Revenge of the Rose (33 page)

 
          
These
souls he did not dedicate to Arioch, for Arioch had proved himself too fickle a
patron and, as was clear, had no power in this realm. Whatever was left of
Esbern Snare had carried Arioch back through the dimensions to his own domain,
where he must recoup his strength and make fresh plots in his eternal rivalry
with his fellow lords.

 
          
Elsewhere
Charion Phatt and the Rose continued their delicate butchery, while
Stormbringer’s sister swords rose and fell and made their own sweet, eerie
music, as subtle and as dangerous as the three sisters who wielded them. Elric
had never known such mortal peers. The knowledge that they were nearby filled
him with a kind of pride and made his battle-joy the greater as he continued
his sorcerous slaughter while, dimly now, through all that din of outraged
militancy, he thought he heard his own name being called.

 
          
Two
Chaos warriors, with spiked armour half-hiding skin like barnacles, struck at
him together but were too slow for Elric and his hellblade—their heads flew
like buckets at a sideshow and one spiked an eye in a second pair who came
against him, confusing them both so that they slew each other, but meanwhile
Elric galloped beside a wading half-reptile as it clambered over the ruined
flesh towards the Rose and with two quick strokes had severed secret tendons
and brought the Chaos beast crashing upon the bodies of its fallen fellows,
roaring out its impotent anger, its stupefied astonishment at this discovery of
its own mortality …

 
          
Yet
more insistent now was that faint, familiar sound …

 
          
“
Elric! Elric! Chaos awaits thee, Elric!
”
A high, keening sound; a vengeful wind.

 
          
“
Elric! Soon we shall see an end to all thine
optimism!
”

 
          
Up
a mound of Chaos carrion rode Elric on his war-trained steed, to take stock of
their battle …

 
          
Wheldrake
on his balcony saw Elric’s horse climb that rise in the carpet of the
conquered, saw the Black Sword raised in the albino’s black-gauntleted right
hand, saw the left hand lifted against the blazoning rays which still sprang
from every direction, wherever the crystal trees were broken. That dazzling
intermixture of colour and light gave still more distance to the scene and
Wheldrake, seeing what Elric did not yet see, offered up another prayer …

 
          
 … Gaynor,
carving his way through a pile of already rotting corpses, his armour now
almost wholly encrusted with the remains of his warriors, plunged forward,
still snarling Elric’s name, still obsessed with nothing but vengeance …

 
          
“
Elric!
”

 
          
A
thin sound, like the warning cry of a faraway bird, and Elric recognized the
voice as Charion Phatt’s.

 
          
“
Elric! He is close to you. I can sense him.
He has more power than we suspected. You must destroy him somehow … Or
he will destroy us all!
”

 
          
“ELRIC!”
This last a great grunt of satisfaction as, through the piled corpses, Gaynor
broke at last, to stand with his horrid eyes trained upon the face of his
greatest enemy, the black-and-yellow sword, the ragged sword, flickering in his
hand like lava fresh from some volcanic maw. “I did not think I would have need
of this new power of mine, as yet. But here you are. And here am I!”

 
          
With
that Gaynor lunged at Elric and the albino brought up Stormbringer easily to
block him. At which Gaynor, surprisingly, laughed and lingered in the attitude
of his failed stroke until, suddenly, the albino realized what was happening
and tried to pull back, dragging Stormbringer free of the leechblade now
seeking to suck all life from it. Elric had heard of blades which fed, in some
strange manner, on the energies of such as Stormbringer—a parasite on whatever
occult force emanated from the alien iron out of which these swords were
forged.

 
          
“You
resort to some ungentlemanly sorcery, it seems, Prince Gaynor.” Elric knew that
much of the power still remained in his blade, but could not risk further
leeching of that energy.

 
          
“Honour
has no place in my catalogue of useful qualities!” Gaynor spoke almost lightly,
feinting with the black-and-yellow leechblade. “But if it did, I would say,
Prince Elric, that you lack courage to face a foe, man to man—each with a
singular sword to aid his work. Are we not fairly matched, Prince of Ruins?”

 
          
“Well
enough, well enough, I suppose, sir,” said Elric, hoping that the sisters would
understand the urgency of their joint predicament. And, expertly, he made his
horse sidestep another almost playful feint.

 
          
“You
fear me, Elric, eh? You fear death, do you?”

 
          
“Not
death,” said Elric. “Not that ordinary death which is a transition …”

 
          
“What
of that death which is sudden and everlasting oblivion?”

 
          
“I
do not fear it,” said the albino. “Though I do not desire it, either.”

 
          
“As
you know I desire it!”

 
          
“Aye,
Prince Gaynor. But you are not permitted to possess it. You never shall suffer
such easy release.”

 
          
“Maybe.”
Gaynor the Damned became almost secretive at this and he turned to look over
his shoulder to chuckle as he saw Princess Tayaratuka riding back towards them
while her sisters and the other two women continued their fierce advance. “Are
there, I wonder, any constants at all in the multiverse? Is the Balance no more
than a pleasant invention with which mortals reassure themselves that there is
some kind of order? What evidence do we observe of this?”

 
          
“We
can
create
the evidence,” said Elric
quietly. “It is within our power to do that. To create order, justice,
harmony …”

 
          
“You
moralize too much, my lord. It is the sign of a morbid mind, sir. An
over-burdened conscience, perhaps.”

 
          
“I
will not be condescended to by such as yourself, Gaynor.” Elric let his body
appear to relax, his expression become casual. “A conscience is not always a
burden.”

 
          
“O,
murderer of kin and betrothed! What else but loathing can ye feel for your
deficient character?” Gaynor feinted with words even as he feinted with the
leechsword, and both were designed to deprive the albino of his faith in his
own skills, his will to survive.

 
          
“I
have killed more villains than I have killed innocents,” said Elric firmly,
though it was clear Gaynor knew how to strike at the very vitals of his being. “And
I regret only that I cannot have the pleasure of slaying thee, failed Servant
of the Balance.”

 
          
“Make
no mistake, my lord, it would be a pleasure for us both,” said Gaynor—and now
he lunged—now Elric must block the blow. And again the energy from the sword
was drained in a great gobbling up of cosmic force, and the black-and-yellow
leechsword began to pulse with dirty light.

 
          
Elric,
unprepared for the power of Gaynor’s sword, fell backwards and almost lost his
seat, the runesword hanging uselessly from its wrist-thong. The albino,
slumping forward in his saddle, gasping for air, saw all they had lately won
about to be taken back in moments … He croaked for Princess
Tayaratuka, riding close now, to flee—to avoid the leechsword at any cost, for
now it was twice as powerful as it had been …

 
          
But
the princess could not hear him. Even now, with a grace that made her seem
almost weightless, she was bearing down upon Gaynor the Damned, the golden
sword whistling and ululating in her right hand, her black hair whipped behind
her, her violet eyes alight with the prospect of Gaynor’s doom …

 
          
 … and
again Gaynor blocked her blow. Again he laughed. And again, in astonishment,
Princess Tayaratuka felt the energy draining from herself and her blade …

 
          
 … then,
almost casually, Gaynor had knocked her from her saddle with the butt of his
sword, leaving her to lie helplessly amongst the mangled flesh and bone of the
field, and on her horse was riding to where the others fought, still oblivious
of the danger he brought …

 
          
Princess
Tayaratuka lifted her eyes to Elric’s as the albino strove to drag himself
upright. “Elric, have you no other sorcery to help us?”

 
          
Elric
racked his brains, considering all the grimoires and charts and words he had
memorized as a child, and could put himself in tune with no psychic power at
all …

 
          
“Elric,”
came Tayaratuka’s hoarse whisper, “see—Gaynor has downed Shanug’a—the horse
races with her, beyond control … and now Mishiguya is fallen from her
horse … Elric, we are lost! We are lost in spite of all our
sorceries!”

 
          
And
Elric began dimly to recollect an old alliance his folk had had with some
near-supernatural creatures who had helped them in the early days of the
founding of Melniboné, but he could remember only a name …

 
          
“
Tangled Woman,
” he murmured, his lips
dry and cracking. It was as if his whole body were drained of substance and
that any movement would snap it in a dozen places. “The Rose will know …”

 
          
“Come,”
said Tayaratuka, getting to her feet and grabbing hold of his horse’s bridle, “we
must tell them …”

 
          
But
Elric had nothing to tell; merely the memory of a memory, of an old tryst with
some natural spirit which owed no loyalty to Law or Chaos; of a nagging hint of
a spell—some chant he had been taught as a boy, as an exercise in
summoning …

 
          
The Tangled Woman
.

 
          
He
could not remember who she was.

 
          
Gaynor
was disappeared again, into his own ranks, seeking out Charion Phatt and the
Rose, for now he was armed with a sword four times more powerful than those
which had come against him and he wished to test the blade on ordinary, mortal
flesh …

 
          
Wheldrake,
still watching, still praying, saw everything from his balcony. He saw Princess
Tayaratuka sheath her golden sword and lead Elric’s horse to where her sisters
stood, also in attitudes of exhaustion. Their horses had bolted in Gaynor’s
wake.

 
          
Yet
still Gaynor had not found the Rose, and Charion Phatt evaded him as easily as
an urchin in a market, returning to the others and speaking with some heat to
the prone albino …

 
          
 … When,
round a pile of corpses, rode the Rose, dismounting in a single movement as she
saw the predicament of her friends …

 
          
Then
she, too, kneeled beside the fallen albino and she took his hand …

 
          
“There
is one spell,” said Elric. “I am trying to recall it. There is, perhaps, a
memory. Concerning you, Rose, or some folk of your own …”

 
          
“All
my folk are dead, save me,” said the Rose, her soft, pink skin flushed with the
work of battle. “And it seems I, too, am to die.”

 
          
“No!”
Elric struggled to his feet. He held tight to his pommel while the horse
shifted nervously, not knowing why it could not continue with its battle. “You
must help me, lady. There is something about a woman, the Tangled Woman …”

 
          
The
name was familiar to her.

 
          
“All
I know is this,” she said, and, with furrowed brow, she recalled some lines of
verse …

 
          
“In
the first creative weaving of a world,