The Stealer of Souls (17 page)

Elric fumed as he was hefted up between the two. The men were dark-skinned, bearded and their eyes were deep-set beneath shaggy brows. They wore the heavy wool-trimmed metal caps of their race, and their armour was not of iron but of thick, leather-covered wood. Down a long corridor they lugged Elric’s weakened body and one of them rapped sharply on a door.

Elric recognized Yishana’s voice bid them enter. Behind the desert men and their burden came a tittering, fussing sorcerer. “A present for you, Yishana,” he called.

The desert men entered. Elric could not see Yishana but he heard her gasp. “On the couch,” directed the sorcerer. Elric was deposited on yielding fabric. He lay completely exhausted on the couch, staring up at a bright, lewd mural which had been painted on the ceiling.

Yishana bent over him. Elric could smell her erotic perfume. He said hoarsely: “An unprecedented reunion, queen.” Yishana’s eyes were, for a moment, concerned, then they hardened and she laughed cynically.

“Oh—my hero has returned to me at last. But I’d rather he’d come at his own volition, not dragged here by the back of his neck like a puppy. The wolf’s teeth have all been drawn and there’s no-one to savage me at nights.” She turned away, disgust on her painted face. “Take him away, Theleb K’aarna. You have proved your point.”

The sorcerer nodded.

“And now,” he said, “to visit Nikorn—I think he should be expecting us by this time…”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Nikorn of Ilmar was not a young man. He was well past fifty but had preserved his youth. His face was that of a peasant, firm-boned but not fleshy. His eyes were keen and hard as he stared at Elric who had been mockingly propped in a chair.

“So you are Elric of Melniboné, the Wolf of the Snarling Sea, spoiler, reaver and woman-slayer. I think that you could hardly slay a child now. However, I will say that it discomforts me to see any man in such a position—particularly one who has been so active as you. Is it true what the spell-maker says? Were you sent here by my enemies to assassinate me?”

Elric was concerned for his men. What would they do? Wait—or go on. If they stormed the palace now they were doomed—and so was he.

“Is it true?” Nikorn was insistent.

“No,” whispered Elric. “My quarrel was with Theleb K’aarna. I have an old score to settle with him.”

“I am not interested in old scores, my friend,” Nikorn said, not unkindly. “I
am
interested in preserving my life. Who sent you here?”

“Theleb K’aarna speaks falsely if he told you I was sent,” Elric lied. “I was interested only in paying my debt.”

“It is not only the sorcerer who told me, I’m afraid,” Nikorn said. “I have many spies in the city and two of them independently informed me of a plot by local merchants to employ you to kill me.”

Elric smiled faintly. “Very well,” he agreed. “It was true, but I had no intention of doing what they asked.”

Nikorn said: “I might believe you, Elric of Melniboné. But now I do not know what to do with you. I would not turn anyone over to Theleb K’aarna’s mercies. May I have your word that you will not make an attempt on my life again?”

“Are we bargaining, Master Nikorn?” Elric said faintly.

“We are.”

“Then what do I give my word in return for, sir?”

“Your life and freedom, Lord Elric.”

“And my sword?”

Nikorn shrugged regretfully. “I’m sorry—not your sword.”

“Then take my life,” said Elric brokenly.

“Come now—my bargain’s good. Have your life and freedom and give your word that you will not plague me again.”

Elric breathed deeply. “Very well.”

Nikorn moved away. Theleb K’aarna who had been standing in the shadows put a hand on the merchant’s arm. “You’re going to release him?”

“Aye,” Nikorn said. “He’s no threat to either of us now.”

Elric was aware of a certain feeling of friendship in Nikorn’s attitude towards him. He, too, felt something of the same. Here was a man both courageous and clever. But—Elric fought madness—without Stormbringer, what could he do to fight back?

The two hundred Imrryrian warriors lay hidden in the undergrowth as dusk gave way to night. They watched and wondered. What had happened to Elric? Was he now in the castle as Dyvim Tvar thought? The Dragon Master knew something of the art of divining, as did all members of the royal line of Melniboné. From what small spells he had conjured, it seemed that Elric now lay within the castle walls.

But without Elric to battle Theleb K’aarna’s power, how could they take it?

Nikorn’s palace was also a fortress, bleak and unlovely. It was surrounded by a deep moat of dark, stagnant water. It stood high above the surrounding forest, built into rather than onto the rock. Much of it had been carved out of the living stone. It was sprawling and rambling and covered a large area, surrounded by natural buttresses. The rock was porous in places, and slimy water ran down the walls of the lower parts, spreading through dark moss. It was not a pleasant place, judging from the outside, but it was almost certainly impregnable. Two hundred men could not take it, without the aid of magic.

Some of the Melnibonéan warriors were becoming impatient. There were a few who muttered that Elric had, once again, betrayed them. Dyvim Tvar and Moonglum did not believe this. They had seen the signs of conflict—and heard them—in the forest.

They waited, hoping for a signal from the castle itself.

They watched the castle’s great main gate—and their patience at last proved of value. The huge wood and metal gate swung inwards on chains and a white-faced man in the tattered regalia of Melniboné appeared between two desert warriors. They were supporting him, it seemed. They pushed him forward—he staggered a few yards along the causeway of slimy stone which bridged the moat.

Then he fell. He began to crawl wearily, painfully, forward.

Moonglum growled. “What have they done to him? I must help him.” But Dyvim Tvar held him back.

“No—it would not do to betray our presence here. Let him reach the forest first, then we can help him.”

Even those who had cursed Elric, now felt pity for the albino as, staggering and crawling alternately, he dragged his body slowly towards them. From the battlements of the fortress a tittering laugh was borne down to the ears of those below. They also caught a few words.

“
What now, wolf?
” said the voice. “
What now?
”

Moonglum clenched his hands and trembled with rage, hating to see his proud friend so mocked in his weakness. “What’s happened to him? What have they done?”

“Patience,” Dyvim Tvar said. “We’ll find out in a short while.”

It was an agony to wait until Elric finally crawled on his knees into the undergrowth.

Moonglum went forward to aid his friend. He put a supporting arm around Elric’s shoulders but the albino snarled and shook it off, his whole countenance aflame with terrible hate—made more terrible because it was impotent. Elric could do nothing to destroy that which he hated. Nothing.

Dyvim Tvar said urgently: “Elric, you must tell us what happened. If we’re to help you—we must know what happened.”

Elric breathed heavily and nodded his agreement. His face partially cleared of the emotion he felt and weakly he stuttered out the story.

“So,” Moonglum growled, “our plans come to nothing—and you have lost your strength for ever.”

Elric shook his head. “There must be a way,” he gasped. “There must!”

“What? How? If you have a plan, Elric—let me hear it now.”

Elric swallowed thickly and mumbled. “Very well, Moonglum, you shall hear it. But listen carefully, for I have not the strength to repeat it.”

Moonglum was a lover of the night, but only when it was lit by the torches found in cities. He did not like the night when it came to open countryside and he was not fond of it when it surrounded a castle such as Nikorn’s, but he pressed on and hoped for the best.

If Elric had been right in his interpretation, then the battle might yet be won and Nikorn’s palace taken. But it still meant danger for Moonglum and he was not one deliberately to put himself into danger.

As he viewed the stagnant waters of the moat with distaste he reflected that this was enough to test any friendship to the utmost. Philosophically, he lowered himself down into the water and began to swim across it.

The moss on the fortress offered a flimsy handhold, but it led to ivy which gave a better grip. Moonglum slowly clambered up the wall. He hoped that Elric had been right and that Theleb K’aarna would need to rest for a while before he could work more sorcery. That was why Elric had suggested he make haste. Moonglum clambered on, and eventually reached the small unbarred window he sought. A normal-size man could not have entered, but Moonglum’s small frame was proving useful.

He wriggled through the gap, shivering with cold, and landed on the hard stone of a narrow staircase which ran both up and down the interior wall of the fortress. Moonglum frowned, and then took the steps leading upwards. Elric had given him a rough idea of how to reach his destination.

Expecting the worst, he went soft-footed up the stone steps. He went towards the chambers of Yishana, Queen of Jharkor.

In an hour, Moonglum was back, shivering with cold and dripping with water. In his hands he carried Stormbringer. He carried the runesword with cautious care—nervous of its sentient evil. It was alive again; alive with black, pulsating life.

“Thank the gods I was right,” Elric murmured weakly from where he lay surrounded by two or three Imrryrians, including Dyvim Tvar who was staring at the albino with concern. “I prayed that I was correct in my assumption and Theleb K’aarna was resting after his earlier exertions on my behalf…”

He stirred, and Dyvim Tvar helped him to sit upright. Elric reached out a long white hand—reached like an addict of some terrible drug towards the sword. “Did you give her my message?” he asked as he gratefully seized the pommel.

“Aye,” Moonglum said shakily, “and she agreed. You were also right in your other interpretation, Elric. It did not take her long to inveigle the key out of a weary Theleb K’aarna. The sorcerer was tremendously tired and Nikorn was becoming nervous wondering if an attack of any kind would take place while Theleb K’aarna was incapable of action. She went herself to the cupboard and got me the blade.”

“Women can sometimes be useful,” said Dyvim Tvar dryly. “Though usually, in matters like these, they’re a hindrance.” It was possible to see that something other than immediate problems of taking the castle was worrying Dyvim Tvar, but no-one thought to ask him what it was that bothered him. It seemed a personal thing.

“I agree, Dragon Master,” Elric said, almost gaily. The gathered men were aware of the strength which poured swiftly back into the albino’s deficient veins, imbuing him with a new hellborn vitality. “It is time for our vengeance. But remember—no harm to Nikorn. I gave him my word.”

He folded his right hand firmly around Stormbringer’s hilt. “Now for a sword-quenching. I believe I can obtain the help of just the allies we need to keep the sorcerer occupied while we storm the castle. I’ll need no pentacle to summon my friends of the air!”

Moonglum licked his long lips. “So it’s sorcery again. In truth, Elric, this whole country is beginning to stink of wizardry and the minions of hell.”

Elric murmured for his friend’s ears: “No hell-beings these—but honest elementals, equally powerful in many ways. Curb your belly-fear, Moonglum—a little more simple conjuring and Theleb K’aarna will have no desire to retaliate.”

The albino frowned, remembering the secret pacts of his forefathers. He took a deep breath and closed his pain-filled scarlet eyes. He swayed, the runesword half-loose in his grip. His chant was low, like the far-off moaning of the wind itself. His chest moved quickly up and down, and some of the younger warriors, those who had never been fully initiated into the ancient lore of Melniboné, stirred with discomfort. Elric’s voice was not addressing human folk—his words were for the invisible, the intangible—the supernatural. An old and ancient rhyme began the casting of word-runes…

“Hear the doomed one’s dark decision,

Let the Wind Giant’s wail be heard,

Graoll and Misha’s mighty moaning

Send my enemy like a bird.

By the sultry scarlet stones,

By the bane of my black blade,

By the Lasshaar’s lonely mewling,

Let a mighty wind be made.

Speed of sunbeams from their homeland,

Swifter than the sundering storm,

Speed of arrow deerwards shooting,

Let the sorcerer so be borne.”

His voice broke and he called high and clear:

“
Misha! Misha! In the name of my fathers I summon thee, Lord of the Winds!
”

Almost at once, the trees of the forest suddenly bent as if some great hand had brushed them aside. A terrible soughing voice swam from nowhere. And all but Elric, deep in his trance, shivered.

“ELRIC OF MELNIBONÉ,” the voice roared like a distant storm, “WE KNEW YOUR FATHERS. I KNOW THEE. THE DEBT WE OWE THE LINE OF ELRIC IS FORGOTTEN BY MORTALS BUT GRAOLL AND MISHA, KINGS OF THE WIND, REMEMBER. HOW MAY THE LASSHAAR AID THEE?”