The Sword & Sorcery Anthology (20 page)

“What do you want with me now?” he said sullenly.

“Is that the way to address your master, spell-maker? Still, no
matter. We have guests to entertain—men who have promised to
lead us to fat merchant cities. We require you to do a few minor tricks
for them.”

“I’m no petty conjuror. You cannot ask this of one of the greatest
sorcerers in the world!”

“We do not ask—we order. Come, make the evening lively. What
do you need for your magic-making? A few slaves—the blood of
virgins? We shall arrange it.”

“I’m no mumbling shaman—I need no such trappings.”

Suddenly the sorcerer saw Elric. The albino felt the man’s powerful
mind tentatively probing his own. He had been recognised as a fellow
sorcerer. Would Drinij Bara betray him?

Elric was tense, waiting to be denounced. He leaned back in his
chair and, as he did so, made a sign with his hand which would be
recognised by Western sorcerers—would the Easterner know it?

He did. For a moment he faltered, glancing at the barbarian
leader. Then he turned away and began to make new passes in the air,
muttering to himself.

The beholders gasped as a cloud of golden smoke formed near
the roof and began to metamorphose into the shape of a great horse
bearing a rider which all recognised as Terarn Gashtek. The barbarian
leader leaned forward, glaring at the image.

“What’s this?”

A map showing great land areas and seas seemed to unroll beneath
the horse’s hoofs. “The Western lands,” cried Drinij Bara. “I make a
prophecy.”

“What is it?”

The ghostly horse began to trample the map. It split and flew into
a thousand smoky pieces. Then the image of the horseman faded,
also, into fragments.

“Thus will the mighty Flame Bringer rend the bountiful nations of
the West,” shouted Drinij Bara.

The barbarians cheered exultantly, but Elric smiled thinly. The
Eastern wizard was mocking Terarn Gashtek and his men.

The smoke formed into a golden globe which seemed to blaze and
vanish.

Terarn Gashtek laughed. “A good trick, magic-maker—and a true
prophecy. You have done your work well. Take him back to his kennel!”

As Drinij Bara was dragged away, he glanced questioningly at Elric
but said nothing.

Later that night, as the barbarians drank themselves into a stupor,
Elric and Moonglum slipped out of the tent and made their way to
the place where Drinij Bara was imprisoned.

They reached the small hut and saw that a warrior stood guard
at the entrance. Moonglum produced a skin of wine and, pretending
drunkenness, staggered towards the man. Elric stayed where he was.

“What do you want, Outlander?” growled the guard.

“Nothing my friend, we are trying to get back to our own tent,
that’s all. Do you know where it is?”

“How should I know?”

“True—how should you? Have some wine—it’s good—from Ter
arn Gashtek’s own supply.”

The man extended a hand. “Let’s have it.”

Moonglum took a swig of the wine. “No, I’ve changed my mind.
It’s too good to waste on common warriors.”

“Is that so?” The warrior took several paces towards Moonglum.
“We’ll find out won’t we? And maybe we’ll mix some of your blood
with it to give it flavour, my little friend.”

Moonglum backed away. The warrior followed.

Elric ran softly towards the tent and ducked into it to find Drinij
Bara, wrists bound, lying on a pile of uncured hides. The sorcerer
looked up.

“You—what do you want?”

“We’ve come to aid you, Drinij Bara.”

“Aid me? But why? You’re no friend of mine. What would you
gain? You risk too much.”

“As a fellow sorcerer, I thought I’d help you,” Elric said.

“I thought you were that. But, in my land, sorcerers are not so
friendly to one another—the opposite, in fact.”

“I’ll tell you the truth—we need your aid to halt the barbarian’s
bloody progress. We have a common enemy. If we can help you regain
your soul, will you help?”

“Help—of course. All I do is plan the way I’ll avenge myself. But
for my sake be careful—if he suspects that you’re here to aid me, he’ll
slay the cat and slay us, too.”

“We’ll try to bring the cat to you. Will that be what you need?”

“Yes. We must exchange blood, the cat and I, and my soul will
then pass back into my own body.”

“Very well, I’ll try to—” Elric turned, hearing voices outside.
“What’s that?”

The sorcerer replied fearfully. “It must be Terarn Gashtek—he
comes every night to taunt me.”

“Where’s the guard?” The barbarian’s harsh voice came closer as
he entered the little tent. “What’s...?” He saw Elric standing above
the sorcerer.

His eyes were puzzled and wary. “What are you doing here,
Westerner—and what have you done with the guard?”

“Guard?” said Elric, “I saw no guard. I was looking for my own tent
and heard this cur cry out, so I entered. I was curious, anyway, to see
such a great sorcerer clad in filthy rags and bound so.”

Terarn Gashtek scowled. “Any more of such unwary curiosity my
friend, and you’ll be discovering what your own heart looks like. Now,
get hence—we ride on in the morning.”

Elric pretended to flinch and stumbled hurriedly from the tent.

A lone man in the livery of an Official Messenger of Karlaak goaded
his horse southwards. The mount galloped over the crest of a hill and
the messenger saw a village ahead. Hurriedly he rode into it, shouting
at the first man he saw.

“Quickly, tell me—know you ought of Dyvim Slorm and his
Imrryrian mercenaries? Have they passed this way?”

“Aye—a week ago. They went towards Rignariom by Vilmir’s
border, to offer their services to the Ilmioran Pretender.”

“Were they mounted or on foot?”

“Both.”

“Thanks, friend,” cried the messenger behind him and galloped
out of the village in the direction of Rignariom.

The messenger from Karlaak rode through the night—rode along
a recently made trail. A large force had passed that way. He prayed
that it had been Dyvim Slorm and his Imrryrian warriors.

In the sweet-smelling garden city of Karlaak, the atmosphere was
tense as the citizens waited for news they knew they could not expect
for some time. They were relying on both Elric and on the messenger.
If only one were successful, there would be no hope for them. Both
had to be successful. Both.

3

The tumbling sound of moving men cut through the weeping morning
and the hungry voice of Terarn Gashtek lashed at them to hurry.

Slaves packed up his tent and threw it into a wagon. He rode
forward and wrenched his tall war-lance from the soft earth, wheeled
his horse and rode westwards, his captains, Elric and Moonglum
among them, behind him.

Speaking the Western tongue, Elric and Moonglum debated
their problem. The barbarian was expecting them to lead him to his
prey, his outriders were covering wide distances so that it would be
impossible to lead him past a settlement. They were in a quandary for
it would be disgraceful to sacrifice another township to give Karlaak
a few days’ grace, yet...

A little later two whooping outriders came galloping up to Terarn
Gashtek.

“A town, lord! A small one and easy to take!”

“At last—this will do to test our blades and see how easy Western
flesh is to pierce. Then we’ll aim at a bigger target.” He turned to
Elric: “Do you know this town?”

“Where does it lie?” asked Elric thickly.

“A dozen miles to the south-west,” replied the outrider.

In spite of the fact that the town was doomed, Elric felt almost
relieved. They spoke of the town of Gorjhan.

“I know it,” he said.

Cavim the Saddler, riding to deliver a new set of horse furniture to an
outlying farm, saw the distant riders, their bright helmets caught by a
sudden beam of sunlight. That the riders came from off the Weeping
Waste was undoubtable—and he recognized menace in their massed
progress.

He turned his mount about and rode with the speed of fear, back
the way he had come to the town of Gorjhan.

The flat, hard mud of the street trembled beneath the thudding
hoofs of Cavim’s horse and his high, excited shout knifed through
shuttered windows.

“Raiders come! ’Ware the raiders!”

Within a quarter of an hour, the head-men of the town had met in
hasty conference and debated whether to run or to fight. The older
men advised their neighbours to flee the raiders, other younger men
preferred to stay ready, armed to meet a possible attack. Some argued
that their town was too poor to attract any raider.

The townspeople of Gorjhan debated and quarreled and the first
wave of raiders came screaming to their walls.

With the realisation that there was no time for further argument
came the realization of their doom, and they ran to the ramparts with
their pitiful weapons.

Terarn Gashtek roared through the milling barbarians who
churned the mud around Gorjhan: “Let’s waste no time in siege.
Fetch the sorcerer!”

They dragged Drinij Bara forward. From his garments, Terarn
Gashtek produced the small black-and-white cat and held an iron
blade at its throat.

“Work your spell, sorcerer, and tumble the walls quickly.”

The sorcerer scowled, his eyes seeking Elric, but the albino averted
his own eyes and turned his horse away.

The sorcerer produced a handful of powder from his belt pouch
and hurled it into the air where it became first a gas, then a flickering
ball of flame and finally a face, a dreadful unhuman face, formed in
the flame.

“Dag-Gadden the Destroyer,” intoned Drinij Bara, “you are sworn
to our ancient pact—will you obey me?”

“I must, therefore I will. What do you command?”

“That you obliterate the walls of this town and so leave the men
inside naked, like crabs without their shells.”

“My pleasure is to destroy and destroy I shall.” The flaming
face faded, altered, shrieked a searing course upward and became a
blossoming scarlet canopy which hid the sky.

Then it swept down over the town and, in the instant of its passing,
the walls of Gorjhan groaned, crumbled and vanished.

Elric shuddered—if Dag-Gadden came to Karlaak, such would be
their fate.

Triumphant, the barbarian battlemongers swept into the defense
less town.

Careful to take no part in the massacre, Elric and Moonglum
were also helpless to aid the slaughtered townspeople. The sight
of the senseless, savage bloodshed around them enervated them.
They ducked into a small house which seemed so far untouched by
the pillaging barbarians. Inside they found three cowering children
huddled around an older girl who clutched an old scythe in her soft
hands. Shaking with fear, she prepared to stand them off.

“Do not waste our time, girl,” Elric said, “or you’ll be wasting your
lives. Does this house have a loft?”

She nodded.

“Then get to it quickly. We’ll make sure you’re unharmed.”

They stayed in the house, hating to observe the slaughter-
madness which had come upon the howling barbarians. They heard
the dreadful sounds of carnage and smelled the stench of dead flesh
and running blood.

A barbarian, covered in blood which was not his own, dragged a
woman into the house by her hair. She made no attempt to resist, her
face stunned by the horror she had witnessed.

Elric growled: “Find another nest, hawk—we’ve made this our own.”