Elric of Melniboné

  Now Cymoril slept, but there seemed to be a certain peace on her face.

  Elric watched as Dyvim Tvar crossed the room, sword in hand, and flung the door open. A dreadful stench came from the next room, which was in darkness. Something flickered on the far side.

  “Aye—that's sorcery, right enough,” said Elric. “And Yyrkoon has thwarted me. He conjured the Shade Gate and passed through it into some nether-world. Which one, I'll never know, for there is an infinity of them. Oh, Arioch, I would give much to follow my cousin!”

  “Then follow him you shall,” said a sweet, sardonic voice in Elric's head.

  At first the albino thought it was a vestige of a memory still fighting for possession of his head, but then he knew that Arioch spoke to him.

  “Dismiss your followers that I may speak with thee,” said Arioch.

  Elric hesitated. He wished to be alone—but not with Arioch. He wished to be with Cymoril, for Cymoril was making him weep. Tears already flowed from his crimson eyes.

  “What I have to say could result in Cymoril being restored to her normal state,” said the voice. “And, moreover, it will help you defeat Yyrkoon and be revenged upon him. Indeed, it could make you the most powerful mortal there has ever been.”

  Elric looked up at Dyvim Tvar. “Would you and your men leave me alone for a few moments?”

  “Of course.” Dyvim Tvar led his men away and shut the door behind him.

  Arioch stood leaning against the same door. Again he had assumed the shape and poise of a handsome youth. His smile was friendly and open and only the ancient eyes belied his appearance.

  “It is time to seek the black swords yourself, Elric,” said Arioch. “Lest Yyrkoon reach them first. I warn you of this—with the runeblades Yyrkoon will be so powerful he will be able to destroy half the world without thinking of it. That is why your cousin risks the dangers of the world beyond the Shade Gate. If Yyrkoon possesses those swords before you find them, it will mean the end of you, of Cymoril, of the Young Kingdoms and, quite possibly, the destruction of Melnibone, too. I will help you enter the netherworld to seek for the twin runeswords.”

  Elric said musingly: “I have often been warned of the dangers of seeking the swords—and the worse dangers of owning them. I think I must consider another plan, my lord Arioch.”

  “There is no other plan. Yyrkoon desires the swords if you do not. With Mournblade in one hand and Stormbringer in the other, he will be invincible, for the swords give their user power. Immense power.” Arioch paused.

  “You must do as I say. It is to your advantage.”

  “And to yours, Lord Arioch?”

  “Aye—to mine. I am not entirely selfless.”

  Elric shook his head. “I am confused. There has been too much of the supernatural about this affair. I suspect the gods of manipulating us...”

  “The gods serve only those who are willing to serve them. And the gods serve destiny, also.”

  “I like it not. To stop Yyrkoon is one thing, to assume his ambitions and take the swords myself—that is another thing.”

  “It is your destiny.”

  “Cannot I change my destiny?”

  Arioch shook his head. “No more than can I.”

  Elric stroked sleeping Cymoril's hair. “I love her. She is all I desire.”

  “You shall not wake her if Yyrkoon finds the blades before you do.”

  “And how shall I find the blades?”

  “Enter the Shade Gate—I have kept it open, though Yyrkoon thinks it closed—then you must seek the Tunnel Under the Marsh which leads to the Pulsing Cavern. In that chamber the runeswords are kept. They have been kept there ever since your ancestors relinquished them...”

  “Why were they relinquished.”

  “Your ancestors lacked courage.”

  “Courage to face what?”

  “Themselves.”

  “You are cryptic, my lord Arioch.”

  “That is the way of the Lords of the Higher Worlds. Hurry. Even I cannot keep the Shade Gate open long.”

  “Very well. I will go.”

  And Arioch vanished immediately.

  Elric called in a hoarse, cracking voice for Dyvim Tvar. Dyvim Tvar entered at once.

  “Elric? What has happened in here? Is it Cymoril? You look...”

  “I am going to follow Yyrkoon—alone, Dyvim Tvar.” You must make your way back to Melnibone with those of our men who remain. Take Cymoril with you. If I do not return in reasonable time, you must declare her empress. If she still sleeps, then you must rule as regent until she wakes.”

  Dyvim Tvar said softly: “Do you know what you do, Elric?”

  Elric shook his head.

  “No, Dyvim Tvar, I do not.”

  He got to his feet and staggered towards the other room where the Shade Gate waited for him.

  Book Three

  And now there is no turning back at all. Elric's destiny has been forged and fixed as surely as the hellswords were forged and fixed aeons before. Was there ever a point where he might have turned off this road to despair, damnation and destruction? Or has he been doomed since before his birth? Doomed through a thousand incarnations to know little else but sadness and struggle, loneliness and remorse—eternally the champion of some unknown cause?

  1.

  Through the Shade Gate

  And Elric stepped into a shadow and found himself in a world of shadows. He turned, but the shadow through which he had entered now faded and was gone. Old Aubec's sword was in Elric's hand, the black helm and the black armour were upon his body and only these were familiar, for the land was dark and gloomy as if contained in a vast cave whose walls, though invisible, were oppressive and tangible. And Elric regretted the hysteria, the weariness of brain, which had given him the impulse to obey his patron demon Arioch and plunge through the Shade Gate. But regret was useless now, so he forgot it.

  Yyrkoon was nowhere to be seen. Either Elric's cousin had had a steed awaiting him or else, more likely, he had entered this world at a slightly different angle (for all the planes were said to turn about each other) and was thus either nearer or farther from their mutual goal. The air was rich with brine—so rich that Elric's nostrils felt as if they had been packed with salt—it was almost like walking under water and just being able to breathe the water itself. Perhaps this explained why it was so difficult to see any great distance in any direction, why there were so many shadows, why the sky was like a veil which hid the roof of a cavern. Elric sheathed his sword, there being no evident danger present at that moment, and turned slowly, trying to get some kind of bearing.

  It was possible that there were jagged mountains in what he judged the east, and perhaps a forest to the west. Without sun, or stars, or moon, it was hard to gauge distance or direction. He stood on a rocky plain over which whistled a cold and sluggish wind, which tugged at his cloak as if it wished to possess it. There were a few stunted, leafless trees standing in a clump about a hundred paces away. It was all that relieved the bleak plain, save for a large, shapeless slab of rock which stood a fair way beyond the trees. It was a world which seemed to have been drained of all life, where Law and Chaos had once battled and, in their conflict, destroyed all. Were there many planes such as this one? Elric wondered. And for a moment he was filled with a dreadful presentiment concerning the fate of his own rich world. He shook this mood off at once and began to walk towards the trees and the rock beyond.

  He reached the trees and passed them, and the touch of his cloak on a branch broke the brittle thing which turned almost at once to ash which was scattered on the wind. Elric drew the cloak closer about his body.

  As he approached the rock he became conscious of a sound which seemed to emanate from it. He slowed his pace and put his hand upon the pommel of his sword.

  The noise continued—a small, rhythmic noise. Through the gloom Elric peered carefully at the rock, trying to locate the source of the sound.

  And then the noise stopped and was replaced
by another—a soft scuffle, a padding footfall, and then silence. Elric took a pace backward and drew Aubec's sword. The first sound had been that of a man sleeping. The second sound was that of a man waking and preparing himself either for attack or to defend himself.

  Elric said: “I am Elric of Melnibone. I am a stranger here.”

  And an arrow slid past his helm almost at the same moment as a bowstring sounded. Elric flung himself to one side and sought about for cover, but there was no cover save the rock behind which the archer hid.

  And now a voice came from behind the rock. It was a firm, rather bleak voice. It said:

  “That was not meant to harm you but to display my skill in case you considered harming me. I have had my fill of demons in this world and you look like the most dangerous demon of all, Whiteface.”

  “I am mortal,” said Elric, straightening up and deciding that if he must die it would be best to die with some sort of dignity.

  “You spoke of Melnibone. I have heard of the place. An isle of demons.”

  “Then you have not heard enough of Melnibone. I am mortal as are all my folk. Only the ignorant think us demons.”

  “I am not ignorant, my friend. I am a Warrior Priest of Phum, born to that caste and the inheritor of all its knowledge and, until recently, the Lords of Chaos themselves were my patrons. Then I refused to serve them longer and was exiled to this plane by them. Perhaps the same fate befell you, for the folk of Melnibone serve Chaos do they not?”

  “Aye. And I know of Phum—it lies in the unmapped East—beyond the Weeping Waste, beyond the Sighing Desert, beyond even Elwher. It is one of the oldest of the Young Kingdoms.”

  “All that is so—though I dispute that the East is unmapped, save by the savages of the West. So you are, indeed, to share my exile, it seems.”

  “I am not exiled. I am upon a quest. When the quest is done, I shall return to my own world.”

  “Return, say you? That interests me, my pale friend. I had thought return impossible.”

  “Perhaps it is and I have been tricked. And if your own powers have not found you a way to another plane, perhaps mine will not save me either.”

  “Powers? I have none since I relinquished my servitude to Chaos. Well, friend, do you intend to fight me?”

  “There is only one upon this plane I would fight and it is not you, Warrior Priest of Phum.” Elric sheathed his sword and at the same moment the speaker rose from behind the rock, replacing a scarlet-fletched arrow in a scarlet quiver.

  “I am Rackhir,” said the man. “Called the Red Archer for, as you see, I affect scarlet dress. It is a habit of the Warrior Priests of Phum to choose but a single colour to wear. It is the only loyalty to tradition I still possess.” He had on a scarlet jerkin, scarlet breeks, scarlet shoes and a scarlet cap with a scarlet feather in it. His bow was scarlet and the pommel of his sword glowed ruby-red. His face, which was aquiline and gaunt, as if carved from fleshless bone, was weather-beaten, and that was brown. He was tall and he was thin, but muscles rippled on his arms and torso. There was irony in his eyes and something of a smile upon his thin lips, though the face showed that it had been through much experience, little of it pleasant.

  “An odd place to choose for a quest,” said the Red Archer, standing with hands on hips and looking Elric up and down. “But I'll strike a bargain with you if you're interested.”

  “If the bargain suits me, archer, I'll agree to it, for you seem to know more of this world than do I.”

  “Well—you must find something here and then leave, whereas I have nothing at all to do here and wish to leave. If I help you in your quest, will you take me with you when you return to our own plane?”

  “That seems a fair bargain, but I cannot promise what I have no power to give. I will say only this—if it is possible for me to take you back with me to our own plane, either before or after I have finished my quest, I will do it.”

  “That is reasonable,” said Rackhir the Red Archer. “Now—tell me what you seek.”

  “I seek two swords, forged millennia ago by immortals, used by my ancestors but then relinquished by them and placed upon this plane. The swords are large and heavy and black and they have cryptic runes carved into their blades. I was told that I would find them in the Pulsing Cavern which is reached through the Tunnel Under the Marsh. Have you heard of either of these places?”

  “I have not. Nor have I heard of the two black swords.” Rackhir rubbed his bony chin. “Though I remember reading something in one of the Books of Phum and what I read disturbed me...”

  “The swords are legendary. Many books make some small reference to them—almost always mysterious. There is said to be one tome which records the history of the swords and all who have used them—and all who will use them in the future—a timeless book which contains all time. Some call it the Chronicle of the Black Sword and in it, it is said, men may read their whole destinies.”

  “I know nothing of that, either. It is not one of the Books of Phum. I fear, Comrade Elric, that we shall have to venture to the City of Ameeron and ask your questions of the inhabitants there.”

  “There is a city upon this plane?”

  “Aye—a city. I stayed but a short time in it, preferring the wilderness. But with a friend, it might be possible to bear the place a little longer.”

  “Why is Ameeron unsuited to your taste?”

  “Its citizens are not happy, indeed, they are a most depressed and depressing group, for they are all, you see, exiles or refugees or travelers between the worlds who lost their way and never found it again. No one lives in Ameeron by choice.”

  “A veritable City of the Damned.”

  “As the poet might remark, aye.” Rackhir offered Elric a sardonic wink. “But I sometimes think all cities are that.”

  “What is the nature of this plane where are, as far as I can tell, no planets, no moon, no sun. It has something of the air of a great cavern.”

  “There is, indeed, a theory that it is a sphere buried in an infinity of rock. Others say that it lies in the future of our own Earth—a future where the universe has died. I heard a thousand theories during the short space of time I spend in the City of Ameeron. All, it seemed to me, were of equal value. All, it seemed to me, could be correct. Why not? There are some who believe that everything is a Lie. Conversely, everything could be the Truth.”

  It was Elric's turn to remark ironically: “You are a philosopher, then, as well as an archer, friend Rackhir of Phum?”

  Rackhir laughed. “If you like! It is such thinking that weakened my loyalty to Chaos and led me to this pass. I have heard that there is a city called Tanelorn which may sometimes be found on the shifting shores of the Sighing Desert. If I ever return to our own world, Comrade Elric, I shall seek that city, for I have heard that peace may be found there—that such debates as the nature of Truth are considered meaningless. That men are content merely to exist in Tanelorn.”

  “I envy those who dwell in Tanelorn,” said Elric.

  Rackhir sniffed. “Aye. But it would probably prove a disappointment, if found. Legends are best left as legends and attempts to make them real are rarely successful. Come—yonder lies Ameeron and that, sad to say, is more typical of most cities one comes across—on any plane.”

  The two tall men, both outcasts in their different ways, began to trudge through the gloom of that desolate wasteland.

  2.

  In the City of Ameeron

  The city of Ameeron came in sight and Elric had never seen such a place before. Ameeron made Dhoz-Kam seem like the cleanest and most well-run settlement there could be. The city lay below the plain of rocks, in a shallow valley over which hung perpetual smoke: a filthy, tattered cloak meant to hide the place from the sight of men and gods.

  The buildings were mostly in a state of semi-ruin or else were wholly ruined and shacks and tents erected in their place. The mixture of architectural styles—some familiar, some most alien—was such that Elric was hard put to se
e one building which resembled another. There were shanties and castles, cottages, towers and forts, plain, square villas and wooden huts heavy with carved ornamentation. Others seemed merely piles of rock with a jagged opening at one end for a door. But none looked well—could not have looked well in that landscape under that perpetually gloomy sky.

  Here and there red fires sputtered, adding to the smoke, and the smell as Elric and Rackhir reached the outskirts was rich with a great variety of stinks.

  “Arrogance, rather than pride, is the paramount quality of most of Ameeron's residents,” said Rackhir, wrinkling his hawklike nose. “Where they have any qualities of character left at all.”

  Elric trudged through filth. Shadows scuttled amongst the close-packed buildings. “Is there an inn, perhaps, where we can enquire after the Tunnel Under the Marsh and its whereabouts?”

  “No inn. By and large the inhabitants keep themselves to themselves...”

  “A city square where folk meet?”

  “This city has no centre. Each resident or group of residents built their own dwelling where they felt like it, or where there was space, and they come from all planes and all ages, thus the confusion, the decay and the oldness of many of the places. Thus the filth, the hopelessness, the decadence of the majority.”

  “How do they live?”

  “They live off each other, by and large. They trade with demons who occasionally visit Ameeron from time to time...”

  “Demons?”

  “Aye. And the bravest hunt the rats which dwell in the caverns below the city.”

  “What demons are these?”

  “Just creatures, mainly minor minions of Chaos, who want something that the Ameeronese can supply—a stolen soul or two, a baby, perhaps (though few are born here)—you can imagine what else, if you've knowledge of what demons normally demand from sorcerers.”

  “Aye. I can imagine. So Chaos can come and go on this plane as it pleases.”