The Queen of Swords by Michael Moorcock

was no exception. She had long, low houses of stone and carved timber, all brightly painted. The house of the Duke of Bedwilral was not immediately evident for it was little different from the other larger houses in the city, but Rhalina pointed it out. The fighting was quite close to the duke’s residence and near it a building was burning.
    The company of Allomglyl began to ride down towards the city, leaving the women in the hills.
    “It seems some of those Chaos priests were more persuasive than Verenak,” Prince Corum shouted to Rhalina as she prepared her spear.
    They galloped into the outskirts of the town. The streets were empty and silent. From the centre came a great noise of battle.
    “You had best lead us,” he said to her, “for you’ll know who are the duke’s men and who are not.”
    She increased her speed without a word and they followed her into the middle of Llarak-an-Fol.
    There they were. Men in blue livery with helmets and shields similar to those borne by Rhalina’s men were fighting a mixed force of peasants and what were evidently professional soldiers.
    “The men in blue are the duke’s,” she called. “Those in brown and purple are the city guard. There was always, I gather, a certain rivalry between the two.”
    Corum felt reluctance to engage them, not because he was afraid but because he bore no malice towards them.
    The peasants, in particular, hardly knew why they fought and doubtless the city guard was barely conscious of the fact that Chaos was working through them to create conflict. They had been filled with a vague sense of unrest and, with the pushing of the priests of Urleh, had resorted to anger and to arms.
    But Rhalina was already leading her horsemen through in a lance charge. The spears dipped and the cavalry drove into the mass of men, cutting a wide path through their ranks. Most of the enemy was unmounted and Corum’s axe flew up and down as he chopped at the heads of those who, still with astonishment on their faces, sought to stop his advance. His horse reared and whinnied and its hoofs flailed and at least a dozen peasants and guards had died before they had joined with the duke’s men and had turned to drive back the way they had come.
    Already, to Corum’s relief, many of the peasants had dropped their weapons and were running. The few guards fought on and now Corum could see armed priests fighting with them. A small man—almost a dwarf—on a big yellow charger, a massive broadsword in his left hand, was shouting encouragement to the newcomers. By his dress Corum decided that this must be the duke himself.
    “Lay down your arms!” the small man yelled to the guards. “You will have mercy! You will be spared!”
    Corum saw a guard look about him and then drop his sword. Instantly the man was cut down by the Chaos priest nearest to him.
    “Fight to the death!” screamed the priest. “If you betray Chaos now your souls will suffer more than your bodies could!”
    But the surviving guards had plainly lost heart and one of them turned with resentment on the priest who had slain his comrade. His sword slashed at the man who went down trying to staunch the blood that suddenly erupted from his severed jugular.
    Corum sheathed his war-axe. The pathetic little battle was virtually over. Rhalina’s men and the warriors in blue livery closed on the few who still fought and disarmed them.
    The small man on the large horse rode up to where Rhalina had joined Corum and Jhary-a-Conel. The little black-and-white cat still clung to Jhary’s shoulder and it looked more puzzled than frightened by what it had witnessed.
    “I am Duke Gwelhen of Bedwilral,” announced the small man. “I thank thee mightily for thine aid. But I recognize thee not. Thou art not from Nyvish or Adwyn and, if ye be from farther afield, then ye could not have heard of my plight in time to save me!”
    Rhalina removed her helm. She spoke as formally as the duke. “Dost thou not recognize me,