The Stealer of Souls (34 page)

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 recognized 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.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

They drove deeper into the mountains that day, avoiding the few hunting parties sent out by the conquerors, but the two Imrryrians, recognizing 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 emphasized 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 revitalize 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 realize 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 recognizes 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 realize 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?”

“Many times.” Elric drew in his breath. “Now I recognize you by description. But it is said that you sleep for centuries in the mountain of fire. Why are you roaming abroad in this manner?”

“We were driven by an eruption from our volcano home which had been dormant for two thousand years. Such movements of nature have been taking place all over the Earth of late. Our time, we knew, had come to awaken again. We were servants of Fate—and our mission is strongly bound up with your destiny. We bear a message for you from Zarozinia’s captor—and another from a different source. Would you return now, with us, to the Chasm of Nihrain and learn all we can tell you?”

Elric pondered for a moment, then he lifted his white face and said: “I am in haste to claim vengeance, Sepiriz. But if what you can tell me will lead me closer to claiming it, I’ll come.”

“Then come!” The black giant jerked the reins of his horse and turned the chariot about.

It was a journey of a day and a night to the Chasm of Nihrain, a huge gaping fissure high in the mountains, a place avoided by all; it had supernatural significance for those who dwelt near the mountains.

The lordly Nihrain conversed little on the journey and at last they were above the chasm, driving their chariots down the steep path which wound into its dark depths.

About half a mile down no light penetrated, but they saw ahead of them flickering torches that illuminated part of the carved outline of an unearthly mural or betrayed a gaping opening in the solid rock. Then, as they guided their horses down further, they saw, in detail, the awe-inspiring city of Nihrain which outsiders had not glimpsed for many centuries. The last of the Nihrain now lived here; ten immortal men of a race older even than that of Melniboné which had a history of twenty thousand years.