Revenge of the Rose (31 page)

 
          
Gaynor
had stolen those Objects, knowing that Chaos feared them and desired them. One
such Object had already been stolen from the Rose and returned to her
possession by a surprising and circuitous means. The others she had guarded
better. But none had been powerful enough to use in the Ritual of the Garden.

 
          
Yet
while the three sisters sought Elric and the Black Sword, others, like Elric,
had sought what the sisters carried. Now the circle was completed. Now every
proper element in the psychic model was in place, giving the four of them the
astral means to range free, to let their minds and souls roam beyond the
dimensions, beyond the Spheres, even beyond the multiverse; to re-enter it with
a fresh knowledge, a deeper understanding of that complex geometry whose
secrets were the basis for all sorcery; whose forms were the basis for all
poetry and all song; whose language was the basis of all thought and whose
shapes were the basis for all aesthetics, for all beauty; all ugliness … Into
this the four plunged, weaving with their runesongs fresh and original psychic
patterns which had the effect of healing wounds and ruptures in the walls of
time and space, while at the same time creating an enormous force with which to
reanimate three other ancient Objects of Power.

 
          
More
urgent and more complex were the runes now as they sang with their bodies and
swam with their minds through near-infinities of screaming rainbows; sailing
through their own bodies and out again into worlds and worlds of desolation,
millennia of unchecked joy and a hint of that seductive ordinariness where so
much of the human heart must always lie but which it so rarely celebrates …

 
          
So
those old unhuman folk wove their spell, making manifest the promise of the
runes, controlling the potency of un-moral magic which knew no loyalty save to
itself.

 
          
The
spell grew upon its own volition now, as it was meant to do, twisting and
curling and creeping like the supple boughs of the yew-hedge which clung
together to create so much modest strength, and then they began to fashion what
they had woven, forming it and re-forming it over and over again between them,
twisting it and turning it, throwing it one to the other, touching it and
tasting it and sniffing it and stroking it, until the force they now balanced
between them, which hovered over the Black Sword itself, was of the perfect
supernatural shape and almost ready for release …

 
          
Yet
still the songs must be sung, to hold the force, to channel it; to bridle it
and saddle it; to charge it with a moral will, to force it to make a
choice
—for this
stuff
, this prime matter, was constitutionally incapable of choice,
of moral direction or persuasion. And so
must
be forced …

 
          
Forced
by a concentration of psychic energy, of disciplined will and moral strength
which resisted all attack upon it, either from without or within, and which
refused to be deflected from its purpose by an argument, example or
threat …

 
          
Forced
by four creatures so similar that they were almost one flesh and, at this
moment, essentially one mind …

 
          
Forced
downwards through the Black Sword which was not itself the receptacle of that
power but merely the final and much-needed conductor …

 
          
Forced
through the living stone, into the slab of rock from which the bowl, column and
plinth had been carved, thousands of years before …

 
          
To
transform it—to alter it entirely from any kind of material remotely akin to
stone—a living form of energy so immense it was impossible, even for the adepts
themselves, to imagine the fullness of its power, or how such power could
possibly be contained.

 
          
Now
this energy, coruscating, swirling, dancing, celebrating its own incredible
being, joined in the song of the sisters, the albino and the runesword, until
they formed a choir which could be heard throughout the multiverse, in every
Sphere, upon every part of every planet; echoing forever throughout the
multitude of planes and dimensions of the quasi-infinite. To be heard always,
now, somewhere, while the multiverse existed. It was a song of promise, of
responsibility and of celebration. A promise of harmony; the triumph of love; a
celebration of the multiverse in balance. It was through an exquisite
metaphysical harmony that they controlled this force and made it obey them,
releasing it once more …

 
          
 … Releasing
it into three great Objects of Power which, as the fountain faded away, were
revealed, grouped around the Black Sword standing in the centre of the small
pool …

 
          
 … Three
swords, the weight and length of Stormbringer, but otherwise very different in
appearance:

 
          
The
first sword was made of ivory, with an ivory blade that looked oddly sharp and
an ivory hilt and an ivory grip, bound about with bands of gold which seemed to
have grown into the ivory.

 
          
The
second sword was made of gold, yet was as sharp as its companion, and it was
bound with ebony.

 
          
The
third sword was of blue-grey granite furnished in silver.

 
          
These
were the swords the Rune had hidden so well and which were now infused with a
power to match that of Stormbringer itself …

 
          
Princess
Tayaratuka, all in flowing gold, reached a golden hand towards the golden sword
and took it to her breast with a deep sigh …

 
          
Her
sister Mishiguya, in grey-blue silks, stretched out her own hand to the granite
sword, seized it and gasped, grinning with the ecstasy and triumph of their
success …

 
          
 … and
Princess Shanug’a, very grave in white robes, took down the ivory sword and
kissed it. “Now,” she said, turning to the others, “we are ready to do battle
with a Lord of Chaos.”

 
          
Elric,
still weak from the rune-weaving, staggered to take hold of his own sword. Out
of some sense of respect, or some unremembered ritual, he replaced it with the
runestone, from which he had read the beginning of that great Casting …

 
          
Elric, my son—hast thou my soulbox? Did the
sisters give it thee?

 
          
His
father’s voice. Some intimation of what he would know for always should he
fail. And it seemed that he had certainly failed …

 
          
Elric, the time is almost here. My sorcery
cannot hold me much longer … I must come to thee, my son … I
must come to the one I hate most in the entire multiverse … To live
with him for ever
 …

 
          
“I
have not found your soulbox, Father,” he murmured and then looked up to see the
sisters watching him curiously when, all of a sudden, into the cloister came a
breathless Koropith Phatt.

 
          
“Oh,
thank heaven! I thought you all destroyed! There was a—a kind of storm. But you
are here! They did not attack from within as we had feared.”

 
          
“Gaynor?”
said Elric, rescabbarding the oddly quiescent runeblade. “Has he returned?”

 
          
“Not
Gaynor—at least, I think not—but a Chaos army—coming against us. Oh, prince,
dear princesses, we are upon the point of our extinguishment!”

 
          
Which
had them running as fast as they could go in the wake of the youth as he took
them up to join the others in a room formed from a ledge of rock and disguised
by foliage; this formed a natural balcony from which they could look out over
the surrounding countryside and see the crystalline trees shattering and
smashing as a great river of armoured semi-humanity pressed towards their
retreat.

 
          
An
army of bestial men and manlike beasts, some with natural carapaces, like
gigantic beetles, all armed with pikes and morningstars and maces and
broadswords and meat-cleavers of every description, some riding one upon the
other, some dragging snoring companions, some in mysterious congress, some
pausing to throw dice or settle a quarrel before being beaten back into line by
their officers, whose helms sported the yellow blazon of eight-arrowed Chaos.

 
          
Snorting
and wheezing, whiffling and sneezing; grunting and squealing and yelping;
bellowing like bulls in a slaughterhouse, the Chaos army advanced: a single
appetite.

 
          
The
Rose turned frightened eyes to greet her friends. “There is nothing we have can
withstand that army,” she said. “It is retreat again, then …?”

 
          
“No,”
said Princess Tayaratuka. “This time we do not need to retreat.” She was
leaning on a sword almost as tall as herself but which she carried with
considerable panache, as if she and the blade had always been one.

 
          
Her
sisters, too, bore their swords as casually, and with fresh confidence.

 
          
“These
swords are powerful enough to challenge Chaos?” Wheldrake was the first to
voice the question. “Good heavens, your majesties! See how the old rhyme does
poor justice to the true value of the epic! It is what I always tell them when
they accuse me of being over-imaginative! I cannot
begin
to describe what is really out there! What I
actually
see!” He virtually crowed with
excitement. “What, indeed, the world around them is
really
like! Are we to do battle with Chaos at last?”

 
          
“You
must stay here with Mother Phatt,” said Charion. “It is your duty, my dear.”

 
          
“You
must stay, too, dear child!” cried Fallogard Phatt in great dismay. “You are
not a warrior! You are a clairvoyant!”

 
          
“I
am both now, Uncle,” she said firmly. “I have no special blade to aid me, but I
have my special wit, which gives me considerable advantage of most opponents. I
learned much, Uncle, in the service of Gaynor the Damned! Let me go with you,
ladies, I beg.”

 
          
“Aye,”
said Princess Mishiguya, “you are well-fitted to battle Chaos. You may go with
us.”

 
          
“And
I would go with you, also,” said the Rose. “My magic is exhausted, but I have
fought Chaos many times and survived, as you know. Let me bear my Swift Thorn
and my Little Thorn into battle beside you. For if we are to die at this time,
I would rather die fulfilling my vocation.”

 
          
“Then
so be it,” said Princess Shanug’a and looked enquiringly towards her kinsman. “Five
swords against Chaos—or six?”

 
          
Elric
was still staring at that horrific army which looked as if everything obscene
and evil and brutish and greedy in the human race had been given features. He
turned back with a shrug. “Six, of course. But they will require our every
resource to defeat them. I suspect that we do not see all that Chaos sends
against us. Yet I, too, have not made use of everything …”

 
          
He
raised his gauntleted hand to his lips, brooding on a matter which had just
entered his mind.

 
          
Then
he said: “The others must stay here, to make their escape if need be. I charge
you, Master Wheldrake, with the well-being of Mother Phatt and Koropith Phatt,
as well as Fallogard …”

 
          
“Really,
sir. I am capable …” said that untidy idealist.

 
          
“I
have every respect for your capabilities, sir,” said Elric, “but you are not
experienced in these matters. You must be ready to flee, since you have no
means of defending yourself or your people. Your psychic gifts might help you
find a means of escape before Chaos discovers you. Believe me, Master Phatt, if
it seems we are about to be defeated you must flee this realm! Use whatever
powers you still possess to find a means of escape—and take the others with
you.”

 
          
“I
will not leave while Charion is here,” said Wheldrake firmly.