Stormbringer, page 6
Umbda could not understand the sorcerer’s words and Theleb K’aarna was forced to translate them.
“Do not let the sword reach him!” cried the sorcerer. Once more he shouted in the language of the Kelmain and several warriors ran forward to grasp the runesword before it could reach its albino master.
But the sword struck rapidly and the Kelmain died and none dared approach it after that.
Slowly Stormbringer moved towards Elric.
“Ah, Elric,” cried Theleb K’aarna, “if you escape me this day, I swear that I shall find you.”
“And if you escape me,” Elric shouted back, “I will find you, Theleb K’aarna. Be sure of that.”
The shape that had left Castle Kaneloon had feathers of silver and gold. It flew high above the host and hovered for a moment before moving to the outer edges of the gathering. Elric could not see it clearly, but he knew what it was. That was why he had summoned the sword, for he had an idea that Moonglum rode the giant bird of metal and that the Elwherite would try to rescue him.
“Do not let it land! It comes to save the albino!” screamed Theleb K’aarna.
But the Kelmain Host did not understand him. Under Prince Umbda’s commands they were preparing themselves for the attack upon the castle.
Theleb K’aarna repeated his orders in their own tongue, but it was plain they were beginning not to trust him and could not see the need to bother themselves with one man and a strange bird of metal. It could not stop their engines of war. Neither could the man.
“Stormbringer,” whispered Elric as the sword sliced through his bonds and gently settled in his hand. Elric was free, but the Kelmain, though not placing the same importance upon him as did Theleb K’aarna, showed that they were not prepared to let him escape now that the blade was in his grasp and not moving of its own volition.
Prince Umbda shouted something.
A huge mass of warriors rushed at Elric at once and he made no effort to take the attack to them this time for he was interested in fighting a defensive strategy until Moonglum could descend on the bird and help him.
But the bird was even further away. It appeared to be circling the outer perimeters of the host and showed no interest in his plight at all.
Had he been deceived?
He parried a dozen thrusts, letting the Kelmain warriors crowd in upon each other and thus hamper themselves. The bird of gold and silver was almost out of sight now.
And Theleb K’aarna—where was he?
Elric tried to find him, but the sorcerer was doubtless somewhere in the centre of the Kelmain ranks by now.
Elric killed a golden-skinned warrior, slitting his throat with the point of the runesword. More strength began to flow into him again. He killed another Kelmain with an overarm movement which split the man’s shoulder. But nothing could be gained from this fight if Moonglum was not coming on the bird of silver and gold.
The bird seemed to change course and come back towards Kaneloon. Was it merely waiting for instructions from its sleeping mistress? Or was it refusing to obey Moonglum’s commands?
Elric backed through the muddy, bloody snow so that the pile of corpses now lay behind him. He fought on, but with very little hope.
The bird went past, far to his right.
Elric thought ironically that he had completely mistaken the significance of the bird’s leaving the castle battlements and by mistiming his decision had merely brought his death closer—perhaps Myshella’s and Moonglum’s deaths closer, too.
Kaneloon was doomed. Myshella was doomed. Lormyr and perhaps the whole of the Young Kingdoms were doomed.
And he was doomed.
It was then that a shadow passed across the battling men and the Kelmain screamed and fell back as a great din rent the air.
Elric looked up in relief, hearing the sound of the metal bird’s clashing wings. He looked for Moonglum in the saddle and saw instead the tense face of Myshella herself, her hair blowing around her face as it was disturbed by the beating wings.
“Quickly, Lord Elric, before they close in again.”
Elric sheathed the runesword and leapt towards the saddle, swinging himself behind the Dark Lady of Kaneloon. Then they rose into the air again, while arrows hurtled around their heads and bounced off the bird’s metal feathers.
“One more circuit of the host and then we return to the castle,” she said. “Your rune and the Nanorion worked to defeat Theleb K’aarna’s enchantment, but they took longer than either of us would have liked. See, already Prince Umbda is ordering his men to mount and ride to Castle Kaneloon. And Kaneloon has only Moonglum to defend her now.”
“Why this circuit of Umbda’s army?”
“You will see. At least, I hope you will see, my lord.”
She began to sing a song. It was a strange, disturbing chant in a language not dissimilar to the Melnibonéan High Speech, yet different enough for Elric to understand only a few words, for it was oddly accented.
Around the camp they flew. Elric saw the Kelmain form their ranks into battle order. Doubtless Umbda and Theleb K’aarna had by now decided on the best mode of attack.
Then back to the castle beat the great bird, settling on the battlements and allowing Elric and Myshella to dismount. Moonglum, his features taut, came running to meet them.
They went to look at the Kelmain.
And they saw that the Kelmain were on the move.
“What did you do to—” began Elric, but Myshella raised her hand.
“Perhaps I did nothing. Perhaps the sorcery will not work.”
“What was it you…?”
“I scattered the contents of the purse you brought. I scattered it around their whole army. Watch…”
“And if the spell has not worked—” Moonglum murmured. He paused, straining his eyes through the gloom. “What is that?”
Myshella’s satisfied tone was almost ghoulish as she said: “It is the Noose of Flesh.”
Something was growing out of the snow. Something pink that quivered. Something huge. A great mass that arose on all sides of the Kelmain and made their horses rear up and snort.
And it made the Kelmain shriek.
The stuff was like flesh and it had grown so high that the whole Kelmain Host was obscured from sight. There were noises as they tried to train their battle-engines upon the stuff and blast their way through. There were shouts. But not a single horseman broke out of the Noose of Flesh.
Then the substance began to fold in over the Kelmain and Elric heard a sound such as none he had heard before.
It was a voice.
A voice of a hundred thousand men all facing an identical terror, all dying an identical death.
It was a moan of desperation, of hopelessness, of fear.
But it was a moan so loud that it shook the walls of Castle Kaneloon.
“It is no death for a warrior,” murmured Moonglum, turning away.
“But it was the only weapon we had,” said Myshella. “I have possessed it for a good many years but never before did I feel the need to use it.”
“Of them all, only Theleb K’aarna deserved that death,” said Elric.
Night fell and the Noose of Flesh tightened around the Kelmain Host, crushing all but a few horses which had run free as the sorcery began to work.
It crushed Prince Umbda, who spoke no language known in the Young Kingdoms, who spoke no language known to the ancients, who had come to conquer from beyond World’s Edge.
It crushed Theleb K’aarna, who had sought, for the sake of his love for a wanton queen, to conquer the world with the aid of Chaos.
It crushed all the warriors of that near-human race, the Kelmain. And it crushed all who could have told the watchers what the Kelmain had been or from where they had originated.
Then it absorbed them. Then it flickered and dissolved and was dust again.
No piece of flesh—man’s nor beast’s—remained. But over the snow was scattered clothing, arms, armour, siege engines, riding accoutrements, coins, belt-buckles, for as far as the eye could see.
Myshella nodded to herself. “That was the Noose of Flesh,” she said. “I thank you for bringing it to me, Elric. I thank you, also, for finding the stone which revived me. I thank you for saving Lormyr.”
“Aye,” said Elric. “Thank me.” There was a weariness on him now. He turned away, shivering.
Snow had begun to fall again.
“Thank me for nothing, Lady Myshella. What I did was to satisfy my own dark urges, to sate my thirst for vengeance. I have destroyed Theleb K’aarna. The rest was incidental. I care nought for Lormyr, the Young Kingdoms, or any of your causes…”
Moonglum saw that Myshella had a sceptical look in her eyes and she smiled slightly.
Elric entered the castle and began to descend the steps to the hall.
“Wait,” Myshella said. “This castle is magical. It reflects the desires of any who enter it—should I wish it.”
Elric rubbed at his eyes. “Then plainly we have no desires. Mine are satisfied now that Theleb K’aarna is destroyed. I would leave this place now, my lady.”
“You have none?” said she.
He looked at her directly. He frowned. “Regret breeds weakness which attacks the internal organs and at last destroys…”
“And you have no desires?”
He hesitated. “I understand you. Your own appearance, I’ll admit…” He shrugged. “But are you—?”
She spread her hands. “Do not ask too many questions of me.” She made another gesture. “Now. See. This castle becomes what you most desire. And in it, the things you most desire!”
And Elric looked about him, his eyes widening, and he began to scream.
He fell to his knees in terror. He turned pleadingly to her.
“No, Myshella! No. I do not desire this!”
Hastily she made yet another sign.
Moonglum helped his friend to his feet. “What was it? What did you see?”
Elric straightened his back and rested his hand on his sword and said grimly and quietly to Myshella:
“Lady, I would kill you for that if I did not understand you sought only to please me.”
He studied the ground for a moment before continuing:
“Know this. Elric cannot have what he desires most. What he desires does not exist. What he desires is dead. All Elric has is sorrow, guilt, malice, hatred. This is all he deserves and all he will ever desire.”
She put her hands to her own face and walked back to the room where he had first seen her. Elric followed.
Moonglum started after them but then he stopped and remained where he stood.
He watched them enter the room and saw the door close.
He walked back onto the battlements and stared into the darkness. He saw wings of silver and gold flashing in the moonlight and they became smaller and smaller until they had vanished.
He sighed. It was cold.
He went back into the castle and settled himself with his back against a pillar, preparing to sleep.
But a little while later he heard laughter come from the room in the highest tower.
And the laughter sent him running through the passages, through the great hall where the fire had died, out of the door, into the night to seek the stables where he could feel more secure.
But he could not sleep that night, for the distant laughter still pursued him.
And the laughter continued until morning.
BOOK TWO TO SNARE THE PALE PRINCE
…but it was in Nadsokor, City of Beggars, that Elric found an old friend and learned something concerning an old enemy…
—The Chronicle of the Black Sword
1 The Beggar Court
Nadsokor, City of Beggars, was infamous throughout the Young Kingdoms. Lying near the shores of that ferocious river, the Varkalk, and not too far from the Kingdom of Org in which blossomed the frightful Forest of Troos, and exuding a stink which seemed thick enough ten miles distant, Nadsokor was plagued by few visitors.
From this unlovely place sallied out her citizens to beg their way about the world and steal what they could and bring it back to Nadsokor where half of their profits were handed over to their king in return for his protection.
Their king had ruled for many years. He was called Urish the Seven-fingered, for he had but four fingers on his right hand and three upon his left. Veins had burst all over his once handsome face and filthy, infested hair framed that seedy countenance upon which age and grime had traced a thousand lines. From out of all this ruin peered two bright, pale eyes.
As the symbol of his power Urish had a great cleaver called Hackmeat which was forever at his side. His throne was of crudely carved black oak, studded with bits of raw gold, bones and semi-precious gems. Beneath this throne was Urish’s Hoard—a chest of treasure which he let none but himself look upon.
For the best part of every day Urish would lounge on his throne, presiding over a gloomy, festering hall thronged with his Court: a rabble of rascals too foul in appearance and disposition to be tolerated anywhere but here.
For heat and light there burned permanently braziers of garbage which gave out oily smoke and a stink which dominated all the other stinks in the hall.
* * *
And now there was a visitor at Urish’s Court.
He stood before the dais on which the throne was mounted and from time to time he raised a heavily scented kerchief to his red, full lips.
His face, which was normally dark in complexion, was somewhat grey and his eyes had something of a haunted, tortured look in them as they glanced from begrimed beggar to pile of rubbish to guttering brazier. Dressed in the loose brocade robes of the folk of Pan Tang, the visitor had black eyes, a great hooked nose, blue-black ringlets and a curling beard. Kerchief to mouth, he bowed low when he reached Urish’s throne.
As always, greed, weakness and malice mingled to form King Urish’s expression as he regarded the stranger whom one of his courtiers had but lately announced.
Urish had recognised the name and he believed he could guess the Pan Tangian’s business here.
“I heard you were dead, Theleb K’aarna—killed beyond Lormyr, near World’s Edge.” Urish grinned to display the black crags which were the rotting remains of his teeth.
Theleb K’aarna removed the kerchief from his lips and his voice was strangled at first, gaining strength as he remembered the wrongs recently done him. “My magic is not so weak I cannot escape a spell such as was woven that day. I conjured myself below the ground while Myshella’s Noose of Flesh engulfed the Kelmain Host.”
Urish’s disgusting grin widened.
“You crept into a hole, is that it?”
The sorcerer’s eyes burned fiercely. “I’ll not dispute the strength of my powers with—”
He broke off and drew a deep breath which he at once regretted. He stared warily around him at the Beggar Court, all manged and maimed, which had deposited itself about the filthy hall, mocking him. The beggars of Nadsokor knew the power of poverty and disease—knew how it terrified those who were not used to it. And thus their very squalor was their safeguard against intruders.
A repulsive cough which might have been a laugh now seized King Urish. “And was it your magic that brought you here?” As his whole body shook his bloodshot eyes continued, beadily, to regard the sorcerer.
“I have travelled across the seas and all across Vilmir to be here,” Theleb K’aarna said, “because I had heard there was one you hated above all others…”
“And we hate all others—all who are not beggars,” Urish reminded him. The king chuckled and the chuckle became, once more, a throaty, convulsive cough.
“But you hate Elric of Melniboné most.”
“Aye. It would be fair to say that. Before he won fame as the Kinslayer, the traitor of Imrryr, he came to Nadsokor to deceive us, disguised as a leper who had begged his way from the Eastlands beyond Karlaak. He tricked me disgracefully and stole something from my Hoard. And my Hoard is sacred—I will not let another even glimpse it!”
“I heard he stole a scroll from you,” Theleb K’aarna said. “A spell which had once belonged to his cousin Yyrkoon. Yyrkoon wished to be rid of Elric and let him believe that the spell would release the Princess Cymoril from her sorcerous slumber…”
“Aye. Yyrkoon had given the scroll to one of our citizens when he went abegging to the gates of Imrryr. He then told Elric what he had done. Elric disguised himself and came here. With the aid of sorcery he gained access to my Hoard—my Sacred Hoard—and plucked the scroll from it…”
Theleb K’aarna looked sideways at the Beggar King. “Some would say that it was not Elric’s fault—that Yyrkoon was to blame. He deceived you both. The spell did not awaken Cymoril, did it?”
“No. But we have a Law in Nadsokor…” Urish raised the great cleaver Hackmeat and displayed its ragged, rusty blade. For all its battered appearance, it was a fearsome weapon. “That Law says that any man who looks upon the Sacred Hoard of King Urish must die and die most horribly—at the hands of the Burning God!”
“And none of your wandering citizens has yet managed to take this vengeance?”
“I must pass the sentence personally upon him before he dies. He must come again to Nadsokor, for it is only here that he may be acquainted with his doom.”
Theleb K’aarna said: “I have no love for Elric.”
Urish once more voiced the sound that was half laugh, half wheezing cough. “Aye—I have heard he has chased you all across the Young Kingdoms, that you have brought more and more powerful sorceries against him, yet every time he has defeated you.”
Theleb K’aarna frowned. “Have a care, King Urish. I have had bad luck, yet I am still one of Pan Tang’s greatest sorcerers.”
“But you spend your powers freely and claim much from the Lords of Chaos. One day they will be tired of helping you and find another to do their work.” King Urish closed soiled lips over black teeth. His pale eyes did not blink as he studied Theleb K’aarna.
There were stirrings in the hall, the Beggar Court moved in closer: the click of a crutch, the scrape of a staff, the shuffle of misshapen feet. Even the oily smoke from the braziers seemed to menace him as it drifted reluctantly into the darkness of the roof.
