Swords & Heroes Story #8

Queen of the Shifting City by Tim Hanlon

Sep 03, 2024

If I get my act together, I’ll be publishing a collection of Tim’s ‘Harkan the Swordsman’ stories this fall. October, maybe. November at the latest. It will include this week’s story, of course, and one from our Swords & Heroes anthology titled, “The Swordsman and the Sea Witch.” Plus brand new stories that tie our hero’s journeys into an exciting, overarching quest. Watch for a Kickstarter announcement in a few weeks. Until then, we present S&H Story #8. - Ed.

Queen of the Shifting City by Tim Hanlon

The mare the prince had given Harkan the Swordsman was a big-hearted beast and she would not give in to the force of the sandstorm. Harkan walked and held the stirrup of the plain leather saddle as the horse plodded forward, giving up all thoughts of controlling the direction. The mare struggled on as the wind changed course, so that always it seemed to blow at their faces. The Nordman went with her, for he knew that even his prodigious strength was naught against nature’s might.

Finally, the swirl of sand eased. It was quiet now, apart from the big mare’s panting, and the silence was strange. They could be the only two creatures left in this world of sand and grit. Then, as Harkan shaded his eyes from the sun and turned to study where they were, he saw a city surrounded by high walls not a long bowshot distant.

Harkan unwrapped his spare shirt from around the mare’s eyes and patted the noble steed on the neck in thanks. When he moved to examine her ears, he heard the whack of the arrow hitting the mare’s neck and felt her judder with pain. Blood turned the sand on her neck dark brown, and the mare slumped forward and then settled to the earth. The brave horse lay on her side and looked at Harkan but did not have the strength to lift her head anymore.

Harkan the Swordsman snatched his shield from where it hung on the saddle. He had it up and turned as the second arrow thumped into the leather facing. The swordsman crouched behind the beast’s bulk, and the anger at the callous slaughter of the fine animal bound his chest like a too small byrnie.

Two figures thundered towards Harkan, robed horsemen on wild, fine-limbed steeds. The front rider raised a bow, and an arrow flicked out. Harkan braced. His sturdy war-board caught the missile. The rider went left and drew another arrow, his moves fluid and rehearsed like he was on a practice field. Harken was not a harmless target though. As the rider swung towards him, the swordsman rose and unleashed his throwing axe. It was a fine throw and the hardened head thunked into the rider’s chest causing the arrow to fly wide. The rider went backwards from the saddle, and the horse, well trained, stopped by its fallen master.

Harken was up and bounding forward. The second bandit, his scarf now flying free and face covered by a mighty beard, turned his beast at the Nordman. He held a lance high, this rider, and prepared to ride the swordsman down and finish him upon the ground.

Harkan had another plan and, as the plunging steed turn towards him, the big man dropped his shoulder into the back of his shield and slammed the war-board forward just like he was hitting a shield wall. Harkan set his feet, his rough-hewed limbs bulging with strain, and the horse stumbled sideways. The rider’s counter strike went wide, and Harken gathered himself again and slammed the horse a second time. It lost its footing and began to fall, and the bearded man, in a display of athleticism, jumped clear, landing on his feet.

The rider lifted a small metal shield from his belt and held it in his left hand. A smile hung from his face; his shoulders were confident, his body relaxed. The bearded man held his lance low and moved so that his horse, now again on four limbs, protected his back.

“That was a fine animal,” said Harkan. He stood with shield forward and sword ready, a bear to the robed man’s leopard. “You did not need to kill her so wantonly.”

“You misunderstand. I wanted the horse,” said the bandit, “but my servant’s aim was off. May he wake in hell!”

“You will be beside him when he does.”

The bearded man gestured behind Harkan. “What business do you have with that cursed city?”

“The city is unknown to me,” said Harkan as he cleared the arrows from his shield. “I have but one profession. Death dealing!”

The bearded man laughed. “I am Fadeer, the King of the Flowing Desert. I will be proud to take your head.”

“Harkan. Soon to be called King Killer.”

Fadeer laughed again and as the notes dropped he sprang forward. His lance lashed out and it was a beautiful strike.

Harkan met the killing beauty with his stout shield, the wood booming with the impact. The sharp head of the lance dug into the shield face and was held for a moment. On instinct, the Bandit King drove forward against the resistance, but Harkan, who was gifted a war-board on his name day, felt the pressure. He let the shield swivel in his grip like a door opening, and the bearded man stumbled forward, the resistance gone.

Fadeer tried to gather himself, but Harkan was too swift and his tempered sword struck. The point went in under the Bandit King’s right arm and Harkan felt the barrier of a hidden mail shirt that could not resist the force of the thrust. Harkan’s sword sundered muscle, collapsed lungs, and pierced the bearded man’s heart as it made its destructive journey.

The big Nordman withdrew the blade and raised it to hew the man in two, but Fadeer slumped to the ground like the wounded mare had before, and his eyes looked at Harkan without comprehension.

The swordsman was on a quest to fulfil a promise, but he knew that he would not last in the desert without some respite. Harkan collected from the saddle bag of the fallen mare the bag of coins he had been gifted. He levered his throwing axe free of the first bandit’s chest and tucked it in his belt.

Moving carefully so as to not cause alarm, he gathered both of the bandits’ horses. Fadeer’s deep black mount resisted at first but the hulking Nordman spoke to it quietly in the language of his people and it relented. Eventually he swung into the saddle and turned the beasts to the city.

The gates to the walled city looked sturdy, hard wood banded by metal. He waited patiently in front of the entrance. Slowly the heavy gate began to swing open and Harkan led his newly acquired mounts within.

It was cooler in the shade of the tall walls, and Harkan paused for a moment. He examined the parapet but it ran clear for as far as he could see. The only living creatures in the open courtyard beside himself and the two horses was a squat man covered in a beautiful armoured coat and a woman clothed in an elaborate dress of elegant green silk.

The squat man stopped a respectful distance from the swordsman and raised his gauntleted hand. His body was wide and looked like nothing in the known world would be able to push it over. His face under a conical helm was surprisingly pleasant.

“Well met, warrior,” the man said. “I am Captain Nasser of the Royal Guard. That was, I must say, a fine piece of work we witnessed. The so-called King of the Desert has been a thorn in our side for some time. Nothing more than a bandit who thought too highly of himself.”

Harkan inclined his head. “Harkan. Sometimes called Icebound due to the land I once called home. You can honour me with a drink of water.”

Nasser sketched a quick bow and his scale armour rippled in the sunlight. “Jameela will see to your needs,” he said, indicating the woman beside him. “And present you to the Lady of our city. She watched your deeds with interest.” The guard captain held out his hand, palm up. “I will see to your new horses.”

Harkan passed both sets of reins to the stout captain. He turned to the woman. She seemed slight beside his northern-bred bulk but showed no fear. Her veiled face gave away little, and the long, flowing robes obscured the rest. Harkan, though, enjoyed the way her eyes held his as she spoke.

“Our queen will receive you in her private garden,” she said. “I will show you the way.”

“And your role here?” asked Harkan.

Jameela paused in her turn and cocked her head. “I am merely the queen’s body servant. Of no consequence.”

“I will judge that myself, Jameela the queen’s mere body-servant,” said Harkan the Swordsman with humour.

The woman studied the big Nordman. “You are a brave warrior,” she said. “The queen has a special interest in brave heroes, Harkan, sometimes called Icebound.”

Harkan went to speak again, but Jameela turned away and the swordsman had no choice but to follow the silk-clad woman. He studied the streets as they passed and eventually the townsfolk began to appear. They peered at him from the shadow of an awning or the gloom of a doorway. They were universally thin, the denizens, as if desiccated by the desert they inhabited. None spoke nor raised a hand in greeting, and there was an eerie emptiness in their furtive eyes.

The Nordman found himself at last in a vast garden surrounded by the high walls of the citadel. He stopped and looked at a plant with leaves as big as a bull’s head and marvelled at the waxy surface under his fingers. He heard Jameela cough lightly, and he caught up to her in three big strides.

“Apologies, maiden,” Harkan said.

Jameela looked at him, and perhaps he could see a smile creasing the thin material that covered her mouth. Either way, her gaze was focused on him for an almost uncomfortable time. Then the veiled woman indicated a break in the foliage. “The queen is within.”

Harkan gave a bow and turned to enter, but she rested a hand on his arm. “I will mind your weapons, warrior.”

The Nordman was reluctant to relinquish his arms, but in the shadows under the lush boughs he could see nothing to fear and his curiosity was peaked and his thirst still not satiated. He passed his treasured sword and throwing axe to the slight woman. Jameela held them in the crook of her arm like she was familiar with such actions.

The woman looked at him still and Harkan waited, even though the prospect of refreshment beckoned. Her eyes were the dark brown just shy of black, and they held his own with a wrestler’s grip.

“The queen admires brave warriors,” she said again in a low voice. “But beware, for thorns are hidden under the brightest petals.”

Harkan was unsure what exactly this referred to but the tone was clear. Still, he had faced all manner of wild beasts in his homeland and new perils on his journey so far, and a monarch of a small city in the middle of a wide desert would not vex the swordsman. He stepped through the space between the boughs.

It was cool within and dim, and Harkan Icebound paused to let his eyes adjust. After days in the desert sun the gloom was like a cold cloth pressed to his face. The Nordman smiled at the simple pleasure of it.

“You are enjoying yourself, warrior?”

The voice came from across the artificial glen; it was liked water running gently over rocks in a stream. Harkan turned his head and saw a woman, silk-draped and tall. She stepped forward so that the big man could see her more clearly, but paused within the shadows of the far side of the garden space.

Harkan bowed at the queen, deeper than he usually did, but still with the offhand manner of the untamed Nordmen. “Your highness,” he said. “I am Harkan Icebound. At your service.”

“You have done us a great service already, Harkan Icebound,” said the queen. “For that upstart bandit was growing overly confident and brash.”

“Why have you not had your captain deal with him before this? He seems a capable fellow.”

“Even though the captain is, as you say, a capable fellow, I prefer that none of my people venture beyond the walls of the city in these times.”

The queen came a little closer, and she indicated a cup beside a large enamelled jug on the table. The hand that appeared was adorned with all manner of precious stones and bands of gold. These caught the diffuse light within the glade and sparkled with brilliance.

“Some water. Cooled by an underground spring.”

Harkan the Swordsman crossed to the goblet of water and, indeed, it was cool to the touch. He drank deeply. It was the most refreshing drink he had consumed in a long time. His throat, constricted by the sand and heat, relaxed for the first time since his desert crossing began.

The queen was veiled but the material was diaphanous, and Harkan could see her face beneath as she studied him. Like the water to his throat, her visage soothed his eyes, for she was of a striking countenance. High cheekbones supported eyes that were at once arresting and welcoming. Her mouth and chin were of no lesser form, and Harkan found he now stood with the goblet of water half way to his mouth. The monarch laughed. The swordsman came to himself and finished the water.

“You are a strong warrior,” the queen said. “From what Icebound land do you come?”

Harkan gestured outside. “From a land to the north as unlike this as you could imagine. There, the sun must rest from the labour it undertakes to bake this land.”

The queen smiled. “And are all men there such as you?”

He shrugged his wide shoulders. “I have never considered such things before. I know who I am and that is enough.”

The queen approached then, and she ran her hand up the Nordman’s arm. She was still shrouded by shadow and the thin veils, but Harkan was not so young that he did not understand her intention. Nor so old that he could ignore it.

This close there was a heat, an emanation, which haloed the queen’s form as she stood before him but, lo, she was a beautiful woman for all that. The Nordman was made of nothing beside flesh and blood and such an anomaly barely registered in his mind.

The monarch ran a hand down the swordsman’s arm and traced a line through the dried sweat and grit of his perilous journey. “There is a place for men such as you in this dry, lifeless city,” she said softly. “Follow me, my champion, for your reward.”

The swordsman followed the queen. Harkan had never been the most garrulous and found he had no tongue at all now. However, his feet could still carry him in the regent’s wake, her fine, thin robes rippling like the gentle waves in the harbour of his home.

The queen’s chamber was wide and dim. The furniture was sparse, but a table held another enamel jug of water. The floor held an intricate pattern of cool, wooden squares, smooth beneath Harkan’s boots. Along the walls were displays of armour and weapons of varying styles and antiquity, and Harkan wondered for a moment as to the story behind them. Then the queen turned to him and such thoughts were gone.

She stood in front of her pillow-strewn bed and said, “I am in need of a strong-thewed man to stand by my side, Harkan Icebound, to bring new blood to my reign. Join me and give me your life and you will want for nothing from this point onwards.”

The queen swayed before the big man and Harkan watched her with eyes no longer tired from the harsh sun beyond. He reached to move aside the veil, for he would see the striking face beyond unencumbered. The queen let him and she lifted her lips to his, and Harkan bent to them. Her lips were soft and welcoming, and the Nordman felt himself being lost.

Something was not right though, for he could feel her lips subtly change; they were dry and thirsting. The big man grabbed the tall woman’s shoulders and forced her away. His own lips were dry and cracked when they separated.

The queen flinched aside and the spell within the cool room was broken suddenly. Harkan’s eyes saw that the shrouded face was not what it had seemed. The skin was parched and cracked like a desert-scoured rock, and the eyes, once mesmerising, now lay lifeless within deep sockets.

Harkan retreated a pace and spoke with measured caution, “It is a kind offer, your majesty, but I seek another.”

The monarch was rigid, tall and sharp before her wide bed. She raised a dusty hand and rested it on one of the bedposts. “You have erred, young warrior, for your life could have been wondrous by my side. But I still need that vigour you hold within your fine muscled frame. Thus your fate is sealed.”

She moved her hand, depressing the wood beneath her long fingers, and the finely-patterned floor dropped beneath Harkan’s feet. He fell into complete darkness.

~*~

Harkan came to his senses as a drowning man breaks the surface of a lake gasping for air. He was dazed one moment, then his warrior instincts flared and he rose to a crouch, his arms bent to grapple and break. The Nordman waited in that position for fifty heartbeats then rose slowly.

It was not as totally dark as Harkan had first thought. An outline of a door appeared slowly before the Nordman, and he measured the space with cautious steps. It was no more than five paces in any direction, and the door was too solid even for his strength. He did the only thing he could: he sat against the wall furthermost from the entrance, closed his eyes and waited.

A bolt eventually scraped at the door, causing Harkan to rise to his feet. He waited in the near dark. A grind of metal on metal screeched low down, and the panel swung slowly outward. Jameela stood framed in the entrance, a fiery torch in hand.

“We do not have much time,” she said.

Harkan stepped outside the rock cage and, even in the low passage, felt better. “For what?”

“To kill the queen,” said Jameela.

The swordsman looked at her in the red, dancing light of the burning torch. Her eyes were hard now, but there was a plea in them that the hulking Nordman found hard to resist. “That is no small undertaking,” he said. “To kill a queen.”

“Now you know the truth of her. She is not all she seems. She is a creature of the desert, but apart from it and can never leave this place. Nor then, can I. And I would have a life other than that within this shifting city.”

“You could chance the desert.”

“The queen secures the water that keeps this city alive and thus the people in thrall. I have never been beyond the wall,” said Jameela. “I would not last half a day without a guide.”

“I am no man of the desert.”

“You made it this far. And I have no other prospects.”

Harkan laughed at that and began to follow the woman along the rough-cut passage. Jameela passed the Nordman his sword belt and he strapped it to his hips, but kept his throwing axe in hand. “My shield and byrnie?” he asked, but she shook her head.

The passageway rose slightly and ended at another door. The veiled woman placed her torch in a bracket and rested her palm against the door. She looked at Harkan, and her other hand rose to remove the material from before her face.

Jameela was pretty, as Harkan thought she would be, her face clear and unlined. She looked at him and there was a message to be read there, but Harkan was a quick learner and he realised that few could be trusted within these walls. Still, she had released him from the rock cage, and his honour dictated that he repay the debt.

“You are not the first warrior to enter our gates,” Jameela said, “but perhaps you will be the last. Though do not be fooled, the queen is not an easy thing to kill. Her hunger has reduced this city to what you see now.”

“Will the people not protect their leader?”

“People! They hide in the shadows for, eventually, all will be consumed. There is only the captain and myself who have any semblance of a life. Nordman, do you not see? The city is dead.”

“Could she not lead her people elsewhere? The queen.”

Jameela looked over her shoulder. “Once she roamed the desert, but things have changed and now she is at the mercy of the desert winds. We are all trapped here, Harkan Icebound. It is a slow death, for she feeds on our moisture and our essence a drop at a time. I have seen it!”

Harkan began to recognise the streets they crept along. Again, the citizens studied him from the murk, half-people within the barren walls. A child stepped forward, his young skin stretched tight on his skull, and seemed about to speak. A woman, equally as desiccated, grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him back within their house.

The path led to the gardens where he had first met the monarch. The swordsman could feel his senses heightening as they forced a path through the undergrowth. He may have been inexperienced in the ways of this new world but he was no fool. Harkan knew who he would have to face if he was to kill the conniving queen.

A clearing appeared and Captain Nasser of the Queen’s Guard was waiting. He raised his head in greeting and said calmly, “Why do you think this one will be any different, Jameela?”

The queen’s body servant paused. Her calm voice matched the captain’s but from his position beside her, Harkan could feel the tension in her limbs. “He is not of this world,” she said. “I find hope in that.”

“Dear sister,” Nasser said. “You know I cannot let him pass.”

“Join us, Nasser,” Jameela said with a break in her voice.

“My honour forbids it,” said the captain.

Harkan looked at the woman and then the warrior before him. He could see the resemblance now that she was unmasked. “Let’s end this family disagreement,” he said.

The Nordman stepped forward and launched his axe in an elegant throw that spoke of hours of practice. The axe spun across the glade, straight at the waiting captain, and it was a silver blur in the green.

Nasser raised his shield and batted the axe casually aside. It thunked off a tree somewhere to Harkan’s right and was lost. The swordsman drew is ancestral blade and the leather-bound grip was welcoming.

“I am glad that was unsuccessful,” said Harkan. “It was not fitting for such as us. Forgive me.”

Nasser shrugged and his scale corselet shimmered. “Those who live by the sword know there is only one rule. Win.”

The squat captain came forward, his grace belying the rock-hard nature of his form. His curved sword traced a sharp grey pattern in the air, and Harkan was forced to give ground. The Nordman was hard pressed without a shield of his own, and he regretted not keeping his axe in hand. Nasser’s sabre lanced at his head; Harkan caught it on his forte, but the captain turned his wrist and his sword edge took a bite of the Nordman’s forearm.

Nasser kept pressing forward. He wove a pattern of sharp steel and deadening shield, and Harkan gave ground. The Nordman feinted high, then struck low, but the captain was there to blunt the attack. The curved blade flick around again and cut a shallow line across Harkan’s shoulder as the big man twisted away.

Always the gracefully curved sabre sought out his flesh. His blood now dotted the broad green leaves at which Harkan had once marvelled. The Nordman found himself against the trunk of a tall tree whose branches fanned out on high. Harkan let his guard drop then, just a moment of fatigue perhaps, and the guard captain seized the opportunity.

Nasser sent the sabre’s blade arcing at Harkan’s neck. The Nordman, suddenly sharp again, snapped his head to the side. The edge of the curved sword lodged into the tree, and it did not want to let go. The stout captain strained, but the tree would not give up its prize.

Harkan moved to the side smoothly and his hard-edged battle blade rose and fell. It was a quick stroke, a finishing stroke, a killing stroke.

Jameela stepped forward and cried, “No!” but it was too late. Harkan’s battle-blade smote the captain’s raised shield and chopped into his neck. Blood gushed. Nasser stepped back, his face in shock. He looked to his sister but already he could not speak.

Harkan lowered his sword. He watched Jameela as she knelt beside her dead brother but the Nordman’s face was as blank and cold as a sheet of ice.

“We finish this now,” said Harkan. “And I am done with this place.”

Wordlessly, Jameela stood and began to walk through the garden. The strapping Nordman followed and he left a thin trail of blood as he went.

The woman stopped at the door to the monarch’s chambers and she spoke for the first time. “Strike quickly, Harkan Icebound,” she said. “For you will only have one chance.”

Harkan pushed open the door, and they searched for the queen in the gloom. The queen, however, was not hiding.

“Finally, you have the courage to betray me,” said the queen as she stepped from the shadows across the room. She showed no fear and approached the interlopers with measured steps. “You were as a daughter to me.”

Jameela raised her hands. “I was a slave,” she cried. “Kill her, Icebound!”

Harkan raised his sword to strike, but the monarch turned her arresting eyes on him and he hesitated. In that instant, like a sudden gust, she turned away and her body fragmented before the Nordman’s eyes. It was a whirlwind of sand now, and it spun across the room in a gyrating column of grit. Harkan was left stranded, his mouth agape.

The queen reformed and she smiled at the man of ice and snow. “I will take your life now, drop by drop,” she said.

The swordsman dashed towards her, but she disintegrated again and he felt his skin wither as the whirlwind of sand passed by. Jameela seemed rooted to her spot, and the flurry of what had just been the queen engulfed her. The young woman collapsed to her knees, gasping through a parched throat. Harkan could see her skin wither before his eyes as the vortex that was the queen sucked the life from the woman. He rushed forward with sword raised.

The whirlwind surrounded him then, and the Nordman swung his ancestral blade at the tumult of sand. It was a useless gesture. Harkan felt his throat dry and begin to constrict, just like in his long desert crossing. The sandstorm around him abated suddenly as the queen twirled away.

“You could have had so much more, warrior,” she said as she materialized beside her curtained bed. “But your journey ends here.”

Harkan rested upon his sword like an old man using a cane. He opened his mouth to speak and his lips cracked. “That is for the Fates to decide,” he said in a rasp.

Jameela had dragged herself across the beautiful wooden floor to the water table. Harkan watched her pull herself upright and lift the enamelled jug of spring water.

The queen glided gracefully towards her body-servant, a smile on her beautiful, parchment visage. She stood before the other woman and presented a palm in offering. “Please drink, Jameela,” the queen said. “It will only prolong your suffering.”

Jameela raised the jug and, in the silence, Harkan heard the water slosh within. “You have not asked after my brother,” she said to the queen. “He was loyal to the end.” She held the vessel before her and said, “But I am not my brother.”

The queen’s body-servant thrust the jug of water forward and splashed its contents into the monarch’s face. The queen leapt back as if struck and her body began to shimmer. It flickered, but then it stopped as the fluid on her face congealed her sand-flesh together.

“She cannot change,” yelled Jameela.

Harkan lunged and his silvered sword whistled in the air, the queen turning toward the incoming blade. The keen edge burst through her raised half-formed hand and swept into the monarch’s long neck. The fire-born blade struck deep and cleaved the queen’s head from her body. She crumpled in place and her royal head fell to the floor onto a mound of sand. It split apart on impact, disintegrating like wet earth, and the Queen of the Shifting City was no more.

~*~

Harkan sat astride the bandit’s horse, the mount eager to be in motion. The Nordman’s new stallion tossed his head and Harkan laid a big hand on its strong neck. The second horse carried some provisions and what little water the city could spare.

The swordsman looked at Jameela standing in the courtyard very close to where they first met. “The new queen,” he said with a bow of his head. “You would not leave this place?”

She smiled that enigmatic smile. “I cannot abandon my people now,” she said. “But they shall have a new life. I vow it on my brother’s bones. I cannot convince you to stay…?”

“I have a vow, too,” said Harkan. “To find someone.”

Jameela nodded her head, and Harkan wheeled the stallion through the city gates. At the first rise he stopped and turned. The formidable walls began to fade in the lifting sand.

Soon the Shifting City disappeared from view, as if it had never been.

Queen of the Shifting City © 2024 by Tim Hanlon. (5000 words) All rights reserved. You may restack this story via Substack but please do not republish elsewhere. Banner and sword illustrations by Gilead, used by permission.

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