The Sleeping Sorceress (30 page)

“And what is this little traitor doing with you?” Arioch turned a cold eye on Rackhir who did his best to stare back at the Chaos Lord.

“He is my friend,” said Elric. “I made a bargain with him. If he aided me to find the Black Sword, then I would take him back with me to our own plane.”

“That is impossible. Rackhir is an exile here. That is his punishment.”

“He comes back with me,” said Elric. And now he unhooked the scabbard holding Stormbringer from his belt and he held the sword out before him. “Or I do not take the sword with me. Failing that, we all three remain here for eternity.”

“That is not sensible, Elric. Consider your responsibilities.”

“I have considered them. That is my decision.”

Arioch’s smooth face had just a tinge of anger. “You must take the sword. It is your destiny.”

“So you say. But I now know that the sword may only be borne by me. You cannot bear it, Arioch, or you would. Only I—or another mortal like me—can take it from the Pulsing Cavern. Is that not so?”

“You are clever, Elric of Melniboné.” Arioch spoke with sardonic admiration. “And you are a fitting servant of Chaos. Very well—that traitor can go with you. But he would be best warned to tread warily. The Lords of Chaos have been known to bear malice . . .”

Rackhir said hoarsely: “So I have heard, My Lord Arioch.”

Arioch ignored the archer. “The man of Phum is not, after all, important. And if you wish to spare your cousin’s life, so be it. It matters little. Destiny can contain a few extra threads in her design and still accomplish her original aims.”

“Very well then,” said Elric. “Take us from this place.”

“Where to?”

“Why, to Melniboné, if you please.”

With a smile that was almost tender Arioch looked down on Elric and a silky hand stroked Elric’s cheek. Arioch had grown to twice his original size. “Oh, you are surely the sweetest of all my slaves,” said the Lord of Chaos.

And there was a whirling. There was a sound like the roar of the sea. There was a dreadful sense of nausea. And three weary men stood on the floor of the great throne room in Imrryr. The throne room was deserted, save that in one corner a black shape, like smoke, writhed for a moment and then was gone.

Rackhir crossed the floor and seated himself carefully upon the first step to the Ruby Throne. Yyrkoon and Elric remained where they were, staring into each other’s eyes. Then Elric laughed and slapped his scabbarded sword. “Now you must fulfill your promises to me, cousin. Then I have a proposition to put to you.”

“It is like a market place,” said Rackhir, leaning on one elbow and inspecting the feather in his scarlet hat. “So many bargains!”

CHAPTER
F
IVE

The Pale King’s Mercy

Yyrkoon stepped back from his sister’s bed. He was worn and his features were drawn and there was no spirit in him as he said: “It is done.” He turned away and looked through the window at the towers of Imrryr, at the harbour where the returned golden battle-barges rode at anchor, together with the ship which had been King Straasha’s gift to Elric. “She will wake in a moment,” added Yyrkoon absently.

Dyvim Tvar and Rackhir the Red Archer looked enquiringly at Elric who kneeled by the bed, staring into the face of Cymoril. Her face grew peaceful as he watched and for one terrible moment he suspected Prince Yyrkoon of tricking him and of killing Cymoril. But then the eyelids moved and the eyes opened and she saw him and she smiled. “Elric? The dreams . . . You are safe?”

“I am safe, Cymoril. As you are.”

“Yyrkoon . . .?”

“He woke you.”

“But you swore to slay him . . .”

“I was as much subject to sorcery as you. My mind was confused. It is still confused where some matters are concerned. But Yyrkoon is changed now. I defeated him. He does not doubt my power. He no longer lusts to usurp me.”

“You are merciful, Elric.” She brushed hair from her face.

Elric exchanged a glance with Rackhir.

“It might not be mercy which moves me,” said Elric. “It might merely be a sense of fellowship with Yyrkoon.”

“Fellowship? Surely you cannot feel . . .”

“We are both mortal. We were both victims of a game played between the Lords of the Higher Worlds. My loyalty must, finally, be to my own kind—and that is why I ceased to hate Yyrkoon.”

“And that is mercy,” said Cymoril.

Yyrkoon walked towards the door. “May I leave, my lord emperor?”

Elric thought he detected a strange light in his defeated cousin’s eyes. But perhaps it was only humility or despair. He nodded. Yyrkoon went from the room, closing the door softly.

Dyvim Tvar said: “Trust Yyrkoon not at all, Elric. He will betray you again.” The Lord of the Dragon Caves was troubled.

“No,” said Elric. “If he does not fear me, he fears the sword I now carry.”

“And you should fear that sword,” said Dyvim Tvar.

“No,” said Elric. “I am the master of the sword.”

Dyvim Tvar made to speak again but then shook his head almost sorrowfully, bowed and, together with Rackhir the Red Archer, left Elric and Cymoril alone.

Cymoril took Elric in her arms. They kissed. They wept.

*                           *                           *

There were celebrations in Melniboné for a week. Now almost all the ships and men and dragons were home. And Elric was home, having proved his right to rule so well that all his strange quirks of character (this ‘mercy’ of his was perhaps the strangest) were accepted by the populace.

In the throne room there was a ball and it was the most lavish ball any of the courtiers had ever known. Elric danced with Cymoril, taking a full part in the activities. Only Yyrkoon did not dance, preferring to remain in a quiet corner below the gallery of the music-slaves, ignored by the guests. Rackhir the Red Archer danced with several Melnibonéan ladies and made assignations with them all, for he was a hero now in Melniboné. Dyvim Tvar danced, too, though his eyes were often brooding when they fell upon Prince Yyrkoon.

And later, when people ate, Elric spoke to Cymoril as they sat together on the dais of the Ruby Throne.

“Would you be empress, Cymoril?”

“You know I will marry you, Elric. We have both known that for many a year, have we not?”

“So you would be my wife?”

“Aye.” She laughed for she thought he joked.

“And not be empress? For a year at least?”

“What mean you, my lord?”

“I must go away from Melniboné, Cymoril, for a year. What I have learned in recent months has made me want to travel the Young Kingdoms—see how other nations conduct their affairs. For I think Melniboné must change if she is to survive. She could become a great force for good in the world, for she still has much power.”

“For good?” Cymoril was surprised and there was a little alarm in her voice, too. “Melniboné has never stood for good or for evil, but for herself and the satisfaction of her desires.”

“I would see that changed.”

“You intend to alter everything?”

“I intend to travel the world and then decide if there is any point to such a decision. The Lords of the Higher Worlds have ambitions in our world. Though they have given me aid, of late, I fear them. I should like to see if it is possible for men to rule their own affairs.”

“And you will go?” There were tears in her eyes. “When?”

“Tomorrow—when Rackhir leaves. We will take King Straasha’s ship and make for the Isle of the Purple Towns where Rackhir has friends. Will you come?”

“I cannot imagine—I cannot. Oh, Elric, why spoil this happiness we now have?”

“Because I feel that the happiness cannot last unless we know completely what we are.”

She frowned. “Then you must discover that, if that is what you wish,” she said slowly. “But it is for you to discover alone, Elric, for I have no such desire. You must go by yourself into those barbarian lands.”

“You will not accompany me?”

“It is not possible. I—I am Melnibonéan . . .” She sighed. “I love you, Elric.”

“And I you, Cymoril.”

“Then we shall be married when you return. In a year.”

Elric was full of sorrow, but he knew that his decision was correct. If he did not leave, he would grow restless soon enough and if he grew restless he might come to regard Cymoril as an enemy, someone who had trapped him.

“Then you must rule as empress until I return,” he sad.

“No, Elric. I cannot take that responsibility.”

“Then, who . . .? Dyvim Tvar . . .”

“I know Dyvim Tvar. He will not take such power. Magum Colim, perhaps . . .”

“No.”

“Then you must stay, Elric.”

But Elric’s gaze had traveled through the crowd in the throne room below. It stopped when it reached a lonely figure seated by itself under the gallery of the music-slaves. And Elric smiled ironically and said:

“Then it must be Yyrkoon.”

Cymoril was horrified. “No, Elric. He will abuse any power . . .”

“Not now. And it is just. He is the only one who wanted to be emperor. Now he can rule as emperor for a year in my stead. If he rules well, I may consider abdicating in his favour. If he rules badly, it will prove, once and for all, that his ambitions were misguided.”

“Elric,” said Cymoril. “I love you. But you are a fool—a criminal, if you trust Yyrkoon again.”

“No,” he said evenly. “I am not a fool. All I am is Elric. I cannot help that, Cymoril.”

“It is Elric that I love!” she cried. “But Elric is doomed. We are all doomed unless you remain here now.”

“I cannot. Because I love you, Cymoril, I cannot.”

She stood up. She was weeping. She was lost.

“And I am Cymoril,” she said. “You will destroy us both.” Her voice softened and she stroked his hair. “You will destroy us, Elric.”

“No,” he said. “I will build something that will be better. I will discover things. When I return we shall marry and we shall live long and we shall be happy, Cymoril.”

And now, Elric had told three lies. The first concerned his cousin Yyrkoon. The second concerned the Black Sword. The third concerned Cymoril. And upon those three lies was Elric’s destiny to be built, for it is only about things which concern us most profoundly that we lie clearly and with profound conviction.

E
PILOGUE

There was a port called Menii which was one of the humblest and friendliest of the Purple Towns. Like the others on the isle it was built mainly of the purple stone which gave the towns their name. And there were red roofs on the houses and there were bright-sailed boats of all kinds in the harbour as Elric and Rackhir the Red Archer came ashore in the early morning when just a few sailors were beginning to make their way down to their ships.

King Straasha’s lovely ship lay some way out beyond the harbour wall. They had used a small boat to cross the water between it and the town. They turned and looked back at the ship. They had sailed it themselves, without crew, and the ship had sailed well.

“So, I must seek peace and mythic Tanelorn,” said Rackhir, with a certain amount of self-mockery. He stretched and yawned and the bow and the quiver danced on his back.

Elric was dressed in simple costume that might have marked any soldier-of-fortune of the Young Kingdoms. He looked fit and relaxed. He smiled into the sun. The only remarkable thing about his garb was the great, black runesword at his side. Since he had donned the sword, he had needed no drugs to sustain him at all.

“And I must seek knowledge in the lands I find marked upon my map,” said Elric. “I must learn and I must carry what I learn back to Melniboné at the end of a year. I wish that Cymoril had accompanied me, but I understand her reluctance.”

“You will go back?” Rackhir said. “When a year is over?”

“She will draw me back!” Elric laughed. “My only fear is that I will weaken and return before my quest is finished.”

“I should like to come with you,” said Rackhir, “for I have traveled in most lands and would be as good a guide as I was in the netherworld. But I am sworn to find Tanelorn, for all I know it does not really exist.”

“I hope that you find it, Warrior Priest of Phum,” said Elric.

“I shall never be that again,” said Rackhir. Then his eyes widened a little. “Why, look—your ship!”

And Elric looked and saw the ship that had once been called The Ship Which Sails Over Land and Sea, and he saw that slowly it was sinking. King Straasha was taking it back.

“The elementals are friends, at least,” he said. “But I fear their power wanes as the power of Melniboné wanes. For all that we of the Dragon Isle are considered evil by the folk of the Young Kingdoms, we share much in common with the spirits of air, earth, fire and water.”

Rackhir said, as the masts of the ship disappeared beneath the waves: “I envy you those friends, Elric. You may trust them.”

“Aye.”

Rackhir looked at the runesword hanging on Elric’s hip. “But you would be wise to trust nothing else,” he added.

Elric laughed. “Fear not for me, Rackhir, for I am my own master—for a year at least. And I am master of this sword now!”

The sword seemed to stir at his side and he took firm hold of its grip and slapped Rackhir on the back and he laughed and shook his white hair so that it drifted in the air and he lifted his strange, red eyes to the sky and he said:

“I shall be a new man when I return to Melniboné.”

ASPECTS OF FANTASY (1)

This is the first of a series of fascinating and absorbing articles in which Michael Moorcock will diagnose the various aspects of many famous writers and their works as applied to the fantasy field as a whole.

—John Carnell, SCIENCE FANTASY No. 61, October 1963