The Stealer of Souls (11 page)

“Brought here—by
something
,” Shaarilla whispered. “Those devil-dogs will scent us to be sure.”

Elric reached for his runesword. “Then we can lose nothing by aiding their quarry,” he said, urging his mount forward. “Wait here, Shaarilla.”

By this time, the devil-pack and the man they pursued were rushing past the sheltering rock, speeding down a narrow defile. Elric spurred his horse down the slope.

“Ho there!” he shouted to the frantic rider. “Turn and stand, my friend—I’m here to aid you!”

His moaning runesword lifted high, Elric thundered towards the snapping, howling devil-dogs and his horse’s hoofs struck one with an impact which broke the unnatural beast’s spine. There were some five or six of the weird dogs left. The rider turned his horse and drew a long sabre from a scabbard at his waist. He was a small man, with a broad ugly mouth. He grinned in relief.

“A lucky chance, this meeting, good master.”

This was all he had time to remark before two of the dogs were leaping at him and he was forced to give his whole attention to defending himself from their slashing talons and snapping beaks.

The other three dogs concentrated their vicious attention upon Elric. One leapt high, its beak aimed at Elric’s throat. He felt foul breath on his face and hastily brought Stormbringer round in an arc which chopped the dog in two. Filthy blood spattered Elric and his horse and the scent of it seemed to increase the fury of the other dogs’ attack. But the blood made the dancing black runesword sing an almost ecstatic tune and Elric felt it writhe in his grasp and stab at another of the hideous dogs. The point caught the beast just below its breastbone as it reared up at the albino. It screamed in terrible agony and turned its beak to seize the blade. As the beak connected with the lambent black metal of the sword, a foul stench, akin to the smell of burning, struck Elric’s nostrils and the beast’s scream broke off sharply.

Engaged with the remaining devil-dog, Elric caught a fleeting glimpse of the charred corpse. His horse was rearing high, lashing at the last alien animal with flailing hoofs. The dog avoided the horse’s attack and came at Elric’s unguarded left side. The albino swung in the saddle and brought his sword hurtling down to slice into the dog’s skull and spill brains and blood on the wet and gleaming ground. Still somehow alive, the dog snapped feebly at Elric, but the Melnibonéan ignored its futile attack and turned his attention to the little man who had dispensed with one of his adversaries, but was having difficulty with the second. The dog had grasped the sabre with its beak, gripping the sword near the hilt.

Talons raked towards the little man’s throat as he strove to shake the dog’s grip. Elric charged forward, his runesword aimed like a lance to where the devil-dog dangled in mid-air, its talons slashing, trying to reach the flesh of its former quarry. Stormbringer caught the beast in its lower abdomen and ripped upwards, slitting the thing’s underparts from crutch to throat. It released its hold on the small man’s sabre and fell writhing to the ground. Elric’s horse trampled it into the rocky ground. Breathing heavily, the albino sheathed Stormbringer and warily regarded the man he had saved. He disliked unnecessary contact with anyone and did not wish to be embarrassed by a display of emotion on the little man’s part.

He was not disappointed, for the wide, ugly mouth split into a cheerful grin and the man bowed in the saddle as he returned his own curved blade to its scabbard.

“Thanks, good sir,” he said lightly. “Without your help, the battle might have lasted longer. You deprived me of good sport, but you meant well. Moonglum is my name.”

“Elric of Melniboné, I,” replied the albino, but saw no reaction on the little man’s face. This was strange, for the name of Elric was now infamous throughout most of the world. The story of his treachery and the slaying of his cousin Cymoril had been told and elaborated upon in taverns throughout the Young Kingdoms. Much as he hated it, he was used to receiving some indication of recognition from those he met. His albinism was enough to mark him.

Intrigued by Moonglum’s ignorance, and feeling strangely drawn towards the cocky little rider, Elric studied him in an effort to discover from what land he came. Moonglum wore no armour and his clothes were of faded blue material, travel-stained and worn. A stout leather belt carried the sabre, a dirk and a woolen purse. Upon his feet, Moonglum wore ankle-length boots of cracked leather. His horse-furniture was much used but of obviously good quality. The man himself, seated high in the saddle, was barely more than five feet tall, with legs too long in proportion to the rest of his slight body. His nose was short and uptilted, beneath grey-green eyes, large and innocent-seeming. A mop of vivid red hair fell over his forehead and down his neck, unrestrained. He sat his horse comfortably, still grinning but looking now behind Elric to where Shaarilla rode to join them.

Moonglum bowed elaborately as the girl pulled her horse to a halt.

Elric said coldly, “The Lady Shaarilla—Master Moonglum of—?”

“Of Elwher,” Moonglum supplied, “the mercantile capital of the East—the finest city in the world.”

Elric recognized the name. “So you are from Elwher, Master Moonglum. I have heard of the place. A new city, is it not? Some few centuries old. You have ridden far.”

“Indeed I have, sir. Without knowledge of the language used in these parts, the journey would have been harder, but luckily the slave who inspired me with tales of his homeland taught me the speech thoroughly.”

“But why do you travel these parts—have you not heard the legends?” Shaarilla spoke incredulously.

“Those very legends were what brought me hence—and I’d begun to discount them, until those unpleasant pups set upon me. For what reason they decided to give chase, I will not know, for I gave them no cause to take a dislike to me. This is, indeed, a barbarous land.”

Elric was uncomfortable. Light talk of the kind which Moonglum seemed to enjoy was contrary to his own brooding nature. But in spite of this, he found that he was liking the man more and more.

It was Moonglum who suggested that they travel together for a while. Shaarilla objected, giving Elric a warning glance, but he ignored it.

“Very well then, friend Moonglum, since three are stronger than two, we’d appreciate your company. We ride towards the mountains.” Elric, himself, was feeling in a more cheerful mood.

“And what do you seek there?” Moonglum enquired.

“A secret,” Elric said, and his new-found companion was discreet enough to drop the question.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

So they rode, while the rainfall increased and splashed and sang among the rocks with a sky like dull steel above them and the wind crooning a dirge about their ears. Three small figures riding swiftly towards the black mountain barrier which rose over the world like a brooding god. And perhaps it was a god that laughed sometimes as they neared the foothills of the range, or perhaps it was the wind whistling through the dark mystery of canyons and precipices and the tumble of basalt and granite which climbed towards lonely peaks. Thunder clouds formed around those peaks and lightning smashed downwards like a monster finger searching the earth for grubs. Thunder rattled over the range and Shaarilla spoke her thoughts at last to Elric; spoke them as the mountains came in sight.

“Elric—let us go back, I beg you. Forget the Book—there are too many forces working against us. Take heed of the signs, Elric, or we are doomed!”

But Elric was grimly silent, for he had long been aware that the girl was losing her enthusiasm for the quest she had started.

“Elric—please. We will never reach the Book. Elric, turn back.”

She rode beside him, pulling at his garments until impatiently he shrugged himself clear of her grasp and said:

“I am intrigued too much to stop now. Either continue to lead the way—or tell me what you know and stay here. You desired to sample the Book’s wisdom once—but now a few minor pitfalls on our journey have frightened you. What was it you needed to learn, Shaarilla?”

She did not answer him, but said instead: “And what was it you desired, Elric? Peace, you told me. Well, I warn you, you’ll find no peace in those grim mountains—if we reach them at all.”

“You have not been frank with me, Shaarilla,” Elric said coldly, still looking ahead of him at the black peaks. “You know something of the forces seeking to stop us.”

She shrugged. “It matters not—I know little. My father spoke a few vague warnings before he died, that is all.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that He who guards the Book would use all his power to stop mankind from using its wisdom.”

“What else?”

“Nothing else. But it is enough, now that I see that my father’s warning was truly spoken. It was this guardian who killed him, Elric—or one of the guardian’s minions. I do not wish to suffer that fate, in spite of what the Book might do for me. I had thought you powerful enough to aid me—but now I doubt it.”

“I have protected you so far,” Elric said simply. “Now tell me what you seek from the Book?”

“I am too ashamed.”

Elric did not press the question, but eventually she spoke softly, almost whispering. “I sought my wings,” she said.

“Your wings—you mean the Book might give you a spell so that you could grow wings!” Elric smiled ironically. “And that is why you seek the vessel of the world’s mightiest wisdom!”

“If you were thought deformed in your own land—it would seem important enough to you,” she shouted defiantly.

Elric turned his face towards her, his crimson-irised eyes burning with a strange emotion. He put a hand to his dead white skin and a crooked smile twisted his lips. “I, too, have felt as you do,” he said quietly. That was all he said and Shaarilla dropped behind him again, shamed.

They rode on in silence until Moonglum, who had been riding discreetly ahead, cocked his overlarge skull on one side and suddenly drew rein.

Elric joined him. “What is it, Moonglum?”

“I hear horses coming this way,” the little man said. “And voices which are disturbingly familiar. More of those devil-dogs, Elric—and this time accompanied by riders!”

Elric, too, heard the sounds, now, and shouted a warning to Shaarilla.

“Perhaps you were right,” he called. “More trouble comes towards us.”

“What now?” Moonglum said, frowning.

“Ride for the mountains,” Elric replied, “and we may yet outdistance them.”

They spurred their steeds into a fast gallop and sped towards the hills.

But their flight was hopeless. Soon a black pack was visible on the horizon and the sharp birdlike baying of the devil-dogs drew nearer. Elric stared backwards at their pursuers. Night was beginning to fall, and visibility was decreasing with every passing moment but he had a vague impression of the riders who raced behind the pack. They were swathed in dark cloaks and carried long spears. Their faces were invisible, lost in the shadow of the hoods which covered their heads.

Now Elric and his companions were forcing their horses up a steep incline, seeking the shelter of the rocks which lay above.

“We’ll halt here,” Elric ordered, “and try to hold them off. In the open they could easily surround us.”

Moonglum nodded affirmatively, agreeing with the good sense contained in Elric’s words. They pulled their sweating steeds to a standstill and prepared to join battle with the howling pack and their dark-cloaked masters.

Soon the first of the devil-dogs were rushing up the incline, their beak-jaws slavering and their talons rattling on stone. Standing between two rocks, blocking the way between with their bodies, Elric and Moonglum met the first attack and quickly dispatched three of the animals. Several more took the place of the dead and the first of the riders was visible behind them as night crept closer.

“Arioch!” swore Elric, suddenly recognizing the riders. “These are the Lords of Dharzi—dead these ten centuries. We’re fighting dead men, Moonglum, and the too-tangible ghosts of their dogs. Unless I can think of a sorcerous means to defeat them, we’re doomed!”

The zombie-men appeared to have no intention of taking part in the attack for the moment. They waited, their dead eyes eerily luminous, as the devil-dogs attempted to break through the swinging network of steel with which Elric and his companion defended themselves. Elric was racking his brains—trying to dredge a spoken spell from his memory which would dismiss these living dead. Then it came to him, and hoping that the forces he had to invoke would decide to aid him, he began to chant:

“Let the Laws which govern all things

Not so lightly be dismissed;

Let the Ones who flaunt the Earth Kings

With a fresher death be kissed.”

Nothing happened. “I’ve failed.” Elric muttered hopelessly as he met the attack of a snapping devil-dog and spitted the thing on his sword.

But then—the ground rocked and seemed to
seethe
beneath the feet of the horses upon whose backs the dead men sat. The tremor lasted a few seconds and then subsided.

“The spell was not powerful enough,” Elric sighed.