Stormbringer, page 59
Yishana’s army was fighting bravely, but its discipline was lost. It must regroup if it was to be most effective.
“Recall the cavalry!” Elric yelled. “Recall the cavalry!”
The young herald looked up. He was badly pressed by two Devil Riders. His attention diverted, he was skewered on a Devil Rider’s blade and shrieked as the two men butchered him.
Cursing, Elric rode closer and struck one of the attackers in the side of the head. The man toppled and fell into the churned mud of the field. The other Rider turned, only to meet howling Stormbringer’s point, and he died yelling, as the runeblade drank his soul.
The herald, still mounted, was dead in the saddle, his body a mass of cuts. Elric leaned forward, tearing the bloody horn from around the corpse’s neck. Placing it to his lips, he sounded the Cavalry Recall and caught a glimpse of horsemen turning. Now he saw the standard itself begin to fall and realised that the standard-bearer was slain. He rose in the saddle and grasped the pole which bore the bright flag of Jharkor and, with this in one hand, the horn at his lips, attempted to rally his forces.
Slowly, the remnants of the battered army gathered around him. Then Elric, taking control of the battle, did the only thing he could—took the sole course of action which might save the day.
He sounded a long, wailing note on the horn. In response to this he heard the beating of heavy wings as the men of Myyrrhn rose into the air.
Observing this, the enemy released the traps of the mysterious cages.
Elric groaned with despair.
A weird hooting preceded the sight of giant owls, thought extinct even in Myyrrhn the land of their origin, circling skyward.
The enemy had prepared against a threat from the air and, by some means, had produced the age-old enemies of the men of Myyrrhn.
Only slightly daunted by this unexpected sight, the men of Myyrrhn, armed with long spears, attacked the great birds. The embattled warriors on the ground were showered with blood and feathers. Corpses of men and birds began to flop downwards, crushing infantry and cavalry beneath them.
Through this confusion, Elric and the White Leopards of Yishana cut their way into the enemy to join up with Dyvim Slorm and his Imrryrians, the remnants of the Tarkeshite cavalry, and about a hundred Shazaarians, who had survived. Looking upwards, Elric saw that most of the great owls were destroyed, but only a handful of the men of Myyrrhn had survived the fight in the air. These, having done what they could against the owls, were themselves circling about preparing to leave the battle. Obviously they realised the hopelessness of it all.
Elric called to Dyvim Slorm as their forces joined: “The battle’s lost—Sarosto and Jagreen Lern rule here now!”
Dyvim Slorm hefted his longsword in his hand and gave Elric a look of assent. “If we’re to live to keep our destiny, we’d best make speed away from here!” he cried.
There was little more they could do.
“Zarozinia’s life is more important to me than anything else!” Elric yelled. “Let’s look to our own predicament!”
But the weight of the enemy forces was like a vice, crushing Elric and his men. Blood covered Elric’s face from a blow he had received on the forehead. It clogged his eyes so that he had to keep raising his left hand to his face to get rid of the stuff.
His right arm ached as he lifted Stormbringer again and again, hacking and stabbing about him, desperate now, for although the dreadful blade had a life, almost an intelligence, of its own, even it could not supply the vitality which Elric needed to remain entirely fresh. In a way he was glad, for he hated the runesword, though he had to depend on the force which flowed from it to him.
Stormbringer more than slew Elric’s attackers—it drank their souls, and some of that life-force was passed on to the Melnibonéan monarch…
Now the ranks of the enemy fell back and seemed to open. Through this self-made breach, animals came running. Animals with gleaming eyes and red, fang-filled jaws. Animals with claws.
The hunting tigers of Pan Tang.
Horses screamed as the tigers leapt and rent them, tearing down mount and man and slashing at the throats of their victims. The tigers raised bloody snouts and stared around for a new prey. Terrified, many of Elric’s small force fell back shouting. Most of the Tarkeshite knights broke and fled the field, precipitating the flight of the Jharkorians whose maddened horses bore them away and were soon followed by the few remaining Shazaarians still mounted. Soon only Elric, his Imrryrians and about forty White Leopards stood against the might of Dharijor and Pan Tang.
Elric raised his horn and sounded the Retreat, wheeled his black steed about and raced up the valley, Imrryrians behind him. But the White Leopards fought on to the last. Yishana had said that they knew nothing but how to kill. Evidently they also knew how to die.
Elric and Dyvim Slorm led the Imrryrians up the valley, half-thankful that the White Leopards covered their retreat. The Melnibonéan had seen nothing of Yishana since he had clashed with Jagreen Lern. He wondered what had become of her.
As they turned a bend in the valley, Elric understood the full battle plan of Jagreen Lern and his ally—for a strong, fresh force of foot soldiers and cavalry had assembled at the other end of the valley, for the purpose of cutting off any retreat made by his army.
Scarcely thinking, Elric urged his horse up the slopes of the hills, his men following, ducking beneath the low branches of the birch trees as the Dharijorians rushed towards them, spreading out to cut off their escape.
* * *
Elric turned his horse about and saw that the White Leopards were still fighting around the standard of Jharkor and he headed back in that direction, keeping to the hills. Over the crest of the hills he rode, Dyvim Slorm and a handful of Imrryrians with him, and then they were galloping for open countryside while the knights of Dharijor and Pan Tang gave chase. They had obviously recognised Elric and wished either to kill or to capture him.
Ahead Elric could see that the Tarkeshites, Shazaarians and Jharkorians who had earlier fled had taken the same route out as he had. But they no longer rode together, were scattering away.
Elric and Dyvim Slorm fled westwards across unknown country while the other Imrryrians, to take attention off their leaders, rode to the north-east towards Tarkesh and perhaps a few days of safety.
The battle was won. The minions of evil were the victors and an age of terror had settled on the lands of the Young Kingdoms in the west.
* * *
Some days later, Elric, Dyvim Slorm, two Imrryrians, a Tarkeshite commander called Yedn-pad-Juizev, badly wounded in the side, and a Shazaarian foot soldier, Orozn, who had taken a horse away from the battle, were temporarily safe from pursuit and were trudging their horses wearily towards a range of slim-peaked mountains which loomed black against the red evening sky.
They had not spoken for some hours. Yedn-pad-Juizev was obviously dying and they could do nothing for him. He knew this also and expected nothing, merely rode with them for company. He was very tall for a Tarkeshite, his scarlet plume still bobbing on his dented blue-metal helmet, his breastplate scarred and smeared with his own blood and others’. His beard was black and shiny with oil, his nose a jutting crag on the rock of his soldier’s face, his eyes half-glazed. He was bearing the pain well. Though they were impatient to reach the comparative safety of the mountain range, the others matched their pace to his, half in respect and half in fascination that a man could cling to life for so long.
Night came and a great yellow moon hung in the sky over the mountains. The sky was completely clear of cloud and stars shone brightly. The warriors wished that the night had been dark, storm-covered, for they could have then sought more security in the shadows. As it was the night was lighted and they could only hope that they reached the mountains soon—before the hunting tigers of Pan Tang discovered their tracks and they died under the rending claws of those dreadful beasts.
* * *
Elric was in a grim and thoughtful mood. For a while the Dharijorian and Pan Tang conquerors would be busy consolidating their new-won empire. Perhaps there would be quarrels between them when this was done, perhaps not. But soon, anyway, they would be very powerful and threatening the security of other nations on the Southern and Eastern Continents.
But all this, however much it overshadowed the fate of the whole world, meant little to Elric for he still could not clearly see his way to Zarozinia. He remembered the dead creature’s prophecy, part of which had now come about. But still it meant little. He felt as if he were being driven constantly westwards, as if he must go further and further into the sparsely settled lands beyond Jharkor. Was it here his destiny lay? Was it here that Zarozinia’s captors were? Beyond the ocean brews a battle; Beyond the battle blood shall fall…
Well, had the blood fallen, or was it yet to fall? What was the “twin” that Elric’s kinsman, Dyvim Slorm, bore? Who was the one who should not live?
Perhaps the secret lay in the mountains ahead of them?
Beneath the moon they rode, and at last came to a gorge. Halfway along it they located a cave and lay down inside to rest.
* * *
In the morning, Elric was awakened by a sound outside the cave. Instantly he drew Stormbringer and crept to the mouth of the cave. What he saw caused him to sheathe the blade and call in a soft voice to the battered man who was riding up the gorge towards the cave. “Here, herald! We are friends!”
The man was one of Yishana’s heralds. His surcoat was in ribbons, his armour crumpled on his body. He was swordless and without a helmet, a young man with his face made gaunt by weariness and despair. He looked up and relief came when he recognised Elric.
“My lord Elric—they said you were slain on the field.”
“I’m glad they did, since that makes pursuit less likely. Come inside.”
The others were awake now—all but one. Yedn-pad-Juizev had died, sleeping, in the night. Orozn yawned and jerked a thumb at the corpse. “If we do not find food soon, I’ll be tempted to eat our dead friend.”
The man looked at Elric for response to this jest, but seeing the albino’s expression he was abashed and retreated to the depths of the cave grumbling and kicking at loose stones.
Elric leaned against the wall of the cave near the opening. “What news have you?” he asked.
“Dark news, my lord. From Shazaar to Tarkesh black misery prevails and iron and fire beat across nations like an unholy storm. We are fully conquered. Only small bands of men carry on a hopeless struggle against the enemy. Some of our folk are already talking of turning bandit and preying on each other, so desperate have times become.”
Elric nodded. “Such is what happens when foreign allies are beaten on friendly soil. What of Queen Yishana?”
“She fared ill, my lord. Clad in metal, she battled against a score of men before expiring—her body torn asunder by the force of their attack. Sarosto took her head for a keepsake and added it to other trophies including the hands of Karnarl, his half-brother who opposed him over the Pan Tang alliance, the eyes of Penik of Nargesser, who raised an army against him in that province. Theocrat Jagreen Lern ordered that all other prisoners be tortured to death and hanged in chains through the lands as warning against insurrection. They are an unholy pair, my lord!”
Elric’s mouth grew tight when he heard this. Already it was becoming clear to him that his only route was westwards, for the conquerors would soon search him out if he went back. He turned to Dyvim Slorm. The Imrryrian’s shirt was in rags and his left arm covered in dried blood.
“Our destiny appears to lie in the west,” he said quietly.
“Then let us make speed,” said his cousin, “for I am impatient to get it over and at least learn whether we live or perish in this enterprise. We gained nothing by our encounter with the enemy, but wasted time.”
“I gained something,” Elric said, remembering his fight with Jagreen Lern. “I gained the knowledge that Jagreen Lern is connected in some way with the kidnapping of my wife—and if he had aught to do with it, I’ll claim my vengeance no matter what.”
“Now,” said Dyvim Slorm. “Let us make haste to the west.”
4
They drove deeper into the mountains that day, avoiding the few hunting parties sent out by the conquerors, but the two Imrryrians, recognising that their leaders were on a special journey, left to go in another direction. The herald was gone southward to spread his gloomy news so that only Elric, Dyvim Slorm and Orozn were left. They did not welcome Orozn’s company, but bore with it for the meanwhile.
Then, after a day, Orozn disappeared and Elric and Dyvim Slorm ranged deeper into the black crags, riding through towering, oppressive canyons or along narrow paths.
Snow lay on the mountains, bright white against sharp black, filling gorges, making paths slippery and dangerous. Then one evening they came to a place where the mountains opened out into a wide valley and they rode with difficulty down the foothills of the mountains, their tracks making great black scars in the snow and their horses steaming, their breath billowing white in the cold air.
They observed a rider coming across the valley floor towards them. One rider they did not fear, so they waited for him to approach. To their surprise it was Orozn, clad in fresh garments of wolfskin and deer hide. He greeted them in a friendly manner.
“I have come seeking you both. You must have taken a more difficult route than mine.”
“From where have you come?” Elric asked; his face was drawn, his cheekbones emphasised by the sunken skin. He looked more like a wolf than ever with his red eyes gleaming. Zarozinia’s fate weighed heavily on his mind.
“There is a settlement nearby. Come, I will take you to it.”
They followed Orozn for some way and it was getting near nightfall, the setting sun staining the mountains scarlet, when they reached the opposite side of the valley, dotted with a few birch trees and, further up, a cluster of firs.
Orozn led them into this grove.
* * *
They came screaming out of the dark, a dozen swarthy men, possessed by hatred—and something else. Weapons were raised in mailed hands. By their armour, these men were from Pan Tang. Orozn must have been captured and persuaded to lead Elric and his cousin into ambush.
Elric turned his horse, rearing.
“Orozn! You betrayed us!”
But Orozn was riding. He looked back once, his pale face tortured with guilt. Then his eyes darted away from Elric and Dyvim Slorm and he frowned, rode down the moss-wet hill back into the howling darkness of the night.
Elric lifted Stormbringer from his belt, gripped the hilt, blocked a blow from a brass-studded mace, slid his sword down the handle and sheared off his attacker’s fingers. He and Dyvim Slorm were soon surrounded, yet he fought on, Stormbringer shrilling a wild, lawless song of death.
But Elric and Dyvim Slorm were still weak from the rigours of their past adventures. Not even Stormbringer’s evil strength was sufficient fully to revitalise Elric’s deficient veins and he was filled with fear—not of the attackers, but of the fact that he was doomed to die or be captured. And he had the feeling that these warriors had no knowledge of their master’s part in the matter of the prophecy, did not realise that, perhaps, he was not meant to die at that moment.
In fact, he decided, as he battled, a great mistake was about to be perpetrated…
“Arioch!” he cried in his fear to the demon-god of Melniboné. “Arioch! Aid me! Blood and souls for thine aid!”
But that intractable entity sent no aid.
Dyvim Slorm’s long blade caught a man just below his gorget and pierced him through the throat. The other Pan Tang horsemen threw themselves at him but were driven back by his sweeping sword. Dyvim Slorm shouted: “Why do we worship such a god when whim decides him so often?”
“Perhaps he thinks our time has come!” Elric yelled back as his runeblade drank another foe’s life-force.
Tiring fast, they fought on until a new sound broke above the clash of arms—the sound of chariots and low, moaning cries.
Then they were sweeping into the mêlée, black men with handsome features and thin, proud mouths, their magnificent bodies half-naked as their cloaks of white fox fur streamed behind them and their javelins were flung with terrible accuracy at the bewildered men of Pan Tang.
Elric sheathed his sword and remained ready to fight or flee. “This is the one—the white-faced one!” cried a black charioteer as he saw Elric. The chariots rolled to a halt, tall horses stamping and snorting. Elric rode up to the leader.
“I am grateful,” he said, half falling from his saddle in weariness. He turned the droop of his shoulders into a bow. “You appear to know me—you are the third I’ve met while on this quest who recognises me without my being able to return the compliment.”
The leader tugged the fox cape about his naked chest and smiled with his thin lips. “I’m named Sepiriz and you will know me soon enough. As for you, we have known of you for thousands of years. Elric are you not—last king of Melniboné?”
“That is true.”
“And you,” Sepiriz addressed Dyvim Slorm, “are Elric’s cousin. Together you represent the last of the pure line of Melniboné.”
“Aye,” Dyvim Slorm agreed, curiosity in his eyes.
“Then we have been waiting for you to pass this way. There was a prophecy…”
“You are the captors of Zarozinia?” Elric reached for his sword.
Sepiriz shook his head. “No, but we can tell you where she is. Calm yourself. Though I realise the agony of mind you must be suffering, I will be better able to explain all I know back in our own domain.”
“First tell us who you are,” Elric demanded.
Sepiriz smiled slightly. “You know us, I think—or at least you know of us. There was a certain friendship between your ancestors and our folk in the early years of the Bright Empire.” He paused a moment before continuing: “Have you ever heard legends, in Imrryr perhaps, of the Ten from the mountain? The Ten who sleep in the mountain of fire?”
