The Stealer of Souls (19 page)

The archers, their work done outside, came running through the breach in the gate and their arrows poured into the enemy ranks.

Elric shouted loudly: “My kinsman Dyvim Tvar lies dead, stabbed in the back by a desert warrior—avenge him brethren. Avenge the Dragon Master of Imrryr!”

A low moaning came from the throats of the Melnibonéans and their attack was even more ferocious than before. Elric called to a bunch of axemen who ran down from the battlements, their victory assured.

“You men, follow me. We can avenge the blood that Theleb K’aarna took!” He had a good idea of the geography of the castle.

Moonglum shouted from somewhere. “One moment, Elric, and I’ll join you!” A desert warrior fell, his back to Elric, and from behind him emerged a grinning Moonglum, his sword covered in blood from point to pommel.

Elric led the way to a small door, set into the main tower of the castle. He pointed at it and spoke to the axemen. “Set to with your axes, lads, and hurry!”

Grimly, the axemen began to hack at the tough timber. Impatiently, Elric watched as the wood chips started to fly.

The conflict was appalling. Theleb K’aarna sobbed in frustration. Kakatal, the Fire Lord, and his minions were having little effect on the Wind Giants. Their power appeared to be increasing if anything. The sorcerer gnawed his knuckles and quaked in his chamber while below him the human warriors fought, bled and died. Theleb K’aarna made himself concentrate on one thing only—total destruction of the Lasshaar forces. But he knew, somehow, even then, that sooner or later, in one way or another, he was doomed.

The axes drove deeper and deeper into the stout timber. At last it gave. “We’re through, my lord,” one of the axemen indicated the gaping hole they’d made.

Elric reached his arm through the gap and prised up the bar which secured the door. The bar moved upwards and then fell with a clatter to the stone flagging. Elric put his shoulder to the door and pushed.

Above them, now, two huge, almost-human figures had appeared in the sky, outlined against the night. One was golden and glowing like the sun and seemed to wield a great sword of fire. The other was dark blue and silver, writhing, smokelike, with a flickering spear of restless orange in his hand.

Misha and Kakatal clashed. The outcome of their mighty struggle might well decide Theleb K’aarna’s fate.

“Quickly,” Elric said. “Upwards!”

They ran up the stairs. The stairs which led to Theleb K’aarna’s chamber.

Suddenly the men were forced to stop as they came to a door of jet-black, studded with crimson iron. It had no keyhole, no bolts, no bars, but it was quite secure. Elric directed the axemen to begin hewing at it. All six struck at the door in unison.

In unison, they screamed and vanished. Not even a wisp of smoke remained to mark where they had disappeared.

Moonglum staggered backwards, eyes wide in fear. He was backing away from Elric who remained firmly by the door, Stormbringer throbbing in his hand. “Get out, Elric—this is a sorcery of terrible power. Let your friends of the air finish the wizard!”

Elric shouted half-hysterically: “Magic is best fought by magic!” He hurled his whole body behind the blow which he struck at the black door. Stormbringer whined into it, shrieked as if in victory and howled like a soul-hungry demon. There was a blinding flash, a roaring in Elric’s ears, a sense of weightlessness; and then the door had crashed inwards. Moonglum witnessed this—he had remained against his will.

“Stormbringer has rarely failed me, Moonglum,” cried Elric as he leapt through the aperture. “Come, we have reached Theleb K’aarna’s den—” He broke off, staring at the gibbering thing on the floor. It had been a man. It had been Theleb K’aarna. Now it was hunched and twisted—sitting in the middle of a broken pentacle and tittering to itself.

Suddenly, intelligence came into its eyes. “Too late for vengeance, Lord Elric,” it said. “I have won, you see—I have claimed your vengeance as my own.”

Grim-faced and speechless, Elric stepped forward, lifted Stormbringer and brought the moaning runesword down into the sorcerer’s skull. He left it there for several moments.

“Drink your fill, hell-blade,” he murmured. “We have earned it, you and I.”

Overhead, there was a sudden silence.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

“It’s untrue! You lie!” screamed the frightened man. “We were not responsible.” Pilarmo faced the group of leading citizens. Behind the overdressed merchant were his three colleagues—those who had earlier met Elric and Moonglum in the tavern.

One of the accusing citizens pointed a chubby finger towards the north and Nikorn’s palace.

“So—Nikorn was an enemy of all other traders in Bakshaan. That I accept. But now a horde of bloody-handed reavers attacks his castle with the aid of demons—and Elric of Melniboné leads them! You know that you are responsible—the gossip’s all over the city. You employed Elric—and this is what’s happened!”

“But we didn’t know he would go to such lengths to kill Nikorn!” Fat Tormiel wrung his hands, his face aggrieved and afraid. “You are wronging us. We only…”

“We’re wronging
you
!” Faratt, spokesman for his fellow citizens, was thick-lipped and florid. He waved his hands in angry exasperation. “When Elric and his jackals have done with Nikorn—they’ll come to the city. Fool! That is what the albino sorcerer planned to begin with. He was only mocking you—for you provided him with an excuse. Armed men we can fight—but not foul sorcery!”

“What shall we do? What shall we do? Bakshaan will be razed within the day!” Tormiel turned on Pilarmo. “This was your idea—you think of a plan!”

Pilarmo stuttered: “We could pay a ransom—bribe them—give them enough money to satisfy them.”

“And who shall give this money?” asked Faratt.

Again the argument began.

Elric looked with distaste at Theleb K’aarna’s broken corpse. He turned away and faced a blanch-featured Moonglum who said hoarsely: “Let’s away, now, Elric. Yishana awaits you in Bakshaan as she promised. You must keep your end of the bargain I made for you.”

Elric nodded wearily. “Aye—the Imrryrians seem to have taken the castle by the sound of it. We’ll leave them to their spoiling and get out while we may. Will you allow me a few moments here, alone? The sword rejects the soul.”

Moonglum sighed thankfully. “I’ll join you in the courtyard within the quarter hour. I wish to claim some measure of the spoils.” He left clattering down the stairs while Elric remained standing over his enemy’s body. He spread out his arms, the sword, dripping blood, still in his hand.

“Dyvim Tvar,” he cried, “you and our countrymen have been avenged. Let any evil one who holds the soul of Dyvim Tvar release it now and take instead the soul of Theleb K’aarna.”

Within the room something invisible and intangible—but sensed all the same—flowed and hovered over the sprawled body of Theleb K’aarna. Elric looked out of the window and thought he heard the beating of dragon wings—smelled the acrid breath of dragons—saw a shape winging across the dawn sky bearing Dyvim Tvar the Dragon Master away.

Elric half-smiled. “The gods of Melniboné protect thee wherever thou art,” he said quietly and turned away from the carnage, leaving the room.

On the stairway, he met Nikorn of Ilmar.

The merchant’s rugged face was full of anger. He trembled with rage. There was a big sword in his hand.

“So I’ve found you, wolf,” he said. “I gave you your life—and you have done this to me!”

Elric said tiredly: “It was to be. But I gave my word that I would not take your life and, believe me, I would not, Nikorn, even had I not pledged my word.”

Nikorn stood two steps from the door blocking the exit. “Then I’ll take yours. Come—engage!” He moved out into the courtyard, half-stumbled over an Imrryrian corpse, righted himself and waited, glowering, for Elric to emerge. Elric did so, his runesword sheathed.

“No.”

“Defend yourself, wolf!”

Automatically, the albino’s right hand crossed to his sword-hilt, but he still did not unsheathe it. Nikorn cursed and aimed a well-timed blow which barely missed the white-faced sorcerer. He skipped back and now he tugged out Stormbringer, still reluctant, and stood poised and wary, waiting for the Bakshaanite’s next move.

Elric intended simply to disarm Nikorn. He did not want to kill or maim this brave man who had spared him when he had been entirely at the other’s mercy.

Nikorn swung another powerful stroke at Elric and the albino parried. Stormbringer was moaning softly, shuddering and pulsating. Metal clanged and then the fight was on in full earnest as Nikorn’s rage turned to calm, possessed fury. Elric was forced to defend himself with all his skill and power. Though older than the albino, and a city merchant, Nikorn was a superb swordsman. His speed was fantastic and, at times, Elric was not on the defensive only because he desired it.

But something was happening to the runeblade. It was twisting in Elric’s hand and forcing him to make a counter-attack. Nikorn backed away—a light akin to fear in his eyes as he realized the potency of Elric’s hell-forged steel. The merchant fought grimly—and Elric did not fight at all. He felt entirely in the power of the whining sword which hacked and cut at Nikorn’s guard.

Stormbringer suddenly shifted in Elric’s hand. Nikorn screamed. The runesword left Elric’s grasp and plunged on its own accord towards the heart of his opponent.

“No!” Elric tried to catch hold of his blade but could not. Stormbringer plunged into Nikorn’s great heart and wailed in demoniac triumph. “No!” Elric got hold of the hilt and tried to pull it from Nikorn. The merchant shrieked in hell-brought agony. He should have been dead.

He still half-lived.

“It’s taking me—the thrice-damned thing is taking me!” Nikorn gurgled horribly, clutching at the black steel with hands turned to claws. “Stop it, Elric—I beg you, stop it!
Please
!”

Elric tried again to tug the blade from Nikorn’s heart. He could not. It was rooted in flesh, sinew and vitals. It moaned greedily, drinking into it all that was the being of Nikorn of Ilmar. It sucked the life-force from the dying man and all the while its voice was soft and disgustingly sensuous. Still Elric struggled to pull the sword free. It was impossible. “Damn you!” he moaned. “This man was almost my friend—I gave him my word not to kill him.” But Stormbringer, though sentient, could not hear its master.

Nikorn shrieked once more, the shriek dying to a low, lost whimper. And then his body died.

It died—and the soul-stuff of Nikorn joined the souls of the countless others, friends, kin and enemies who had gone to feed that which fed Elric of Melniboné.

Elric sobbed.

“Why is this curse upon me? Why?”

He collapsed to the ground in the dirt and the blood.

Minutes later, Moonglum came upon his friend lying face downward. He grasped Elric by his shoulder and turned him. He shuddered when he saw the albino’s agony-racked face.

“What happened?”

Elric raised himself on one elbow and pointed to where Nikorn’s body lay a few feet away. “Another, Moonglum. Oh, curse this blade!”

Moonglum said uncomfortably: “He would have killed you no doubt. Do not think about it. Many a word’s been broken through no fault of he who gave it. Come, my friend, Yishana awaits us in the Tavern of the Purple Dove.”

Elric struggled upright and began to walk slowly towards the battered gates of the castle where horses awaited them.

As they rode for Bakshaan, not knowing what was troubling the people of that city, Elric tapped Stormbringer which hung, once more, at his side. His eyes were hard and moody, turned inwards on his own feelings.

“Be wary of this devil-blade, Moonglum. It kills the foe—but savours the blood of friends and kinfolk most.”

Moonglum shook his head quickly, as if to clear it, and looked away. He said nothing.

Elric made as if to speak again but then changed his mind. He needed to talk, then. He needed to—but there was nothing to say at all.

Pilarmo scowled. He stared, hurt-faced, as his slaves struggled with his chests of treasure, lugging them out to pile them in the street beside his great house. In other parts of the city, Pilarmo’s three colleagues were also in various stages of heartbreak. Their treasure, too, was being dealt with in a like manner. The burghers of Bakshaan had decided who was to pay any possible ransom.

And then a ragged citizen was shambling down the street, pointing behind him and shouting.

“The albino and his companion—at the north gate!”

The burghers who stood near to Pilarmo exchanged glances. Faratt swallowed.

He said: “Elric comes to bargain. Quick. Open the treasure chests and tell the city guard to admit him.” One of the citizens scurried off.

Within a few minutes, while Faratt and the rest worked frantically to expose Pilarmo’s treasure to the gaze of the approaching albino, Elric was galloping up the street, Moonglum beside him. Both men were expressionless. They knew enough not to show their puzzlement.

“What’s this?” Elric said, casting a look at Pilarmo.

Faratt cringed. “Treasure,” he whined. “Yours, Lord Elric—for you and your men. There’s much more. There is no need to use sorcery. No need for your men to attack us. The treasure here is fabulous—its value is enormous. Will you take it and leave the city in peace?”

Moonglum almost smiled, but he controlled his features.

Elric said coolly: “It will do. I accept it. Make sure this and the rest is delivered to my men at Nikorn’s castle or we’ll be roasting you and your friends over open fires by the morrow.”

Faratt coughed suddenly, trembling. “As you say, Lord Elric. It shall be delivered.”

The two men wheeled their horses in the direction of the Tavern of the Purple Dove. When they were out of earshot Moonglum said: “From what I gathered, back there, it’s Master Pilarmo and his friends who are paying that unasked-for toll.”

Elric was incapable of any real humour, but he half-chuckled. “Aye. I’d planned to rob them from the start—and now their own fellows have done it for us. On our way back, we shall take our pick of the spoils.”