The Sword & Sorcery Anthology (22 page)

“Give me thy strength, my sword,” he groaned as his bound hands
grasped the hilt. “Give my thy strength and let us hope it is for the
last time.”

The blade writhed in his hands and he felt an awful sensation as
its power, the power stolen vampirelike, from a hundred brave men,
flowed into his shuddering body.

He became possessed of a peculiar strength which was not by any
means wholly physical. His white face twisted as he concentrated on
controlling the new power and the blade, both of which threatened
to possess him entirely. He snapped his bonds and stood up.

Barbarians were even now running towards the wagon. Swiftly
he cut the leather ropes binding the others and, unconscious of the
nearing warriors, called a different name.

He spoke a new tongue, an alien tongue which normally he could
not remember. It was a language taught to the Sorcerer Kings of
Melniboné, Elric’s ancestors, even before the building of Imrryr, the
Dreaming City, over ten thousand years previously.

“Meerclar of the Cats, it is I, your kinsman, Elric of Melniboné,
last of the line that made vows of friendship with you and your people.
Do you hear me, Lord of the Cats?”

Far beyond the Earth, dwelling within a world set apart from the physical
laws of space and time which governed the planet, glowing in a deep
warmth of blue and amber, a manlike creature stretched itself and yawned,
displaying tiny, pointed teeth. It pressed its head languidly against its furry
shoulder—and listened.

The voice it heard was not that of one of its people, the kind he loved
and protected. But he recognized the language. He smiled to himself as
remembrance came and he felt the pleasant sensation of fellowship. He
remembered a race which, unlike other humans (whom he disdained) had
shared his qualities—a race which, like him, loved pleasure, cruelty and
sophistication for its own sake. The race of Melnibonéans.

Meerclar, Lord of the Cats, Protector of the Feline Kind, projected
himself gracefully towards the source of the voice.

“How may I aid thee?” he purred.

“We seek one of your folk, Meerclar, who is somewhere close to
here.”

“Yes, I sense him. What do you want of him?”

“Nothing which is his—but he has two souls, one of them not his
own.”

“That is so—his name is Fiarshern of the great family of Trrrechoww. I
will call him. He will come to me.”

Outside, the barbarians were striving to conquer their fear of
the supernatural events taking place in the wagon. Terarn Gashtek
cursed them: “There are five hundred thousand of us and a few of
them. Take them now!”

His warriors began to move cautiously forward.

Fiarshern, the cat, heard a voice which it knew instinctively to be
that of one which it would be foolish to disobey. It ran swiftly towards
the source of that voice.

“Look—the cat—there it is. Seize it quickly.”

Two of Terarn Gashtek’s men jumped forward to do his bidding,
but the little cat eluded them and leaped lightly into the wagon.

“
Give the human back its soul, Fiarshern
,” said Meerclar softly. The
cat moved towards its human master and dug its delicate teeth into
the sorcerer’s veins.

A moment later Drinij Bara laughed wildly. “My soul is mine
again. Thank you, great Cat Lord. Let me repay you!”

“There is no need,”
smiled Meerclar mockingly,
“and, anyway, I
perceive that your soul is already bartered. Goodbye, Elric of Melniboné. I
was pleased to answer your call, though I see that you no longer follow the
ancient pursuits of your fathers. Still, for the sake of old loyalties I do not
begrudge you this service. Farewell, I go back to a warmer place than this
inhospitable one.”

The Lord of the Cats faded and returned to the world of blue and
amber warmth where he once more resumed his interrupted sleep.

“Come, Brother Sorcerer,” cried Drinij Bara exultantly. “Let us
take the vengeance which is ours.”

He and Elric sprang from the wagon, but the two others were not
quite so quick to respond.

Terarn Gashtek and his men confronted them. Many had bows
with long arrows fitted to them.

“Shoot them down swiftly,” yelled the Flame Bringer. “Shoot them
now before they have time to summon further demons!”

A shower of arrows whistled towards them. Drinij Bara smiled,
spoke a few words as he moved his hands almost carelessly. The
arrows stopped in midflight, turned back and each uncannily found
the throat of the man who had shot it. Terarn Gashtek gasped and
wheeled back, pushing past his men and, as he retreated, shouted for
them to attack the four.

Driven by the knowledge that if they fled they would be doomed,
the great mass of barbarians closed in.

Dawn was bringing light to the cloud-ripped sky as Moonglum
looked upwards. “Look, Elric,” he shouted pointing.

“Only five,” said the albino. “Only five—but perhaps enough.”

He parried several lashing blades on his own sword and, although
he was possessed of superhuman strength, all the power seemed to
have left the sword so that it was only as useful as an ordinary blade.
Still fighting, he relaxed his body and felt the power leave him, flowing
back into Stormbringer.

Again the runeblade began to whine and thirstily sought the
throats and hearts of the savage barbarians.

Drinij Bara had no sword, but he did not need one, he was using
subtler means to defend himself. All around him were the gruesome
results, boneless masses of flesh and sinew.

The two sorcerers and Moonglum and the messenger forced
their way through the half-insane barbarians who were desperately
attempting to overcome them. In the confusion it was impossible to
work out a coherent plan of action. Moonglum and the messenger
grabbed scimitars from the corpses of the barbarians and joined in
the battle.

Eventually, they had reached the outer limits of the camp. A
whole mass of barbarians had fled, spurring their mounts westwards.
Then Elric saw Terarn Gashtek, holding a bow. He saw the Flame
Bringer’s intention and shouted a warning to his fellow sorcerer who
had his back to the barbarian. Drinij Bara, yelling some disturbing
incantation, half-turned, broke off, attempted to begin another spell,
but the arrow pierced his eye.

He screamed: “
No!
”

Then he died.

Seeing his ally slain, Elric paused and stared at the sky and the
great wheeling beasts which he recognized.

Dyvim Slorm, son of Elric’s cousin Dyvim Tvar the Dragon Master,
had brought the legendary dragons of Imrryr to aid his kinsman. But
most of the huge beasts slept, and would sleep for another century—
only five dragons had been aroused. As yet, Dyvim Slorm could do
nothing for fear of harming Elric and his comrades.

Terarn Gashtek, too, had seen the magnificent beasts. His
grandiose plans of conquest were already fading and, thwarted, he
ran towards Elric.

“You white-faced filth,” he howled, “you have been responsible for
all this—and you will pay the Flame Bringer’s price!”

Elric laughed as he brought up Stormbringer to protect himself
from the incensed barbarian. He pointed to the sky: “These, too, can
be called Flame Bringers, Terarn Gashtek—and are better named
than thou!”

Then he plunged the evil blade full into Terarn Gashtek’s body and
the barbarian gave a choking moan as his soul was drawn from him.

“Destroyer, I may be, Elric of Melniboné,” he gasped, “but my way
was cleaner than yours. May you and all you hold dear be cursed for
eternity!”

Elric laughed, but his voice shook slightly as he stared at the
barbarian’s corpse. “I’ve rid myself of such curses once before, my
friend. Yours will have little effect, I think.” He paused. “By Arioch, I
hope I’m right. I’d thought my fate cleansed of doom and curses, but
perhaps I was wrong...”

The huge horde of barbarians was nearly all mounted now and
fleeing westwards. They had to be stopped for, at the pace they were
traveling, they would soon reach Karlaak and only the gods knew
what they would do when they got to the unprotected city.

Above him, he heard the flapping of thirty-foot wings and scented
the familiar smell of the great flying reptiles which had pursued him
years before when he had led a reaver fleet on the attack of his home-
city. Then he heard the curious notes of the Dragon Horn and saw
that Dyvim Slorm was seated on the back of the leading beast, a long
spearlike goad in his gauntleted right hand.

The dragon spiraled downward and its great bulk came to rest on
the ground thirty feet away, its leathery wings folding back along its
length. The Dragon Master waved to Elric.

“Greetings, Prince Elric, we barely managed to arrive in time I
see.”

“Time enough, kinsman,” smiled Elric. “It is good to see the son of
Dyvim Tvar again. I was afraid you might not answer my plea.”

“Old scores were forgotten at the Battle of Bakshaan when my
father Dyvim Tvar died aiding you in the siege of Nikorn’s fortress.
I regret only the younger beasts were ready to be awakened. You’ll
remember the others were used but a few years past.”

“I remember,” said Elric. “May I beg another favour Dyvim Slorm?”

“What is that?”

“Let me ride the chief dragon. I am trained in the arts of the Dragon
Master and have good reason for riding against the barbarians—
we were forced to witness insensate carnage a while ago and may,
perhaps, pay them back in their own coin.”

Dyvim Slorm nodded and swung off his mount. The beast stirred
restlessly and drew back the lips of its tapering snout to reveal teeth
as thick as a man’s arm, as long as a sword. Its forked tongue flickered
and it turned its huge, cold eyes to regard Elric.

Elric sang to it in the old Melnibonéan speech, took the goad and
the Dragon Horn from Dyvim Slorm and carefully climbed into the
high saddle at the base of the dragon’s neck. He placed his booted
feet into the great silver stirrups.

“Now, fly, Phoorn brother,” he sang, “up, up and have your venom
ready.”

He heard the snap of displaced air as the wings began to beat and
then the great beast was clear of the ground and soaring upwards into
the grey and brooding sky.

The other four dragons followed the first and, as he gained height,
sounding specific notes on the horn to give them directions, he drew
his sword from its scabbard.

Centuries before, Elric’s ancestors had ridden their dragon steeds
to conquer the whole of the Western World. There had been many
more dragons in the Dragon Caves in those days. Now only a handful
remained, and of those only the youngest had slept sufficiently long
to be awakened.

High in the wintry sky climbed the huge reptiles and Elric’s long white
hair and stained black cloak flew behind him as he sang the exultant
Song of the Dragon Masters and urged his charges westwards.

Wild wind-horses soar the cloud-trails,

Unholy horn doth sound its blast,

You and we were first to conquer,

You and we shall be the last!

Thoughts of love, of peace, of vengeance even were lost in that
reckless sweeping across the glowering skies which hung over the
ancient Age of the Young Kingdoms. Elric, archetypal, proud and
disdainful in his knowledge that even his deficient blood was the
blood of the Sorcerer Kings of Melniboné, became detached.

He had no loyalties then, no friends and, if evil possessed him,
then it was a pure, brilliant evil, untainted by human drivings.