“I'm not sure it's quite as easy. But it is certainly easier for the demons to travel back and forth here than it would be for them to travel back and forth in our plane.”
“Have you seen any of these demons?”
“Aye. The usual bestial sort. Coarse, stupid and powerful—many of them were once human before electing to bargain with Chaos. Now they are mentally and physically warped into foul, demon shapes.”
Elric found Rackhir's words not to his taste. “Is that ever the fate of those who bargain with Chaos?” he said.
“You should know, if you come from Melnibone. I know that in Phum it is rarely the case. But it seems that the higher the stakes the subtler are the changes a man undergoes when Chaos agrees to trade with him.”
Elric sighed. “Where shall we enquire of our Tunnel Under the Marsh?”
“There was an old man...” Rackhir began, and then a grunt behind him made him pause.
Another grunt.
A face with tusks in it emerged from a patch of darkness formed by a fallen slab of masonry. The face grunted again.
“Who are you?” said Elric, his sword-hand ready.
“Pig,” said the face with tusks in it. Elric was not certain whether he was being insulted or whether the creature was describing himself.
“Pig.”
Two more faces with tusks in them came out of the patch of darkness. “Pig,” said one.
“Pig,” said another.
“Snake,” said a voice behind Elric and Rackhir. Elric turned while Rackhir continued to watch the pigs. A tall youth stood there. Where his head would have been sprouted the bodies of about fifteen good-sized snakes. The head of each snake glared at Elric. The tongues flickered and they all opened their mouths at exactly the same moment to say again:
“Snake.”
“Thing,” said another voice. Elric glanced in that direction, gasped, drew his sword and felt nausea sweep through him.
Then Pigs, Snake and Thing were upon them.
Rackhir took one Pig before it could move three paces. His bow was off his back and strung and a red-fletched arrow nocked and shot, all in a second. He had time to shoot one more Pig and then drop his bow to draw his sword. Back to back he and Elric prepared to defend themselves against the demons' attack. Snake was bad enough, with its fifteen darting heads hissing and snapping with teeth which dripped venom, but Thing kept changing its form—first an arm would emerge, then a face would appear from the shapeless, heaving flesh which shuffled implacably closer.
“Thing!” it shouted. Two swords slashed at Elric who was dealing with the last Pig and missed his stroke so that instead of running the Pig through the heart, he took him in a lung. Pig staggered backward and slumped to the ground in a pool of muck, He crawled for a moment, but then collapsed. Thing had produced a spear and Elric barely managed to deflect the cast with the flat of his sword. Now Rackhir was engaged with Snake and the two demons closed on the men, eager to make a finish of them. Half the heads of Snake lay writhing on the ground and Elric had managed to slice one hand off Thing, but the demon still seemed to have three other hands ready. It seemed to be created not from one creature but from several. Elric wondered if, through his bargaining with Arioch, this would ultimately be his fate, to be turned into a demon—a formless monster. But wasn't he already something of a monster? Didn't folk already mistake him for a demon?
These thoughts gave him strength. He yelled as he fought. “Elric!”
And: “Thing!” replied his adversary, also eager to assert what he regarded as the essence of his being.
Another hand flew off as Aubec's sword bit into it. Another javelin jabbed out and was knocked aside; another sword appeared and came down on Elric's helm with a force which dazed him and sent him reeling back against Rackhir who missed his thrust at Snake and was almost bitten by four of the heads. Elric chopped at the arm and the tentacle which held the sword and saw them part from the body but then become reabsorbed again. The nausea returned. Elric thrust his sword into the mass and the mass screamed: “Thing! Thing! Thing!”
Elric thrust again and four swords and two spears waved and clashed and tried to deflect Aubec's blade.
“Thing!”
“This is Yyrkoon's work,” said Elric, “without a doubt. He has heard that I have followed him and seeks to stop us with his demon allies.” He gritted his teeth and spoke through them. “Unless one of these is Yyrkoon himself! Are you my cousin Yyrkoon, Thing?”
“Thing...” The voice was almost pathetic. The weapons waved and clashed but they no longer darted so fiercely at Elric.
“Or are you some other old, familiar friend?”
“Thing...”
Elric stabbed again and again into the mass. Thick, reeking blood spurted and fell upon his armour. Elric could not understand why it had become so easy to take the attack to the demon.
“Now!” shouted a voice from above Elric's head. “Quickly!”
Elric glanced up and saw a red face, a white beard, a waving arm. “Don't look at me you fool! Now—strike!”
And Elric put his two hands above his sword hilt and drove the blade deep into the shapeless creature which moaned and wept and said in a small whisper
“Frank...” before it died.
Rackhir thrust at the same moment and his blade went under the remaining snake heads and plunged into the chest and thence into the heart of the youth-body and his demon died, too.
The white-haired man came clambering down from the ruined archway on which he had been perched. He was laughing. “Niun's sorcery still has some effect, even here, eh? I heard the tall one call his demon friends and instruct them to set upon you. It did not seem fair to me that five should attack two—so I sat upon that wall and I drew the many-armed demon's strength out of it. I still can. I still can. And now I have his strength (or a fair part of it) and feel considerably better than I have done for many a moon (if such a thing exists).”
“It said ‘Frank’,” said Elric frowning. “Was that a name, do you think? Its name before?”
“Perhaps,” said old Niun, “perhaps. Poor creature. But still, it is dead now. You are not of Ameeron, you two—though I've seen you here before, red one.”
“And I've seen you,” said Rackhir with a smile. He wiped Snake's blood from his blade, using one of Snake's heads for the purpose. “You are Niun Who Knew All.”
“Aye. Who Knew All but who now knows very little. Soon it will be over, when I have forgotten everything. Then I may return from this awful exile. It is the pact I made with Orland of the Staff. I was a fool who wished to know everything and my curiosity led me into an adventure concerning this Orland. Orland showed me the error of my ways and sent me here to forget. Sadly, as you noticed, I still remember some of my powers and my knowledge from time to time. I know you seek the Black Swords. I know you are Elric of Melnibone I know what will become of you.”
“You know my destiny?” said Elric eagerly. “Tell me what it is Niun Who Knew All!”
Niun opened his mouth as if to speak but then firmly shut it again. “No,” he said. “I have forgotten.”
“No!” Elric made as if to seize the old man. “No! You remember! I can see that you remember!”
“I have forgotten.” Niun lowered his head.
Rackhir took hold of Elric's arm. “He has forgotten, Elric.”
Elric nodded. “Very well.” Then he said, “But have you remembered where lies the Tunnel Under the Marsh?”
“Yes. It is only a short distance from Ameeron, the Marsh itself. You go that way. Then you look for a monument in the shape of an eagle carved in black marble. At the base of the monument is the entrance to the tunnel.” Niun repeated this information parrot-fashion and when he looked up his face was clearer. “What did I just tell you?”
Elric said: “You gave us instructions on how to reach the entrance to the Tunnel Under the Marsh.”
“Did I?” Niun clapped his old hands. “Splendid. I have forgotten that
now, too. Who are you?”
“We are best forgotten,” said Rackhir with a gentle smile. “Farewell, Niun and thanks.”
“Thanks for what?”
“Both for remembering and for forgetting.”
They walked on through the miserable City of Ameeron, away from the happy old sorcerer, sighting the odd face staring at them from a doorway or a window, doing their best to breathe as little of the foul air as possible.
“I think perhaps that I envy Niun alone of all the inhabitants of this desolate place,” said Rackhir.
“I pity him,” said Elric.
“Why so?”
“It occurs to me that when he has forgotten everything, he may well forget that he is allowed to leave Ameeron.”
Rackhir laughed and slapped the albino upon his black armoured back. “You are a gloomy comrade, friend Elric. Are all your thoughts so hopeless?”
“They tend in that direction, I fear,” said Elric with a shadow of a smile.
3.
The Tunnel Under the Marsh
And on they travelled through that sad and murky world until at last they came to the marsh.
The marsh was black. Black spiky vegetation grew in clumps here and there upon it. It was cold and it was dank; a dark mist swirled close to the surface and through the mist sometimes darted low shapes. From the mist rose a solid black object which could only be the monument described by Niun.
“The monument,” said Rackhir, stopping and leaning on his bow. “It's well out into the marsh and there's no evident pathway leading to it. Is this a problem, do you think, Comrade Elric?”
Elric waded cautiously into the edge of the marsh. He felt the cold ooze drag at his feet. He stepped back with some difficulty.
“There must be a path,” said Rackhir, fingering his bony nose. “Else how would your cousin cross?”
Elric looked over his shoulder at the Red Archer and he shrugged. “Who knows? He could be travelling with sorcerous companions who have no difficulty where marshes are concerned.”
Suddenly Elric found himself sitting down upon the damp rock. The stink of brine from the marsh seemed for a moment to have overwhelmed him. He was feeling weak. The effectiveness of his drugs, last taken just as he stepped through the Shade Gate, was beginning to fade.
Rackhir came and stood by the albino. He smiled with a certain amount of bantering sympathy. “Well, Sir Sorcerer, cannot you summon similar aid?”
Elric shook his head. “I know little that is practical concerning the raising of small demons. Yyrkoon has all his grimoires, his favourite spells, his introductions to the demon worlds. We shall have to find a path of the ordinary kind if we wish to reach yonder monument, Warrior Priest of Phum.”
The Warrior Priest of Phum drew a red kerchief from within his tunic and blew his nose for some time. When he had finished he put down a hand, helped Elric to his feet, and began to walk along the rim of the marsh, keeping the black monument ever in sight.
It was some time later that they found a path at last and it was not a natural path but a slab of black marble extending out into the gloom of the mire, slippery to the feet and itself covered with a film of ooze.
“I would almost suspect this of being a false path—a lure to take us to our death,” said Rackhir as he and Elric stood and looked at the long slab, “but what have we to lose now?”
“Come,” said Elric, setting foot on the slab and beginning to make his cautious way along it. In his hand he now held a torch of sorts, a bundle of sputtering reeds which gave off an unpleasant yellow light and a considerable amount of greenish smoke, but it was better than nothing.
Rackhir, testing each footstep with his unstrung bow-stave, followed behind, whistling a small, complicated tune as he went along. Another of his race would have recognised the tune as the Song of the Son of the Hero of the High Hell who is about to Sacrifice his Life, a popular melody in Phum, particularly amongst the caste of the Warrior Priest.
Elric found the tune irritating and distracting, but he said nothing, for he concentrated every fragment of his attention on keeping his balance upon the slippery surface of the slab, which now appeared to rock slightly, as if it floated on the surface of the marsh.
And now they were halfway to the monument whose shape could be clearly distinguished: A great eagle with spread wings and a savage beak and claws extended for the kill. An eagle in the same black marble as the slab on which they tried to keep their balance. And Elric was reminded of a tomb. Had some ancient hero been buried here? Or had the tomb been built to house the Black Swords—imprison them so that they might never enter the world of men again and steal men's souls?
The slab rocked more violently. Elric tried to remain upright but swayed first on one foot and then the other, the brand waving crazily. Both feet slid from under him and he went flying into the marsh and was instantly buried up to his knees.
He began to sink.
Somehow he had managed to keep his grip on the brand and by its light he could see the red-clad archer peering forward.
“Elric?”
“I'm here, Rackhir.”
“You're sinking?”
“The marsh seems intent on swallowing me, aye.”
“Can you lie flat?”
“I can lie forward, but my legs are trapped.” Elric tried to move his body in the ooze which pressed against it. Something rushed past him in front of his face, giving voice to a kind of muted gibbering. Elric did his best to control the fear which welled up in him. “I think you must give me up, friend Rackhir.”
“What? And lose my means of getting out of this world? You must think me more selfless than I am, Comrade Elric. Here...” Rackhir carefully lowered himself to the slab and reached out his arm towards Elric. Both men were now covered in clinging slime; both shivered with cold. Rackhir stretched and stretched and Elric leaned forward as far as he could and tried to reach the hand, but it was impossible. And every second dragged him deeper into the stinking filth of the marsh.
Then Rackhir took up his bow-stave and pushed that out.
“Grab the bow, Elric. Can you?”
Leaning forward and stretching every bone and muscle in his body, Elric just managed to get a grip on the bow-stave.
“Now, I must—Ah!” Rackhir, pulling at the bow, found his own feet slipping and the slab beginning to rock quite wildly. He flung out one arm to grab the far lip of the slab and with his other hand kept a grip on the bow, “Hurry, Elric! Hurry!”
Elric began painfully to pull himself from the ooze. The slab still rocked crazily and Rackhir's hawklike face was almost as pale as Elric's own as he desperately strove to keep his hold on both slab and bow. And then Elric, all soaked in mire, managed to reach the slab and crawl onto it, the brand still sputtering in his hand, and lie there gasping and gasping and gasping.
Rackhir, too, was short of breath, but he laughed. “What a fish I've caught!” he said. “The biggest yet, I'd wager!”
“I am grateful to you, Rackhir the Red Archer. I am grateful, Warrior Priest of Phum. I owe you my life,” said Elric after a while. “And I swear that whether I'm successful in my quest or not I'll use all my powers to see you through the Shade Gate and back into the world from which we have both come.”
Rackhir said quietly: “You are a man, Elric of Melnibone. That is why I saved you. There are few men in any world.” He shrugged and grinned. “Now I suggest we continue towards yonder monument on our knees. Undignified it might be, but safer it is also. And it is but a short way to crawl.”
Elric agreed.
Not much more time had passed in that timeless darkness before they had reached a little moss-grown island on which stood the Monument of the Eagle, huge and heavy and towering above them into the greater gloom which was either the sky or the roof of the cavern. And at the base of the plinth they saw a low doorway. And the doorway was open.
“A trap?” mused Rackhir.
“Or does Yyrkoon assume us perished in Ameeron?” sa
id Elric, wiping himself free of slime as best he could. He sighed. “Let's enter and be done with it.”
And so they entered.
They found themselves in a small room. Elric cast the faint light of a brand about the place and saw another doorway. The rest of the room was featureless—each wall made of the same faintly glistening black marble. The room was filled with silence.
Neither man spoke. Both walked unfalteringly towards the next doorway and, when they found steps, began to descend the steps, which wound down and down into total darkness.
For a long time they descended, still without speaking, until eventually they reached the bottom and saw before them the entrance to a narrow tunnel which was irregularly shaped so that it seemed more the work of nature than of some intelligence. Moisture dripped from the roof of the tunnel and fell with the regularity of heartbeats to the floor, seeming to echo a deeper sound, far, far away, emanating from somewhere in the tunnel itself.
Elric heard Rackhir clear his throat.
“This is without doubt a tunnel,” said the Red Archer, “and it, unquestionably leads under the marsh.”
Elric felt that Rackhir shared his reluctance to enter the tunnel. He stood with the guttering brand held high, listening to the sound of the drops falling to the floor of the tunnel, trying to recognise that other sound which came so faintly from the depths.
And then he forced himself forward, almost running into the tunnel, his ears filled with a sudden roaring which might have come from within his head or from some other source in the tunnel. He heard Rackhir's footfalls behind him. He drew his sword, the sword of the dead hero Aubec, and he heard the hissing of his own breath echo from the walls of the tunnel which was now alive with sounds of every sort.
Elric shuddered, but he did not pause.
The tunnel was warm. The floor felt spongy beneath his feet, the smell of brine persisted. And now he could see that the walls of the tunnel were smoother, that they seemed to shiver with quick, regular movement. He heard Rackhir gasp behind him as the archer, too, noted the peculiar nature of the tunnel.
“It's like flesh,” murmured the Warrior Priest of Phum. “Like flesh.”