Chapter 08 - 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.

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Chapter 8

Understanding burst in Kyrik. He needed not the hissed cry that was the goddess to tell him where to place his blued blade. He was warlock, he was warrior. Intuitively, it came to him. And yet Illis spoke to him, counseled him.

"Jokaline is the link His necromancies summoned Absothoth up from this gray world, his magical energies kept him slave to his command. Destroy Jokaline and snap the thread. Destroy Jokaline. Jokaline! Jokaline!"

Kyrik whirled sideways and dove. The necromancer screamed, whirled to run. If Kyrik needed proof of his decision, he had it before him in the long, skinny legs of the mage, his flapping robes and pumping arms. Jokaline knew!

"Touch not your feet to the ground more than you can help, lover! Already Absothoth abandons Devadonides, turns on you. Once he grips you with his suckers, you won't be able to move!

That voice was as a scream in his brain. And Kyrik felt the nippings of tiny teeth at his war-boots as he ran. In another moment or two the ground would catch him, melt his flesh and his bones, drain him of his blood. Kyrik stumbled. To fall meant certain death.

And then Kyrik called upon his battle skills. Back went his arm. Forward it shot. His fingers loosed their grip and Bluefang sped through the air as might a steel arrow, straight for the back of the running magician. Time hung suspended for the barbarian. He saw the racing necromancer, the speeding sword. His own feet stumbled, felt the nippings of tiny teeth, staggered.

His sword went into Jokaline. From backbone through his chest and out in front of him, went that blued steel blade-red now, where it thrust from his rib-cage, dripping blood—and Jokaline cried out with the terror of death inside him. He fell forward, dying. . .

Blackness swirled about Kyrik. He woke to the sound of a woman screaming, opened blurred eyes to see the gypsy girl, Myrnis, springing after Kangor who was the commander of the palace guards. A dagger glittered in the gypsy's hand. Kyrik saw dimly the faint, blurry outlines of Jokaline's necromantic chamber.

Kangor laughed and sprang away from Myrnis toward the glass prism. His sword was raised on high. “I’ll keep them all in that land where Absothoth rules," he bellowed. .

Kyrik sought to move to stop him, but could not. Myrnis leaped. Her dagger flashed in the candlelight. To the hilt she buried that blade inside Kangor. And the guards commander screeched, head thrown back, feet missing their steps so that he fell forward and lay upon the prism for a long moment. Then he slid down its faceted surface as had Jokaline, but when he touched the floor, he was dead.

Myrnis stared around her, panting. Blood dripped from her dagger. And Kyrik found the blackness leaving him, saw the outline of the magic chamber solidify, grow strong. He rested on his side, staring. All about him, as if out of the mists, the others were appearing. Aryalla, Almorak, the dead body of Devadonides, badly shrunken, and that of Jokaline, still with Bluefang in him, were now in the chamber with him. Myrnis cried out at sight of the barbarian, ran to him. "Kyrik! By the gods, I was right. We were leaving Tantagol City when you came into it with your outlaws. I saw you, recognized you. I brought Romanoy fighting men with me to side those outlaws who were forced to fight Devodonides' guards."

Her brown hands pulled him to his feet. He asked, “There was a battle?" She hooted, "Not much of a one. The outlaws and my gypsies fought like fiends, they were battling for freedom and the overthrow of Devadonides. They cut down the guards until they surrendered—and all that was left of them—except for Kangor who turned and fled, with me on his heels."

Myrnis turned, pointed at the prism. “He would have shattered that!"

“And kept us penned in that blackness between the magical and the ordinary worlds," whispered Aryalla, ashen of face and trembling, moving toward them with Almorak to support her. "There, we would have floated, drifted for all eternity. . ."

She sobbed. Myrnis smiled gently, nodding. Kyrik growled, putting a hand on the gypsy girl. "Aye, he would have made himself ruler of Tantagol, I think. He must have watched from some hidden place, seen all that took place. He went to lead his men in the fight, then when he knew that battle lost, came here to keep us—where we were!"

Almorak rumbled, “What of that carrion?" His hand indicated the body of dead Devadonides. Kyrik chuckled. "We'll give him a royal funeral, by the gods. We'll bury him with his forefathers. I want no question about his being alive, to stir up men to rebel against my rule in Tantagol."

Aryalla glanced at him, lips curving into a smile. "Then you will be its king?"

"In name only, girl. Not for me the throne with its invisible bands to chain a man to duty." His green eyes studied the sorceress. “You shall be my regents, you and Almorak. How like you that, outlaw? Regent of Tantagol City!"

Almorak, grinned, then scowled. "I'd be a bad regent, Kyrik. I'd cut taxes, I'd repeal all out-lawry, I'd think of my people first, myself last."

Kyrik nodded grimly. “And so say I You have permission to do all these things, for it's what I intended doing myself, if ever I did become king again. No more wars of conquest. Only—peace!"

Myrnis asked slyly, "And what will you be doing, King Kyrik?"

He grinned down at her, finding her appealing in her torn skirt, the sheer blouse and leather bodice. His arm went around her yielding middle, drawing her to him.

"You Romanoys travel across the world. I may go with you, to see it." He drew a deep breath, eyes bright. "I've been a long time dead. I want to see the changes that Time has made in my world. I want to drink deep of ale in strange taverns, fight men I've never met, sample foods from Arazalla to northern Arborea. In short, I want to live."

Aryalla said quietly, "You have a duty to your people."

"Not I. You wanted vengeance, woman. There's your revenge."

His finger pointed at the thing that had been King Devadonides. Aryalla stared, nodding. From the body to the chamber her eyes moved. "This place shall be boarded up. Closed as long as I'm co-regent with Almorak."

The outlaw had been studying Kyrik. "Aren't you afraid Aryalla and I may usurp your kingship? By the gods! I'd never trust any man I’ve only known for such a little while to sit on my throne. Nor woman, either."

Kyrik shrugged. "I never sought the throne. I only promised to overthrow Devadonides." He brooded at the dead king. "May-hap someday I'll want to rule. But not now, not for a long time. You two shall sit in my place."

He showed his teeth in a cold grin. "As long as you rule well, that is. By Illis! Kingship corrupts a man. Its power goes to his head. Don't let it go to yours. Or I'll come back to take it away from you."

He put an arm about Myrnis. "Come, girl. I want food and drink, and a few of your sweet-lipped kisses."

Aryalla protested, “What about the dead king?" Kyrik sighed. "Aye! I do have a duty, after all. I must bring order, here in Tantagol, first—before I can go wandering. Let's to the guards, below."

He yanked Bluefang out of Jokaline, cleaned and sheathed it, feeling the warmth of Illis—snake against his hand. They went out of the necromantic chamber, Kyrik in the lead. Down the staircase to the outlaws and the sullen guards they went, and here Kyrik paused to eye the disarmed men.

"I rule in Tantagol now," he told them. "Devadonides is dead—slain by Absothoth himself. My name is Kyrik of the Victories."

Their eyes lighted up, studying him. These men were warriors, they recognized in him a warrior greater than they, a king to whom it would be an honor to dip a knee or bend a head.

“You can wear my livery—or you can leave Tantagol. I offer you your lives and the choice. Kangor too is dead, and this man, this Almorak, will be coregent and your commander from now on."

A big man with a scar on his cheek growled, “We like your terms, Kyrik. We are your men."

He went with his guard about him out into the city streets. There were people here, staring and worried, and Kyrik went among them to take their hands and speak with them, promising a lessening of their taxes, an easing of their lives. There would be no more torturers; if a man committed a crime and deserved to die so that the rest of society would be safe, then it would be clean, swift death.

Through the night he went, into the taverns and the alehouses, and spoke with the common man and his woman, and left them with tears in their eyes.

Peace and contentment was come upon all Tantagol, he assured them, there would be a celebration at his expense when men could feast and become drunk and make love, and there would be no curfew, nor any spies to stare upon them and report their words.

Myrnis walked with him all the way, swaggering a little. From time to time her brown eyes assessed the bulk of the barbarian, soft and tender in their regard. She would touch him with her hand as she stood beside him, or brush his hip with hers as they walked the cobble-stoned streets.

And when the two moons began to sink beyond the city spires, it was Myrnis who turned and strode with him back toward the palace, for there Kyrik would sleep this night in evidence of his kingship, and Myrnis meant to sleep beside him. His arm was about her waist, holding her close, his head was bent to stare down into her eyes.

Thus it was that Kyrik did not see the pulsing light that framed itself against the windows of his palace for a brief moment—and was gone.

They came into the palace, guards saluted. Up the staircase to the bedroom which was now his by right of kingship, came Kyrik of the Victories. Servants had changed the bedding, had replaced the livery of King Devadonides with his own gold dragon on a black field. He noted these things only vaguely, for he was more interested in the breasts of Myrnis which he could see half revealed by her blouse, pushed up by her laced leather bodice, and in the sway of her hips and the stridings of her shapely bare legs.

As he unstrapped his sword-belt, Kyrik touched his eyes to the golden snake entwined about the hilt.

Illis had not spoken to his mind in a long time. Yet she was still within the snake, and a sense of uneasiness touched Kyrik.

But Myrnis was undoing her bodice lacings and her breasts were pushing out at him, so he forgot Illis and his momentary worry, and grinned, stripping of his habergeon, his war-boots and his gambeson. Naked they met in the middle of the room, kissed. Kyrik picked up the gypsy girl, carried her to the huge bed. He fell on her, was clasped in turn. . .

Dawn was in the air when Illis whispered to his mind, rousing him from satiated slumber. Kyrik turned, groaning. Myrnis was a weight upon his chest, his arm tightened about her sleeping body.

“Go away, Illis. I've worshiped to you all through what was left of the night. Let me sleep."

"Sluggard!Death creeps on you!" Kyrik opened blurry eyes. Tiredness fell from him like a garment, for well he knew the goddess spoke not idly, at any time. Myrnis stirred, moaned a protest.

“Ignore the girl, fool Kyrik–or you die!" He came out of bed as Myrnis protested sleepily. Naked he stood on the carpeted floor, and his hand went to the serpent hilt of Bluefang.

“What is it? Who brings death to Kyrik?"

"Absothoth comes!"

"Absothoth? But that demon's back in his gray world. He can't harm me. Why should he?"

"Why should he? You cheated him of Jokaline. It was Jokaline he wanted, most of all. First Devadonides, then Almorak and Aryalla. Then you. This was to have been the manner of their dying. You he would save, then take just before he did!

Jokaline, except that I told you Jokaline was the bond keeping us in that world. And when you attacked the old mage, Absothoth had to slay you."

“And did not."

"He comes now, Kyrik And—nothing can stop him."

There were tears in Illis' voice. Already she sorrowed for her lover. Kyrik felt a vast anger. "Is there any way to slay him?"

"Nay. None!"

Myrnis was sitting up in bed, naked as Kyrik. Her eyes were big, her slightly swollen lips open. "Why stand you there, lover?"

His green eyes touched her softness. Kyrik grinned, swung aside, moved to a palace window. He pushed it open, felt the cool night air.

“Myrnis, come to me.” She sprang from the rumpled bed-coverings, ran naked to his side, eyes questioning. But before she could speak, she sniffed and made a face.

“That stench, Kyrik! What is it?"

“Absothoth," he breathed. “He comes for me." Myrnis shuddered, crept into his arm. “Then we'll die together. I don’t want to live, without you.”

"I'm not dead yet," he growled. The fetid odor was stronger now, and they could hear the faint slither of something in the dark hall beyond the closed door of the bedchamber. His hand was tight about Bluefang's hilt, his every muscle quivered. The demon god was coming. He had fled from that gray land which was himself, had come into Kyrik's world after him, seeking his own vengeance.

His eyes stared through the gathering dawn that lighted the room. He saw the big oak door, saw also that which was beyond it, seeping in through the crack between floor and door. A black slime, sliding, spreading. . .

Myrnis screamed. Her flesh jammed against that of Kyrik, she turned her head and buried her face against his chest. "Kill it, Kyrik—kill it."

“Illis says no man can kill that thing.” The black slime spread, came across the carpet for them. Kyrik sensed the malevolence of the thing, it was proud and its pride demanded that he who had robbed him of his vengeance on Jokaline must die, must be absorbed by this slime that was his essence.

And still Kyrik waited. Not until the ebon ooze was a yard from his bare foot and Myrnis had fainted in his arms did he turn and fling himself at the open window. Naked he went out into the dawn and his hands and toes sought holes in the worn stone ornaments of the palace wall. Myrnis lay across a shoulder, inert. He did not feel her weight as he began his climb.

Upward he went, always upward, until the lead tiles of the roof were just above him. He pulled himself up, ran along the tiles until he came to a narrow door that opened to one side of a stone chimney. “What are you doing?” Illis asked his brain. "There's only one way to stop that thing. Destroy the prism between its world and ours, as Kangor would have done if Myrnis hadn't killed him!"

"Absothoth knows. He speeds, now."

"Then it becomes a race between us." He flung open the narrow door, ran down the stone steps. This was part of that labyrinthine way that twined and twisted between the palace rooms, all the way down into the ancient dungeons. As a boy he had played in these hidden corridors, spied upon the servants; he knew them as he knew his face.

Down those treads three at a time he ran, one arm holding Myrnis to him, his right hand gripping Bluefang. He opened a door, stepped into the necromantic chamber. Already it had been boarded up, he could see the nails that Almorak had ordered the palace carpenters to place there.

The doors would not stop Absothoth, who could flow under and around them. The blackness would be in the room, very soon. There would be no time, then, even to think. He must act now.

The black slime poured over and under the barred door, its odor nauseating. Kyrik sprang, blued blade raised high.

Sprang also—Absothoth—The demon god shaped itself into a monstrous humanoid with long arms, with demon flames burning where its eyes should have been, and it lunged for the barbarian. He was too far from the prism. Absothoth would reach it first—

"It seeks only to escape! Let it go!"

“Never," bellowed the barbarian—and struck. Downward flashed that blued blade, through the ebon darkness it clove a path. Through its humanoid shape to the very prism went his sword. And its steel rang on that crystal, rang and rang. . . . .

A thousand arpeggios of crystalline tinklings answered that shattering touch of steel on faceted crystal. A pizzicato of unearthly sibilances beat against his ears. Magic was dying here with the demon-god, and both offered up their death cries as one, blending into carillons of agony, of bleak despair, of essences beyond human comprehension, utterly destroyed. Those chimings were everywhere about him, slamming against him, buffeting. He reeled and swayed.

And Illis—screamed! There was the death note in her voice. Kyrik froze, weeping inside himself. Had he killed the goddess who loved him, who protected and sheltered him? This he could not believe, and yet—

The blackness was gone. The crystal prism lay shattered. And Bluefang was in his right hand. Myrnis still lay unconscious on the floor. Ah, but the golden snake—lay limp also, beside a shard of broken prism.

Kyrik whispered, “Illis! Speak to me!” His hands raised the snake, held it. Slowly that serpentine form changed, altered, shimmering in the dawn-light flooding into the necromantic chamber. Dimly, Kyrik sensed what had happened. Only by her own powers, by her intervention, could he have slain that which was Absothoth. And Illis had offered her strength to his blade, had caused it to shear through non-flesh and into the crystal prism.

The snake was gone. Illis lay naked in his arms, broken, lifeless. Kyrik wept, silently. Slowly he turned away, leaving that chamber and the living woman inside it, to carry the dead woman down the stairs of the hidden way, to the altered room where he had placed the Lust-stone.

Tenderly he placed her on the altar, ran his eyes over her golden hair, the pearly flesh of her body. He knelt before that altar and that body a long time, grieving.

Would Illis ever come to him again? She had given her life for him. Or perhaps—only her demonic energies, which had caused her to flee back into that realm from which she had always come to aid him. At this thought, Kyrik raised his head, smiled.

“I shall wait,” he told her cadaver. “Someday, you'll return to me."

He turned then and went up to the chamber where Myrnis was stirring and her he carried through the secret passageway and back to his bedchamber. She was murmuring now, and he reassured her, telling her that the danger was over, there was nothing more to fear. He placed her in the bed, sat beside her.

"We'll be away tomorrow for the wild-wood," he growled. "Let Aryalla and Almorak have Tantagol, I want it not." With a faint smile, he looked at her. “And you, girl? I saw the way you clung to me when we walked the city streets this night. Would you rather stay here in the city and rule a country as my queen?"

"It would be nice to be a queen," she said wistfully.

"You'll be my queen. Isn't that enough?" Myrnis smiled and nodded, putting her arms about him and drawing his lips down to the kisses of her mouth. Outside the open window, a bird was caroling.

END

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