The Sleeping Sorceress (26 page)

“Perhaps, my lord. But are there demons more powerful than those who have aided you?”

“No,” said Yyrkoon. “There are none. Oh, that I could summon some of them now! But I have expended my powers in opening the Shade Gate. I should have anticipated . . . I could not anticipate . . . Oh Elric! I shall yet destroy you, when the runeblades are mine!” Then Yyrkoon frowned. “But how could he have been prepared? What demon . . .? Unless he summoned Arioch himself? But he has not the power to summon Arioch. I could not summon him . . .”

And then, as if in reply, Yyrkoon heard Elric’s battle song sounding from the nearby streets. And that song answered the question.

“Arioch! Arioch! Blood and souls for my lord Arioch!”

“Then I must have the runeblades. I must pass through the Shade Gate. There I still have allies—supernatural allies who shall deal easily with Elric, if need be. But I need time . . .” Yyrkoon mumbled to himself as he paced about the room. Valharik continued to watch the fighting.

“They come closer,” said the captain.

Cymoril smiled. “Closer, Yyrkoon? Who is the fool now? Elric? Or you?”

“Be still! I think. I think . . .” Yyrkoon fingered his lips.

Then a light came into his eye and he looked cunningly at Cymoril for a second before turning his attention to Captain Valharik.

“Valharik, you must destroy the Mirror of Memory.”

“Destroy it? But it is our only weapon, my lord?”

“Exactly—but is it not useless now?”

“Aye.”

“Destroy it and it will serve us again.” Yyrkoon flicked a long finger in the direction of the door. “Go. Destroy the mirror.”

“But, Prince Yyrkoon—emperor, I mean—will that not have the effect of robbing us of our only weapon?”

“Do as I say, Valharik! Or perish!”

“But how shall I destroy it, my lord?”

“Your sword. You must climb the column
behind
the face of the mirror. Then, without looking into the mirror itself, you must swing your sword against it and smash it. It will break easily. You know the precautions I have had to take to make sure that it was not harmed.”

“Is that all I must do?”

“Aye. Then you are free from my service—you may escape or do whatever else you wish to do.”

“Do we not sail against Melniboné?”

“Of course not. I have devised another method of taking the Dragon Isle.”

Valharik shrugged. His expression showed that he had never really believed Yyrkoon’s assurances. But what else had he to do but follow Yyrkoon, when fearful torture awaited him at Elric’s hands? With shoulders bowed, the captain slunk away to do his prince’s work.

“And now, Cymoril . . .” Yyrkoon grinned like a ferret as he reached out to grab his sister’s soft shoulders. “Now to prepare you for your lover, Elric.”

One of the blind warriors cried: “They no longer resist us, my lord. They are limp and allow themselves to be cut down where they stand. Why is this?”

“The mirror has robbed them of their memories,” Elric called, turning his own blind head towards the sound of the warrior’s voice. “You can lead us into a building now—where, with luck, we shall not glimpse the mirror.”

At last they stood within what appeared to Elric, as he lifted his helm, to be a warehouse of some kind. Luckily it was large enough to hold their entire force and when they were all inside Elric had the doors shut while they debated their next action.

“We should find Yyrkoon,” Dyvim Tvar said. “Let us interrogate one of those warriors . . .”

“There’ll be little point in that, my friend,” Elric reminded him. “Their minds are gone. They’ll remember nothing at all. They do not at present remember even what they are, let alone who. Go to the shutters yonder, where the mirror’s influence cannot reach, and see if you can see the building most likely to be occupied by my cousin.”

Dyvim Tvar crossed swiftly to the shutters and looked cautiously out. “Aye—there’s a building larger than the rest and I see some movement within, as if the surviving warriors were regrouping. It’s likely that’s Yyrkoon’s stronghold. It should be easily taken.”

Elric joined him. “Aye. I agree with you. We’ll find Yyrkoon there. But we must hurry, lest he decides to slay Cymoril. We must work out the best means of reaching the place and instruct our blind warriors as to how many streets, how many houses and so forth, we must pass.”

“What is that strange sound?” One of the blind warriors raised his head. “Like the distant ringing of a gong.”

“I hear it too,” said another blind man.

And now Elric heard it. A sinister noise. It came from the air above them. It shivered through the atmosphere.

“The mirror!” Dyvim Tvar looked up. “Has the mirror some property we did not anticipate?”

“Possibly . . .” Elric tried to remember what Arioch had told him. But Arioch had been vague. He had said nothing of this dreadful, mighty sound, this shattering clangour as if . . . “He is breaking the mirror!” he said. “But why?” There was something more now, something brushing at his brain. As if the sound were, itself, sentient.

“Perhaps Yyrkoon is dead and his magic dies with him,” Dyvim Tvar began. And then he broke off with a groan.

The noise was louder, more intense, bringing sharp pain to his ears.

And now Elric knew. He blocked his ears with his gauntleted hands. The memories in the mirror. They were flooding into his mind. The mirror had been smashed and was releasing all the memories it had stolen over the centuries—the aeons, perhaps. Many of those memories were not mortal. Many were the memories of beasts and intelligent creatures which had existed even before Melniboné. And the memories warred for a place in Elric’s skull—in the skulls of all the Imrryrians—in the poor, tortured skulls of the men outside whose pitiful screams could be heard rising from the streets—and in the skull of Captain Valharik, the turncoat, as he lost his footing on the great column and fell with the shards from the mirror to the ground far below.

But Elric did not hear Captain Valharik scream and he did not hear Valharik’s body crash first to a roof-top and then into the street where it lay all broken beneath the broken mirror.

Elric lay upon the stone floor of the warehouse and he writhed, as his comrades writhed, trying to clear his head of a million memories that were not his own—of loves, of hatreds, of strange experiences and ordinary experiences, of wars and journeys, of the faces of relatives who were not his relatives, of men and women and children, of animals, of ships and cities, of fights, of love-making, of fears and desires—and the memories fought each other for possession of his crowded skull, threatening to drive his own memories (and thus his own character) from his head. And as Elric writhed upon the ground, clutching at his ears, he spoke a word over and over again in an effort to cling to his own identity.

“Elric. Elric. Elric.”

And gradually, by an effort which he had experienced only once before when he had summoned Arioch to the plane of the Earth, he managed to extinguish all those alien memories and assert his own until, shaken and feeble, he lowered his hands from his ears and no longer shouted his own name. And then he stood up and looked about him.

More than two thirds of his men were dead, blind or otherwise. The big bosun was dead, his eyes wide and staring, his lips frozen in a scream, his right eye-socket raw and bleeding from where he had tried to drag his eye from it. All the corpses lay in unnatural positions, all had their eyes open (if they had eyes) and many bore the marks of self-mutilation, while others had vomited and others had dashed their brains against a wall. Dyvim Tvar was alive, but curled up in a corner, mumbling to himself and Elric thought he might be mad. Some of the other survivors were, indeed, mad, but they were quiet, they afforded no danger. Only five, including Elric, seemed to have resisted the alien memories and retained their own sanity. It seemed to Elric, as he stumbled from corpse to corpse, that most of the men had had their hearts fail.

“Dyvim Tvar?” Elric put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Dyvim Tvar?”

Dyvim Tvar took his head from his arm and looked into Elric’s eyes. In Dyvim Tvar’s own eyes was the experience of a score of millennia and there was irony there, too. “I live, Elric.”

“Few of us live now.”

A little later they left the warehouse, no longer needing to fear the mirror, and found that all the streets were full of the dead who had received the mirror’s memories. Stiff bodies reached out hands to them. Dead lips formed silent pleas for help. Elric tried not to look at them as he pressed through them, but his desire for vengeance upon his cousin was even stronger now.

They reached the house. The door was open and the ground floor was crammed with corpses. There was no sign of Prince Yyrkoon.

Elric and Dyvim Tvar led the few Imrryrians who were still sane up the steps, past more imploring corpses, until they reached the top floor of the house.

And here they found Cymoril.

She was lying upon a couch and she was naked. There were runes painted on her flesh and the runes were, in themselves, obscene. Her eyelids were heavy and she did not at first recognize them. Elric rushed to her side and cradled her body in his arms. The body was oddly cold.

“He—he makes me—sleep . . .” said Cymoril. “A sorcerous sleep—from which—only he can wake me . . .” She gave a great yawn. “I have stayed awake—this long—by an effort of—will—for Elric comes . . .”

“Elric is here,” said her lover, softly. “I am Elric, Cymoril.”

“Elric?” She relaxed in his arms. “You—you must find Yyrkoon—for only he can wake me . . .”

“Where has he gone?” Elric’s face had hardened. His crimson eyes were fierce. “Where?”

“To find the two black swords—the runeswords—of—our ancestors—Mournblade . . .”

“And Stormbringer,” said Elric grimly. “Those swords are cursed. But where has he gone, Cymoril? How has he escaped us?”

“Through—through—through the—Shade Gate—he conjured it—he made the most fearful pacts with demons to go through . . . The—other—room . . .”

Now Cymoril slept, but there seemed to be a certain peace on her face.

Elric watched as Dyvim Tvar crossed the room, sword in hand, and flung the door open. A dreadful stench came from the next room, which was in darkness. Something flickered on the far side.

“Aye—that’s sorcery, right enough,” said Elric. “And Yyrkoon has thwarted me. He conjured the Shade Gate and passed through it into some netherworld. Which one, I’ll never know, for there is an infinity of them. Oh, Arioch, I would give much to follow my cousin!”

“
Then follow him you shall
,” said a sweet, sardonic voice in Elric’s head.

At first the albino thought it was a vestige of a memory still fighting for possession of his head, but then he knew that Arioch spoke to him.

“
Dismiss your followers that I may speak with thee
,” said Arioch.

Elric hesitated. He wished to be alone—but not with Arioch. He wished to be with Cymoril, for Cymoril was making him weep. Tears already flowed from his crimson eyes.

“
What I have to say could result in Cymoril being restored to her normal state
,” said the voice. “
And, moreover, it will help you defeat Yyrkoon and be revenged upon him. Indeed, it could make you the most powerful mortal there has ever been.
”

Elric looked up at Dyvim Tvar. “Would you and your men leave me alone for a few moments?”

“Of course.” Dyvim Tvar led his men away and shut the door behind him.

Arioch stood leaning against the same door. Again he had assumed the shape and poise of a handsome youth. His smile was friendly and open and only the ancient eyes belied his appearance.

“It is time to seek the black swords yourself, Elric,” said Arioch. “Lest Yyrkoon reach them first. I warn you of this—with the runeblades Yyrkoon will be so powerful he will be able to destroy half the world without thinking of it. That is why your cousin risks the dangers of the world beyond the Shade Gate. If Yyrkoon possesses those swords before you find them, it will mean the end of you, of Cymoril, of the Young Kingdoms and, quite possibly, the destruction of Melniboné, too. I will help you enter the netherworld to seek for the twin runeswords.”

Elric said musingly: “I have often been warned of the dangers of seeking the swords—and the worse dangers of owning them. I think I must consider another plan, my lord Arioch.”

“There is no other plan. Yyrkoon desires the swords if you do not. With Mournblade in one hand and Stormbringer in the other, he will be invincible, for the swords give their user power. Immense power.” Arioch paused.

“You must do as I say. It is to your advantage.”

“And to yours, Lord Arioch?”

“Aye—to mine. I am not entirely selfless.”

Elric shook his head. “I am confused. There has been too much of the supernatural about this affair. I suspect the gods of manipulating us . . .”

“The gods serve only those who are willing to serve them. And the gods serve destiny, also.”

“I like it not. To stop Yyrkoon is one thing, to assume his ambitions and take the swords myself—that is another thing.”

“It is your destiny.”

“Cannot I change my destiny?”

Arioch shook his head. “No more than can I.”

Elric stroked sleeping Cymoril’s hair. “I love her. She is all I desire.”

“You shall not wake her if Yyrkoon finds the blades before you do.”

“And how shall I find the blades?”

“Enter the Shade Gate—I have kept it open, though Yyrkoon thinks it closed—then you must seek the Tunnel Under the Marsh which leads to the Pulsing Cavern. In that chamber the runeswords are kept. They have been kept there ever since your ancestors relinquished them . . .”