men fell, then five, and the way was clear. Kyrik backhanded a blow at an officer, saw his steel drive into his throat, yanked his sword clear and bent to catch up the sorceress. As though she were a child, he bore her across those cobblestones and to the Well of Emptiness. Then he sat her on the wide rim and turned once more to face his foes.

They came at him, they were brave men who earned the silver rhodanthes that Devadonides paid them. They were veterans of his battles, they had never before faced a single swordsman who could hold off so many of their number. They disregarded wounds to hurl themselves at him, they pressed forward in their weight of numbers. And they died.

Like a shuttle was the blade of Kyrik as he drove it left and right, paused to parry and thrust. Untiring was his thickly thewed arm that wielded that heavy length of blue steel as though it were no more than a wooden stake. His edge bit, his point drove home, until the blade called Bluefang was wet with dripping blood. More men came running. War-horns sounded.

“By Illis!” Kyrik rasped. “They bring a regiment!”

He fought them as long as he could, but they came behind him onto the rim of the well, and he could not defend himself against sword-points at his back. For a little while he fought on the defensive, contenting himself with parrying to stay alive, but he knew that sooner or later, a blade would penetrate that marvelous defense, he would be wounded and lose blood. After a bitter exchange of sword-strokes, the warriors drew back to breathe hard and stare at Kyrik in something akin to awe.

“By the gods, fellow," said one, "Tantagol has never seen such blade-work. Why don't you give yourself up and come with us?"

"We'd welcome a man like you." Kyrik grinned at them, as one warrior to another. "Tell Devadonides I've sworn to push him off his throne. Tell him my name is—Kyrik of the Victories!”

He whirled and leaped, coming down on top of the well rim. His arm shot out, closed about Aryalla. For a moment he held her soft and yielding against him, listening to her cry out in terror. He sheathed his sword. Then he leaped into the well.

Please let us know in the comments if you like this story. If there is enough interest, we will publish more of this story.