The Sleeping Sorceress (10 page)

Again he stood upright, looking towards the west, with the bloody hair in one hand and Stormbringer in the other. He raised both sword and head and began to speak in the ancient High Speech of Melniboné.

Held to the West and soaked in the blood of an enemy, the hair of an Elenoin must be used to summon the enemies of the Elenoin—the Grahluk
. He remembered the words he had read in his father’s ancient grimoire.

And now the invocation:

All the strength of the Burning God was leaving him as he used the energy to perform the invocation. And perhaps without the Ring of Kings he was wasting that strength for nothing.

The spell was far less complex than many he had used in the past. Yet it took as much from him as any spell ever had.

“Grahluk, I summon thee! Grahluk, here you may take vengeance on your foes!”

Many cycles since, the Elenoin were said to have driven the Grahluk from their lands in the Eighth Plane and the Grahluk sought revenge now at every opportunity.

All around Elric the air shivered and turned brown, then green, then black.

“Grahluk! Come destroy the Elenoin!” Elric’s voice was weakening. “Grahluk—the gateway is made!”

And now the ground trembled and strange winds blew at the blood-soaked hair of the Elenoin and the air became thick and purple and Elric fell to his knees, still croaking the invocation.

“Grahluk . . .”

A shuffling sound. A grunting noise. The stink of something unnamable.

The Grahluk had come. They were apelike creatures as bestial as the Elenoin. They carried nets and ropes and shields. Once, it was said, both Grahluk and Elenoin had had intelligence—had been part of the same species which had devolved and divided.

They moved out of the purple mist in their scores and they stood looking at Elric who was still on his knees. Elric pointed at where the remaining warriors of Tanelorn were still fighting the Elenoin.

“There . . .”

The Grahluk snorted with battle-greed and shambled towards the Elenoin.

The Elenoin saw them and their shrill wailing voices changed in quality as they retreated a short distance up the hill.

Elric forced himself to his feet and gasped: “Rackhir! Withdraw your warriors. The Grahluk will do their work now . . .”

“You helped us after all!” Rackhir yelled, turning his horse. His clothes were all in tatters and there were a dozen wounds on his body.

They watched as the Grahluk’s nets and nooses flashed towards the screaming Elenoin whose sword blows were stopped by the Grahluk shields. They watched as the Elenoin were crushed and throttled and parts of their entrails devoured by the grunting, apelike demons.

And when the last of the Elenoin was dead, the Grahluk picked up the fallen swords and reversed them and fell upon them.

Rackhir said: “They are killing themselves. Why?”

“They live only to destroy the Elenoin. Once that is done, they have nothing left for which to exist.” Elric swayed and Rackhir and Moonglum caught him.

“See!” Moonglum laughed. “The beggars are running!”

“Theleb K’aarna,” Elric muttered. “We must get Theleb K’aarna . . .”

“Doubtless he has gone back with Urish to Nadsokor,” Moonglum said.

“I must—I must retrieve the Ring of Kings.”

“Plainly you can work your sorcery without it,” Rackhir said.

“Can I?” Elric looked up and showed his face to Rackhir who lowered his eyes and nodded.

“We will help you get back your ring,” Rackhir said quietly. “There’ll be no more trouble from the beggars. We’ll ride with you to Nadsokor.”

“I had hoped you would.” Elric climbed with difficulty into the saddle of a surviving horse and jerked at its reins, turning it towards the City of Beggars. “Perhaps your arrows will slay what my sword cannot . . .”

“I do not understand you,” Rackhir said.

Moonglum was mounting now. “We’ll tell you on the way.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

The Jesting Demon

Through the filth of Nadsokor now rode the warriors of Tanelorn.

Elric, Moonglum and Rackhir were at the head of the company but there was no ostentatious triumph in their demeanour. The riders looked neither to left nor to right and the beggars offered no threat now, not daring to attack but instead cowering into the shadows.

A potion of Rackhir’s had helped Elric recover some of his strength and he no longer leaned over his horse’s neck but sat upright as they crossed the forum, came to the palace of the Beggar King.

Elric did not pause. He rode his horse up the steps and into the gloomy hall.

“Theleb K’aarna!” Elric shouted.

His voice boomed through the hall, but Theleb K’aarna did not reply.

The braziers of garbage guttered in the wind from the opened door and threw a little more light on the dais at the end.

“Theleb K’aarna!”

But it was not Theleb K’aarna who knelt there. It was a wretched, ragged figure and it sprawled before the throne and it was sobbing, imploring, whining at something on the throne.

Elric walked his horse a little further into the hall and now he could see what occupied the throne.

Squatting in the great chair of black oak was the demon which had been there earlier. Its arms were folded and its eyes were shut and it seemed, somewhat theatrically, to be ignoring the pleadings of the creature kneeling at its feet.

The others, also mounted, entered the hall now and together they rode up to the dais and stopped.

The kneeling figure turned its head and it was Urish. It gasped when it saw Elric and stretched out a maimed hand for its cleaver, abandoned some distance away.

Elric sighed.

“Do not fear me, Urish. I’m weary of bloodletting. I do not want your life.”

The demon opened its eyes.

“Prince Elric, you have returned,” it said. There seemed to be an indefinable difference in its tone.

“Aye. Where is your master?”

“I fear he has fled Nadsokor for ever.”

“And left you to sit here for eternity.”

The demon inclined its head.

Urish put a grimy hand on Elric’s leg. “Elric—help me! I must have my Hoard. It is everything! Destroy the demon and I will give you back the Ring of Kings.”

Elric smiled. “You are generous, King Urish.”

Tears streamed down the filth on Urish’s ruined face. “Please, Elric, I beg thee . . .”

“It is my intention to destroy the demon.”

Urish looked nervously about him. “And aught else?”

“That decision lies with the men of Tanelorn whom you sought to rob and whose friends you caused to be slain in a most foul manner.”

“It was Theleb K’aarna, not I!”

“And where is Theleb K’aarna now?”

“When you unleashed those ape things on our Elenoin he fled the field. He went towards the Varkalk River—towards Troos.”

Without looking behind him Elric said, “Rackhir? Will you try the arrows now?”

There was the hum of a bowstring and an arrow struck the demon in the breast. It quivered there and the demon looked at it with mild interest, then breathed in deeply. As he breathed the arrow was drawn further into him and was eventually absorbed altogether.

“Aaah!” Urish scuttled for his cleaver. “It will not work!”

A second arrow sped from Rackhir’s scarlet bow and it, too, was absorbed, as was the third.

Urish was gibbering now, waving his cleaver.

Elric warned him: “He has a wardpact against swords, King Urish!”

The demon rattled its scales. “Is that thing a sword, I wonder?”

Urish hesitated. Spittle ran down his chin and his red eyes rolled. “Demon—begone! I must have my Hoard—it is mine!”

The demon watched him sardonically.

With a yell of terror and anguish Urish flung himself at the demon, the cleaver Hackmeat swinging wildly. Its blade came down on the hell-thing’s head, there was a sound like lightning striking metal and the cleaver shivered to pieces. Urish stood staring at the demon in quaking anticipation. Casually the demon reached out four of its hands and seized him. Its jaws opened wider than should have been possible, the bulk of the demon expanded until it was suddenly twice its original size. It brought the kicking Beggar King to its maw and suddenly there were only two legs waving from the mouth and then the demon gave a mighty swallow and there was nothing at all left of Urish of Nadsokor.

Elric shrugged. “Your wardpact is effective.”

The demon smiled. “Aye, sweet Elric.”

Now the tone of voice was very familiar. Elric looked narrowly at the demon. “You’re no ordinary . . .”

“I hope not, most beloved of mortals.”

Elric’s horse reared and snorted as the demon’s shape began to alter. There was a humming sound and black smoke coiled over the throne and then another figure was sitting there, its legs crossed. It had the shape of a man but it was more beautiful than any mortal. It was a being of intense and majestic beauty—unearthly beauty.

“Arioch!” Elric bowed his head before the Lord of Chaos.

“Aye, Elric. I took the demon’s place while you were gone.”

“But you have refused to aid me . . .”

“There are larger affairs afoot, as I’ve told you. Soon Chaos must engage with Law and such as Donblas will be dismissed to limbo for eternity.”

“You knew Donblas spoke to me in the labyrinth of the Burning God?”

“Indeed I did. That was why I afforded myself the time to visit your plane. I cannot have you patronized by Donblas the Justice Maker and his humourless kind. I was offended. Now I have shown you that my power is greater than Law’s.” Arioch stared beyond Elric at Rackhir, Brut, Moonglum and the rest who were protecting their eyes from his beauty. “Perhaps you fools of Tanelorn now realize that it is better to serve Chaos!”

Rackhir said grimly: “I serve neither Chaos nor Law!”

“One day you will be taught that neutrality is more dangerous than side-taking, renegade!” The harmonious voice was now almost vicious.

“You cannot harm me,” Rackhir said. “And if Elric returns with us to Tanelorn, then he, too, may rid himself of your evil yoke!”

“Elric is of Melniboné. The folk of Melniboné all serve Chaos—and are greatly rewarded. How else would you have rid this throne of Theleb K’aarna’s demon?”

“Perhaps in Tanelorn Elric would have no need of his Ring of Kings,” Rackhir replied levelly.

There was a sound like rushing water, the boom of thunder and Arioch’s form began to grow larger. But as it grew it also began to fade until there was nothing left in the hall but the stench of its garbage.

Elric dismounted and ran to the throne. Reaching under it he drew out dead Urish’s chest and hacked it open with Stormbringer. The sword murmured as if resenting the menial work. Gems, gold, artifacts scattered through the muck as Elric sought his ring.

And then at last he held it up in triumph, replacing it on his finger. His step was lighter as he returned to his horse.

Moonglum had in the meantime dismounted and was scooping the best of the jewels into his pouch. He winked at Rackhir, who smiled.

“And now,” Elric said, “I go to Troos to seek Theleb K’aarna there. I have still to take my vengeance upon him.”

“Let him rot in Troos’s sickly forest,” Moonglum said.

Rackhir placed a hand on Elric’s shoulder. “If Theleb K’aarna hates you so, he will find you again. Why waste your own time in the pursuit?”

Elric smiled slightly at his old friend. “You were ever clear in your arguments, Rackhir. And it is true that I am weary—both gods and demons have fallen to my blade in the little while since I came to Nadsokor.”

“Come, rest in Tanelorn—peaceful Tanelorn, where even the greatest Lords of the Higher Worlds cannot come without permission.”

Elric looked down at the ring on his finger. “Yet I have sworn Theleb K’aarna shall perish . . .”

“There will be time yet to fulfill your oath.”

Elric ran his hand through his milk-white hair and it seemed to his friends that there were tears in his crimson eyes.

“Aye,” he said. “Aye. Time yet . . .”

And they rode away from Nadsokor, leaving the beggars to brood in the stink and the foulness and regret that they had aught to do with sorcery or with Elric of Melniboné.

They rode for Eternal Tanelorn. Tanelorn, which had welcomed and held all troubled wanderers who came upon it. All save one.

Doom-haunted, full of guilt, of sorrow, of despair, Elric of Melniboné prayed that this time Tanelorn might hold even him . . .

BOOK THREE

THREE HEROES WITH A SINGLE AIM

. . . Elric, of all the manifestations of the Champion Eternal, was to find Tanelorn without effort. And of all those manifestations he was the only one to choose to leave that city of myriad incarnations . .

—The Chronicle of the Black Sword

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Tanelorn Eternal

T
ANELORN HAD TAKEN many forms in her endless existence, but all those forms, save one, had been beautiful.

She was beautiful now, with the soft sunlight on her pastel towers and her curved turrets and domes. And banners flew from her spires, but they were not battle-banners, for the warriors who had found Tanelorn and had stayed there were weary of war.

She had been here always. None knew when Tanelorn had been built, but some knew that she had existed before time and would exist after the end of time and that was why she was known as Eternal Tanelorn.

She had played a significant role in the struggles of many heroes and many gods and because she existed beyond time she was hated by the Lords of Chaos who had more than once sought to destroy her. To the south of her lay the rolling plains of Ilmiora, a land where justice was known to prevail, and to the north of her lay the desolation which was the Sighing Desert, endless wasteland over which hissed a constant wind. If Ilmiora represented Law, then the Sighing Desert certainly mirrored something of the barrenness of Ultimate Chaos. Those who dwelled in Tanelorn had loyalty neither to Law nor to Chaos and they had chosen to have no part in the Cosmic Struggle which was waged continuously by the Lords of the Higher Worlds. There were no leaders and there were no followers in Tanelorn and her citizens lived in harmony with each other, even though many had been warriors of great reputation before they chose to stay there. But one of the most admired citizens of Tanelorn, one who was often consulted by the others, was Rackhir of the ascetic features who had once been a fierce Warrior Priest in the Eastlands where he had gained the name of the Red Archer because his skill with a bow was great and he dressed all in scarlet. His skill and his dress remained the same, but his urge to fight had left him since he had come to live in Tanelorn.

Close to the low west wall of the city lay a house of two storeys surrounded by a lawn in which grew all manner of wild flowers. The house was of pink and yellow marble and, unlike most of the other dwellings in Tanelorn, it had a tall, pointed roof. This was Rackhir’s house and Rackhir sat outside it now, sprawled on a bench of plain wood while he watched his guest pace the lawn. The guest was his old friend the tormented albino prince of Melniboné.

Elric wore a simple white shirt and britches of heavy black silk. He had a band of the same black silk tied around his head to keep back the mane of milk-white hair which grew to his shoulders. His crimson eyes were downcast as he paced and he did not look at Rackhir at all.

Rackhir was unwilling to intrude upon his friend’s reverie and yet he hated to see Elric as he was now. He had hoped that Tanelorn would comfort the albino, drive away the ghosts and the doubts inhabiting his skull, but it seemed that even Tanelorn could not bring Elric tranquility.

At last Rackhir broke his silence. “It has been a month since you came to Tanelorn, my friend, yet still you pace, still you brood.”

Elric looked up with a slight smile. “Aye—still I brood. Forgive me, Rackhir. I am a poor guest.”

“What occupies your thoughts?”

“No particular subject. It seems that I cannot lose myself in all this peace. Only violent action helps me drive away my melancholy. I was not meant for Tanelorn, Rackhir.”

“But violent action—or the results of it—produces further melancholy, does it not?”

“It is true. It is the dilemma with which I live constantly. It is a dilemma I have been in since the burning of Imrryr—perhaps before.”

“It is a dilemma known to all men, perhaps,” Rackhir said. “At least to some degree.”

“Aye—to wonder what purpose there is to one’s existence and what point there is to purpose, even if it should be discovered.”

“Tanelorn makes such problems seem meaningless to me,” Rackhir told him. “I had hoped that you, too, would be able to dismiss them from your thoughts. Will you stay on in Tanelorn?”

“I have no other plans. I still thirst for vengeance upon Theleb K’aarna, but I now have no idea of his whereabouts. And, as you or Moonglum told me, Theleb K’aarna is sure to seek me out sooner or later. I remember once, when you first found Tanelorn, you suggested that I bring Cymoril here and forget Melniboné. I wish I had listened to you then, Rackhir, for now, I think, I would know peace and Cymoril’s dead face would not be infesting my nights.”

“You mentioned this sorceress who, you said, resembled Cymoril . . .?”

“Myshella? She who is called Empress of the Dawn? I first saw her in a dream and when I left her side it was I who was in a dream. We served each other to achieve a common purpose. I shall not see her again.”

“But if she—”

“I shall not see her again, Rackhir.”

“As you say.”

Once more the two friends fell silent and there was only birdsong and the splash of fountains in the air as Elric continued his pacing of the garden.

Some while later Elric suddenly turned on his heel and went into the house followed by Rackhir’s troubled gaze.

When Elric came out again he was wearing the great wide belt around his waist—the belt which supported the black scabbard containing his runesword Stormbringer. Over his shoulders was flung a cloak of white silk and he wore high boots.

“I go riding,” he said. “I will go by myself into the Sighing Desert and I will ride until I am exhausted. Perhaps exercise is all I need.”

“Be careful of the desert, my friend,” Rackhir cautioned him. “It is a sinister and treacherous wilderness.”

“I will be careful.”

“Take the big golden mare. She is used to the desert and her stamina is legendary.”

“Thank you. I will see you in the morning if I do not return earlier.”

“Take care, Elric. I trust your remedy is successful and your melancholy disappears.”

Rackhir’s expression had little of relief in it as he watched his friend stride towards the nearby stables, his white cloak billowing behind him like a sea fog suddenly risen.

Then he heard the sound of Elric’s horse as its hoofs struck the cobbles of the street and Rackhir got to his feet to watch as the albino urged the golden mare into a canter and headed for the northern wall beyond which the great yellow waste of the Sighing Desert could be seen.

Moonglum came out of the house, a large apple in his hand, a scroll under his arm.

“Where goes Elric, Rackhir?”

“He looks for peace in the desert.”

Moonglum frowned and bit thoughtfully into his apple. “He has sought peace in all other places and I fear he’ll not find it there, either.”

Rackhir nodded his agreement. “But it is my premonition he’ll discover something else, for Elric is not always motivated by his own wishes. There are times when other forces work within him to make him take some fateful action.”

“You think this is such a time?”

“It could be.”