Kyrik and the Lost Queen

  Classic Sword & Sorcery

  In the Tradition of Conan the Barbarian

  Was the beautiful maiden really Myrnis, Kyrik's gypsy lover?

  KYRIK

  and the

  LOST

  QUEEN

  Book 4

  by Gardner Francis Fox

  Originally printed in 1976

  digitally transcribed by Kurt Brugel 2017

  for the Gardner Francis Fox Library LLC

  Gardner Francis Fox (1911 to 1986) was a wordsmith. He originally was schooled as a lawyer. Rerouted by the depression, he joined the comic book industry in 1937. Writing and creating for the soon to be DC comics. Mr. Fox set out to create such iconic characters as the Flash and Hawkman. He is also known for inventing Batman‘s utility belt and the multi-verse concept.

  At the same time, he was writing for comic books, he also contributed heavily to the paperback novel industry. Writing in all of the genres; westerns, historical romance, sword and sorcery, intergalactic adventures, even erotica.

  The Gardner Francis Fox library is proud to be digitally transferring over 150 of Mr. Fox’s paperback novels. We are proud to present - - -

  Table of Contents:

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  PROLOGUE

  Adorla Mathandis stood on the little balcony, shivering.

  She was not cold, for a wrapper trimmed in okelort fur was wrapped about her otherwise nude body as she stared out across the city she ruled. There was fear in Adorla Mathandis, a terror that ran deep in her flesh and seemed almost to touch the marrow of her bones.

  The temple to the demon god Marrassa was almost complete. In a few days now, the gold leaf would be placed on the altar, the last bit of ivory and silver added to the sanctuary. And when that was done, the high priest Lyrrin Odanyor would summon Marrassa, and sacrifices would be made to him.

  Marrassa was an evil god. She had fought the building of that temple, but Ulmaran Dho, her high councilor, had been in favor of the idea, and when Ulmaran Dho and Lyrrin Odanyor joined forces here in Alkinoor, not even a queen was strong enough to oppose them.

  Her eyes touched the spires of that great temple, seeing how its stones were tinted red by the flame-fires of the workmen, how its spires glinted with silver radiance where they caught the pale moonlight of the twin moons high in the sky.

  Men and women would be dragged screaming before dread Marrassa, to be devoured in front of his silver and ivory and gold altar. Adorla Mathandis had a premonition that her own body might be offered to the demon-god, one of these nights.

  There was nothing she could do to help herself. The power of the kingship had declined ever since her father the king had fallen in battle and her uncle—weak and vicious Inthor Gardiw, who liked wine and women too much to care about the kingdom of Alkinoor—had ruled as her regent.

  Lyrrin Odanyor and Ulmaran Dho had come to power in those days when her uncle sat on the throne in her name. Those two men had replaced loyal members of the Palace Guard with foreigners who drew their rhodanthes from Lyrrin and from Ulmaran. When her uncle had died and she had ascended the throne, Adorla Mathandis had no power left to her.

  She moved from the stone balcony into her bedchamber, and there, before a wall mirror, she let the wrapper slide from her smooth shoulders. Naked, she faced the glass and studied her reflection.

  She was a beautiful woman. She knew that. Her face was piquant, oval, her eyes were slanted and deep brown. Her long hair was also brown, and it formed a long mantle about her shoulders, reaching almost to her buttocks.

  The high priest and her high councilor wanted her to marry, but she could not bear the thought of marriage with any of the men they had suggested. All of those men were weak, they were subservient either to the priest or the councilor. Adorla despised them all.

  She rubbed her arms with her hands, staring at her tip-tilted breasts with the red nipples, at the curves of her hips and the shapeliness of her legs. The man who would possess her must be a man, not a toady forever bowing to one man or another to curry favor. Was there such a man?

  Adorla did not think so. She had scanned face after face of all those who came to her court in Alkinoor, but nowhere did she see the man of whom she dreamed. Oh, not that her dream-man had a face. Oh, no. He was big, he was strong, he was able to stand against men like Ulmaran Dho and Lyrrin Odanyor. The only trouble was, she thought wryly, a man like that did not exist.

  She moved between the scarlet flames of the candles in their sconces, on her way to the gigantic ivory bed in which the kings and queens of Alkinoor had lain at night for centuries. This was her bed, now. She was sole ruler in great Alkinoor.

  Her red mouth twisted bitterly at that thought. She did not rule here. She had no say in what man lived and what man died. She was merely a figurehead. Ulmaran and Lyrrin ruled in Alkinoor. For all they cared, if she died tomorrow, it would not matter.

  As she slipped between the sheets, she wished bitterly for one friend, one strong man to whom she might turn in her fear and desperation. There was no one, of course. If there had been, either Ulmaran or Lyrrin would have made sure that he was killed. Tears came into her eyes as she stared upward at the ceiling, the bed-wrappings drawn tight about her. She was so alone. So much alone!

  After a time she slept and as she slept, she dreamed. In her dreams she was pursued by a faceless horror that ran after her forever, chasing her though the halls of her palace, across the streets of the city she ruled, even through deep rivers that tugged at her limbs.

  She twisted and turned in bed, some of the covers fell away to disclose the perfection of a bared breast or the curves of a pale leg. Tears flowed down her cheeks from beneath her long brown lashes.

  Adorla Mathandis did not see the man who came creeping into her bedchamber on bare feet. She did not suspect until a hard hand was placed across her mouth. Her eyes snapped open, but even then she did not guess the names of these night marauders who lifted and carried her out of her bedchamber and down the palace steps to a boat that lay docked at a wharf.

  By dawn, that boat was far from the city.

  In that same dawn, there was another queen in Alkinoor.

  Chapter ONE

  Kyrik came riding into Domilok in the glowing sunset, a big man on a big horse, a scarlet cape flung casually about his massive shoulders, his tawny hair blowing in the winds that whipped eastward from the ocean sea and the Doomsday Swamps. There was a hunger in Kyrik of the Victories: too long had he been away from Myrnis, the gypsy girl he loved.

  His mind dwelt on her body and the pleasures she could bring to him. Since she had gone away because of a death in her gypsy family, he had been alone. Well, almost alone. There had been that adventure with Olvia who had been the demon-god Kamartha, but all that was behind him now and he wanted to rest his eyes on little Myrnis.

  He came into the city at a slow walk, his eyes touching the bazaars, the street sellers, the wine merchants. His throat was dry, it needed the touch of cool Karanyan wine, his stomach cried for hot meats and freshly baked breads. All that would come, in time. Right now, he wanted sight of Myrnis.

  He walked the big Ocarian stallion across the cobblestones, pausing where a street urchin did somersaults to get his hands on a copper bit. It was good to be back among people after his long traveling.

  When he came to the tavern of the Spotted Dog, he walked the big stallion into the yard and swung down
from the saddle. He stretched his big frame, then, seizing the reins, led the horse into a stable. A boy came running, to whom he tossed a copper piece.

  "Rub him down and feed him, then give him the best stall you have. Do all this, and tomorrow I'll give you a rhodanthe."

  He moved away then, entering the inn. There were other travelers here, men from distant Thakispan and Parthanor, merchants out of Samakkan and Obarium. Kyrik walked amid the smells of cooking meat and fish, ignoring men and food, until he came to a long counter.

  "There is a girl here, a gypsy wench named Myrnis. She waits for me."

  The man to whom he spoke looked harried, almost frightened. He stared at Kyrik, touched his lips with a tongue, then let his eyes slide away.

  "There was a girl—two days ago."

  "And now?" The innkeeper shook his head. He whispered, "She went out of a morning and—never came back."

  Kyrik stood motionless. Two days ago. It was unlike Myrnis not to be here when he came. She would be as anxious to be folded in his muscled arms as he was to hold her. Kyrik did not like what he was hearing; it put cold fear deep in his gut.

  "Had she any enemies?" he asked. "None. At least, none I know." Nobody bothered a Romanoy. They went where the wind went, in their wagons and on their horses.

  They roved the world, and while men might not be glad to see them—for they stole horses and took whatever their thieving fingers might itch to hold—they were willing to barter with them. The gypsies had rare objects for sale, and the greedy souls of men ached to own them.

  Yet Myrnis would not stay away from the inn for so long a time unless something had happened to her. Anger touched the barbarian, together with the fear. He swung on a heel and moved toward the door.

  Forgotten was his hunger and his thirst. He must find Myrnis, or learn what had happened to her. His big hand lifted his sword Bluefang on its chains and hitched it about closer to his hand. If Myrnis had met with trouble, he wanted to be able to handle it.

  Through the gathering dusk he walked the streets of Domilik. His eyes were alert, suspicious, as he scanned the faces of the men and women whom he passed, and more than once he stood motionless to let the ebb and flow of people move past him.

  Once he thought he saw her, and went swiftly to where a woman walked. But it was not Myrnis, though she looked like her and made eyes at him.

  Kyrik muttered, "If I can't find her I'm seeking, I'll come back for you, girl."

  She would have held him to her by opening her garment and showing her bare breasts beneath it, but the warlock-warrior was too worried to be gripped by the fever of desire. He pressed a coin into her soft palm and moved away with a long stride.

  Night came into Domilik like blue velvet, warm and soft. High above the stars glittered, and the two moons swung lazily overhead. Now the smells of wine and hot meats came from the taverns that lined the streets, and there was laughter and the music of plucked strings.

  Yet always Kyrik Searched. In his heart, he knew he would not find her. Not after two days. She was either dead by now or had been abducted by some rich merchant to grace his harem. Fury grew in Kyrik until his great bod trembled.

  He would find her. He would devote his life to learning what had happened to her, here in Domilik. He would not rest until he learned that, and had taken his vengeance, if vengeance were called for.

  His belly rumbled, and he knew that he needed food.

  He was far from the Spotted Dog Inn here at the edge of the great marketplace. He would have stepped into any of the taverns, the doors of which were open invitingly, except that he felt Myrnis might possibly return to the Spotted Dog, having gone about some business of her own.

  Kyrik moved back the way had had come, through the bazaar and the streets and alleyways leading off it. He walked swiftly, yet always using his eyes to scan the faces of the people where they were to be seen. At this hour, the streets were almost empty. Only an occasional harlot wandered here, looking for a man.

  And then, along a narrow lane, he saw her. She was in rags, and her feet were bare, but he knew that body, that brown hair that fell almost to her pert buttocks. She was pressed against the rock wall and she was gasping, looking fearfully around her.

  Kyrik grinned and moved forward. At the same time, four men came into the narrow passageway from the other side. They were big men and they carried swords and daggers. When they saw Myrnis, they began to run.

  She whirled from the wall against which she had been leaning and fled. She ran straight at Kyrik, gasping and sobbing. She saw him but she did not recognize him, apparently, for she went to run past him.

  The warrior-warlock thrust out an arm, gathered her in. "Easy now, Myrnis. I'm here."

  She tried to fight him, but she was weak as a kitten beside his bulk and massive muscles. He tucked her in against him with his left arm to keep his right arm free to use his sword.

  For those men slowed and came at him at a walk, and as they walked, they drew their blades. Kyrik grinned, but it was not a nice grin, there was in it the savagery of the hungry wolf and the fury of a starving tiger.

  “Na, na,” he said to those men. “This woman is mine."

  “The woman must die,” a man said.

  "And who's to kill her?" They came at him then, confident in their numbers. But Kyrik fought not as other men fight but as a wounded bear might battle, crazed in its fury and with a disregard for anything but bringing death to its enemies.

  In the narrow alley there was no room to swing a sword. It was cut and thrust and parry, but Kyrik was a master swordsman, and Bluefang was so carefully balanced that it seemed no heavier to his hand than a bamboo wand.

  He drove in, warding off a sword, cut sideways at a nick, seeing his steel bite into flesh and draw blood. Almost instantly, he was jerking back his blade and parrying a blow. With Myrnis in one arm, he was inhuman, cold. He fought to kill and to kill as swiftly as he knew how.

  Bluefang darted in the pale light, drove into a chest. It was whipped aside to fend off the attacks of the two remaining swords, and with them it seemed almost to toy.

  He heard Myrnis whimpering, which vaguely surprised him. Myrnis knew how he could fight. She should have been beside him, urging him on. The thought of what men like these may have done to her so to change her angered him still further.

  He drove those remaining men against a wall and his sword appeared almost to mesmerize them, so swiftly did it move here and there, forcing them to guard themselves and forget about trying to reach her.

  Kyrik parried a blade, then with the swiftness of thought he brought Bluefang in under an opposing sword and ran its cold steel through a man's chest. In that same moment, he wrenched the sword out and turned it on the last man.

  That man fought with the desperation of the cornered rat. He parried, he retreated, he sought to distract Kyrik by filling a hand full of coins and hurling them at him even as he stepped into a thrusting movement.

  The warrior-warlock beat against that blade, turned it.

  His left hand shot out, closed its fingers about the throat of the lone remaining man. Eyes bulged in the face that stared back at him. The mouth opened, gasping for air that could not get down into his windpipe.

  Slowly those iron fingers closed, gripping and holding. The man who hung in their clutch raised

  his hands, dropping his blade, as he sought to pry

  them loose. For long moments they stood like that, with Kyrik pressing his opponent against the stone wall.

  When he let him go, the man was dead. His body crumpled and lay upon the cobblestones, inert and lifeless.

  Kyrik knelt to wipe his blade on that dead man until it was clean. Then he looked up at Myrnis.

  She had her back to the wall and she was breathing fitfully. Her brown eyes stared down at him, wide with terror.

  "What's the matter with you?" he asked. "You're safe enough, now." At a thought, he scowled blackly. "What did they do to you?"

  She did not answer
him, just went on staring down at him. When he rose to his feet to put out an arm to her, she struck it aside.

  "Don't touch me! Let me alone." Kyrik rose to his feet, vaguely puzzled. "What's wrong with you? I came as fast as I could. You were early. I wasn't late.

  They eyed each other, and Kyrik read abysmal terror in the girl. She was trembling, whimpering, her eyes slid this way and that, as though searching for something she knew would not appear.

  After a moment, the girl seemed to steady. She drew deep breaths, and her trembling legs steadied. She looked down at the dead men, then at Kyrik. Her tongue came out to moisten her tips.

  "I am grateful to you for—for what you did. Those men would have—killed me."

  Kyrik hooted. “They'd have raped you, maybe, but they wouldn't have killed you. They might have sold you as a slave—you'd fetch a good price at the bazaar — but kill you? Nonsense."

  She lifted her head proudly and stared at him. “They wouldn't have dared let me live to talk."

  "Talk About what?"

  "About who I am." Kyrik scratched his golden poll. There was amusement in him, but there was worry, too. This wasn't at all like Myrnis. She was a sensible girl. This girl before him seemed frightened out of her wits.

  “What happened?" he asked gently. “What did they do to you?"

  Her tongue slid around her lips. "I can't trust you. I—I can't trust anybody."

  Kyrik scowled. "Look, Myrnis. I don't know what game you're playing, but it's time to stop it. I'm hungry, I haven't eaten all day, so come along with me and we'll talk about it."

  He put his hand on her arm. She would have shaken it off, but his fingers were like iron bands, so great was his strength, and she could only pant and quiver in his grip.