The Sword & Sorcery Anthology (21 page)

The man said: “There’s room enough here for what I want.”

Then, at last, Elric’s clenched muscles reacted almost in spite of
him. His right hand swung over to his left hip and the long fingers
locked around Stormbringer’s black hilt. The blade leapt from the
scabbard as Elric stepped forward and, his crimson eyes blazing his
sickened hatred, he smashed his sword down through the man’s body.
Unnecessarily, he clove again, hacking the barbarian in two. The
woman remained where she lay, conscious but unmoving.

Elric picked up her inert body and passed it gently to Moonglum.
“Take her upstairs with the others,” he said brusquely.

The barbarians had begun to fire part of the town, their slaying all
but done. Now they looted. Elric stepped out of the doorway.

There was precious little for them to loot but, still hungry for
violence, they spent their energy on smashing inanimate things and
setting fire to the broken, pillaged dwellings.

Stormbringer dangled loosely in Elric’s hand as he looked at the
blazing town. His face was a mask of shadow and frisking light as the
fire threw up still longer tongues of flames to the misty sky.

Around him, barbarians squabbled over the pitiful booty;
and occasionally a woman’s scream cut above the other sounds,
intermingled with rough shouts and the clash of metal.

Then he heard voices which were pitched differently to those in
the immediate vicinity. The accents of the reavers mingled with a
new tone—a whining, pleading tone. A group led by Terarn Gashtek
came into view through the smoke.

Terarn Gashtek held something bloody in his hand—a human
hand, severed at the wrist—and behind him swaggered several of his
captains holding a naked old man between them. Blood ran over his
body and gushed from his ruined arm, spurting sluggishly.

Terarn Gashtek frowned when he saw Elric. Then he shouted:
“Now Westerner, you shall see how we placate our gods with better
gifts than meal and sour milk as this swine once did. He’ll soon be
dancing a pretty measure, I’ll warrant—won’t you, Lord Priest?”

The whining note went out of the old man’s voice then and he
stared with fever-bright eyes at Elric. His voice rose to a frenzied and
high-pitched shriek which was curiously repellent.

“You dogs can howl over me!” he spat, “but Mirath and T’aargano
will be revenged for the ruin of their priest and their temple—you
have brought flame here and you shall die by flame.” He pointed the
bleeding stump of his arm at Elric—“And you—you are a traitor and
have been one in many causes, I can see it written in you. Though
now... You are—” the priest drew breath...

Elric licked his lips.

“I am what I am,” he said, “and you are nothing but an old man
soon to die. Your gods cannot harm us, for we do not pay them any
respect. I’ll listen no more to your senile meanderings!”

There was in the old priest’s face all the knowledge of his past
torment and the torment which was to come. He seemed to consider
this and then was silent.

“Save your breath for screaming,” said Terarn Gashtek to the
uncomprehending priest.

And then Elric said: “It’s bad luck to kill a priest, Flame Bringer!”

“You seem weak of stomach, my friend. His sacrifice to our own
gods will bring us good luck, fear not.”

Elric turned away. As he entered the house again, a wild shriek of
agony seared out of the night and the laughter which followed was
not pleasant.

Later, as the still-burning houses lit the night, Elric and Moonglum,
carrying heavy sacks on their shoulders, clasping a woman each,
moved with a simulation of drunkenness to the edge of the camp.
Moonglum left the sacks and the women with Elric and went back,
returning soon with three horses.

They opened the sacks to allow the children to climb out and
watched the silent women mount the horses, aiding the children to
clamber up.

Then they galloped away.

“Now,” said Elric savagely, “we must work our plan tonight,
whether the messenger reached Dyvim Slorm or not. I could not bear
to witness another such sword-quenching.”

Terarn Gashtek had drunk himself insensible. He lay sprawled in an
upper room of one of the unburned houses.

Elric and Moonglum crept towards him. While Elric watched to
see that he was undisturbed, Moonglum knelt beside the barbarian
leader and, lightfingered, cautiously reached inside the man’s gar
ments. He smiled in self-approval as he lifted out the squirming cat
and replaced it with a stuffed rabbit-skin he had earlier prepared for
the purpose. Holding the animal tight, he arose and nodded to Elric.
Together, warily, they left the house and made their way through the
chaos of the camp.

“I ascertained that Drinij Bara lies in the large wagon,” Elric told
his friend. “Quickly, now, the main danger’s over.”

Moonglum said: “When the cat and Drinij Bara have exchanged
blood and the sorcerer’s soul is back in his body—what then, Elric?”

“Together, our powers may serve at least to hold the barbarians
back, but—” he broke off as a large group of warriors came weaving
towards them.

“It’s the Westerner and his little friend,” laughed one. “Where are
you off to, comrades?”

Elric sensed their mood. The slaughter of the day had not
completely satiated their blood-lust. They were looking for trouble.

“Nowhere in particular,” he replied. The barbarians lurched around
them, encircling them.

“We’ve heard much of your straight blade, stranger,” grinned their
spokesman, “and I’d a mind to test it against a real weapon.” He
grabbed his own scimitar out of his belt. “What do you say?”

“I’d spare you that,” said Elric coolly.

“You are generous—but I’d rather you accepted my invitation.”

“Let us pass,” said Moonglum.

The barbarians’ faces hardened. “Speak you so to the conquerors
of the world?” said the leader.

Moonglum took a step back and drew his sword, the cat squirming
in his left hand.

“We’d best get this done,” said Elric to his friend. He tugged his
runeblade from its scabbard. The sword sang a soft and mocking tune
and the barbarians heard it. They were disconcerted.

“Well?” said Elric, holding the half-sentient blade out.

The barbarian who had challenged him looked uncertain of
what to do. Then he forced himself to shout: “Clean iron can
withstand any sorcery,” and launched himself forward.

Elric, grateful for the chance to take further vengeance, blocked
his swing, forced the scimitar back and aimed a blow which sliced
the man’s torso just above the hip. The barbarian screamed and died.
Moonglum, dealing with a couple more, killed one but another came
in swiftly and his sweeping sword sliced the little Eastlander’s left
shoulder. He howled—and dropped the cat. Elric stepped in, slew
Moonglum’s opponent, Stormbringer wailing a triumphant dirge.
The rest of the barbarians turned and ran off.

“How bad is your wound?” gasped Elric, but Moonglum was on his
knees staring through the gloom.

“Quick, Elric—can you see the cat? I dropped it in the struggle. If
we lose it—we too are lost.”

Frantically, they began to hunt through the camp.

But they were unsuccessful, for the cat, with the dexterity of its
kind, had wriggled free of its bindings and hidden itself.

A few moments later they heard the sounds of uproar coming from
the house which Terarn Gashtek had commandeered.

“He’s discovered that the cat’s been stolen!” exclaimed Moonglum.
“What do we do now?”

“I don’t know—keep searching and hope he does not suspect us.”

They continued to hunt, but with no result. While they searched,
several barbarians came up to them. One of them said:

“Our leader wishes to speak with you.”

“Why?”

“He’ll inform you of that. Come on.”

Reluctantly, they went with the barbarians to be confronted by
a raging Terarn Gashtek. He clutched the stuffed rabbit-skin in one
clawlike hand and his face was warped with fury.

“My hold over the sorcerer has been stolen from me,” he roared.
“What do you know of it?”

“I don’t understand,” said Elric.

“The cat is missing—I found this rag in its place. You were caught
talking to Drinij Bara recently, I think you were responsible.”

“We know nothing of this,” said Moonglum.

Terarn Gashtek growled: “The camp’s in disorder, it will take a day
to reorganise my men—once loosed like this they will obey no-one.
But when I’ve restored order, I shall question the whole camp. If you
tell the truth, then you will be released, but meanwhile you will be
given all the time you need to speak with the sorcerer.” He jerked his
head. “Take them away, disarm them, bind them and throw them in
Drinij Bara’s kennel.”

As they were led away, Elric muttered: “We must escape and find
that cat, but meanwhile we need not waste this opportunity to confer
with Drinij Bara.”

Drinij Bara said in the darkness: “No, Brother Sorcerer, I will not aid
you. I will risk nothing until the cat and I are united.”

“But Terarn Gashtek cannot threaten you any more.”

“What if he recaptures the cat—what then?”

Elric was silent. He shifted his bound body uncomfortably on the
hard boards of the wagon. He was about to continue his attempts at
persuasion when the awning was thrown aside and he saw another
trussed figure thrown towards them. Through the blackness he said
in the Eastern tongue: “Who are you?”

The man replied in the language of the West: “I do not understand
you.”

“Are you, then, a Westerner?” asked Elric in the common speech.

“Yes—I am an Official Messenger from Karlaak. I was captured by
these odorous jackals as I returned to the city.”

“What? Are you the man we sent to Dyvim Slorm, my kinsman? I
am Elric of Melniboné.”

“My lord, are we all, then, prisoners? Oh, gods—Karlaak is truly lost.”

“Did you get to Dyvim Slorm?”

“Aye—I caught up with him and his band. Luckily they were
nearer to Karlaak than we suspected.”

“And what was his answer to my request?”

“He said that a few young ones might be ready, but even with
sorcery to aid him it would take some time to get to the Dragon Isle.
There is a chance.”

“A chance is all we need—but it will be no good unless we
accomplish the rest of our plan. Somehow Drinij Bara’s soul must
be regained so that Terarn Gashtek cannot force him to defend the
barbarians. There is one idea I have—a memory of an ancient kinship
that we of Melniboné had for a being called Meerclar. Thank the gods
that I discovered those drugs in Troos and I still have my strength.
Now, I must call my sword to me.”

He closed his eyes and allowed his mind and body first to relax
completely and then concentrate on one single thing—the sword
Stormbringer.

For years the evil symbiosis had existed between man and sword
and the old attachments lingered.

He cried: “Stormbringer! Stormbringer, unite with your brother!
Come, sweet runeblade, come hell-forged kinslayer, your master
needs thee...”

Outside, it seemed that a wailing wind had suddenly sprung up.
Elric heard shouts of fear and a whistling sound. Then the covering
of the wagon was sliced apart to let in the starlight and the moaning
blade quivered in the air over his head. He struggled upwards, already
feeling nauseated at what he was about to do, but he was reconciled
that he was not, this time, guided by self-interest but by the necessity
to save the world from the barbarian menace.