Elric could not bring himself to reply. All his attention was required to force himself forward. He was consumed by terror. His whole body shook. He sweated and his legs threatened to buckle under him. His grip was so weak that he could barely keep his sword from falling to the floor. And there were hints of something in his memory, something which his brain refused to consider. Had he been here before? His trembling increased. His stomach turned. But he still stumbled on, the brand held before him.
And now the soft, steady thrumming sound grew louder and he saw ahead a small, almost circular aperture at the very end of the tunnel. He stopped, swaying.
“The tunnel ends,” whispered Rackhir. “There is no way through.”
The small aperture was pulsing with a swift, strong beat.
“The Pulsing Cavern,” Elric whispered. “That is what we should find at the end of the Tunnel Under the Marsh. That must be the entrance, Rackhir.”
“It is too small for a man to enter, Elric,” said Rackhir reasonably.
“No...”
Elric stumbled forward until he stood close to the opening. He sheathed his sword. He handed the brand to Rackhir and then, before the Warrior Priest of Phum could stop him, he had flung himself headfirst through the gap, wriggling his body through—and the walls of the aperture parted for him and then closed behind him, leaving Rackhir on the other side.
Elric got slowly to his feet. A faint, pinkish light now came from the walls and ahead of him was another entrance, slightly larger than the other through which he had just come. The air was warm and thick and salty. It almost stifled him. His head throbbed and his body ached and he could barely act or think, save to force himself onward. On faltering legs he flung himself towards the next entrance as the great, muffled pulsing sounded louder and louder in his ears.
“Elric!”
Rackhir stood behind him, pale and sweating. He had abandoned the brand and followed Elric through.
Elric licked dry lips and tried to speak.
Rackhir came closer.
Elric said thickly: “Rackhir. You should not be here.”
“I said I would help.”
“Aye, but . . .”
“Then help I shall.”
Elric had no strength for arguing, so he nodded and with his hands forced back the soft walls of the second aperture and saw that it led into a cavern whose round wall quivered to a steady pulsing. And in the centre of the cavern, hanging in the air without any support at all were two swords. Two identical swords, huge and fine and black.
And standing beneath the swords, his expression gloating and greedy, stood Prince Yyrkoon of Melnibone, reaching up for them, his lips moving but no words escaping from him. And Elric himself was able to voice but one word as he climbed through and stood upon that shuddering floor. “No,” he said.
Yyrkoon heard the word. He turned with terror in his face. He snarled when he saw Elric and then he, too, voiced a word which was at once a scream of outrage.
“No!”
With an effort Elric dragged Aubec's blade from its scabbard. But it seemed too heavy to hold upright, it tugged his arm so that it rested on the floor, his arm hanging straight at his side. Elric drew deep breaths of heavy air into his lungs. His vision was dimming. Yyrkoon had become a shadow. Only the two black swords, standing still and cool in the very centre of the circular chamber, were in focus. Elric sensed Rackhir enter the chamber and stand beside him.
“Yyrkoon,” said Elric at last, “those swords are mine.”
Yyrkoon smiled and reached up towards the blades. A peculiar moaning sound seemed to issue from them. A faint, black radiance seemed to emanate from them. Elric saw the runes carved into them and he was afraid.
Rackhir fitted an arrow to his bow. He drew the string back to his shoulder, sighting along the arrow at Prince Yyrkoon. “If he must die, Elric, tell me.”
“Slay him,” said Elric.
And Rackhir released the string.
But the arrow moved very slowly through the air and then hung halfway between the archer and his intended target.
Yyrkoon turned, a ghastly grin on his face. “Mortal weapons are useless here,” he said.
Elric said to Rackhir, “He must be right. And your life is in danger, Rackhir. Go...”
Rackhir gave him a puzzled look. “No, I must stay here and help you...”
Elric shook his head. “You cannot help, you will only die if you stay. Go.”
Reluctantly the Red Archer unstrung his bow, glanced suspiciously up at the two black swords, then squeezed his way through the doorway and was gone.
“Now, Yyrkoon,” said Elric, letting Aubec's sword fall to the floor. “We must settle this, you and I.”
4.
Two Black Swords
And then the runeblades Stormbringer and Mournblade were gone from where they had hung so long.
And Stormbringer had settled into Elric's right hand. And Mournblade lay in Prince Yyrkoon's right hand.
And the two men stood on opposite sides of the Pulsing Cavern and regarded first each other and then the swords they held.
The swords were singing. Their voices were faint but could be heard quite plainly. Elric lifted the huge blade easily and turned it this way and that, admiring its alien beauty.
“Stormbringer,” he said.
And then he felt afraid.
It was suddenly as if he had been born again and that this runesword was born with him. It was as if they had never been separate.
“Stormbringer.”
And the sword moaned sweetly and settled even more smoothly into his grasp.
“Stormbringer!” yelled Elric and he leapt at his cousin.
“Stormbringer!”
And he was full of fear—so full of fear. And the fear brought a wild kind of delight—a demonic need to fight and kill his cousin, to sink the blade deep into Yyrkoon's heart. To take vengeance. To spill blood. To send a soul to hell.
And now Prince Yyrkoon's cry could be heard above the thrum of the sword-voices, the drumming of the pulse of the cavern.
“Mournblade!”
And Mournblade came up to meet Stormbringer's blow and turn that blow and thrust back at Elric who swayed aside and brought Stormbringer round and down in a sidestroke which knocked Yyrkoon and Mournblade backward for an instant. But Stormbringer's next thrust was met again. And the next thrust was met. And the next. If the swordsmen were evenly matched, then so were the blades, which seemed possessed of their own wills, though they performed the wills of their wielders.
And the clang of the metal upon metal turned into a wild, metallic song which the swords sang. A joyful song as if they were glad at last to be back to battling, though they battled each other.
And Elric barely saw his cousin, Prince Yyrkoon, at all, save for an occasional flash of his dark, wild face. Elric's attention was given entirely to the two black swords, for it seemed that the swords fought with the life of one of the swordsmen as a prize (or perhaps the lives of both, thought Elric) and that the rivalry between Elric and Yyrkoon was nothing compared with the brotherly rivalry between the swords who seemed full of pleasure at the chance to engage again after many millennia.
And this observation, as he fought—and fought for his soul as well as his life—gave Elric pause to consider his hatred of Yyrkoon.
Kill Yyrkoon he would, but not at the will of another power. Not to give sport to these alien swords.
Mournblade's point darted at his eyes and Stormbringer rose to deflect the thrust once more.
Elric no longer fought his cousin. He fought the will of the two black swords.
Stormbringer dashed for Yyrkoon's momentarily undefended throat. Elric clung to the sword and dragged it back, sparing his cousin's life. Stormbringer whined almost petulantly, like a dog stopped from biting an intruder.
And Elric spoke through clenched teeth. “I'll not be your puppet, runeblade. If we must be united, let it be upon a proper understanding.”
&nbs
p; The sword seemed to hesitate, to drop its guard, and Elric was hard put to defend himself against the whirling attack of Mournblade which, in turn, seemed to sense its advantage.
Elric felt fresh energy pour up his right arm and into his body. This was what the sword could do. With it, he needed no drugs, would never be weak again. In battle he would triumph. At peace, he could rule with pride. When he travelled, it could be alone and without fear. It was as if the sword reminded him of all these things, even as it returned Mournblade's attack.
And what must the sword have in return?
Elric knew. The sword told him, without words of any sort. Stormbringer needed to fight, for that was its reason for existence. Stormbringer needed to kill, for that was its source of energy, the lives and the souls of men, demons—even gods.
And Elric hesitated, even as his cousin gave a huge, cackling yell and dashed at him so that Mournblade glanced off his helm and he was flung backwards and down and saw Yyrkoon gripping his moaning black sword in both hands to plunge the runeblade into Elric's body.
And Elric knew he would do anything to resist that fate—for his soul to be drawn into Mournblade and his strength to feed Prince Yyrkoon's strength. And he rolled aside, very quickly, and got to one knee and turned and lifted Stormbringer with one gauntleted hand upon the blade and the other upon the hilt to take the great blow Prince Yyrkoon brought upon it. And the two black swords shrieked as if in pain, and they shivered, and black radiance poured from them as blood might pour from a man pierced by many arrows. And Elric was driven, still on his knees, away from the radiance, gasping and sighing and peering here and there for sight of Yyrkoon who had disappeared.
And Elric knew that Stormbringer spoke to him again. If Elric did not wish to die by Mournblade, then Elric must accept the bargain which the Black Sword offered.
“He must not die!” said Elric. “I will not slay him to make sport for you!”
And through the black radiance ran Yyrkoon, snarling and snapping and whirling his runesword.
Again Stormbringer darted through an opening, and again Elric made the blade pull back and Yyrkoon was only grazed.
Stormbringer writhed in Elric's hands.
Elric said: “You shall not be my master.”
And Stormbringer seemed to understand and become quieter, as if reconciled. And Elric laughed, thinking that he now controlled the runesword and that from now on the blade would do his bidding.
“We shall disarm Yyrkoon,” said Elric. “We shall not kill him.”
Elric rose to his feet.
Stormbringer moved with all the speed of a needle-thin rapier. It feinted, it parried, it thrust. Yyrkoon, who had been grinning in triumph, snarled and staggered back, the grin dropping from his sullen features.
Stormbringer now worked for Elric. It made the moves that Elric wished to make. Both Yyrkoon and Mournblade seemed disconcerted by this turn of events. Mournblade shouted as if in astonishment at its brother's behaviour. Elric struck at Yyrkoon's sword-arm, pierced cloth—pierced flesh—pierced sinew—pierced bone. Blood came, soaking Yyrkoon's arm and dripping down onto the hilt of the sword. The blood was slippery. It weakened Yyrkoon's grip on his runesword. He took it in both hands, but he was unable to hold it firmly.
Elric, too, took Stormbringer in both hands. Unearthly strength surged through him. With a gigantic blow he dashed Stormbringer against Mournblade where blade met hilt. The runesword few from Yyrkoon's grasp. It sped across the Pulsing Cavern.
Elric smiled. He had defeated his own sword's will and, in turn, had defeated the brother sword.
Mournblade fell against the wall of the Pulsing Cavern and for a moment was still.
A groan then seemed to escape the defeated runesword. A high-pitched shriek filled the Pulsing Cavern. Blackness flooded over the eery pink light and extinguished it.
When the light returned Elric saw that a scabbard lay at his feet. The scabbard was black and of the same alien craftsmanship as the runesword. Elric saw Yyrkoon. The prince was on his knees and he was sobbing, his eyes darting about the Pulsing Cavern seeking Mournblade, looking at Elric with fright as if he knew he must now be slain.
“Mournblade?” Yyrkoon said hopelessly. He knew he was to die.
Mournblade had vanished from the Pulsing Cavern.
“Your sword is gone,” said Elric quietly.
Yyrkoon whimpered and tried to crawl towards the entrance of the cavern. But the entrance had shrunk to the size of a small coin. Yyrkoon wept.
Stormbringer trembled, as if thirsty for Yyrkoon's soul. Elric stooped.
Yyrkoon began to speak rapidly. “Do not slay me, Elric—not with that runeblade. I will do anything you wish. I will die in any other way.”
Elric said: “We are victims, cousin, of a conspiracy—a game played by gods, demons and sentient swords. They wish one of us dead. I suspect they wish you dead more than they wish me dead. And that is the reason why I shall not slay you here.” He picked up the scabbard. He forced Stormbringer into it and at once the sword was quiet. Elric took off his old scabbard and looked around for Aubec's sword, but that, too, was gone. He dropped the old scabbard and hooked the new one to his belt. He rested his left hand upon the pommel of Stormbringer and he looked not without sympathy upon the creature that was his cousin.
“You are a worm, Yyrkoon. But is that your fault?”
Yyrkoon gave him a puzzled glance.
“I wonder, if you had all your desire, would you cease to be a worm, cousin?”
Yyrkoon raised himself to his knees. A little hope began to show in his eyes.
Elric smiled and drew a deep breath. “We shall see,” he said. “You must agree to wake Cymoril from her sorcerous slumber.”
“You have humbled me, Elric,” said Yyrkoon in a small, pitiful voice. “I will wake her. Or would...”
“Can you not undo your spell?”
“We cannot escape from the Pulsing Cavern. It is past the time...”
“What's this?”
“I did not think you would follow me. And then I thought I would easily finish you. And now it is past the time. One can keep the entrance open for only a little while. It will admit anyone who cares to enter the Pulsing Cavern, but it will let no one out after the power of the spell dies. I gave much to know that spell.”
“You have given too much for everything,” said Elric. He went to the entrance and peered through. Rackhir waited on the other side. The Red Archer had an anxious expression. Elric said: “Warrior Priest of Phum, it seems that my cousin and I are trapped in here. The entrance will not part for us.” Elric tested the warm, moist stuff of the wall. It would not open more than a tiny fraction. “It seems that you can join us or else go back. If you do join us, you share our fate.”
“It is not much of a fate if I go back,” said Rackhir. “What chances have you?”
“One,” said Elric. “I can invoke my patron.”
“A Lord of Chaos?” Rackhir made a wry face.
“Exactly,” said Elric. “I speak of Arioch.”
“Arioch, eh? Well, he does not care for renegades from Phum.”
“What do you choose to do?”
Rackhir stepped forward. Elric stepped back. Through the opening came Rackhir's head, followed by his shoulders, followed by the rest of him. The entrance closed again immediately. Rackhir stood up and untangled the string of his bow from the stave, smoothing it. “I agreed to share your fate—to gamble all on escaping from this plane,” said the Red Archer. He looked surprised when he saw Yyrkoon. “Your enemy is still alive?”
“Aye.”
“You are merciful indeed!”
“Perhaps. Or obstinate. I would not slay him merely because some supernatural agency used him as a pawn, to be killed if I should win. The Lords of the higher Worlds do not as yet control me completely—nor will they if I have any power at all to resist them.”
Rackhir grinned. “I share your view—though I'm not optimistic about its realism. I see y
ou have one of those black swords at your belt. Will that not hack a way through the cavern?”
“No,” said Yyrkoon from his place against the wall. “Nothing can harm the stuff of the Pulsing Cavern.”
“I'll believe you,” said Elric, “for I do not intend to draw this new sword of mine often. I must learn how to control it first.”
“So Arioch must be summoned.” Rackhir sighed.
“If that is possible,” said Elric.
“He will doubtless destroy me,” said Rackhir, looking to Elric in the hope that the albino would deny this statement.
Elric looked grave. “I might be able to strike a bargain with him. It will also test something.”
Elric turned his back on Rackhir and on Yyrkoon. He adjusted his mind. He sent it out through vast spaces and complicated mazes. And he cried:
“Arioch! Arioch! Aid me, Arioch!”
He had a sense of something listening to him. “Arioch!”
Something shifted in the places where his mind went.
“Arioch...”
And Arioch heard him. He knew it was Arioch.
Rackhir gave a horrified yell. Yyrkoon screamed. Elric turned and saw that something disgusting had appeared near the far wall. It was black and it was foul and it slobbered and its shape was intolerably alien. Was this Arioch? How could it be? Arioch was beautiful. But perhaps, thought Elric, this was Arioch's true shape. Upon this plane, in this peculiar cavern, Arioch could not deceive those who looked upon him.
But then the shape had disappeared and a beautiful youth with ancient eyes stood looking at the three mortals.
“You have won the sword, Elric,” said Arioch, ignoring the others. “I congratulate you. And you have spared your cousin's life. Why so?”
“More than one reason,” said Elric. “But let us say he must remain alive in order to wake Cymoril.”
Arioch's face bore a little, secret smile for a moment and Elric realised that he had avoided a trap. If he had killed Yyrkoon, Cymoril would never have woken again.
“And what is this little traitor doing with you?” Arioch turned a cold eye on Rackhir who did his best to stare back at the Chaos Lord.