The Stealer of Souls (52 page)

“My son, are you, too, dead? I thought I’d been here but a fleeting moment and yet I see you changed in years and with a burden on you that time and fate have placed there. How did you die? In reckless combat on some upstart’s foreign blade? Or in this very tower in your ivory bed? And what of Imrryr now? Does she fare well or ill, dreaming in her decline of past splendour? The line continues, as it must—I will not ask you if that part of your trust was kept. A son, of course, born of Cymoril whom you loved, for which your cousin Yyrkoon hated you.”

“Father—”

The old man raised a hand that was almost transparent with age. “There is another question I must ask of you. One that has troubled all who spend their immortality in the Forest of Souls, which surrounds this shade of a city. Some of us have noticed that the city itself fades at times and its colours dim, quivering as if about to vanish. Companions of ours have passed even beyond death and, perhaps, I shudder to contemplate it, into non-existence. Even here, in the timeless region of death, unprecedented changes manifest themselves and, those of us who’ve dared ask the question and also give its answer, fear that some tumultuous event has taken place in the world of the living. Some event, so great is it, that even here we feel our souls’ extinction threatened. A legend says that until the Dreaming City dies, we ghosts may inhabit its earlier glory. Is that the news you bear to us? Is this your message? For I note on clearer observation that your body lives still and this is merely your astral body, released for a while to wander the realms of the dead.”

“Father—” but already the vision was fading; already he was withdrawing back down the bellowing corridors of the cosmos, through planes of existence unknown to living men, away, away…

“Father!” he called, and his own voice echoed, but there was none there to make reply. And in some sense at least he was glad, for how could he answer the poor spirit and reveal to him the truth of his guesses, admit the crimes he himself was guilty of against his ancestral city, against the very blood of his forefathers? All was mist and groaning sorrow as his echoes boomed into his ears, seeming to take on their own independence and warp the word into weirder words: “F-a-a-a-ath-e-er-r-r…A-a-a-a-a-v-a-a-a…A-a-a-a-h-a-a-a-a-a…R-a-a-a…D-a-ra-va-ar-a-a…!”

Still, though he strove with all his being, he could not rouse himself from slumber, but felt his spirit drawn through other regions of smoky indeterminacy, through patterns of colour beyond his earthly spectrum, beyond his mind’s conception.

A huge face began to take form in the mist.

“Sepiriz!” Elric recognized the face of his mentor. But the black Nihrainian, disembodied, did not appear to hear him. “Sepiriz—are
you
dead?”

The face faded, then reappeared almost at once upon the rest of the man’s tall frame.

“Elric, I have discovered you at last, robed in your astral body, I see. Thank Fate, for I thought I had failed to summon you. Now we must make haste. A breach has been made in the defenses of Chaos and we go to confer with the Lords of Law!”

“Where are we?”

“Nowhere as yet. We travel to the Higher Worlds. Come, hurry, I’ll be your guide.”

Down, down, through pits of softest wool that engulfed and comforted, through canyons that were cut between blazing mountains of light which utterly dwarfed them, through caverns of infinite blackness wherein their bodies shone and Elric knew that the dark nothingness went away in all directions for ever.

And then they seemed to stand upon an horizonless plateau, perfectly flat with occasional green and blue geometric constructions rising from it. The iridescent air was alive with shimmering patterns of energy, weaving intricate shapes that seemed very formal. And there, too, were things in human form—things which had assumed such shape for the benefit of the men who now encountered them.

The White Lords of the Higher Worlds, enemies of Chaos, were marvelously beautiful, with bodies of such symmetry that they could not be earthly. Only Law could create such perfection and, Elric thought, such perfection defeated progress. That the twin forces complemented one another was now plainer than ever before, and for either to gain complete ascendancy over the other meant entropy or stagnation for the cosmos. Even though Law might dominate the Earth, Chaos
must
be present, and vice versa.

The Lords of Law were accoutred for war. They had made this apparent in their choice of Earthlike garb. Fine metals and silks—or their like on this plane—gleamed on their perfect bodies. Slender weapons were at their sides and their overpoweringly beautiful faces seemed to glow with purpose. The tallest stepped forward.

“So, Sepiriz, you have brought the one whose destiny it is to aid us. Greetings, Elric of Melniboné. Though spawn of Chaos you be, we have cause to welcome you. Do you recognize me? The one whom your earthly mythology calls Donblas the Justice Maker.”

Immobile, Elric said: “I remember you, Lord Donblas. You are misnamed, I fear, for justice is nowhere present in the world.”

“You speak of your realm as if it were all realms.” Donblas smiled without rancour, though it appeared that he was unused to such impudence from a mortal. Elric remained insouciant. His ancestors had been opposed to Donblas and all his brethren, and it was still hard to consider the White Lord an ally. “I see now how you have managed to defy our opponents,” Lord Donblas continued with approval. “And I grant you that justice cannot be found on Earth at this time. But I am named the Justice
Maker
and have still the will to make it when conditions change on your plane.”

Elric did not look directly at Donblas, for the sight of his beauty was disturbing. “Then let’s to work, my lord, and change the world as soon we may. Let’s bring the novelty of justice to our sobbing realm.”

“Haste, mortal, is impossible here!” It was another White Lord speaking, his pale yellow surcoat rippling over the clear steel of breastplate and greaves, the single Arrow of Law emblazoned on it.

“I’d thought the breach to Earth made,” Elric frowned. “I’d thought this martial sight a sign that you prepared war against Chaos!”

“War
is
prepared—but not possible until the summons comes from your realm.”

“From us! Has not Earth screamed for your aid? Have we not worked sorceries and incantations to bring you to us? What further summons do you need?”

“The ordained one,” said Lord Donblas firmly.

“The ordained one? Gods! (You’ll pardon me, my lords.) Is further work required of me, then?”

“One last great task, Elric,” said Sepiriz softly. “As I have told you, Chaos blocks the attempts of the White Lords to gain access to our world. The Horn of Fate must be blown thrice before this business is fully terminated. The first blast will wake the Dragons of Imrryr, the second will allow the White Lords entrance to the earthly plane, the third—” he paused.

“Yes, the third?” Elric was impatient.

“The third will herald the death of our world!”

“Where lies this mighty horn?”

“In one of several realms,” said Sepiriz. “A device of this kind cannot be made on our plane, therefore it has had to be constructed on a plane where logic rules over sorcery. You must journey there to locate the Horn of Fate.”

“And how can I accomplish such a journey?”

Once again Lord Donblas spoke levelly. “We will give you the means. Equip yourself with sword and shield of Chaos, for they will be of some use to you, though not so powerful as in your world. Go you then to the highest point on the ruined Tower of B’aal’nezbett in Imrryr and step off into space. You will not fall—unless what little power we retain on Earth fails us.”

“Comforting words, my Lord Donblas. Very well, I shall do as you decree, to satisfy my own curiosity if naught else.”

Donblas shrugged. “This is only one of many worlds—almost as much a shadow as your own—but you may not approve of it. You will notice its sharpness, its clearness of outline—that will indicate that time has exerted no real influence upon it, that its structure has not been mellowed by many events. However, let me wish you safe passage, mortal, for I like you—and I have cause to thank you, too. Though you be of Chaos, you have within you several of the qualities we of Law admire. Go now—return to your mortal body and prepare yourself for the venture ahead of you.”

Elric glanced at Sepiriz. The black Nihrainian stepped back three paces and disappeared into the gleaming air. Elric followed him.

Once again their astral bodies ranged the myriad planes of the supernatural universe, experiencing sensations unfamiliar to the physical mind, before, quite without warning, Elric felt suddenly heavy and opened his eyes to discover that he was in his own bed in the Tower of D’a’rputna. Through the faint light filtering between chinks in the heavy curtain thrown over the window-slit, he saw the round Chaos Shield, its eight-arrowed symbol pulsing slowly as if in concert with the sun, and beside it his unholy runeblade, Stormbringer, lying against the wall as if already prepared for their journey into the might-be world of a possible future.

Then Elric slept again, more naturally, and was tormented, also, by more natural nightmares so that at last he screamed in his sleep and woke himself to find Moonglum standing by the bed. There was an expression of sad concern upon his narrow face. “What is it, Elric? What ails your slumber?”

He shuddered. “Nothing. Leave me, Moonglum, and I’ll join you when I rise.”

“There must be reason for such shouting. Some prophetic dream, perhaps?”

“Aye, prophetic sure enough. I thought I saw a vision of my thin blood spilt by a hand that was my own. What import has this dream, what moment? Answer that, my friend, and, if you can’t, then leave me to my morbid bed until these thoughts are gone.”

“Come, rouse yourself, Elric. Find forgetfulness in action. The candle of the fourteenth day burns low and Dyvim Slorm awaits your good advice.”

The albino pulled himself upright and swung his trembling legs over the bed. He felt enfeebled, bereft of energy, Moonglum helped him rise. “Throw off this troubled mood and help us in our quandary,” he said with a hollow levity that made his fears more plain.

“Aye,” Elric straightened himself. “Hand me my sword. I need its stolen strength.”

Unwillingly, Moonglum went to the wall where stood the evil weapon, took the runeblade by its scabbard and lifted it with difficulty, for it was an over-heavy sword. He shuddered as it seemed to titter faintly at him, and he presented it hilt-first to his friend. Gratefully, Elric seized it, was about to pull it from the sheath when he paused. “Best leave the room before I free the blade.”

Moonglum understood at once and left, not anxious to trust his life to the whim of the hellsword—or his friend.

When he was gone, Elric unsheathed the great sword and at once felt a faint tingle as its supernatural vitality began to stream into his nerves. Yet it was scarcely adequate and he knew that if the blade did not feed soon upon the lifestuff of another it would seek the souls of his two remaining friends. He replaced it thoughtfully in the scabbard, buckled it around his waist and strode to join Moonglum in the high-ceilinged corridor.

In silence, they proceeded down the twisting marble steps of the tower, until they reached the centre level where the main chamber was. Here, Dyvim Slorm was seated, a bottle of old Melnibonéan wine on the table before him, a large silver bowl in his hands. His sword Mournblade was on the table beside the bottle. They had found the store of wine in the secret cellars of the place, missed by the sea-reavers whom Elric had led upon Imrryr when he and his cousin had fought on opposite sides. The bowl was full of the congealed mixture of herbs, honey and barley which their ancestors had used to sustain themselves in times of need. Dyvim Slorm was brooding over it, but looked up when they came close and sat themselves on chairs opposite him. He smiled hopelessly.

“I fear, Elric, that I have done all I can to rouse our sleeping friends. No more is possible—and they still slumber.”

Elric remembered the details of his vision and, half-afraid that it had been merely a figment of his own imaginings, supplying the fantasy of hope where, in reality, no hope was, said: “Forget the dragons, for a while at least. Last night I left my body, so I thought, and journeyed to places beyond the Earth, eventually to the White Lords’ plane where they told me how I might rouse the dragons by blowing upon a horn. I intend to follow their directions and seek that horn.”

Dyvim Slorm replaced his bowl upon the table. “We’ll accompany you, of course.”

“No need—and anyway impossible—I’ll have to go alone. Wait for me until I return and if I do not—well, you must do what you decide, spending your remaining years imprisoned on this isle, or going to battle with Chaos.”

“I have the idea that time has stopped in truth and if we stay here we shall live on for ever and shall be forced to face the resulting boredom,” Moonglum put in. “If you don’t return, I for one will ride into the conquered realms to take a few of our enemies with me to limbo.”

“As you will,” Elric said. “But wait for me until all your patience is ended, for I know not how long I’ll be.”

He stood up and they seemed a trifle startled, as if they had not until then understood the import of his words.

“Fare you well, then, my friend,” said Moonglum.

“How well I fare depends on what I meet where I go,” Elric smiled. “But thanks, Moonglum. Fare
you
well, good cousin, do not fret. Perhaps we’ll wake the dragons yet!”

“Aye,” Dyvim Slorm said with a sudden resurgence of vitality. “We shall, we shall! And their fiery venom will spread across the filth that Chaos brings, burning it clean! That day
must
come or I’m no prophet at all!”

Infected by this unexpected enthusiasm, Elric felt an increase of confidence, saluted his friends, smiled, and walked upright from the chamber, ascending the marble stairs to take the Chaos Shield from its place and go down to the gateway of the tower and pass through it, walking the jagged streets towards the magic-sundered ruin that had once been the scene of his dreadful vengeance and unwitting murder—the Tower of B’aal’nezbett.