In which Moonglum returns from the Eastlands with disturbing news …
Bloody-beaked hawks soared on the frigid wind. They soared high above a mounted horde inexorably moving across the Weeping Waste.
The horde had crossed two deserts and three mountain ranges to be there and hunger drove them onwards. They were spurred on by remembrances of stories heard from travellers who had come to their Eastern homeland, by the encouragements of their thin-lipped leader who swaggered in his saddle ahead of them, one arm wrapped around a ten-foot lance decorated with the gory trophies of bis pillaging campaigns.
The riders moved slowly and wearily, unaware that they were nearing their goal.
Far behind the horde, a stocky rider left Elwher, the singing, boisterous capital of the Eastern world, and came soon to a valley.
The hard skeletons of trees had a blighted look and the horse kicked earth the colour of ashes as its rider drove it fiercely through the sick wasteland that had once been gentle Eshmir, the golden garden of the East.
A plague had smitten Eshmir and the locust had stripped her of her beauty. Both plague and locust went by the same name—Terarn Gashtek, Lord of the Mounted Hordes, sunken-faced carrier of destruction; Terarn Gashtek, insane blood-drawer, the shrieking flame bringer. And that was his other name—Flame Bringer.
The rider who witnessed the evil that Terarn Gashtek had brought to gentle Eshmir was named Moonglum. Moonglum was riding, now, for Karlaak by the Weeping Waste, the last outpost of the Western civilisation of which those in the Eastlands knew little. In Karlaak,
Moonglum knew he would find Elric of Melnibone who now dwelt permanently in his wife’s graceful city. Moonglum was desperate to reach Karlaak quickly, to warn Elric and to solicit his help.
He was small and cocky, with a broad mouth and a shock of red hair, but now his mouth did not grin and his body was bent over the horse as he pushed it on towards Karlaak. For Eshmir, gentle Eshmir, had been Moonglum’s home province and, with his ancestors, had formed him into what he was. So, cursing, Moonglum rode for Karlaak. But so did Terarn Gashtek. And already the Flame Bringer had reached the Weeping Waste. The horde moved slowly, for they had wagons with them which had at one time dropped far behind but now the supplies they carried were needed. As well as provisions, one of the wagons carried a bound prisoner who lay on his back cursing Terarn Gashtek and his slant-eyed battlemongers.
Drinij Bara was bound by more than strips of leather, that was why he cursed, for Drinij Bara was a sorcerer who could not normally be held in such a manner. If he had not succumbed to his weakness for wine and women just before the Flame Bringer had come down on the town in which he was staying, he would not have been trussed so, and Terarn Gashtek would not now have Drinij Bara’s soul.
Drinij Bara’s soul reposed in the body of a small, black cat—the cat which Terarn Gashtek had caught and carried with him always, for, as was the habit of Eastern sorcerers, Drinij Bara had hidden his soul in the body of the cat for protection. Because of this he was now slave to the Lord of the Mounted Hordes, and had to obey him lest the man slay the cat and so send his soul to Hell.
It was not a pleasant situation for the proud sorcerer, but he did not deserve less.
There was on the pale face of Elric of Melnibone some slight trace of an earlier haunting, but his mouth smiled and his crimson eyes were at peace as he looked down at the young, black-haired woman with whom he walked in the terraced gardens of Karlaak.
“Elric,” said Zarozinia, “have you found your happiness?”
He nodded. “I think so. Stormbringer, now hangs amid cobwebs in your father’s armoury. The drugs I discovered in Troos keep me strong, my eyesight clear, and need to be taken only occasionally. I need never think of travelling or fighting again. I am content, here, to spend my time with you and study the books in Karlaak’s library. What more would I require?”
“You compliment me overmuch, my lord. I would become complacent.”
He laughed. “Rather that than you were doubting. Do not fear, Zarozinia, I possess no reason, now, to journey on. Moonglum, I miss, but it was natural that he should become restless of residence in a city and wish to revisit his homeland.”
“I am glad you are at peace, Elric. My father was at first reluctant to let you live here, fearing the black evil that once accompanied you, but three months have proved to him that the evil has gone and left no fuming berserker behind it.”
Suddenly there came a shouting from below them, in the street a man’s voice was raised and he banged at the gates of the house.
“Let me in, damn you, I must speak with your master.”
A servant came running: “Lord Elric—there is a man at the gates with a message. He pretends friendship with you.”
“His name?”
“An alien one—Moonglum, he says.”
“Moonglum! His stay in Elwher has been short. Let him in!”
Zarozinia’s eyes held a trace of fear and she held Elric’s arm fiercely. “Elric—pray he does not bring news to take you hence.”
“No news could do that. Fear not, Zarozinia.” He hurried out of the garden and into the courtyard of the house. Moonglum rode hurriedly through the gates, dismounting as he did so.
“Moonglum, my friend! Why the haste? Naturally, I am pleased to see you after such a short time, but you have been riding hastily—why?”
The little Eastlander’s face was grim beneath its coating of dust and his clothes were filthy from hard riding.
“The Flame Bringer comes with sorcery to aid him,” he panted. “You must warn the city.”
“The Flame Bringer? The name means nothing—you sound delirious, my friend.”
“Aye, that’s true, I am. Delirious with hate. He destroyed my homeland, killed my family, my friends and now plans conquests in the West. Two years ago he was little more than an ordinary desert raider but then he began to gather a great horde of barbarians around him and has been looting and slaying his way across the Eastern lands. Only Elwher has not suffered from his attacks, for the city was too great for even him to take. But he has turned two thousand miles of pleasant country into a burning waste. He plans world conquest, rides westwards with five hundred thousand warriors!”
“You mentioned sorcery—what does this barbarian know of such sophisticated arts?”
“Little himself, but he has one of our greatest wizards in his power—Drinij Bara. The man was captured as he lay drunk between two wenches in a tavern in Phum. He had put his soul into the body of a cat so that no rival sorcerer might steal it while he slept. But Terarn Gashtek, the Flame Bringer, knew of this trick, seized the cat and bound its legs, eyes and mouth, so imprisoning Drinij Bara’s evil soul. Now the sorcerer is his slave—if he does not obey the barbarian, the cat will be killed by an iron blade and Drinij Bara’s soul will go to Hell.”
“These are unfamiliar sorceries to me,” said Elric. “They seem little more than superstitions.”
“Who knows that they may be—but so long as Drinij Bara believes what he believes, he will do as Terarn
Gashtek dictates. Several proud cities have been destroyed with the aid of his magic.”
“How far away is this Flame Bringer?”
“Three days’ ride at most. I was forced to come hence by a longer route, to avoid his outriders.”
“Then we must prepare for a siege.”
“No, Elric—you must prepare to flee!”
“To flee—should I request the citizens of Karlaak to leave their beautiful city unprotected, to leave their homes?”
“If they will not—you must, and take your bride with you. None can stand against such a foe.”
“My own sorcery is no mean thing.”
“But one man’s sorcery is not enough to hold back half a million men also aided by sorcery.”
“And Karlaak is a trading city—not a warrior’s fortress. Very well, I will speak to the Council of Elders and try to convince them.”
“You must convince them quickly, Elric, for if you do not Karlaak will not stand half a day before Terarn Gashtek’s howling blood-letters.”
“They are stubborn,” said Elric as the two sat in his private study later that night. “They refuse to realise the magnitude of the danger. They refuse to leave and I cannot leave them for they have welcomed me and made me a citizen of Karlaak.”
“Then we must stay here and die?”
“Perhaps. There seems to be no choice. But I have another plan. You say that this sorcerer is a prisoner of Terarn Gashtek. What would he do if he regained his soul?”
“Why he would take vengeance upon his captor. But Terarn Gashtek would not be so foolish as to give him the chance. There is no help for us there.”
“What if we managed to aid Drinij Bara?”
“How? It would be impossible.”
“It seems our only chance. Does this barbarian know of me or my history?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Would he recognise you?”
“Why should he?”
“Then I suggest we join him.”
“Join him—Elric you are no more sane than when we rode as free travellers together!”
“I know what I am doing. It would be the only way to get close to him and discover a subtle way to defeat him. We will set off at dawn, there is no time to waste.”
“Very well. Let’s hope your old luck is good, but I doubt it now, for you’ve forsaken your old ways and the luck went with them.”
“Let us find out.”
“Will you take Stormbringer?”
“I had hoped never to have to make use of that hellforged blade again. She’s a treacherous sword at best.”
“Aye—but I think you’ll need her in this business.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’ll take her.”
Elric frowned, his hands clenched. “It will mean breaking my word to Zarozinia.”
“Better break it—than give her up to the Mounted Hordes.”
Elric unlocked the door to the armoury, a pitch torch flaring in one hand. He felt sick as he strode down the narrow passage lined with dulled weapons which had not been used for a century.
His heart pounded heavily as he came to another door and flung off the bar to enter the little room in which lay the disused regalia of Karlaak’s long-dead War Chieftains—and Stormbringer. The black blade began to moan, as if welcoming him as he took a deep breath of the musty air and reached for the sword. He clutched the hilt and his body was racked by an unholy sensation of awful ecstasy. His face twisted as he sheathed the blade and he almost ran from the armoury towards cleaner air.
Elric and Moonglum mounted their plainly equipped horses and, garbed like common mercenaries, bade urgent farewell to the Councillors of Karlaak.
Zarozinia kissed Elric’s pale hand.
“I realise the need for this,” she said, her eyes full of tears, “but take care, my love.”
“I shall. And pray that we are successful in whatever we decide to do.”
“The White Gods be with you.”
“No—pray to the Lords of the Darks, for it is their evil help I’ll need in this work. And forget not my words to the messenger who is to ride to the south-west and find Dyvim Slorm.”
“I’ll not forget,” she said, “though I worry lest you succumb again to your old black ways.”
“Fear for the moment—I’ll worry about my own fate later.”
“Then farewell, my lord, and be lucky.”
“Farewell, Zarozinia. My love for you will give me more power even than this foul blade here.” He spurred his horse through the gates and then they were riding for the Weeping Waste and a troubled future.
Dwarfed by the vastness of the softly turfed plateau which was the Weeping Waste, the place of eternal rains, the two horsemen drove their hard-pressed steeds through the drizzle.
A shivering desert warrior, huddled against the weather, saw them come towards him. He stared through the rain trying to make out details of the riders, then wheeled his stocky pony and rode swiftly back in the direction he had come. Within minutes he had reached a larger group of warriors attired like himself in furs and tasselled iron helmets. They carried short bone bows and quivers of long arrows fletched with hawk feathers. There were curved scimitars at their sides.
He exchanged a few words with his fellows and soon they were all lashing their horses towards the two riders.
“How much further lies the camp of Terarn Gashtek, Moonglum?” Elric’s words were breathless, for both men had ridden for a day without halt “Not much further, Elric. We should be—look!” Moonglum pointed ahead. About ten riders came swiftly towards them. “Desert barbarians—the Flame Bringer’s men. Prepare for a fight—they won’t waste time parleying.”
Stormbringer scraped from the scabbard and the heavy blade seemed to aid Elric’s wrist as he raised it, so that it felt almost weightless.
Moonglum drew both his swords, holding the short one with the same hand with which he grasped his horse’s reins.
The Eastern warriors spread out in a half circle as they rode down on the companions, yelling wild warshouts. Elric reared his mount to a savage standstill and met the first rider with Stormbringer’s point full in the man’s throat. There was a stink like brimstone as it pierced flesh and the warrior drew a ghastly choking breath as he died, his eyes staring out in full realisation of his terrible fate—for Stormbringer drank souls as well as blood.
Elric cut savagely at another desertman, lopping off his sword arm and splitting his crested helmet and the skull beneath. Rain and sweat ran down his white, taut features and into his glowing crimson eyes, but he blinked it aside, half-fell in his saddle as he turned to defend himself against another howling scimitar, parried the sweep, slid his own runeblade down its length, turned the blade with a movement of his wrist and disarmed the warrior. Then he plunged his sword into the man’s heart and the desert warrior yelled like a wolf at the moon, a long baying shout before Stormbringer took his soul.
Elric’s face was twisted in self-loathing as he fought intently with superhuman strength. Moonglum stayed clear of the albino’s sword for he knew its liking for the lives of Elric’s friends.
Soon only one opponent was left. Elric disarmed him and had to hold his own greedy sword back from the man’s throat.
Reconciled to the horror of his death, the man said something in a guttural tongue which Elric half-recognised. He searched his memory and realised that it was a language close to one of the many ancient tongues which, as a sorcerer, he had been required to learn years before.
He said in the same language: “Thou art one of the warriors of Terarn Gashtek the Flame Bringer.”
“That is true. And you must be the White-faced Evil One of legends. I beg you to slay me with a cleaner weapon than that which you hold.”
“I do not wish to kill thee at all. We were coming hence to join Terarn Gashtek. Take us to him.”
The man nodded hastily and clambered back on his horse.
“Who are you who speaks the High Tongue of our people?”
“I am called Elric of Melnibone—dost thou know the name?”
The warrior shook his head. “No, but the High Tongue has not been spoken for generations, save by shamans—yet you’re no shaman but, by your dress, seem a warrior.”
“We are both mercenaries. But speak no more. I will explain the rest to thy leader.”
They left a jackal’s feast behind them and followed the quaking Easterner in the direction he led them.
Fairly soon, the low-lying smoke of many camp-fires could be observed and at length they saw the sprawling camp of the barbarian War Lord’s mighty army.
The camp encompassed over a mile of the great plateau. The barbarians had erected skin tents on rounded frames and the camp had the aspect of a large primitive town. Roughly in the centre was a much larger construction, decorated with a motley assortment of gaudy silks and brocades.
Moonglum said in the Western tongue: “That must be Terarn Gashtek’s dwelling. See, he has covered its half-cured hides with a score of Eastern battle-flags.” His face grew grimmer as he noted the torn standard of Eshmir, the lion-flag of Okara and the blood-soaked pennants of sorrowing Changshai.
The captured warrior led them through the squatting ranks of barbarians who stared at them impassively and muttered to one another. Outside Terarn Gashtek’s tasteless dwelling was his great war-lance decorated with more trophies of his conquests—the skulls and bones of Eastern princes and kings.
Elric said: “Such a one as this must not be allowed to destroy the reborn civilisation of the Young Kingdoms.”
“Young kingdoms are resilient,” remarked Moonglum, “but it is when they are old that they fall—and it is often Terarn Gashtek’s kind that tear them down.”
“While I live he shall not destroy Karlaak—nor reach as far as Bakshaan.”
Moonglum said: “Though, in my opinion, he’d be welcome to Nadsokor. The City of Beggars deserves such visitors as the Flame Bringer. If we fail, Elric, only the sea will stop him—and perhaps not that.”
“With Dyvim Slorm’s aid—we shall stop him. Let us hope Karlaak’s messenger finds my kinsman soon,”
“If he does not we shall be hard put to fight off half a million warriors, my friend.”
The barbarian shouted: “Oh, Conqueror—mighty Flame Bringer—there are men here who wish to speak with you.”
A slurred voice snarled: “Bring them in.”
They entered the badly smelling tent which was lighted by a fire flickering in a circle of stones. A gaunt man, carelessly dressed in bright captured clothing, lounged on a wooden bench. There were several women in the tent, one of whom poured wine into a heavy golden goblet which he held out.
Terarn Gashtek pushed the woman aside, knocking her sprawling and regarded the newcomers. His face was almost as fleshless as the skulls hanging outside his tent. His cheeks were sunken and his slanting eyes narrow beneath thick brows.
“Who are these?”
“Lord, I know not—but between them they slew ten of our men and would have slain me.”
“You deserved no more than death if you let yourself be disarmed. Get out—and find a new sword quickly or I’ll let the shamans have your vitals for divination.” The man slunk away.
Terarn Gashtek seated himself upon the bench once more.
“So, you slew ten of my bloodletters, did yon, and came here to boast to me about it? What’s the explanation?”
“We but defended ourselves against your warriors—we sought no quarrel with them.” Elric now spoke the cruder tongue as best he could.
“You defended yourselves fairly well, I grant you. We reckon three soft-living house-dwellers to one of us. You are a Westerner, I can tell that, though your silent friend has the face of an Elwherite. Have you come from the East or the West?”
“The West,” Elric said, “we are free travelling warriors, hiring our swords to those who’ll pay or promise us good booty.”
“Are all Western warriors as skilful as you?” Terarn Gashtek could not hide his sudden realisation that he might have under-estimated the men he hoped to conquer.
“We are a little better than most,” lied Moonglum, “but not much.”
“What of sorcery—is there much strong magic here?”
“No,” said Elric, “the art has been lost to most.”
The barbarian’s thin mouth twisted into a grin, half of relief, half of triumph. He nodded his head, reached into his gaudy silks and produced a small black and white bound cat. He began to stroke its back. It wriggled but could do no more than hiss at its captor. “Then we need not worry,” he said.
“Now, why did you come here? I could have you tortured for days for what you did, slaying ten of my best outriders.”
“We recognised the chance of enriching ourselves by aiding you, Lord Flame Bringer,” said Elric. “We could show you the richest towns, lead you to ill-defended cities that would take little time to fall. Will you enlist us?”
“I’ve need of such men as you, true enough. I’ll enlist you readily—but mark this, I’ll not trust you until you’ve proved loyal to me. Find yourselves quarters now—and come to the feast, tonight. There I’ll be able to show you something of the power I hold—the power which will smash the strength of the West and lay it waste for ten thousand miles.”
“Thanks,” said Elric. “I’ll look forward to tonight.”
They left the tent and wandered through the haphazard collection of tents and cooking fires, wagons and animals. There seemed little food, but wine was in abundance and the taut, hungry stomachs of the barbarians were placated with that.
They stopped a warrior and told him of Terarn Gashtek’s orders to them. The warrior sullenly led them to a tent.
“Here—it was shared by three of the men you slew. It is yours by right of battle, as are the weapons and booty inside.”
“We’re richer already,” grinned Elric with feigned delight.
In the privacy of the tent, which was less clean than Terarn Gashtek’s, they debated.
“I feel uncommonly uncomfortable,” said Moonglum, “surrounded by this treacherous horde. And every time I think of what they made of Eshmir, I itch to slay more of them. What now?”
“We can do nothing now—let us wait until tonight and see what develops.” Elric sighed. “Our task seems impossible—I have never seen so great a horde as this.”
“They are invincible as they are,” said Moonglum. “Even without Drinij Bara’s sorcery to tumble down the walls of cities, no single nation could withstand them and, with the Western Nations squabbling among themselves, they could never unite in time. Civilisation itself is threatened. Let us pray for inspiration—your dark gods are at least sophisticated, Elric, and we must hope that they’ll resent the barbarian’s intrusion as much as we do.”
“They play strange games with their human pawns,” Elric replied, “and who knows what they plan?”
Terarn Gashtek’s smoke-wreathed tent had been further lighted by rush torches when Elric and Moonglum swaggered in, and the feast, consisting primarily of wine, was already in progress.
“Welcome, my friends,” shouted the Flame Bringer, waving his goblet. “These are my captains—come, join them!”
Elric had never seen such an evil-looking group of barbarians. They were all half-drunk and, like their leader, had draped a variety of looted articles of clothing about themselves. But their swords were their own.
Room was made on one of the benches and they accepted wine which they drank sparingly.
“Bring in our slave I” yelled Terarn Gashtek. “Bring in Drinij Bara our pet sorcerer.” Before him on the table lay the bound and struggling cat and beside it an iron blade.
Grinning warriors dragged a morose-faced man close to the fire and forced him to kneel before the barbarian chief. He was a lean man and he glowered at Terarn Gashtek and the little cat Then his eyes saw the iron blade and his gaze faltered.
“What do you want with me now?” he said sullenly.
“Is that the way to address your master, spell-maker? Still, no matter. We have guests to entertain—men who have promised to lead us to fat merchant cities. We require you to do a few minor tricks for them.”
“I’m no petty conjurer. You cannot ask this of one of the greatest sorcerers in the world!”
“We do not ask—we order. Come, make the evening lively. What do you need for your magic-making? A few slaves—the blood of virgins? We shall arrange it.”
“I’m no mumbling shaman—I need no such trappings.”
Suddenly the sorcerer saw Elric. The albino felt the man’s powerful mind tentatively probing his own. He had been recognised as a fellow sorcerer. Would Drinij Bara betray him?
Elric was tense, waiting to be denounced. He leaned back in his chair and, as he did so, made a sign with his hand which would be recognised by Western sorcererswould the Easterner know it?
He did. For a moment he faltered, glancing at the barbarian leader. Then he turned away and began to make new passes in the air, muttering to himself.
The beholders gasped as a cloud of golden smoke formed near the roof and began to metamorphose into the shape of a great horse bearing a rider which all recognised as Terarn Gashtek. The barbarian leader leaned forward, glaring at the image.
“What’s this?”
A map showing great land areas and seas seemed to unroll beneath the horse’s hooves. “The Western lands,” cried Drinij Bara. “I make a prophecy.”
“What is it?”
The ghostly horse began to trample the map. It split and flew into a thousand smoky pieces. Then the image of the horseman faded, also, into fragments.
“Thus will the mighty Flame Bringer rend the bountiful nations of the West,” shouted Drinij Bara.
The barbarians cheered exultantly, but Elric smiled thinly. The Eastern wizard was mocking Terarn Gashtek and his men.
The smoke formed into a golden globe which seemed to blaze and vanish.
Terarn Gashtek laughed. “A good trick, magicmaker—and a true prophecy. You have done your work well. Take him back to his kennel!”
As Drinij Bara was dragged away, he glanced questioningly at Elric but said nothing.
Later that night, as the barbarians drank themselves into a stupor, Elric and Moonglum slipped out of the tent and made their way to the place where Drinij Bara was imprisoned.
They reached the small hut and saw that a warrior stood guard at the entrance. Moonglum produced a skin of wine and, pretending drunkenness, staggered towards the man. Elric stayed where he was.
“What do you want, Outlander?” growled the guard.
“Nothing my friend, we are trying to get back to our own tent, that’s all. Do you know where it is?”
“How should I know?”
“True—how should you? Have some wine—it’s good— from Terarn Gashtek’s own supply.”
The man extended a hand. “Let’s have it.”
Moonglum took a swig of the wine. “No, I’ve changed my mind. It’s too good to waste on common warriors.”
“Is that so?” The warrior took several paces towards Moonglum. “We’ll find out, won’t we? And maybe we’ll mix some of your blood with it to give it flavour, my little friend.”
Moonglum backed away. The warrior followed.
Elric ran softly towards the tent and ducked into it to find Drinij Bara, wrists bound, lying on a pile of uncured hides. The sorcerer looked up.
“You—what do you want?”
“We’ve come to aid you, Drinij Bara.”
“Aid me? But why? You’re no friend of mine. What would you gain? You risk too much.”
“As a fellow sorcerer, I thought I’d help you,” Elric said.
“I thought you were that. But, in my land, sorcerers are not so friendly to one another—the opposite, in fact.”
“I’ll tell you the truth—we need your aid to halt the barbarian’s bloody progress. We have a common enemy. If we can help you regain your soul, will you help?”
“Help—of course. All I do is plan the way I’ll avenge myself. But for my sake be careful—if he suspects that you’re here to aid me, he’ll slay the cat and slay us, too.”
“We’ll try to bring the cat to you. Will that be what you need?”
“Yes. We must exchange blood, the cat and I, and my soul will then pass back into my own body.”
“Very well, I’ll try to—“ Elric turned, hearing voices outside. “What’s that?”
The sorcerer replied fearfully. “It must be Terarn Gashtek—he comes every night to taunt me.”
“Where’s the guard?” The barbarian’s harsh voice came closer as he entered the little tent. “What’s . . . ?” He saw Elric standing above the sorcerer.
His eyes were puzzled and wary. “What are you doing here, Westerner—and what have you done with the guard?”
“Guard?” said Elric, “I saw no guard. I was looking for my own tent and heard this cur cry out, so I entered. I was curious, anyway, to see such a great sorcerer clad in filthy rags and bound so.”
Terarn Gashteck scowled. “Any more of such unwary curiosity my friend, and you’ll be discovering what your own heart looks like. Now, get hence—we ride on in the morning.”
Elric pretended to flinch and stumbled hurriedly from the tent.
A lone man in the livery of an Official Messenger of Karlaak goaded his horse southwards. The mount galloped over the crest of a hill and the messenger saw a village ahead. Hurriedly he rode into it, shouting at the first man he saw.
“Quickly, tell me—know you ought of Dyvim Slorm and his Imrryrian mercenaries? Have they passed this way?”
“Aye—a week ago. They went towards Rignariom by Jadmar’s border, to offer their services to the Vilmirian Pretender.”
“Were they mounted or on foot?”
“Both.”
“Thanks, friend,” cried the messenger behind him and galloped out of the village in the direction of Rignariom.
The messenger from Karlaak rode through the night—rode along a recently made trail. A large force had passed that way. He prayed that it had been Dyvim Slorm and his Imrryrian warriors.
In the sweet-smelling garden city of Karlaak, the at mosphere was tense as the citizens waited for news they knew they could not expect for some time. They were relying on both Elric and on the messenger. If only one were successful, there would be no hope for them. Both had to be successful. Both.
The tumbling sound of moving men cut through the weeping morning and the hungry voice of Terarn Gashtek lashed at them to hurry.
Slaves packed up his tent and threw it into a wagon. He rode forward and wrenched his tall war-lance from the soft earth, wheeled his horse and rode westwards, his captains, Elric and Moonglum among them, behind him.
Speaking the Western tongue, Elric and Moonglum debated their problem. The barbarian was expecting them to lead him to his prey, his outriders were covering wide distances so that it would be impossible to lead him past a settlement. They were in a quandary for it would be disgraceful to sacrifice another township to give Karlaak a few days’ grace, yet...
A little later two whooping outriders came galloping up to Terarn Gashtek.
“A town, lord! A small one and easy to take!”
“At last—this will do to test our blades and see how easy Western flesh is to pierce. Then we’ll aim at a bigger target.” He turned to Elric: “Do you know this town?”
“Where does it lie?” asked Elric thickly.
“A dozen miles to the south-west,” replied the outrider.
In spite of the fact that the town was doomed, Elric felt almost relieved. They spoke of the town of Gorjhan. “I know it,” he said.
Cavim the Saddler, riding to deliver a new set of horse furniture to an outlying farm, saw the distant riders, their bright helmets caught by a sudden beam of sunlight. That the riders came from off the Weeping Waste was undoubtable—and he recognised menace in their massed progress.
He turned his mount about and rode with the speed of fear, back the way he had come to the town of Gorjhan.
The flat, hard mud of the street trembled beneath the thudding hooves of Cavim’s horse and his high, excited shout knifed through shuttered windows.
“Raiders come! ‘Ware the raiders!”
Within a quarter of an hour, the head-men of the town had met in hasty conference and debated whether to run or to fight. The older men advised their neighbours to flee the raiders, other younger men preferred to stay ready, armed to meet a possible attack. Some argued that their town was too poor to attract any raider.
The townspeople of Gorjhan debated and quarrelled, and the first wave of raiders came screaming to their walls.
With the realisation that there was no time for further argument came the realisation of their doom, and they ran to the ramparts with their pitiful weapons.
Terarn Gashtek roared through the milling barbarians who churned the mud around Gorjhan: “Let’s waste no time in siege. Fetch the sorcerer!”
They dragged Drinij Bara forward. From his garments, Terarn Gashtek produced the small black cat and held an iron blade at its throat.
“Work your spell, sorcerer, and tumble the walls quickly.”
The sorcerer scowled, his eyes seeking Elric, but the albino averted his own eyes and turned his horse away.
The sorcerer produced a handful of powder from his belt pouch and hurled it into the air where it became first a gas, then a flickering ball of flame and finally a face, a dreadful unhuman face, formed in the flame.
“Dag-Gadden the Destroyer,” intoned Drinij Bara, “you are sworn to our ancient pact—will you obey me?”
“I must, therefore I will. What do you command?”
“That you obliterate the walls of this town and so leave the men inside naked, like crabs without their shells.”
“My pleasure is to destroy and destroy I shall.” The flaming face faded, altered, shrieked a searing course upward and became a blossoming scarlet canopy which hid the sky.
Then it swept down over the town and, in the instant of its passing, the walls of Gorjhan groaned, crumbled and vanished.
Elric shuddered—if Dag-Gadden came to Karlaak, such would be their fate.
Triumphant, the barbarian battlemongers swept into the defenceless town.
Careful to take no part in the massacre, Elric and Moonglum were also helpless to aid the slaughtered townspeople. The sight of the senseless, savage bloodshed around them enervated them. They ducked into a small house which seemed so far untouched by the pillaging barbarians. Inside they found three cowering children huddled around an older girl who clutched an old scythe in her soft hands. Shaking with fear, she prepared to stand them off.
“Do not waste our time, girl,” Elric said, “or you’ll be wasting your lives. Does this house have a loft?”
She nodded.
“Then get to it quickly. We’ll make sure you’re unharmed.”
They stayed in the house, hating to observe the slaughter-madness which had come upon the howling barbarians. They heard the dreadful sounds of carnage and smelled the stench of dead flesh and running blood.
A barbarian, covered in blood which was not his own, dragged a woman into the house by her hair. She made no attempt to resist, her face stunned by the horror she had witnessed.
Elric growled: “Find another nest, hawk—we’ve made this our own.”
The man said: “There’s room enough here for what I want.”
Then, at last, Elric’s clenched muscles reacted almost in spite of him. His right hand swung over to his left hip and the long fingers locked around Stormbringer’s black hilt. The blade leapt from the scabbard as Elric stepped forward and, his crimson eyes blazing his sickened hatred, he smashed his sword down through the man’s body. Unnecessarily, he clove again, hacking the barbarian in two. The woman remained where she lay, conscious but unmoving.
Elric picked up her inert body and passed it gently to Moonglum. “Take her upstairs with the others,” he said brusquely.
The barbarians had begun to fire part of the town, their slaying all but done. Now they looted. Elric stepped out of the doorway.
There was precious little for them to loot but, still hungry for violence, they spent their energy on smashing inanimate things and setting fire to the broken, pillaged dwellings.
Stormbringer dangled loosely in Elric’s hand as he looked at the blazing town. His face was a mask of shadow and frisking light as the fire threw up still longer tongues of flame to the misty sky.
Around him, barbarians squabbled over the pitiful booty; and occasionally a woman’s scream cut above the other sounds, intermingled with rough shouts and the clash of metal.
Then he heard voices which were pitched differently to those in the immediate vicinity. The accents of the reavers mingled with a new tone—a whining, pleading tone. A group led by Terarn Gashtek came into view through the smoke.
Terarn Gashtek held something bloody in his hand—a human hand, severed at the wrist—and behind him swaggered several of his captains holding a naked old man between them. Blood ran over his body and gushed from his ruined arm, spurting sluggishly.
Terarn Gashtek frowned when he saw Elric. Then he shouted: “Now Westerner, you shall see how we placate our Gods with better gifts than meal and sour milk as this swine once did. He’ll soon be dancing a pretty measure, I’ll warrant—won’t you, Lord Priest?”
The whining note went out of the old man’s voice then and he stared with fever-bright eyes at Elric. His voice rose to a frenzied and high-pitched shriek which was curiously repellent.
“You dogs can howl over me!” he spat, “but Mirath and T’aargano will be revenged for the ruin of their priest and their temple—you have brought flame here and you shall die by flame.” He pointed the bleeding stump of his arm at Elric— “And you—you are a traitor and have been one in many causes, I can see it written in you. Though now ... You are—“ the priest drew breath...
Elric licked his lips.
“I am what I am,” he said, “And you are nothing but an old man soon to die. Your gods cannot harm us, for we do not pay them any respect. I’ll listen no more to your senile meanderings!”
There was in the old priest’s face all the knowledge of his past torment and the torment which was to come. He seemed to consider this and then was silent.
“Save your breath for screaming,” said Terarn Gashtek to the uncomprehending priest.
And then Elric said: “It’s bad luck to kill a priest, Flame Bringer!”
“You seem weak of stomach, my friend. His sacrifice to our own gods will bring us good luck, fear not.”
Elric turned away. As he entered the house again, a wild shriek of agony seared out of the night and the laughter which followed was not pleasant.
Later, as the still burning houses lit the night, Elric and Moonglum, carrying heavy sacks on their shoulders, clasping a woman each, moved with a simulation of drunkenness to the edge of the camp. Moonglum left the sacks and the women with Elric and went back, returning soon with three horses.
They opened the sacks to allow the children to climb out and watched the silent women mount the horses, aiding the children to clamber up.
Then they galloped away.
“Now,” said Elric savagely, “we must work our plan tonight, whether the messenger reached Dyvim Slorm or not. I could not bear to witness another such swordquenching.”
Terarn Gashtek had drunk himself insensible. He lay sprawled in an upper room of one of the unburned houses.
Elric and Moonglum crept towards him. While Elric watched to see that he was undisturbed, Moonglum knelt beside the barbarian leader and, lightfingered, cautiously reached inside the man’s garments. He smiled in self-approval as he lifted out the squirming cat and replaced it with a stuffed rabbit-skin he had earlier prepared for the purpose. Holding the animal tight, he arose and nodded to Elric. Together, warily, they left the house and made their way through the chaos of the camp.
“I ascertained that Drinij Bara lies in the large wagon,’ Elric told his friend. “Quickly, now, the main danger’s over.”
Moonglum said: “When the cat and Drinij Bara have exchanged blood and the sorcerer’s soul is back in his body—what then, Elric?”
“Together, our powers may serve at least to hold the barbarians back, but—“ he broke off as a large group of warriors came weaving towards them.
“It’s the Westerner and his little friend,” laughed one. “Where are you off to, comrades?”
Elric sensed their mood. The slaughter of the day had not completely satiated their blood-lust. They were looking for trouble.
“Nowhere in particular,” he replied. The barbarians lurched around them, encircling them.
“We’ve heard much of your straight blade, stranger,” grinned their spokesman, “and I’d a mind to test it against a real weapon.” He grabbed his own scimitar out of his belt. “What do you say?”
“I’d spare you that,” said Elric coolly.
“You are generous—but I’d rather you accepted my invitation.”
“Let us pass,” said Moonglum.
The barbarians’ faces hardened. “Speak you so to the conquerors of the world?” said the leader.
Moonglum took a step back and drew his sword, the cat squirming in his left hand.
“We’d best get this done,” said Elric to his friend. He tugged his runeblade from its scabbard. The sword sang a soft and mocking tune and the barbarians heard it. They were disconcerted.
“Well?” said Elric, holding the half-sentient blade out
The barbarian who had challenged him looked uncertain of what to do. Then he forced himself to shout: “Clean iron can withstand any sorcery,” and launched himself forward.
Elric, grateful for the chance to take further vengeance, blocked his swing, forced the scimitar back and aimed a blow which sliced the man’s torso just above the hip. The barbarian screamed and died. Moonglum, dealing with a couple more, killed one but another came in swiftly and his sweeping sword sliced the little Eastlander’s left shoulder. He howled—and dropped the cat. Elric stepped in, slew Moonglum’s opponent, Stormbringer wailing a triumphant dirge. The rest of the barbarians turned and ran off.
“How bad is your wound?” gasped Elric, but Moonglum was on his knees staring through the gloom.
“Quick, Elric—can you see the cat? I dropped it in the struggle. If we lose it—we too are lost.”
Frantically, they began to hunt through the camp.
But they were unsuccessful, for the cat, with the dexterity of its kind, had hidden itself.
A few moments later they heard the sounds of uproar coming from the house which Terarn Gashtek had commandeered.
“He’s discovered that the cat’s been stolen!” exclaimed Moonglum. “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know—keep searching and hope he does not suspect us.”
They continued to hunt, but with no result. While they searched, several barbarians came up to them. One of them said:
“Our leader wishes to speak with you.”
“Why?”
“He’ll inform you of that. Come on.”
Reluctantly, they went with the barbarians to be confronted by a raging Terarn Gashtek. He clutched the stuffed rabbit skin in one claw-like hand and his face was warped with fury.
“My hold over the sorcerer has been stolen from me,” he roared. “What do you know of it?”
“I don’t understand,” said Elric.
“The cat is missing—I found this rag in its place. You were caught talking to Drinij Bara recently, I think you were responsible.”
“We know nothing of this,” said Moonglum.
Terarn Gashtek growled: “The camp’s in disorder, it will take a day to re-organise my men—once loosed like this they will obey no one. But when I’ve restored order, I shall question the whole camp. If you tell the truth, then you will be released, but meanwhile you will be given all the time you need to speak with the sorcerer.” He jerked his head. “Take them away, disarm them, bind them and throw them in Drinij Bara’s kennel.”
As they were led away, Elric muttered: “We must escape and find that cat, but meanwhile we need not waste this opportunity to confer with Drinij Bara.”
Drinij Bara said in the darkness: “No, Brother Sorcerer, I will not aid you. I will risk nothing until the cat and I are united.”
“But Terarn Gashtek cannot threaten you any more.”
“What if he recaptures the cat—what then?”
Elric was silent. He shifted his bound body uncomfortably on the hard boards of the wagon. He was about to continue his attempts at persuasion when the awning was thrown aside and he saw another trussed figure thrown towards them. Through the blackness he said in the Eastern tongue: “Who are you?”
The man replied in the language of the West: “I do not understand you.”
“Are you, then, a Westerner?” asked Elric in the common speech.
“Yes—I am an Official Messenger from Karlaak. I was captured by these odorous jackals as I returned to the city.”
“What? Are you the man we sent to Dyvim Slorm, my kinsman? I am Elric of Melnibone.”
“My lord, are we all, then prisoners? Oh, gods—Karlaak is truly lost.”
“Did you get to Dyvim Slorm?”
“Aye—I caught up with him and his band. Luckily they were nearer to Karlaak than we suspected.”
“And what was his answer to my request?”
“He said that a few young ones might be ready, but even with sorcery to aid him it would take some time to get to the Dragon Isle. There is a chance.”
“A chance is all we need—but it will be no good unless we accomplish the rest of our plan. Somehow Drinij Bara’s soul must be regained so that Terarn Gashtek cannot force him to defend the barbarians. There is one idea I have—a memory of an ancient kinship that we of Melnibone had for a being called Meerclar. Thank the gods that I discovered those drugs in Troos and I still have my strength. Now, I must call my sword to me.”
He closed his eyes and allowed his mind and body first to relax completely and then concentrate on one single thing—the sword Stormbringer.
For years the evil symbiosis had existed between man and sword and the old attachments lingered.
He cried: “Stormbringer! Stormbringer, unite with your brother! Come, sweet runeblade, come hell-forged kinslayer, your master needs thee ...”
Outside, it seemed that a wailing wind had suddenly sprung up. Elric heard shouts of fear and a whistling sound. Then the covering of the wagon was sliced apart to let in the starlight and the moaning blade quivered in the air over his head. He struggled upwards, already feeling nauseated at what he was about to do, but he was reconciled that he was not, this time, guided by self interest but by the necessity to save the world from the barbarian menace.
“Give me thy strength, my sword,” he groaned as his bound hands grasped the hilt. “Give me thy strength and let us hope it is for the last time.”
The blade writhed in his hands and he felt an awful sensation as its power, the power stolen vampire-like, from a hundred brave men, flowed into his shuddering body.
He became possessed of a peculiar strength which was not by any means wholly physical. His white face twisted as he concentrated on controlling the new power and the blade, both of which threatened to possess him entirely. He snapped his bonds and stood up.
Barbarians were even now running towards the wagon. Swiftly he cut the leather ropes binding the others and, unconscious of the nearing warriors, called a different name.
He spoke a new tongue, an alien tongue which normally he could not remember. It was a language taught to the Sorcerer Kings of Melnibone, Elric’s ancestors, even before the building of Imrryr, the Dreaming City, over ten thousand years previously.
“Meerclar of the Cats, it is I, your kinsman, Elric of Melnibone, last of the line that made vows of friendship with you and your people. Do you hear me, Lord of the Cats?”
Far beyond the Earth, dwelling within a world set apart from the physical laws of space and time which governed the planet, glowing in a deep warmth of blue and amber, a manlike creature stretched itself and yawned, displaying tiny, pointed teeth. It pressed its head languidly against its furry shoulder—and listened.
The voice it heard was not that of one of its people, the kind he loved and protected. But he recognised the language.
He smiled to himself as remembrance came and he felt the pleasant sensation of fellowship. He remembered a race which, unlike other humans (whom he disdained) had shared his qualities—a race which, like him, loved pleasure, cruelty and sophistication for its own sake. The race of Melniboneans.
Meerclar, Lord of the Cats, Protector of the Feline Kind, projected himself gracefully towards the source of the voice,
“How may I aid thee?” he purred.
“We seek one of your folk, Meerclar, who is somewhere close to here.”
“Yes, I sense him. What do you want of him?”
“Nothing which is his—but he has two souls, one of them not his own.”
“That is so—his name is Fiarshern of the great family of Trrechoww. I will call him. He will come to me.”
Outside, the barbarians were striving to conquer their fear of the supernatural events taking place in the wagon. Terarn Gashtek cursed them: “There are five hundred thousand of us and a few of them. Take them now!”
His warriors began to move cautiously forward.
Fiarshern, the cat, heard a voice which it knew instinctively to be that of one which it would be foolish to disobey. It ran swiftly towards the source of that voice.
“Look—the cat—there it is. Seize it quickly.”
Two of Terarn Gashtek’s men jumped forward to do his bidding, but the little cat eluded them and leaped lightly into the wagon.
“Give the human back its soul, Fiarshern,” said Meerclar softly. The cat moved towards its human master and dug its delicate teeth into the sorcerer’s veins.
A moment later Drinij Bara laughed wildly. “My soul is mine again. Thank you, great Cat Lord. Let me repay you!”
“There is no need,” smiled Meerclar mockingly, “and, anyway, I perceive that your soul is already bartered. Goodbye, Elric of Melnibone. I was pleased to answer your call, though I see that you no longer follow the ancient pursuits of your fathers. Still, for the sake of old loyalties I do not begrudge you this service. Farewell, I go back to a warmer place than this inhospitable one.”
The Lord of the Cats faded and returned to the world of blue and amber warmth where he once more resumed his interrupted sleep.
“Come, Brother Sorcerer,” cried Drinij Bara exultantly. “Let us take the vengeance which is ours.”
He and Elric sprang from the wagon, but the two others were not quite so quick to respond.
Terarn Gashtek and his men confronted them. Many had bows with long arrows fitted to them.
“Shoot them down swiftly,” yelled the Flame Bringer. “Shoot them now before they have time to summon further demons!”
A shower of arrows whistled towards them. Drinij Bara smiled, spoke a few words as he moved his hands almost carelessly. The arrows stopped in midflight, turned back and each uncannily found the throat of the man who had shot it. Terarn Gashtek gasped and wheeled back, pushing past his men and, as he retreated, shouted for them to attack the four.
Driven by the knowledge that if they fled they would be doomed, the great mass of barbarians closed in.
Dawn was bringing light to the cloud-ripped sky as Moonglum looked upwards. “Look, Elric,” he shouted pointing.
“Only five,” said the albino. “Only five—but perhaps enough.”
He parried several lashing blades on his own sword and, although he was possessed of superhuman strength, all the power seemed to have left the sword so that it was only as useful as an ordinary blade. Still fighting, he relaxed his body and felt the power leave him, flowing back into Stormbringer.
Again the runeblade began to whine and thirstily sought the throats and hearts of the savage barbarians.
Drinij Bara had no sword, but he did not need one, he was using subtler means to defend himself. All around him were the gruesome results, boneless masses of flesh and sinew.
The two sorcerers and Moonglum and the messenger forced their way through the half-insane barbarians who were desperately attempting to overcome them. In the confusion it was impossible to work out a coherent plan of action. Moonglum and the messenger grabbed scimitars from the corpses of the barbarians and joined in the battle.
Eventually, they had reached the outer limits of the camp. A whole mass of barbarians had fled, spurring their mounts westwards. Then Elric saw Terarn Gashtek, holding a bow. He saw the Flame Bringer’s intention and shouted a warning to his fellow sorcerer who had his back to the barbarian. Drinij Bara, yelling some disturbing incantation, half-turned, broke off, attempted to begin another spell, but the arrow pierced his eye.
He screamed: “No!”
Then he died.
Seeing his ally slain, Elric paused and stared at the sky and the great wheeling beasts which he recognised.
Dyvim Slorm, son of Elric’s cousin Dyvim Tvar the Dragon Master, had brought the legendary dragons of Imrryr to aid his kinsman. But most of the huge beasts slept, and would sleep for another century—only five dragons had been aroused. As yet, Dyvim Slorm could do nothing for fear of harming Elric and his comrades.
Terarn Gashtek, too, had seen the magnificent beasts. His grandiose plans of conquest were already fading and, thwarted, he ran towards Elric.
“You white-faced filth,” he howled, “you have been responsible for all this—and you will pay the Flame Bringer’s price!”
Elric laughed as he brought up Stormbringer to protect himself from the incensed barbarian. He pointed to the sky: “These, too, can be called Flame Bringers, Terarn Gashtek—and are better named than thou!”
Then he plunged the evil blade full into Terarn Gashtek’s body and the barbarian gave a choking moan as his soul was drawn from him.
“Destroyer, I may be, Elric of Melnibone,” he gasped, “but my way was cleaner than yours. May you and all you hold dear be cursed for eternity!”
Elric laughed, but his voice shook slightly as he stared at the barbarian’s corpse. “I’ve rid myself of such curses once before, my friend. Yours will have little effect, I think.” He paused. “By Arioch, I hope I’m right. I’d thought my fate cleansed of doom and curses, but perhaps I was wrong....”
The huge horde of barbarians were nearly all mounted now and fleeing westwards. They had to be stopped for, at the pace they were travelling, they would soon reach Karlaak and only the Gods knew what they would do when they got to the unprotected city.
Above him, he heard the flapping of thirty-foot wings and scented the familiar smell of the great flying reptiles which had pursued him years before when he had led a reaver fleet on the attack of his home-city. Then he heard the curious notes of the Dragon Horn and saw that Dyvim Slorm was seated on the back of the leading beast, a long spearlike goad in his gauntleted right hand.
The dragon spiralled downward and its great bulk came to rest on the ground thirty feet away, its leathery wings folding back along its length. The Dragon Master waved to Elric.
“Greetings, King Elric, we barely managed to arrive in time I see.”
“Time enough, kinsman,” smiled Elric. “It is good to see the son of Dyvim Tvar again. I was afraid you might not answer my plea.”
“Old scores were forgotten at the Battle of Bakshaan when my father Dyvim Tvar died aiding you in the siege of Nikorn’s fortress. I regret only the younger beasts were ready to be awakened. You’ll remember the others were used but a few years past.”
“I remember,” said Elric. “May I beg another favour Dyvim Slorm?”
“What is that?”
“Let me ride the chief dragon. I am trained in the arts of the Dragon Master and have good reason for riding against the barbarians—we were forced to witness insensate carnage a while ago and may, perhaps, pay them back in their own coinage.”
Dyvim Slorm nodded and swung off his mount. The beast stirred restlessly and drew back the lips of its ta pering snout to reveal teeth as thick as a man’s arm, as long as a sword. Its forked tongue flickered and it turned its huge, cold eyes to regard Elric.
Elric sang to it in the old Melnibonean speech, took the goad and the Dragon Horn from Dyvim Slorm and carefully climbed into the high saddle at the base of the dragon’s neck. He placed his booted feet into the great silver stirrups.
“Now, fly, dragon brother,” he sang, “up, up and have your venom ready.”
He heard the snap of displaced air as the wings began to beat and then the great beast was clear of the ground and soaring upwards into the grey and brooding sky.
The other four dragons followed the first and, as he gained height, sounding specific notes on the horn to give them directions, he drew his sword from its scabbard.
Centuries before, Elric’s ancestors had ridden their dragon steeds to conquer the whole of the Western World. There had been many more dragons in the Dragon Caves in those days. Now only a handful remained, and of those only the youngest had slept sufficiently long enough to be awakened.
High in the wintry sky climbed the huge reptiles and Elric’s long white hair and stained black cloak flew behind him as he sang the exultant Song of the Dragon Masters and urged his charges westwards.
Wild wind-horses soar the cloud-trails, Unholy horn doth sound its blast, You and we were first to conquer, You and we shall be the last!
Thoughts of love, of peace, of vengeance even were lost in that reckless sweeping across the glowering skies which hung over that ancient Age of the Young Kingdoms. Elric, archetypal, proud and disdainful in his knowledge that even his deficient blood was the blood of the Sorcerer Kings of Melnibone, became detached.
He had no loyalties then, no friends and, if evil possessed him, then it was a pure, brilliant evil, untainted by human drivings.
High soared the dragons until below them was the heaving black mass, marring the landscape, the feardriven horde of barbarians who, in their ignorance, had sought to conquer the lands beloved of Elric of Melnibone.
“Ho, dragon brothers—loose your venom—burn—burn! And in your burning cleanse the world!”
Stormbringer joined in the wild shout and, diving, the dragons swept across the sky, down upon the crazed barbarians, shooting streams of combustible venom which water could not extinguish, and the stink of charred flesh drifted upwards through the smoke and flame so that the scene became a scene of Hell—and proud Elric was a Lord of Demons reaping awful vengeance.
He did not gloat, for he had done only what was needed, that was all. He shouted no more but turned his dragon mount back and upward, sounding his horn and summoning the other reptiles to him. And as he climbed, the exultation left him and was replaced by cold horror.
“I am still a Melnibonean,” He thought, “and cannot rid myself of what else I do. And, in my strength I am still weak, ready to use this cursed blade in any small emergency.” With a shout of loathing, he flung the sword away, flung it into space. It screamed like a woman and went plummeting downwards towards the distant earth.
“There,” he said, “It is done at last.” Then, in calmer mood, he returned to where he had left his friends and guided his reptilian mount to the ground.
Dyvim Slorm said: “Where is the sword of your forefathers, King Elric?” But the albino did not answer, just thanked his kinsman for the loan of the dragon leader. Then they all remounted the dragons and flew back towards Karlaak to tell them the news.
Zarozinia saw her lord riding the first dragon and knew that Karlaak and the Western World were saved, the Eastern World avenged. His stance was proud but his face was grave as he went to meet her outside the city. She saw in him a return of an earlier sorrow which he had thought forgotten. She ran to him and he caught her in his arms, holding her close but saying nothing.
He bade farewell to Dyvim Slorm and his fellow Imrryrians and, with Moonglum and the messenger following at a distance, went into the city and thence to his house, impatient of the congratulations which the citizens showered upon him.
“What is it, my lord?” Zarozinia said as, with a sigh, he sprawled wearily upon the great bed. “Can speaking help?”
“I’m tired of swords and sorcery, Zarozinia, that is all. But at last I have rid myself once and for all of that hell-blade which I had thought my destiny to carry always.”
“Stormbringer you mean?”
“What else?”
She said nothing. She did not tell him of the sword which, apparently of its own volition, had come screaming into Karlaak and passed into the armoury to hang, in its old place, in darkness there.
He closed his eyes and drew a long, sighing breath.
“Sleep well, my lord,” she said softly. With tearful eyes and a sad mouth she lay herself down beside him.
She did not welcome the morning.
In which we learn of the further adventures of Rackhir the Red Archer and other heroes and places Elric has hitherto encountered only in what he chooses to consider, his dreams . . .
Beyond the tall and ominous glass-green forest of Troos, well to the North and unheard of in Bakshaan, Elwher or any other city of the Young Kingdoms, on the shifting shores of the Sighing Desert lay Tanelorn, a lonely, long-ago city, loved by those it sheltered.
Tanelorn had a peculiar nature in that it welcomed and held the wanderer. To its peaceful streets and low houses came the gaunt, the savage, the brutalised, the tormented, and in Tanelorn they found rest.
Now, most of these troubled travellers who dwelt in peaceful Tanelorn had thrown off earlier allegiances to the Lords of Chaos who, as gods, took more than a mild interest in the affairs of men. It happened, therefore, that these same Lords grew to resent the unlikely city of Tanelorn and, not for the the first time decided to act against it.
They instructed one of their number (more they could not, then, send) Lord Narjhan, to journey to Nadsokor, the City of Beggars, which had an old grudge against Tanelorn and raise an army that would attack undefended Tanelorn and destroy it and its inhabitants. So he did this, arming his ragged army and promising them many things.
Then, like a ferocious tide, did the beggar rabble set off to tear down Tanelorn and slay its residents. A great torrent of men and women in rags, on crutches, blind, maimed, but moving steadily, ominously, implacably Northwards towards the Sighing Desert
In Tanelorn dwelt the Red Archer, Rackhir, from the Eastlands beyond the Sighing Desert, beyond the Weep ing Waste. Rackhir had been born a Warrior Priest, a servant of the Lords of Chaos, but had forsaken this life for the quieter pursuits of thievery and learning. A man with harsh features slashed from the bone of his skull, strong, fleshless nose, deep eye-cavities, a thin mouth and a thin beard. He wore a red skull-cap, decorated with a hawk’s feather, a red jerkin, tight-fitting and belted at the waist, red breeks, and red boots. It was as if all the blood in him had transferred itself to his gear and left him drained. He was happy, however, in Tanelorn, the city which made all such men happy, and felt he would die there if men died there. He did not know if they did.
One day he saw Brut of Lashmar, a great, blondheaded noble of shamed name, ride wearily, yet urgently, through the low wall-gate of the city of peace. Brut’s silver harness and trappings were begrimed, his yellow cloak torn and his broad-brimmed hat battered. A small crowd collected around him as he rode into the city square and halted. Then he gave his news.
“Beggars from Nadsokor, many thousands, move against our Tanelorn,” he said, “and they are led by Narjhan of Chaos.”
Now, all the men in there were soldiers of some kind, good ones for the most part, and they were confident warriors, but few in number. A horde of beggars, led by such a being as Narjhan, could destroy Tanelorn, they knew.
“Should we, then, leave Tanelorn?” said Uroch of Nieva, a young, wasted man who had been a drunkard.
“We owe this city too much to desert her,” Rackhir said. “We should defend her—for her sake and ours. There will never be such a city again.”
Brut leaned forward in his saddle and said: “In principle, Red Archer, I am in agreement with you. But principle is not enough without deeds. How would you suggest we defend this low-walled city against siege and the powers of Chaos?”
“We should need help,” Rackhir replied, “supernatural help if need be.”
“Would the Grey Lords help us?” Zas the One-handed asked the question. He was an old, torn wanderer who had once gained a throne and lost it again.
“Aye—the Grey Lords!” Several voices chorused this hopefully.
“Who are the Grey Lords?” said Uroch, but no one heard him.
“They are not inclined to aid anyone at all,” Zas the One-handed pointed out, “but surely Tanelorn, coming as it does under neither the Forces of Law nor the Lords of Chaos, would be worth their while preserving. After all, they have no loyalties either.”
“I’m for seeking the Grey Lords’ aid,” Brut nodded. “What of the rest of us?” There was general agreement, then silence when they realised that they knew of no means of contacting the mysterious and insouciant beings. At last Zas pointed this out.
Rackhir said: “I know a seer—a hermit who lives in the Sighing Desert. Perhaps he can help?”
“I think that, after all, we should not waste time looking for supernatural assistance against this beggar rabble,” Uroch said. “Let us prepare, instead, to meet the attack with physical means.”
“You forget,” Brut said wearily, “that they are led by Narjhan of Chaos. He is not human and has the whole strength of Chaos behind him. We know that the Grey Lords are pledged neither to Law nor to Chaos but will sometimes help either side if the whim takes them. They are our only chance.”
“Why not seek the aid of the Forces of Law, sworn enemies of Chaos and mightier than the Grey Lords?” Uroch said.
“Because Tanelorn is a city owing allegiance to neither side. We are all of us men and women who have broken our pledge to Chaos but have made no new one to Law. The Forces of Law, in matters of this kind, will help only those sworn to them. The Grey Lords only may protect us, if they would.” So said Zas.
“I will go to find my seer,” Rackhir the Red Archer said, “and if he knows how I may reach the Domain of the Grey Lords, then I’ll continue straight on, for there is so little time. If I reach them and solicit their help you will soon know I have done so. If not, you must die in Tanelorn’s defence and, if I live, I will join you in that last battle.”
“Very well,” Brut agreed, “go quickly, Red Archer. Let one of your own arrows be the measure of your speed.”
And taking little with him save his bone bow and quiver of scarlet-fletched arrows, Rackhir set off for the Sighing Desert.
From Nadsokor, South West through the land of Vilmir, even through the squalid country of Org which has in it the dreadful forest of Troos, there was flame and black horror in the wake of the beggar horde, and insolent, disdainful of them though he led them, rode a being completely clad in black armour with a voice that rang hollow in the helm. People fled away at their approach and the land was made barren by their passing. Most knew what had happened, that the beggar citizens of Nadsokor had, contrary to their traditions of centuries, vomited from their city in a wild, menacing horde. Someone had armed them—someone had made them go Northwards and Westwards towards the Sighing Desert. But who was the one who led them? Ordinary folk did not know. And why did they head for the Sighing Desert? There was no city beyond Karlaak, which they had skirted, only the Signing Desert—and beyond that the edge of the world. Was that their destination? Were they heading, lemming-like, to their destruction? Everyone hoped so, in their hate for the horrible horde.
Rackhir rode through the mournful wind of the Sighing Desert, his face and eyes protected against the particles of sand which flew about. He was thirsty and had been riding a day. Ahead of him at last were the rocks he sought.
He reached the rocks and called above the wind.
“Lamsar!”
The hermit came out in answer to Rackhir’s shout
He was dressed in oiled leather to which sand clung. His beard, too, was encrusted with sand and his skin seemed to have taken on the colour and texture of the desert. He recognised Rackhir immediately, by his dress, beckoned him into the cave, and disappeared back inside. Rackhir dismounted and led his horse to the cave entrance and went in.
Lamsar was seated on a smooth rock. “You are welcome, Red Archer,” he said, “and I perceive by your manner that you wish information from me and that your mission is urgent.”
“I seek the help of the Grey Lords, Lamsar,” said Rackhir.
The old hermit smiled. It was as if a fissure had suddenly appeared in a rock. “To risk the journey through the Five Gates, your mission must be important. I will tell you how to reach the Grey Lords, but the road is a difficult one.”
“I’m willing to take it,” Rackhir replied, “for Tanelorn is threatened and the Grey Lords could help her.”
“Then you must pass through the First Gate, which lies in our own dimension. I will help you find it.”
“And what must I do then?”
“You must pass through all five gates. Each gateway leads to a realm which lies beyond and within our own dimension. In each realm you must speak with the dwellers there. Some are friendly to men, some are not, but all must answer your question; “Where lies the next Gate?” though some may seek to stop you passing. The last gate leads to the Grey Lords’ Domain.”
“And the first gate?”
“That lies anywhere in this realm. I will find it for you now.”
Lamsar composed himself to meditate and Rackhir, who had expected some sort of gaudy miracle-working from the old man, was disappointed.
Several hours went by until Lamsar said: “The gate is outside. Memorise the following: If X is equal to the spirit of humanity, then the combination of the two must be of double power, therefore the spirit of humanity always contains the power to dominate itself.”
“A strange equation,” said Rackhir.
“Aye—but memorise it, meditate upon it and then we will leave.”
“We-you as well?”
“I think so.”
The hermit was old. Rackhir did not want him on the journey. But then he realised that the hermit’s knowledge could be of use to him, so did not object. He thought upon the equation and, as he thought, his mind seemed to glitter and become diffused until he was in a strange trance and all his powers felt greater, both those of mind and body. The hermit got up and Rackhir followed him. They went out of the cave-mouth but, instead of the Sighing Desert, there was a hazy cloud of blue shimmering light ahead and when they had passed through this, in a second, they found themselves in the foothills of a low mountain-range and below them, in a valley, were villages. The villages were strangely laid out, all the houses in a wide circle about a huge amphitheatre containing, at its centre, a circular dais.
“It will be interesting to learn the reason why these villages are so arranged,” Lamsar said, and they began to move down into the valley.
As they reached the bottom and came close to one of the villages, people came gaily out and danced joyfully towards them. They stopped in front of Rackhir and Lamsar and, jumping from foot to foot as he greeted them, the leader spoke.
“You are strangers, we can tell—and you are welcome to all we have, food, accommodation, and entertainment.”
The two men thanked them graciously and accompanied them back to the circular village. The amphitheatre was made of mud and seemed to have been stamped out, hollowed into, the ground encompassed by the houses. The leader of the villagers took them to his house and offered them food.
“You have come to us at a Rest Time,” he said, “but do not worry, things will soon commence again. My name is Yerleroo.”
“We seek the next Gate,” Lamsar said politely, “and our mission is urgent. You will forgive us if we do not stay long?”
“Come,” said Yerleroo, “things are about to commence. You will see us at our best, and must join us.”
All the villagers had assembled in the amphitheatre, surrounding the platform in the centre. Most of them were light-skinned and light-haired, gay and smiling, excited—but a few were evidently of a different race, dark, black-haired, and these were sullen.
Sensing something ominous in what he saw, Rackhir asked the question directly: “Where is the next Gate?”
Yerleroo hesitated, his mouth worked and then he smiled. “Where the winds meet,” he said.
Rackhir declared angrily: “That’s no answer.”
“Yes it is,” said Lamsar softly behind him. “A fair answer.”
“Now we shall dance,” Yerleroo said. “First you shall watch our dance and then you shall join in.”
“Dance?” said Rackhir, wishing he had brought a sword, or at least a dagger.
“Yes—you will like it. Everyone likes it. You will find it will do you good.”
“What if we do not wish to dance?”
“You must—it is for your own good, be assured.”
“And he—“ Rackhir pointed at one of the sullen men. “Does he enjoy it?”
“It is for his own good.”
Yerleroo clapped his hands and at once the fair-haired people leapt into a frenetic, senseless dance. Some of them sang. The sullen people did not sing. After a little hesitation, they began to prance dully about, their frowning features contrasting with their jerking bodies. Soon the whole village was dancing, whirling, singing a monotonous song.
Yerleroo flashed by, whirling. “Come, join in now.”
“We had better leave,” Lamsar said with a faint smile. They backed away.
Yerleroo saw them. “No—you must not leave—you must dance.”
They turned and ran as fast as the old man could go. The dancing villagers changed the direction of their dance and began to whirl menacingly towards them in a horrible semblance of gaiety.
“There’s nothing for it,” Lamsar said and stood his ground, observing them through ironic eyes. “The mountain gods must be invoked. A pity, for sorcery wearies me. Let us hope their magic extends to this plane. Gordar!”
Words in an unusually harsh language issued from Lamsar’s old mouth. The whirling villagers came on.
Lamsar pointed at them.
The villagers became suddenly petrified and slowly, disturbingly, their bodies caught in a hundred positions, turned to smooth, black basalt.
“It was for their own good,” Lamsar smiled grimly. “Come, to the place where the winds meet,” and he took Rackhir there quite swiftly.
At the place where the winds met they found the second gateway, a column of amber-coloured flame, shot through with streaks of green. They entered it and, instantly, were in a world of dark, seething colour. Above them was a sky of murky red in which other colours shifted, agitated, changing. Ahead of them lay a forest, dark, blue, black, heavy, mottled green, the tops of its trees moving like a wild tide. It was a howling land of unnatural phenomena.
Lamsar pursed his lips. “On this plane Chaos rules, we must get to the next gate swiftly for obviously the Lords of Chaos will seek to stop us.”
“Is it always like this?” Rackhir gasped.
“It is always boiling midnight—but the rest, it changes with the moods of the Lords. There are no rules at all.”
They pressed on through the bounding, blossoming scenery as it erupted and changed around them. Once they saw a huge winged figure in the sky, smoky yellow, and roughly man-shaped.
“Vezhan,” Lamsar said, “let’s hope he did not see us.”
“Vezhan!” Rackhir whispered the name—for it was to Vezhan that he had once been loyal.
They crept on, uncertain of their direction or even of their speed in that disturbing land.
At length, they came to the shores of a peculiar ocean.
It was a grey, heaving, timeless sea, a mysterious sea which stretched into infinity. There could be no other shores beyond this rolling plain of water. No other lands or rivers or dark, cool woods, no other men or women or ships. It was a sea which led to nowhere. It was complete to itself—a sea.
Over this timeless ocean hovered a brooding ochre sun which cast moody shadows of black and green across the water, giving the whole scene something of the look of being enclosed in a vast cavern, for the sky above was gnarled and black with ancient clouds. And all the while the doom-carried crash of breakers, the lonely, fated monotony of the ever-rearing white-topped waves; the sound which portended neither death nor life nor war nor peace—simply existence and shifting inharmony. They could go no further.
“This has the air of our death about it,” Rackhir said shivering.
The sea roared and tumbled, the sound of it increasing to a fury, daring them to go on towards it, welcoming them with wild temptation—offering them nothing but achievement—the achievement of death.
Lamsar said: “It is not my fate wholly to perish.” But then they were running back towards the forest, feeling that the strange sea was pouring up the beach towards them. They looked back and saw that it had gone no further, that the breakers were less wild, the sea more calm. Lamsar was little way behind Rackhir.
The Red Archer gripped his hand and hauled him towards him as if he had rescued the old man from a whirlpool. They remained there, mesmerised, for a long time, while the sea called to them and the wind was a cold caress on their flesh.
In the bleak brightness of the alien shore, under a sun which gave no heat, their bodies shone like stars in the night and they turned towards the forest, quietly.
“Are we trapped, then, in this Realm of Chaos?” Rackhir said at length. “If we meet someone, they will offer us harm—how can we ask our question?”
Then there emerged from the huge forest a great figure, naked and gnarled like the trunk of a tree, green as lime, but the face was jovial.
“Greetings, unhappy renegades,” it said.
“Where is the next gate?” said Lamsar quickly.
“You almost entered it, but turned away,” laughed the giant. “That sea does not exist—it is there to stop travellers from passing through the gate.”
“It exists here, in the Realm of Chaos,” Rackhir said thickly.
“You could say so—but what exists in Chaos save the disorders of the minds of gods gone mad?”
Rackhir had strung his bone bow and fitted an arrow to the string, but he did it in the knowledge of his own hopelessness.
“Do not shoot the arrow,” said Lamsar softly. “Not yet.” And he stared at the arrow and muttered.
The giant advanced carelessly towards them, unhurried.
“It will please me to exact the price of your crimes from you,” it said, “for I am Hionhurn the Executioner. You will find your death pleasant—but your fate unbearable.” And he came closer, his clawed hands outstretched.
“Shoot!” croaked Lamsar and Rackhir brought the bow-string to his cheek, pulled it back with might and released the arrow at the giant’s heart. “Run!” cried Lamsar, and in spite of their forebodings they ran back down the shore towards the frightful sea. They heard the giant groan behind them as they reached the edge of the sea and, instead of running into water, found themselves in a range of stark mountains.
“No mortal arrow could have delayed him,” Rackhir said. “How did you stop him?”
“I used an old charm—the Charm of Justice, which, when applied to any weapon, makes it strike at the unjust.”
“But why did it hurt Hionhurn, an immortal?” Rackhir asked.
“There is no justice in the world of Chaos—something constant and inflexible, whatever its nature, must harm any servant of the Lords of Chaos.”
“We have passed through the third gate,” Rackhir said, unstringing his bow, “and have the fourth and fifth to find. Two dangers have been avoided—but what new ones will we encounter now?”
“Who knows?” said Lamsar, and they walked on through the rocky mountain pass and entered a forest that was cool, even though the sun had reached its zenith and was glaring down through parts of the thick foliage. There was an air of ancient calm about the place. They heard unfamiliar bird-calls and saw tiny golden birds which were also new to them.
“There is something calm and peaceful about this place—I almost distrust it,” Rackhir said, but Lamsar pointed ahead silently.
Rackhir saw a large domed building, magnificent in marble and blue mosaic. It stood in a clearing of yellow grass and the marble caught the sun, flashing like fire.
They neared the domed construction and saw that it was supported by big marble columns set into a platform of milky jade. In the centre of the platform, a stairway of blue-stone curved upwards and disappeared into a circular aperture. There were wide windows set into the sides of the raised building but they could not see inside. There were no inhabitants visible and it would have seemed strange to the pair if there had been. They crossed the yellow glade and stepped on to the jade platform. It was warm, as if it had been exposed to the sun. They almost slipped on the smooth stone.
They reached the blue steps and mounted them, staring upwards, but they could still see nothing. They did not attempt to ask themselves why they were so assuredly invading the building; it seemed quite natural that they should do what they were doing. There was no alternative. There was an air of familiarity about the place. Rackhir felt it but did not know why. Inside was a cool, shadowy hall, a blend of soft darkness and bright sunlight which entered by the windows. The floor was pearl-pink and the ceiling deep scarlet. The hall reminded Rackhir of a womb.
Partially hidden by deep shadow was a small doorway and beyond it, steps. Rackhir looked questioningly at Lamsar. “Do we proceed in our exploration?”
“We must—to have our question answered, if possible.”
They climbed the steps and found themselves in a smaller hall similar to the one beneath them. This hall, however, was furnished with twelve wide thrones placed in a semicircle in the centre. Against the wall, near the door, were several chairs, upholstered in purple fabric. The thrones were of gold, decorated with fine silver, padded with white cloth.
A door behind the throne opened and a tall, fragilelooking man appeared, followed by others whose faces were almost identical. Only their robes were noticeably different. Their faces were pale, almost white, their noses straight, their lips thin but not cruel. Their eyes were unhuman—green-flecked eyes which stared outwards with sad composure. The leader of the tall men looked at Rackhir and Lamsar. He nodded and waved a pale, long-fingered hand gracefully.
“Welcome,” he said. His voice was high and frail, like a girl’s, but beautiful in its modulation. The other eleven men seated themselves in the thrones but the first man, who had spoken, remained standing. “Sit down, please,” he said.
Rackhir and Lamsar sat down on two of the purple chairs.
“How did you come here?” enquired the man.
“Through the gates from Chaos,” Lamsar replied.
“And were you seeking our realm?”
“No—we travel towards the Domain of the Grey Lords.”
“I thought so, for your people rarely visit us save by accident”
“Where are we?” asked Rackhir as the man seated himself in the remaining throne.
“In a place beyond time. Once our land was part of the earth you know, but in the dim past it became separated from it. Our bodies, unlike yours, are immortal. We choose this, but we are not bound to our flesh, as you are.”
“I don’t understand,” frowned Rackhir. “What are you saying?”
“I have said what I can in the simplest terms understandable to you. If you do not know what I say then I can explain no further. We are called the Guardians— though we guard nothing. We are warriors, but we fight nothing.”
“What else do you do?” enquired Rackhir.
“We exist. You will want to know where the next gateway lies?”
“Yes.”
“Refresh yourselves here, and then we shall show you the gateway.”
“What is your function?” asked Rackhir.
“To function,” said the man.
“You are unhuman!”
“We are human. You spend your lives chasing that which is within you and that which you can find in any other human being—but you will not look for it there— you must follow more glamorous paths—to waste your time in order to discover that you have wasted your time. I am glad that we are no longer like you—but I wish that it were lawful to help you further. This, however, we may not do.”
“Ours is no meaningless quest,” said Lamsar quietly, with respect. “We go to rescue Tanelorn.”
“Tanelorn?” the man said softly. “Does Tanelorn still remain?”
“Aye,” said Rackhir, “and shelters tired men who are grateful for the rest she offers.” Now he realised why the building had been familiar—it had the same quality, but intensified, as Tanelorn.
“Tanelorn was the last of our cities,” said the Guardian. “Forgive us for judging you—most of the travellers who pass through this plane are searchers, restless, with no real purpose, only excuses, imaginary reasons for journeying on. You must love Tanelorn to brave the dangers of the gateways?”
“We do,” said Rackhir, “and I am grateful that you built her.”
“We built her for ourselves, but it is good that others have used her well—and she them.”
“Will you help us?” Rackhir said. “For Tanelorn?”
“We cannot—it is not lawful. Now, refresh yourselves and be welcome.”
The two travellers were given foods, both soft and brittle, sweet and sour, and drink which seemed to enter the pores of their skin as they quaffed it, and then the Guardian said: “We have caused a road to be made. Follow it and enter the next world. But we warn you, it is the most dangerous of all.”
And they set off down the road that the Guardians had caused to be made and passed through the fourth gateway into a dreadful realm—the Ream of Law.
Nothing shone in the grey-lit sky, nothing moved, nothing marred the grey.
Nothing interrupted the bleak grey plain stretching on all sides of them, forever. There was no horizon. It was a bright, clean wasteland. But there was a sense about the air, a presence of something past, something which had gone but left a faint aura of its passing.
“What dangers could be here?” said Rackhir shuddering, “here where there is nothing?”
“The danger of the loneliest madness,” Lamsar replied. Their voices were swallowed in the grey expanse.
“When the Earth was very young’” Lamsar continued, his words trailing away across the wilderness, “things were like this—but there were seas, there were seas. Here there is nothing.”
“You are wrong,” Rackhir said with a faint smile. “I have thought—here there is Law.”
“That is true—but what is Law without something to decide between? Here is Law—bereft of justice.”
They walked on, all about them an air of something intangible that had once been tangible. On they walked through this barren world of Absolute Law.
Eventually, Rackhir spied something. Something that flickered, faded, appeared again until, as they neared it, they saw that it was a man. His great head was noble, firm, and his body was massively built, but the face was twisted in a tortured frown and he did not see them as they approached him.
They stopped before him and Lamsar coughed to attract his attention. He turned that great head and regarded them abstractedly, the frown clearing at length, to be replaced by a calmer, thoughtful expression.
“Who are you?” asked Rackhir.
The man sighed. “Not yet,” he said, “not yet, it seems. More phantoms.”
“Are we the phantoms?” smiled Rackhir. “That seems to be more your own nature.” He watched as the man began slowly to fade again, his form less definite, melting. The body seemed to make a great heave, like a salmon attempting to leap a dam, then it was back again in a more solid form.
“I had thought myself rid of all that was superfluous, save my own obstinate shape,” the man said tiredly, “but here is something, back again. Is my reason failing—is my logic no longer what it was?”
“Do not fear,” said Rackhir, “we are material beings.”
“That is what I feared. For an eternity I have been stripping away the layers of unreality which obscure the truth. I have almost succeeded in the final act, and now you begin to creep back. My mind is not what it was, I think.”
“Perhaps you worry lest we do not exist?” Lamsar said slowly, with a clever smile.
“You know that is not so—you do not exist, just as I do not exist.” The frown returned, the features twisted, the body began, again, to fade, only to resume, once more, its earlier nature. The man sighed. “Even to reply to you is betraying myself, but I suppose a little relaxation will serve to rest my powers and equip me for the final effort of will which will bring me to the ultimate truth—the truth of non-being.”
“But non-being involves non-thought, non-will, nonaction,” Lamsar said. “Surely you would not submit yourself to such a fate?”
“There is no such thing as self. I am the only reasoning thing in creation—I am almost pure reason. A little more effort and I shall be what I desire to be—the one truth in this non-existent universe. That requires first ridding myself of anything extraneous around me—such as yourselves—and then making the final plunge into the only reality.”
“What is that?”
“The state of absolute nothingness where there is nothing to disturb the order of things because there is no order of things.”
“Scarcely a constructive ambition,” Rackhir said.
“Construction is a meaningless word—like all words, like all so-called existence. Everything means nothingthai is the only truth.”
“But what of this world? Barren as it is, it still has light and firm rock. You have not succeeded in reasoning that out of existence,” Lamsar said.
“That will cease when I cease,” the man said slowly, “just as you will cease to be. Then there can be nothing but nothing and Law will reign unchallenged.”
“But Law cannot reign—it will not exist either, according to your logic.”
“You are wrong—nothingness is the Law. Nothingness is the object of Law. Law is the way to its ultimate state, the state of non-being.”
“Well,” said Lamsar musingly, “then you had better tell us where we may find the next gate.”
“There is no gate.”
“If there were, where would we find it?” Rackhir said.
“If a gate existed, and it does not, it would have been inside the mountain, close to what was once called the Sea of Peace.”
“And where was that?” Rackhir asked, conscious, now of their terrible predicament. There were no landmarks, no sun, no stars—nothing by which they could determine direction.
“Close to the Mountain of Severity.”
“Which way do you go?” Lamsar enquired of the man.
“Out—beyond—to nowhere.”
“And where, if you succeed in your object, will we be consigned?”
“To some other nowhere. I cannot truthfully answer. But since you have never existed in reality, therefore you can go on to no non-reality. Only I am real—and I do not exist.”
“We are getting nowhere,” said Rackhir with a smirk which changed to a frown.
“It is only my mind which holds the non-reality at bay,” the man said, “and I must concentrate or else it will all come flooding back and I shall have to start from the beginning again. In the beginning, there was everything—Chaos. I created nothing.”
With resignation, Rackhir strung his bow, fitted an arrow to the string and aimed at the frowning man.
“You wish for non-being?” he said.
“I have told you so.” Rackhir’s arrow pierced his heart, his body faded, became solid and slumped to the grass as mountains, forests, and rivers appeared around them. It was still a peaceful, well-ordered world and Rackhir and Lamsar, as they strode on in search of the Mountain of Severity, savoured it. There seemed to be no animal life here and they talked, in puzzled terms, about the man they had been forced to kill, until, at length, they reached a great smooth pyramid which seemed, though it was of natural origin, to have been carved into this form. They walked around its base until they discovered an opening.
There could be no doubt that this was the Mountain of Severity, and a calm ocean lay some distance away.
They went into the opening and emerged into a delicate landscape. They were now through the last gateway and in the Domain of the Grey Lords.
There were trees like stiffened spider-webs.
Here and there were blue pools, shallow, with shining water and graceful rocks balanced in them and around their shores. Above them and beyond them the light hills swept away towards a pastel yellow horizon which was tinted with red, orange, and blue, deep blue.
They felt overlarge, clumsy, like crude, gross giants treading on the fine, short grass. They felt as if they were destroying the sanctity of the place.
Then they saw a girl come walking towards them.
She stopped as they came closer to her. She was dressed in loose black robes which flowed about her as if in a wind, but there was no wind. Her face was pale and pointed, her black eyes large and enigmatic. At her long throat was a jewel.
“Sorana,” said Rackhir thickly, “you died.”
“I disappeared,” said she, “and this is where I came. I was told that you would come to this place and decided that I would meet you.”
“But this is the Domain of the Grey Lords—and you serve Chaos.”
“I do—but many are welcome at the Grey Lords’ Court, whether they be of Law, Chaos, or neither. Come, I will escort you there.”
Bewildered, now, Rackhir let her lead the way across the strange terrain and Lamsar followed him.
Sorana and Rackhir had been lovers once, in Yeshpotoom-Kahlai, the Unholy Fortress, where evil blossomed and was beautiful. Sorana, sorceress, adventuress, was without conscience but had had high regard for the Red Archer since he had come to Yeshpotoom-Kahlai one evening, covered in his own blood, survivor of a bizarre battle between the Knights of Tumbru and Loheb Bakra’s brigand-engineers. Seven years ago, that had been, and he had heard her scream when the Blue Assassins had crept into the Unholy Fortress, pledged to murder evil-makers. Even then he had been in the process of hurriedly leaving Yeshpotoom-Kahlai and had considered it unwise to investigate what was obviously a death-scream. Now she was here—and if she was here, then it was for a strong reason and for her own convenience. On the other hand, it was in her interests to serve Chaos and he must be suspicious of her.
Ahead of them now they saw many great tents of shimmering grey which, in the light, seemed composed of all colours. People moved slowly among the tents and there was an air of leisure about the place.
“Here,” Sorana said, smiling at him and taking his hand, “the Grey Lords hold impermanent court. They wander about their land and have few artifacts and only temporary houses which you see. They will make you welcome if you interest them.”
“But will they help us?”
“You must ask them.”
“You are pledged to Eequor of Chaos,” Rackhir observed, “and must aid her against us, is that not so?”
“Here,” she smiled, “is a truce. I can only inform Chaos of what I learn of your plans and, if the Grey Lords aid you, must tell them how, if I can find out.”
“You are frank, Sorana.”
“Here there are subtler hypocrisies—and the subtlest lie of all is the full truth,” she said, as they entered the area of tall tents and made their way towards a certain one.
In a different realm of the Earth, the huge horde careered across the grasslands of the North, screaming and singing behind the black-armoured horseman, their leader. Nearer and nearer they came to lonely Tanelorn, their motley weapons shining through the evening mists. Like a boiling tidal wave of insensate flesh, the mob drove on, hysterical with the hate for Tanelorn which Narjhan had placed in their thin hearts. Thieves, murderers, jackals, scavengers—a scrawny horde, but huge...
And in Tanelorn the warriors were grim-faced as their out-riders and scouts flowed into the city with messages and estimates of the beggar army’s strength.
Brut, in the silver armour of his rank, knew that two full days had passed since Rackhir had left for the Sighing Desert Three more days and the city would be engulfed by Narjhan’s mighty rabble—and they knew there was no chance of halting their advance. They might have left Tanelorn to its fate, but they would not. Even weak Uroch would not. For Tanelorn the Mysterious had given them all a secret power which each believed to be his only, a strength which filled them where before they had been hollow men. Selfishly, they stayed—for to leave Tanelorn to her fate would be to become hollow again, and that they all dreaded.
Brut was the leader and he prepared the defence of Tanelorn—a defence which might just have held against the beggar army—but not against it and Chaos. Brut shuddered when he thought that if Chaos had directed its full force against Tanelorn, they would be sobbing in Hell at that moment.
Dust rose high above Tanelorn, sent flying by the hooves of the scouts’ and messengers’ horses. One came through the gate as Brut watched. He pulled his mount to a stop before the nobleman. He was the messenger from Kaarlak, by the Weeping Waste, one of the nearest major cities to Tanelorn.
The messenger gasped: “I asked Kaarlak for aid but, as we supposed, they had never heard of Tanelorn and suspected that I was an emissary from the beggar army sent to lead their few forces into a trap. I pleaded with the Senators, but they would do nothing.”
“Was not Elric there—he knows Tanelorn?”
“No, he was not there. There is a rumour which says that he himself fights Chaos now, for the minions of Chaos captured his wife Zarozinia and he rides in pursuit of them. Chaos, it seems, gains strength everywhere in our realm.”
Brut was pale.
“What of Jadmar—will Jadmar send warriors?” The messenger spoke urgently, for many had been sent to the nearer cities to solicit aid.
“I do not know,” replied Brut, “and it does not matter now—for the beggar army is not three days march from Tanelorn and it would take two weeks for a Jadmarian force to reach us.”
“And Rackhir?”
“I have heard nothing and he has not returned. I have the feeling he will not return. Tanelorn is doomed.”
Rackhir and Lamsar bowed before the three small men who sat in the tent, but one of them said impatiently: “Do not humble yourselves before us, friends— we who are humbler than any.” So they straightened their backs and waited to be further addressed.
The Grey Lords assumed humility, but this, it seemed, was their greatest ostentation, for it was a pride that they had. Rackhir realised that he would need to use subtle flattery and was not sure that he could, for he was a warrior, not a courtier or a diplomat. Lamsar, too, realised the situation and he said:
“In our pride, Lords, we have come to learn the simpler truths which are only truths—the truths which you can teach us.”
The speaker gave us a self-deprecating smile and replied: “Truth is not for us to define, guest, we can but offer our incomplete thoughts. They might interest you or help you to find your own truths.”
“Indeed, that is so,” Rackhir said, not wholly sure with what he was agreeing, but judging it best to agree. “And we wondered if you had any suggestions on a matter which concerns us—the protection of our Tanelorn.”
“We would not be so prideful as to interfere our own comments. We are not mighty intellects,” the speaker replied blandly, “and we have no confidence in our own decisions, for who knows that they may be wrong and based on wrongly assessed information?”
“Indeed,” said Lamsar, judging that he must flatter them with their own assumed humility, and it is lucky for us, Lords, that we do not confuse pride with learn ing—for it is the quiet man who observes and says little who sees the most. Therefore, though we realise that you are not confident that your suggestions or help would be useful, none the less we, taking example from your own demeanour, humbly ask if you know of any way in which we might rescue Tanelorn?”
Rackhir had hardly been able to follow the complexities of Lamsar’s seemingly unsophisticated argument, but he saw that the Grey Lords were pleased. Out of the corner of his eye he observed Sorana. She was smiling to herself and it seemed evident, by the characteristics of that smile, that they had behaved in the right way. Now Sorana was listening intently and Rackhir cursed to himself that the Lords of Chaos would know of everything and might, even if they did gain the Grey Lords’ aid, still be able to anticipate and stop any action they took to save Tanelorn.
The speaker conferred in a liquid speech with his fellows and said finally: “Rarely do we have the privilege to entertain such brave and intelligent men. How may our insignificant minds be put to your advantage?”
Rackhir realised quite suddenly, and almost laughed, that the Grey Lords were not very clever after all. Their flattery had got them the help they required. He said:
“Narjhan of Chaos heads a huge army of human scum—a beggar army—and is sworn to tear down Tanelorn and kill her inhabitants. We need magical aid of some kind to combat one so powerful as Narjhan and defeat the beggars.”
“But Tanelorn cannot be destroyed . . .” said a Grey Lord. “She is Eternal . . .” said another. “But this manifestation ...” murmured the third. “Ah, yes ...”
“There are beetles in Kaleef,” said a Grey Lord who had not spoken before, “which emit a peculiar venom.”
“Beetles, Lord?” said Rackhir.
“They are the size of mammoths,” said the third Lord, “but can change their size—and change the size of their prey if it is too large for their gullets.”
“As for that matter,” the first speaker said, “there is a chimera which dwells in mountains South of here—it can change its shape and contains hate for Chaos since Chaos bred it and abandoned it with no real shape of its own.”
“Then there are four brothers of Himerscahl who are endowed with sorcerous power,” said the second Lord, but the first interrupted him:
“Their magic is no good outside our own dimension,” he said. “I had thought, however, of reviving the Blue Wizard.”
“Too dangerous and, anyway, beyond our powers,” said his companion.
They continued to debate for a while, and Rackhir and Lamsar said nothing, but waited.
Eventually the first speaker said:
“The Boatmen of Xerlerenes, we have decided, will probably be best equipped to aid you in defence of Tanelorn. You must go to the mountains of Xerlerenes and find their lake.”
“A lake,” said Lamsar, “in a range of mountains, I see.”
“No,” the Lord said, “their lake lies above the mountains. We will find someone to take you there. Perhaps they will aid you.”
“You can guarantee nothing else?”
“Nothing—it is not our business to interfere. It is up to them to decide whether they will aid you or not.”
“I see,” said Rackhir, “thank you.”
How much time had passed since he had left Tanelorn? How much time before Narjhan’s beggar army reached the city? Or had it already done so?
Suddenly he thought of something, looked for Sorana, but she had left the tent.
“Where lies Xerlerenes?” Lamsar was asking.
“Not in our realm, one of the Grey Lords replied, “come we will find you a guide.”
Sorana spoke the necessary word which took her immediately into the blue half-world with which she was so familiar. There were no other colours in it, but many, many shades of blue. Here she waited until
Eequor noticed her presence. In the timelessness, she could not tell how long she had waited.
The beggar horde came to an undisciplined and slow halt at a sign from its leader. A voice rang hollowly from the helm that was always closed.
“Tomorrow, we march against Tanelorn—the time we have anticipated is almost upon us. Make camp now. Tomorrow shall Tanelorn be punished and the stones of her little houses will be dust on the wind.”
The million beggars cackled their glee and wetted their scrawny lips. Not one of them asked why they had marched so far, and this was because of Narjhan’s power.
In Tanelorn, Brut and Zas the One-handed discussed the nature of death in quiet, over-controlled tones. Both were filled with sadness, less for themselves than for Tanelorn, soon to perish. Outside, a pitiful army tried to place a cordon around the town but failed to fill the gaps between men, there were so few of them. Lights in the houses burned as if for the last time, and candles guttered moodily.
Sorana, sweating as she always did after such an episode, returned to the plane occupied by the Grey Lords and discovered that Rackhir, Lamsar, and their guide were preparing to leave. Eequor had told her what to do—it was for her to contact Narjhan. The rest the Lords of Chaos would accomplish. She blew her ex-lover a kiss as he rode from the camp into the night. He grinned at her defiantly, but when his face was turned from her he frowned and they went in silence into the Valley of the Currents where they entered the world where lay the Mountains of Xerlerenes. Almost as soon as they arrived, danger presented itself.
Their guide, a wanderer called Timeras, pointed into the night sky which was spiked by the outlines of crags.
“This is a world where the air elementals are dominant,” he said. “Look!”
Flowing downwards in an. ominous sweep they saw a flight of owls, great eyes gleaming. Only as they came nearer did the men realise that these owls were huge, almost as large as a man. In the saddle Rackhir strung his bow. Timeras said:
“How could they have learned of our presence so soon?”
“Sorana,” Rackhir said, busy with the bow, “she must have warned the Lords of Chaos and they have sent these dreadful birds.” As the first one homed in, great claws grasping, great beak gaping, he shot it in its feathery throat and it shrieked and swept upwards. Many arrows fled from his humming bow-string to find a mark while Timeras drew his sword and slashed at them, ducking as they whistled downwards.
Lamsar watched the battle but took no part, seemed thoughtful at a time when action was desired of him.
He mused: “If the spirits of air are dominant in this world, then they will resent a stronger force of other elementals,” and he racked his brain to remember a spell.
Rackhir had but two arrows left in his quiver by the time they had driven the owls off. The birds had not been used, evidently, to a prey which fought back and had put up a poor fight considering their superiority.
“We can expect more danger,” said Rackhir somewhat shakily, “for the Lords of Chaos will use other means to try and stop us. How far to Xerlerenes?”
“Not far,” said Timeras, “but it’s a hard road.”
They rode on, and Lamsar rode behind them, lost in his own thoughts.
Now they urged their horses up a steep mountain path and a chasm lay below them, dropping, dropping, dropping. Rackhir, who had no love for heights, kept as close to the mountainside as was possible. If he had had gods to whom he could pray, he would have prayed for their help then.
The huge fish came flying—or swimming—at them as they rounded a bend. They were semi-luminous, big as sharks but with enlarged fins with which they planed through the air like rays. They were quite evidently fish.
Timeras drew his sword, but Rackhir had only two arrows left and it would have been useless against the airfish to have shot them, for there were many of the fish.
But Lamsar laughed and spoke in a high-pitched, staccato speech. “Crackhor—pishtasta salaflar!”
Huge balls of flame materialised against the black sky—flaring balls of multicoloured fire which shaped themselves into strange, warlike forms and streamed towards the unnatural fish.
The flame-shapes seared into the big fish and they shrieked, struck at the fire-balls, burned, and fell flaming down the deep gorge.
“Fire elementals!” Rackhir exclaimed.
“The spirits of the air fear such beings,” Lamsar said calmly.
The flame-beings accompanied them the rest of the way to Xerlerenes and were with them when dawn came, having frightened away many other dangers which the Lords of Chaos had evidently sent against them.
They saw the boats of Xerlerenes in the dawn, at anchor on a calm sky, fluffy clouds playing around their slender keels, their huge sails furled.
“The boatmen live aboard their vessels,” Timeras said, “for it is only their ships which deny the laws of nature, not they.”
Timeras cupped his hands about his mouth and called through the still mountain air: “Boatmen of Xerlerenes, freemen of the air, guests come with a request for aid!”
A black and bearded face appeared over the side of one of the red-gold vessels. The man shielded his eyes against the rising sun and stared down at them. Then he disappeared again.
At length a ladder of slim thongs came snaking down to where they sat their horses on the tops of the mountains. Timeras grasped it, tested it and began to climb. Rackhir reached out and steadied the ladder for him. It seemed too thin to support a man but when he had it in his hands he knew that it was the strongest he had ever known.
Lamsar grumbled as Rackhir signalled for him to climb, but he did so and quite nimbly. Rackhir was the last, following his companions, climbing up through the sky high above the crags, towards the ship that sailed on the air.
The fleet comprised some twenty or thirty ships and Rackhir felt that with these to aid him, there was a good chance to rescue Tanelorn—if Tanelorn survived. Narjhan would, anyway, be aware of the nature of the aid he sought
Starved dogs barked the morning in and the beggar horde, waking from where they had sprawled on the ground, saw Narjhan already mounted, but talking to a newcomer, a girl in black robes that moved as if in a wind—but there was no wind. There was a jewel at her long throat.
When he had finished conversing with the newcomer, Narjhan ordered a horse be brought for her and she rode slightly behind him when the beggar army moved on—the last stage of their hateful journey to Tanelorn.
When they saw lovely Tanelorn and how it was so poorly guarded, the beggars laughed, but Narjhan and his new companion looked up into the sky.
“There may be time,” said the hollow voice, and gave the order to attack.
Howling, the beggars broke into a run towards Tanelorn. The attack had started.
Brut rose in his saddle and there were tears flowing down his face and glistening in his beard. His huge waraxe was in one gauntleted hand and the other held a spiked mace across the saddle before him.
Zas the One-handed gripped the long and heavy broadsword with its pommel of a rampant golden lion pointed downwards. This blade had won him a crown in Andlermaigne, but he doubted whether it would successfully defend his peace in Tanelorn. Beside him stood Uroch of Nieva, pale-faced but angry as he watched the ragged horde’s implacable approach.
Then, yelling, the beggars met with the warriors of
Tanelorn and, although greatly outnumbered, the warriors fought desperately for they were defending more than life or love—they were defending that which had told them of a reason for living.
Narjhan sat his horse aside from the battle, Sorana next to him, for Narjhan could take no active part in the battle, could only watch and, if necessary, use magic to aid his human pawns or defend his person.
The warriors of Tanelorn, incredibly, held back the roaring beggar horde, their weapons drenched with blood, rising and falling in that sea of moving flesh, flashing in the light of the red dawn.
Sweat now mingled with the salt tears in Brut’s bristling beard and with agility he leapt dear of his black horse as the screaming beast was cut from under him. The noble war-cry of his forefathers sang on his breath and, although in his shame he had no business to use it, he let it roar from him as he slashed about him with biting war-axe and rending mace. But he fought hopelessly for Rackhir had not come and Tanelorn was soon to die. His one fierce consolation was that he would die with the city, his blood mingling with its ashes.
Zas, also, acquitted himself very well before he died of a smashed skull. His old body twitched as trampling feet stumbled over it as the beggars made for Uroch of Nieva. The gold-pommelled sword was still gripped in his single hand and his soul was fleeing for Limbo as Uroch, too, was slain fighting.
Then the Ships of Xerlerenes suddenly materialised in the sky and Brut, looking upward for an instant, knew that Rackhir had come at last—though it might be too late.
Narjhan, also, saw the Ships and was prepared for them.
They skimmed through the sky, the fire elementals which Lamsar had summoned, flying with them. The spirits of air and flame had been called to rescue weakening Tanelorn...
The Boatmen prepared their wagons and made themselves ready for war. Their black faces had a concen trated look and they grinned in their bushy beards. War-harness clothed them and they bristled with weapons—long, barbed tridents, nets of steel mesh, curved swords, long harpoons. Rackhir stood in the prow of the leading ship, his quiver packed with slim arrows loaned him by the Boatmen. Below him he saw Tanelorn and was relieved that the city still stood.
He could see the milling warriors below, but it was hard to tell, from the air, which were friends and which were foes. Lamsar called to the frisking fire elementals, instructing them. Timeras grinned and held his sword ready as the ships rocked on the wind and dropped lower.
Now Rackhir observed Narjhan with Sorana beside him.
“The bitch has warned him—he is ready for us,” Rackhir said, wetting his lips and drawing an arrow from his quiver.
Down the Ships of Xerlerenes dropped, coursing downwards on the currents of air, their golden sails billowing, the warrior crews straining over the side and keen for battle.
Then Narjhan summoned the Kyrenee.
Huge as a storm-cloud, black as its native Hell, the Kyrenee grew from the surrounding air and moved its shapeless bulk forward towards the Ships of Xerlerenes, sending out flowing tendrils of poison towards them. Boatmen groaned as the coils curled around their naked bodies and crushed them.
Lamsar called urgently to his fire elementals and they rose again from where they had been devouring beggars, came together in one great blossoming of flame which moved to do battle with the Kyrenee.
The two masses met and there was an explosion which blinded the Red Archer with multi-coloured light and sent the Ships rocking and shaking so that several capsized and sent their crews hurtling downwards to death.
Blotches of flame flew everywhere and patches of poison blackness from the body of the Kyrenee were flung about, slaying those they touched before disappearing.
There was a terrible stink in the air—a smell of buming, a smell of outraged elements which had never been meant to meet.
The Kyrenee died, lashing about a wailing, while the flame elementals, dying or returning to their own sphere, faded and vanished. The remaining bulk of the great Kyrenee billowed slowly down to the earth where it fell upon the scrabbling beggars and killed them, leaving nothing but a wet patch on the ground for yards around, a patch glistening with the bones of beggars.
Now Rackhir cried: “Quickly—finish the fight before Narjhan summons more horrors!”
And the boats sailed downwards while the Boatmen cast their steel nets, pulling large catches of beggars aboard their Ships and finishing the wriggling standings with their tridents or spears.
Rackhir shot arrow after arrow and had the satisfaction of seeing each one take a beggar just where he had aimed it. The remaining warriors of Tanelorn, led by Brut who was covered in sticky blood but grinning in his victory, charged towards the unnerved beggars.
Narjhan stood his ground, while the beggars, fleeing, streamed past him and the girl. Sorana seemed frightened, looked up and her eyes met Rackhir’s. The Red Archer aimed an arrow at her, thought better of it and shot instead at Narjhan. The arrow went into the black armour but had no effect upon the Lord of Chaos.
Then the Boatmen of Xerlernes flung down their largest net from the vessel in which Rackhir sailed and they caught Lord Narjhan in its coils and caught Sorana, too.
Shouting their exhilaration, they pulled the struggling bodies aboard and Rackhir ran forward to inspect their catch. Sorana had received a scratch across her face from the net’s wire, but the body of Narjhan lay still and dreadful in the mesh.
Rackhir grabbed an axe from a Boatman and knocked back the helm, his foot upon the chest.
“Yield, Narjhan of Chaos!” he cried in mindless mer riment. He was near hysterical with victory, for this was the first time a mortal had ever bested a Lord of Chaos.
But the armour was empty, if it had ever been occupied by flesh, and Narjhan was gone.
Calm settled aboard the Ships of Xerlerenes and over the city of Tanelorn. The remnants of the warriors had gathered in the city’s square and were cheering their victory.
Friagho, the Captain of Xerlerenes, came up to Rackhir and shrugged. “We did not get the catch we came for—but these will do. Thanks for the fishing, friend.”
Rackhir smiled and gripped Friagho’s black shoulder. “Thanks for the aid—you have done us all a great service.”
Friagho shrugged again and turned back to his nets, his trident poised. Suddenly Rackhir shouted: “No, Friagho—let that one be. Let me have the contents of that net.”
Sorana, the contents to which he’d referred, looked anxious as if she had rather been transfixed on the prongs of Friagho’s trident. Friagho said: “Very well, Red Archer—there are plenty more people on the land,” pulled at the net to release her.
She stood up shakily, looking at Rackhir apprehensively.
Rackhir smiled quite softly and said: “Come here, Sorana.” She went to him and stood staring up at his bony hawk’s face, her eyes wide. With a laugh he picked her up and flung her over his shoulder.
“Tanelorn is safe!” he shouted. “You shall learn to love its peace with me!” And he began to clamber down the trailing ladders that the Boatmen had dropped over the side.
Lamsar waited for him below. “I go now, to my hermitage again.”
“I thank you for your aid,” said Rackhir. “Without it Tanelorn would no longer exist.”
“Tanelorn will always exist while men exist,” said the hermit. “It was not a city you defended today. It was an ideal. That is Tanelorn.”
And Lamsar smiled.