The Stealer of Souls (37 page)

“So you were successful, Elric,” he said with a small smile.

Elric paused while he dismounted and aided Zarozinia down. He turned to Sepiriz. “I am not altogether satisfied with this adventure,” he said grimly, “though I did what I had to in order to save my wife. I would speak with you privately, Sepiriz.”

The black Nihrainian nodded gravely. “When we have eaten,” he said, “we will talk alone.”

They walked wearily through the galleries, noting that there was considerably more activity in the city now, but there was no sign of Sepiriz’s nine brothers. He explained their absence as he led Elric and his companions towards his own chamber. “As servants of Fate they have been called to another plane where they can observe something of the several different possible futures of the Earth and thus keep me informed of what I must do here.”

They entered the chamber and found food ready and, when they had satisfied their hunger, Dyvim Slorm and Zarozinia left the other two.

The fire from the great hearth blazed. Elric and Sepiriz sat together, unspeaking, hunched in their chairs.

At last, without preamble, Elric told Sepiriz the story of what had happened, what he remembered of the Dead God’s words, how they had disturbed him—even struck him as being true.

When he had finished, Sepiriz nodded. “It is so,” he said. “Darnizhaan spoke the truth. Or, at least, he spoke most of the truth, as he understood it.”

“You mean we will all soon cease to exist? That it will be as if we had never breathed, or thought, or fought?”

“That is likely.”

“But why? It seems unjust.”

“Who told you that the world was just?”

Elric smiled, his own suspicions confirmed. “Aye, as I expected, there is no justice.”

“But there
is
,” Sepiriz said, “justice of a kind—justice which must be carved from the chaos of existence. Man was not born to a world of justice. But he can
create
such a world!”

“I’d agree to that,” Elric said, “but what are all our strivings for if we are doomed to die and the results of our actions with us?”

“That is not absolutely the case. Something will continue. Those who come after us will inherit something from us.”

“What is that?”

“An Earth free of the major forces of Chaos.”

“You mean a world free of sorcery, I presume…?”

“Not entirely free of sorcery, but Chaos and sorcery will not dominate the world of the future as it does this world.”

“Then that
is
worth striving for, Sepiriz,” Elric said almost with relief. “But what part do the runeblades play in the scheme of things?”

“They have two functions. One, to rid this world of the great dominating sources of evil—”

“But they
are
evil, themselves!”

“Just so. It takes a strong evil to battle a strong evil. The days that will come will be when the forces of good can overcome those of evil. They are not yet strong enough. That, as I told you, is what we must strive for.”

“And what is the other purpose of the blades?”

“That is their final purpose—your destiny. I can tell you now. I
must
tell you now, or let you live out your destiny unknowing.”

“Then tell me,” Elric said impatiently.

“Their ultimate purpose is to destroy this world!”

Elric stood up. “Ah, no, Sepiriz. That I cannot believe. Shall I have such a crime on my conscience?”

“It is not a crime, it is in the nature of things. The era of the Bright Empire, even that of the Young Kingdoms, is drawing to a close. Chaos formed this Earth and, for aeons, Chaos ruled. Men were created to put an end to that rule.”

“But my ancestors worshipped the powers of Chaos. My patron demon, Arioch, is a Duke of Hell, one of the prime Lords of Chaos!”

“Just so. You, and your ancestors, were not true men at all, but an intermediary type created for a purpose. You understand Chaos as no true men ever could understand it. You can control the forces of Chaos as no true men ever could. And, as a manifestation of the Champion Eternal, you can weaken the forces of Chaos—for you know the qualities of Chaos. Weaken them is what you
have
done. Though worshipping the Lords of Chance, your race was the first to bring some kind of order to the Earth. The people of the Young Kingdoms have inherited this from you—and have consolidated it. But, as yet, Chaos is still that much stronger. The runeblades, Stormbringer and Mournblade, this more orderly age, the wisdom your race and mine have gained, all will go towards creating the basis for the true beginnings of Mankind’s history. That history will not begin for many thousands of years, the type may take on a lowlier form, become more beastlike before it re-evolves, but when it does, it will re-evolve into a world bereft of the stronger forces of Chaos. It will have a fighting chance. We are all doomed, but
they
need not be.”

“So that is what Darnizhaan meant when he said we were just puppets, acting out our parts before the true play began…” Elric sighed deeply, the weight of his mighty responsibility was heavy on his soul. He did not welcome it; but he accepted it.

Sepiriz said gently: “It is your purpose, Elric of Melniboné. Hitherto, your life has appeared comparatively meaningless. All through it you have been searching for some purpose for living, is that not true?”

“Aye,” Elric agreed with a slight smile, “I’ve been restless for many a year since my birth; restless the more between the time when Zarozinia was abducted and now.”

“It is fitting that you should have been,” Sepiriz said, “for there
is
a purpose for you—Fate’s purpose. It is this destiny that you have sensed all your mortal days. You, the last of the royal line of Melniboné, must complete your destiny in the times which are to follow closely upon these. The world is darkening—nature revolts and rebels against the abuses to which the Lords of Chaos put it. Oceans seethe and forests sway, hot lava spills from a thousand mountains, winds shriek their angry torment and the skies are full of awful movement. Upon the face of the Earth, warriors are embattled in a struggle which will decide the fate of the world, linked as the struggle is, with greater conflicts among gods. Women and little children die on a million funeral pyres upon this continent alone. And soon the conflict will spread to the next continent and the next. Soon all the men of the Earth will have chosen sides and Chaos might easily win. It would win but for one thing: you and your sword Stormbringer.”

“Stormbringer. It has brought enough storms for me. Perhaps this time it can calm one. And what if Law should win?”

“And if Law should win—then that, too, will mean the decline and death of this world—we shall all be forgotten. But if Chaos should win—then doom will cloud the very air, agony will sound in the wind and foul misery will dominate a plunging, unsettled world of sorcery and evil hatred. But you, Elric, with your sword and our aid, could stop this. It must be done.”

“Then let it be done,” Elric said quietly, “and if it must be done—then let it be done well.”

Sepiriz said: “Armies will soon be marshaled to drive against Pan Tang’s might. These must be our first defense. Thereafter, we shall call upon you to fulfill the rest of your destiny.”

“I’ll play my part, willingly,” Elric replied, “for, whatever else, I have a mind to pay the Theocrat back for his insults and the inconvenience he has caused me. Though perhaps he didn’t instigate Zarozinia’s abduction, he aided those who did, and he shall die slowly for that.”

“Go then, speedily, for each moment wasted allows the Theocrat to consolidate further his new-won empire.”

“Farewell,” said Elric, now more than ever anxious to leave Nihrain and return to familiar lands. “I know we’ll meet again, Sepiriz, but I pray it be in calmer times than these.”

Now the three of them rode eastwards, towards the coast of Tarkesh where they hoped to find a secret ship to take them across the Pale Sea to Ilmiora and thence to Karlaak by the Weeping Waste. They rode their magical Nihrain horses, careless of danger, through a war-wasted world, strife-ruined and miserable under the heel of the Theocrat.

Elric and Zarozinia exchanged many glances, but they did not speak much, for they were both moved by a knowledge of something which they could not speak of, which they dared not admit. She knew they would not have much time together even when they returned to Karlaak, she saw that he grieved and she grieved also, unable to understand the change that had come upon her husband, only aware that the black sword at his side would never, now, hang in the armoury again. She felt she had failed him, though this was not the case.

As they topped a hill and saw smoke drifting, black and thick across the plains of Toraunz, once beautiful, now ruined, Dyvim Slorm shouted from behind Elric and his bride: “One thing, cousin—whatever happens, we must have vengeance on the Theocrat and his ally.”

Elric pursed his lips.

“Aye,” he said, and glanced again at Zarozinia whose eyes were downcast.

Now the Western lands from Tarkesh to Myyrrhn were sundered by the servitors of Chaos. Was this truly to be the final conflict that would decide whether Law or Chaos would dominate the future? The forces of Law were weak and scattered. Could this possibly be the final paroxysm on Earth of the great Lords of Evil? Now, between armies, one part of the world’s fate was being decided. The lands groaned in the torment of bloody conflict.

What other forces must Elric fight before he accomplished his final destiny and destroyed the world he knew? What else before the Horn of Fate was blown—to herald in the night?

Sepiriz, no doubt, would tell him when the time came.

But meanwhile more material scores had to be settled. The lands to the east must be made ready for war. The sea-lords of the Purple Towns must be approached for aid, the kings of the South marshaled for attack on the Western Continent. It would take time to do all this.

Part of Elric’s mind welcomed the time it would take.

Part of him was reluctant to continue his heavy destiny, for it would mean the end of the Age of the Young Kingdoms, the death of the memory of the Age of the Bright Empire which his ancestors had dominated for ten thousand years.

The sea was at last in sight, rolling its troubled way towards the horizon to meet a seething sky. He heard the cry of gulls and smelled the tang of the salt air in his nostrils.

With a wild shout he clapped his steed’s flanks and raced down towards the sea…

In this second long novelette concerning Elric’s place in the random scheme of events wherein Order and Chaos are fighting for supremacy of the Earth, the part being played by the mystic runeswords is of paramount importance.

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

BOOK TWO

BLACK SWORD’S BROTHERS

In which a million blades decide an issue between Elric and the Lords of Chaos…

C
HAPTER
O
NE

O
NE DAY THERE
came a gathering of kings, captains, and warlords to the peaceful city of Karlaak in Ilmiora by the Weeping Waste.

They did not come in great pomp or with grandiose gestures. They came grim-faced and hurriedly to answer the summons of Elric, who dwelt again in Karlaak with his lately-rescued wife Zarozinia. And they gathered in a great chamber which had once been used by the old rulers of Karlaak for the planning of wars. To this same purpose Elric now put it.

Illuminated by flaring torches, a great coloured map of the world was spread behind the dais on which Elric stood. It showed the three major continents of the East, West and South. That of the West, comprising Jharkor, Dharijor, Shazaar, Tarkesh, Myyrrhn and the Isle of Pan Tang, was shaded black, for all these lands were now the conquered Empire of the Pan Tang-Dharijor alliance which threatened the security of the assembled nobles.

Some of the men who stood armoured before Elric were exiles from the conquered lands—but there were few. Few also were Elric’s Imrryrian kinsmen who had fought at the Battle of Sequa and had been defeated with the massed army that had sought to resist the combined might of the evil alliance. At the head of the eldritch Imrryrians stood Dyvim Slorm, Elric’s cousin. At his belt, encased in a sturdy scabbard, was the runesword Mournblade, twin to the one Elric wore.

Here also was Montan, Lord of Lormyr, standing with fellow rulers from the Southlands—Jerned of Filkhar, Hozel of Argimiliar, and Kolthak of Pikarayd, adorned in painted iron, velvet, silk and wool.

The sea-lords from the Isle of the Purple Towns were less gaudily clad with helms and breastplates of plain bronze, jerkins, breeks and boots of unstained leather and great broadswords at their hips. Their faces were all but hidden by their long shaggy hair and thick, curling beards.

All these, kings and sea-lords alike, were inclined to stare at Elric suspiciously, since years before he had led their royal predecessors on the raid of Imrryr—though it had left many thrones clear for those who now sat on them.

In another group stood the nobles of that part of the Eastern Continent lying to the east of the Sighing Desert and the Weeping Waste. Beyond these two barren stretches of land were the kingdoms of Eshmir, Chang Shai and Okara, but there was no contact between Elric’s part of the world and theirs—save for the small, red-headed man beside him—his friend Moonglum of Elwher, an Eastern adventurer.

The Regent of Vilmir, uncle of the ten-month-old king, headed this last group made up of senators from the city-states comprising Ilmiora; the red-clothed archer Rackhir representing the city of Tanelorn; and various merchant princes from towns coming under the indirect rule of Vilmir as protectorates.

A mighty gathering, representing the massed power of the world.

But would even this be sufficient, Elric wondered, to wipe out the growing menace from the Westlands?

His white albino’s face was stern, his red eyes troubled as he addressed the men he had caused to come here.

“As you know, my lords, the threat of Pan Tang and Dharijor is not likely to remain confined to the Western Continent for much longer. Though barely two months have passed since their victory was achieved, they are already marshaling a great fleet aimed at crushing the power of those kings dependent, largely, on their ships for livelihood and defense.”

He glanced at the sea-lords of the Purple Towns and the kings of the Southern Continent.

“We of the East, it seems, are not regarded as so much of a danger to their immediate plans and, if we did not unite now, they would have a greater chance of success by conquering first the Southern seapower and then the scattered cities of the East. We must form an alliance which can match their strength.”

“How do you know this is their plan, Elric?”

The voice was that of Hozel of Argimiliar, a proud-faced man inclined it was said to fits of insanity, the inbred offspring of a dozen incestuous unions.

“Spies, refugees—and supernatural sources. They have all reported it.”

“Even without these reports, we could be sure that this is, indeed, their plan,” growled Kargan Sharpeyes, spokesman for the sea-lords. He looked directly at Hozel with something akin to contempt. “And Jagreen Lern of Pan Tang might also seek allies amongst the Southerners. There are some who would rather capitulate to a foreign conqueror than lose their soft lives and easily earned treasure.”

Hozel smiled coldly at Kargan. “There are some, too, whose animal suspicions might cause them to make no move against the Theocrat until it was too late.”

Elric said hastily, aware of age-old bitternesses between the hardy sea-lords and their softer neighbours: “But worst of all they would be best aided by internal feuds in our ranks, brothers. Hozel—take it for granted that I speak truly and that my information is exact.”

Montan, Lord of Lormyr, his face, beard and hair all shaded grey, said haughtily: “You of the North and East are weak. We of the South are strong. Why should we lend you our ships to defend your coasts? I do not agree with your logic, Elric. It will not be the first time it has led good men astray—to their deaths!”

“I thought we had agreed to bury old disputes!” Elric said, close to anger, for the guilt of what he had done was still in him.

“Aye,” nodded Kargan. “A man who can’t forget the past is a man who cannot plan for the future. I say Elric’s logic is good!”

“You traders were always too reckless with your ships and too gullible when you heard a smooth tongue. That’s why you now envy our riches.” Young Jerned of Filkhar smiled in his thin beard, his eyes on the floor.

Kargan fumed. “Too honest, perhaps, is the word you should have used, Southerner! Belatedly our forefathers learned how the fat Southlands were cheating them. Their forefathers raided your coasts, remember? Maybe we should have continued their practice! Instead, we settled, traded—and your bellies swelled from the profits of our sweat! Gods! I’d not trust the word of a Southern—”

Elric leaned forward to interrupt, but was interrupted himself by Hozel who said impatiently: “The fact is this. The Theocrat is more likely to concentrate his first attacks on the East. For these reasons: The Eastlands are weak. The Eastlands are poorly defended. The Eastlands are closer to his shores and therefore more accessible. Why should he risk his recently united strength on the stronger Southlands, or risk a more hazardous sea-crossing?”

“Because,” Elric said levelly, “his ships will be magic-aided and distance will not count. Because the South is richer and will supply him with metals, food—”

“Ships and men!” spat Kargan.

“So! You think we already plan treachery!” Hozel glanced first at Elric and then at Kargan. “Then why summon us here in the first place?”

“I did not say that,” Elric said hastily. “Kargan spoke his own thoughts, not mine. Calm yourselves—we
must
be united—or perish before superior armies and supernatural might!”

“Oh, no!” Hozel turned to the other Southern monarchs. “What say you, my peers? Shall we lend them our ships and warriors to protect their shores as well as ours?”

“Not when they are so ungratefully spurned,” Jerned murmured. “Let Jagreen Lern expend his energies upon them. When he looks towards the South he will be weakened, and we shall be ready for him!”

“You are fools!” Elric cried urgently. “Stand with us or we’ll all perish! The Lords of Chaos are behind the Theocrat. If he succeeds in his ambitions it will mean more than conquest by a human schemer—it will mean that we shall all be subjected to the horror of total anarchy, on the Earth and above it. The human race is threatened!”

Hozel stared hard at Elric and smiled. “Then let the human race protect itself and not fight under an unhuman leader. ’Tis well-known that the men of Melniboné are not true men at all.”

“Be that as it may.” Elric lowered his head and lifted a thin, white hand to point at Hozel. The king shivered and held his ground with obvious effort. “But I know more than that, Hozel of Argimiliar. I know that the men of the Young Kingdoms are only the gods’ first mouldings—shadow-things who precede the race of real men, even as we preceded you. And I know more! I know that if we do not vanquish both Jagreen Lern and his supernatural allies, then men will be swept from the boiling face of a maddened planet, their destiny unfulfilled!”

Hozel swallowed and spoke, his voice trembling.

“I’ve seen your muttering kind in the market places, Elric. Men who prophesy all kinds of dooms that never take place—mad-eyed men such as you. But we do not let them live in Argimiliar. We fry them slowly, finger by finger, inch by inch until they admit their omens are fallacious! Perhaps we’ll have that opportunity, yet!”

He swung about and half-ran from the hall. For a moment the other Southern monarchs stood staring irresolutely after him.

Elric said urgently: “Heed him not, my lords. I swear on my life that my words are true!”

Jerned said softly, half to himself: “That could mean little. There are rumours you’re immortal.”

Moonglum came close to his friend and whispered: “They are unconvinced, Elric. ’Tis plain they’re not our men.”

Elric nodded. To the Southern nobles he said: “Know this: Though you foolishly reject my offer of an alliance, the day will come when you will regret your decision. I have been insulted in my own palace, my friends have been insulted and I curse you for the upstart fools you are. But when the time comes for you to learn the error of this decision I swear that we shall aid you, if it is in our power. Now go!”

Disconcerted, the Southerners straggled from the hall in silence.

Elric turned to Kargan Sharpeyes. “What have you decided, sea-lord?”

“We stand with you,” Kargan said simply. “My brother Smiorgan Baldhead always spoke well of you and I remember his words rather than the rumours which followed his death under your leadership. Moreover,” he smiled broadly, “it is in our nature to believe that whatever a Southern weakling decides must therefore be wrong. You have the Purple Towns as allies—and our ships, though fewer than the combined fleets of the South, are smooth-sailing fighting ships and well-equipped for war.”

“I must warn you that we stand little chance without Southern aid,” Elric said gravely.

“I’m doubtful if they’d have been more than an encumbrance with their guile and squabblings,” Kargan replied. “Besides—have you no sorcery to help us in this?”

“I plan to seek some tomorrow,” Elric told him. “Moonglum and myself will be leaving my cousin Dyvim Slorm in charge here while we go to Sorcerers’ Isle, beyond Melniboné. There, among the hermit practitioners of the White Arts, I might find means of contacting the Lords of Law. I, as you know, am half-sworn to Chaos, though I fight it, and am finding increasingly that my own demon-god is somewhat loath to aid me these days. At present, the White Lords are weak, beaten back, just as we are on Earth, by the increasing power of the Dark Ones. It is hard to contact them. The hermits can likely help me.”

Kargan nodded. “’Twould be a relief to us of the Purple Towns to know that we were not too strongly leagued with dark spirits, I must admit.”

Elric frowned. “I agree, of course. But our position is so weak that we must accept
any
help—be it black or white. I presume that there is dispute among the Masters of Chaos as to how far they should go—that is why some of my own help still comes from Chaos. This blade that hangs at my side, and the twin which Dyvim Slorm bears, are both evil. Yet they were forged by creatures of Chaos to bring an end, on Earth at least, to the Masters’ rule here. Just as my blood-loyalties are divided, so are the swords’ loyalties. We have no supernatural allies we can wholly rely upon.”

“I feel for you,” Kargan said gruffly, and it was obvious that he did. No man could envy Elric’s position or Elric’s destiny.

Orgon, Kargan’s cousin-in-law, said bluntly: “We’ll to bed now. Has your kinsman your full confidence?”

Elric glanced at Dyvim Slorm and smiled. “My full confidence—he knows as much as I about this business. He shall speak for me since he knows my basic plans.”

“Very well. We’ll confer with him tomorrow and, if we do not see you before we leave, do well for us on Sorcerers’ Isle.”

The sea-lords left.

Now, for the first time, the Regent of Vilmir spoke. His voice was clear and cool. “We, too, have confidence in you and your kinsman, Elric. Already we know you both for clever warriors and cunning planners. Vilmir has good cause to know it from your exploits in Bakshaan and elsewhere throughout our territories. We, I feel, have the good sense to bury old scores.” He turned to the merchant princes for confirmation and they nodded their agreement.

“Good,” Elric said. He addressed the gaunt-faced archer, Rackhir, his friend, whose legend almost equaled his own.

“You come as a spokesman of Tanelorn, Rackhir. This will not be the first time we have fought the Lords of Chaos.”