The Sword & Sorcery Anthology (19 page)

“Farewell, Zarozinia. My love for you will give me more power even
than this foul blade here.” He spurred his horse through the gates and
then they were riding for the Weeping Waste and a troubled future.

2

Dwarfed by the vastness of the softly turfed plateau which
was the Weeping Waste, the place of eternal rains, the two horsemen
drove their hard-pressed steeds through the drizzle.

A shivering desert warrior, huddled against the weather, saw them
come towards him. He stared through the rain trying to make out
details of the riders, then wheeled his stocky pony and rode swiftly
back in the direction he had come. Within minutes he had reached
a large group of warriors attired like himself in furs and tasseled iron
helmets. They carried short bone bows and quivers of long arrows
fletched with hawk feathers. There were curved scimitars at their
sides.

He exchanged a few words with his fellows and soon they were all
lashing their horses towards the two riders.

“How much further lies the camp of Terarn Gashtek, Moonglum?”
Elric’s words were breathless, for both men had ridden for a day
without halt.

“Not much further, Elric. We should be—look!”

Moonglum pointed ahead. About ten riders came swiftly towards
them. “Desert barbarians—the Flame Bringer’s men. Prepare for a
fight—they won’t waste time parleying.”

Stormbringer scraped from the scabbard and the heavy blade
seemed to aid Elric’s wrist as he raised it, so that it felt almost
weightless.

Moonglum drew both his swords, holding the short one with the
same hand with which he grasped his horse’s reins.

The Eastern warriors spread out in a half circle as they rode down
on the companions, yelling wild war-shouts. Elric reared his mount
to a savage standstill and met the first rider with Stormbringer’s point
full in the man’s throat. There was a stink like brimstone as it pierced
flesh and the warrior drew a ghastly choking breath as he died, his
eyes staring out in full realisation of his terrible fate—that Storm
bringer drank souls as well as blood.

Elric cut savagely at another desert man, lopping off his sword arm
and splitting his crested helmet and the skull beneath. Rain and sweat
ran down his white, taut features and into his glowing crimson eyes,
but he blinked it aside, half-fell in his saddle as he turned to defend
himself against another howling scimitar, parried the sweep, slid his
own runeblade down its length, turned the blade with a movement
of his wrist and disarmed the warrior. Then he plunged his sword into
the man’s heart and the desert warrior yelled like a wolf at the moon,
a long baying shout before Stormbringer took his soul.

Elric’s face was twisted in self-loathing as he fought intently with
superhuman strength. Moonglum stayed clear of the albino’s sword
for he knew its liking for the lives of Elric’s friends.

Soon only one opponent was left. Elric disarmed him and had to
hold his own greedy sword back from the man’s throat.

Reconciled to the horror of his death, the man said something
in a guttural tongue which Elric half-recognised. He searched his
memory and realised that it was a language close to one of the many
ancient tongues which, as a sorcerer, he had been required to learn
years before.

He said in the same language: “Thou art one of the warriors of
Terarn Gashtek the Flame Bringer.”

“That is true. And you must be the White-faced Evil One of
legends. I beg you to slay me with a cleaner weapon than that which
you hold.”

“I do not wish to kill thee at all. We were coming hence to join
Terarn Gashtek. Take us to him.”

The man nodded hastily and clambered back on his horse.

“Who are you who speaks the High Tongue of our people?”

“I am called Elric of Melniboné—dost thou know the name?”

The warrior shook his head. “No, but the High Tongue has not
been spoken for generations, save by shamans—yet you’re no shaman
but, by your dress, seem a warrior.”

“We are both mercenaries. But speak no more. I will explain the
rest to thy leader.”

They left a jackal’s feast behind them and followed the quaking
Easterner in the direction he led them.

Fairly soon, the low-lying smoke of many campfires could be
observed and at length they saw the sprawling camp of the barbarian
warlord’s mighty army.

The camp encompassed over a mile of the great plateau. The
barbarians had erected skin tents on rounded frames and the camp
had the aspect of a large primitive town. Roughly in the centre was
a much larger construction, decorated with a motley assortment of
gaudy silks and brocades.

Moonglum said in the Western tongue: “That must be Terarn
Gashtek’s dwelling. See, he has covered its half-cured hides with a
score of Eastern battle-flags.” His face grew grimmer as he noted the
torn standard of Eshmir, the lion-flag of Okara and the blood-soaked
pennants of sorrowing Chang Shai.

The captured warrior led them through the squatting ranks of
barbarians who stared at them impassively and muttered to one
another. Outside Terarn Gashtek’s tasteless dwelling was his great
war-lance decorated with more trophies of his conquests—the skulls
and bones of Eastern princes and kings.

Elric said: “Such a one as this must not be allowed to destroy the
reborn civilisation of the Young Kingdoms.”

“Young kingdoms are resilient,” remarked Moonglum, “but it is
when they are old that they fall—and it is often Terarn Gashtek’s
kind that tear them down.”

“While I live he shall not destroy Karlaak—nor reach as far as
Bakshaan.”

Moonglum said: “Though, in my opinion, he’d be welcome to Nad
sokor. The City of Beggars deserves such visitors as the Flame Bringer.
If we fail, Elric, only the sea will stop him—and perhaps not that.”

“With Dyvim Slorm’s aid—we shall stop him. Let us hope Karlaak’s
messenger finds my kinsman soon.”

“If he does not we shall be hard put to fight off half a million war
riors, my friend.”

The barbarian shouted: “Oh, Conqueror—mighty Flame Bring
er—there are men here who wish to speak with you.”

A slurred voice snarled: “Bring them in.”

They entered the badly smelling tent which was lighted by a fire
flickering in a circle of stones. A gaunt man, carelessly dressed in
bright captured clothing, lounged on a wooden bench. There were
several women in the tent, one of whom poured wine into a heavy
golden goblet which he held out.

Terarn Gashtek pushed the woman aside, knocking her sprawling
and regarded the newcomers. His face was almost as fleshless as
the skulls hanging outside his tent. His cheeks were sunken and his
slanting eyes narrow beneath thick brows.

“Who are these?”

“Lord, I know not—but between them they slew ten of our men
and would have slain me.”

“You deserved no more than death if you let yourself be disarmed.
Get out—and find a new sword quickly or I’ll let the shamans have
your vitals for divination.” The man slunk away.

Terarn Gashtek seated himself upon the bench once more.

“So, you slew ten of my blood-letters, did you, and came here to
boast to me about it? What’s the explanation?”

“We but defended ourselves against your warriors—we sought no
quarrel with them.” Elric now spoke the cruder tongue as best he could.

“You defended yourselves fairly well, I grant you. We reckon three
soft-living house-dwellers to one of us. You are a Westerner, I can tell
that, though your silent friend has the face of an Elwherite. Have you
come from the East or the West?”

“The West,” Elric said, “we are free traveling warriors, hiring our
swords to those who’ll pay or promise us good booty.”

“Are all Western warriors as skillful as you?” Terarn Gashtek could
not hide his sudden realisation that he might have underestimated
the men he hoped to conquer.

“We are a little better than most,” lied Moonglum, “but not much.”

“What of sorcery—is there much strong magic here?”

“No,” said Elric, “the art has been lost to most.”

The barbarian’s thin mouth twisted into a grin, half of relief, half
of triumph. He nodded his head, reached into his gaudy silks and
produced a small black-and-white bound cat. He began to stroke its
back. It wriggled but could do no more than hiss at its captor. “Then
we need not worry,” he said.

“Now, why did you come here? I could have you tortured for days
for what you did, slaying ten of my best outriders.”

“We recognised the chance of enriching ourselves by aiding you,
Lord Flame Bringer,” said Elric. “We could show you the richest
towns, lead you to ill-defended cities that would take little time to
fall. Will you enlist us?”

“I’ve need of such men as you, true enough. I’ll enlist you read
ily—but mark this, I’ll not trust you until you’ve proved loyal to me.
Find yourselves quarters now—and come to the feast, tonight. There
I’ll be able to show you something of the power I hold. The power
which will smash the strength of the West and lay it waste for ten
thousand miles.”

“Thanks,” said Elric. “I’ll look forward to tonight.”

They left the tent and wandered through the haphazard collection
of tents and cooking fires, wagons and animals. There seemed little
food, but wine was in abundance and the taut, hungry stomachs of
the barbarians were placated with that.

They stopped a warrior and told him of Terarn Gashtek’s orders to
them. The warrior sullenly led them to a tent.

“Here—it was shared by three of the men you slew. It is yours by
right of battle, as are the weapons and booty inside.”

“We’re richer already,” grinned Elric with feigned delight.

In the privacy of the tent, which was less clean than Terarn
Gashtek’s, they debated.

“I feel uncommonly uncomfortable,” said Moonglum, “surrounded
by this treacherous horde. And every time I think of what they made
of Eshmir, I itch to slay more of them. What now?”

“We can do nothing now—let us wait until tonight and see what
develops.” Elric sighed. “Our task seems impossible—I have never
seen so great a horde as this.”

“They are invincible as they are,” said Moonglum. “Even without
Drinij Bara’s sorcery to tumble down the walls of cities, no single nation
could withstand them and, with the Western nations squabbling
among themselves, they could never unite in time. Civilisation itself
is threatened. Let us pray for inspiration—your dark gods are at
least sophisticated, Elric, and we must hope that they’ll resent the
barbarian’s intrusion as much as we do.”

“They play strange games with their human pawns,” Elric replied,
“and who knows what they plan?”

Terarn Gashtek’s smoke-wreathed tent had been further lighted by
rush torches when Elric and Moonglum swaggered in, and the feast,
consisting primarily of wine, was already in progress.

“Welcome, my friends,” shouted the Flame Bringer, waving his
goblet. “These are my captains—come, join them!”

Elric had never seen such an evil-looking group of barbarians.
They were all half-drunk and, like their leader, had draped a variety
of looted articles of clothing about themselves. But their swords were
their own.

Room was made on one of the benches and they accepted wine
which they drank sparingly.

“Bring in our slave!” yelled Terarn Gashtek. “Bring in Drinij Bara
our pet sorcerer.” Before him on the table lay the bound and struggling
cat and beside it an iron blade.

Grinning warriors dragged a morose-faced man close to the fire
and forced him to kneel before the barbarian chief. He was a lean
man and he glowered at Terarn Gashtek and the little cat. Then his
eyes saw the iron blade and his gaze faltered.