Revenge of the Rose (32 page)

 
          
“You
must, for everyone’s sake,” Charion said. “Uncle Fallogard will have need of
you.”

 
          
But
it was fairly clear from Wheldrake’s manner that he had made up his own mind on
the matter.

 
          
“The
horses are ready for us in the stables below,” said Princess Tayaratuka. “Six
horses of copper and silver, as the weaving demands.”

 
          
Wheldrake
watched his friends leave. Something he disliked in himself was grateful that
he did not have to go with them and face such disgusting foes; something else
yearned to go with them, yearned to be part of their epic fight, rather than
its mere recorder …

 
          
A
little later, as he leaned upon the balcony and watched the slow, sickening
advance of that evil, brutified pack, crushing all it encountered and taking
only absent-minded pleasure in the destruction it caused, the poet saw six
figures leave the shadows of the cliff and ride on chestnut, silver-maned
horses without hesitating into the clashing crystals of the forest. Elric, the
three sisters, Charion Phatt and the Rose—side by side they cantered—straight-backed
in their saddles—to do battle with that manifestation of perverse evil and
greedy cruelty—to fight for their very future: for their history; for the
merest memory of their ever having existed somewhere in the vast
multiverse …

 
          
At
this sight, Wheldrake laid down his expectant pen and, instead of concocting
some glorious Romance from the action of those six brave riders, he offered up
an impassioned prayer in respect of the lives and the souls of his cherished
friends.

 
          
Pride
in his companions, together with his fears for their well-being, had struck the
little man speechless.

 
          
Now
he watched as the Rose broke away from her fellows and rode a little way ahead
until she was only a few yards from the first swaying howdahs of the massive
war-beasts, part-mammal, part-reptile, which Chaos habitually used in its
attacks. Already the stupid heads, lips and nostrils glistening with ichor
which hung like dirty ropes from their orifices and left a trail of slime for
the others to follow, were turning to sniff some alien scent, some body not yet
touched and warped by the limitless, cruel and casual creativity of Chaos.

 
          
Then,
from the leading howdah, all hung with human skins and other savageries, poked
out a head to peer down at the Rose as she advanced upon the throng.

 
          
The
helmet was immediately recognized by Wheldrake.

 
          
It
belonged to Gaynor, ex-Prince of the Universal.

 
          
The
death-seeker had come personally to savour the final agonies of these most
irritating of his enemies.

 
          
The
Fight in the Crystalline Wood: Chaos Regenerated. The Tangled Woman. To The
Ship That Was
.

 
          
“Prince
Gaynor,” said the Rose, “you and your warriors have invaded this land.” She
spoke with angry formality. “And we now order you to leave. We are here to
banish Chaos from this realm.”

 
          
Gaynor
said coolly: “Sweet Rose, you have been driven mad by your knowledge of our
power. You should not resist us further, lady. We ourselves are here to
establish Gaynor’s rule once and for all upon your realm. We offer you the
mercy of immediate death.”

 
          
“That
mercy is a lie!” said Charion Phatt from where she sat on her silver-maned
horse beside the others. “All that you say is a lie. And what is not a lie is
mere vainglory!”

 
          
Gaynor’s
mysterious helm turned slowly to regard the young woman and a deep, assured chuckle
escaped the Prince of the Damned. “You have a naïve courage, child, but it is
by no means sufficient to offer resistance to the power Chaos commands. Which
I
command.”

 
          
There
was a fresh note in Gaynor’s voice, a new kind of confidence, and Elric wondered,
with some unease, how the Prince of the Damned had come by it. Gaynor seemed to
believe his position was, if anything, stronger. Did more Chaos Lords group
behind him? Was this to be the beginning of the great battle between Law and
Chaos which so many oracles had predicted in recent centuries?

 
          
As
he watched the Rose raise herself in her saddle and draw her sword Swift Thorn,
Elric marveled at the woman’s self-control; for she faced the creature that had
betrayed her and caused the agonized deaths of all her people. She faced him
and did not reveal in any way her contempt and hatred of him. Yet twice he had
bested her in a struggle without beating her and this he must know. Perhaps
that was the reason for his new-found braggadocio? Perhaps he sought to deceive
them into believing he had more power than was apparent?

 
          
Now
the Rose was riding back to rejoin her friends crying: “Know this, Gaynor the
Damned, whatever is the worst thing you fear,
that
shall be your fate after this day! This I promise you!”

 
          
Gaynor’s
answering laughter had little humour, merely threat. “There is no punishment I
fear, madam. Do you not know that yet? Since I am not permitted the luxury of
death, then I shall find it for myself—and make millions seek it with me! Each
death I cause, lady, consoles me for an instant. You die in my place. All of
you shall die in my place. For me.” His tone became a lover’s and his words
caressed her retreating back like the foul coaxing hand of Vice personified. “For
me
, lady.”

 
          
When
she took her place again with the others, the Rose looked steadily into Gaynor’s
helm, which squirmed with the flames and smoke of his own myriad torments, and
she said: “None of us shall die, Prince Gaynor. Least of all, on your behalf!”

 
          
“My
surrogates!” called Gaynor, laughing again. “My sacrifices! Go to find death!
Go! You do not realize I am your benefactor!”

 
          
But
already the six of them, Elric and the Rose slightly ahead of their companions,
were cantering through the shimmering, jangling forest, their swords drawn,
their chestnut, silver-maned horses, bred in a distant age only for war and
brought here by the sisters from some more barbaric realm, lifting their hoofs
in sprightly anticipation of battle, their heavy harness clattering in unison
with the broken branches of the crystal trees, their great heads nodding in
impatience, their nostrils flaring as they anticipated the stink of blood,
snorting and gnashing their teeth, rolling their eyes and glorying in the
anticipation of the coming fight, for this was what they had been bred to do;
becoming only fully alive when in the thick of violent destruction.

 
          
Elric,
glad to feel such a fine war-stallion under him, understood how these horses
looked forward to the ecstatic oblivion of battle. He, too, knew that singular
joy, when every sense was alert and at its sharpest, when life never seemed
sweeter or death more fearsome—and yet he knew what a false lure it was to lose
himself in such mindless struggle. He wondered, not for the first time, if he
was fated always to seek such struggles out, as if he, like the horses, had
been bred for one special task? Hating it, he swiftly gave himself up to the
thrilling delight of his battle-lust, and soon, as the first of Chaos’s
creatures came against him, he knew nothing but that lust …

 
          
Wheldrake,
watching from the bower far above, saw the six riders converge upon the forces
of Chaos and it seemed that they must be immediately swallowed. The very size
of the Chaos beasts, the weight and grotesque power of the Chaos army, was more
than enough, surely, to crush them in an instant?

 
          
Now
a great shaft of scintillating light illuminated the riders as they merged with
the colossal war-beasts who rumbled relentlessly on through the coruscating
forest. Wheldrake saw six points flickering in that generality of lumbering
limbs and widening jaws—one was a dark radiance he recognized as Stormbringer’s—two
were of ordinary, metallic glint—one more was a creamy white light, another the
grey hard gleam of granite, and the last was the warm glow of ancient gold.
Half-blinded by the crystal’s shattered brightness, Wheldrake lost sight of the
swords again and, when he could see clearly once more, he was astonished!

 
          
Four
half-reptilian monsters lay in agony upon the radiant crystals, their howdahs
crushed as they rolled and bellowed.

 
          
Wheldrake
saw Gaynor’s agitated figure, all angry, living metal, running back into the
heart of his army, seeking a fresh mount. There was a sword in his gauntleted
fist now—a sword that forked black and yellow—a sword whose blade seemed to
twist in and out of the dimensions even as the Damned One wielded it …

 
          
And
Wheldrake guessed that the three sisters were not the only adepts who had sung
a great rune or cast some other potent spell, for the sword in Gaynor’s hand
was unlike any he had borne before.

 
          
Yet
elsewhere, still, the Chaos creatures fell before a kind of thin ribbon of
glittering light which carved into their ranks as surely as a scythe through
wheat …

 
          
Hand
raised against his eyes to see through the blinding crystalline multicoloured
rays that mirrored in some terrible way the beauty of the multiverse, Elric
swung his great black blade this way and that, feeling only the faintest of
resistance as, with thirsty ease, Stormbringer feasted upon the lives and souls
of the warped half-beasts who had once been men and women before they pledged
their miserable lives to Chaos …

 
          
There
was no satisfaction at this killing, even though there was joy in the act of
battle. Each fighter at Elric’s side knew that, but for chance and a certain
firmness of purpose, they, too, might be part of this army of damned
souls … for Chaos was not the master most readily chosen by the
majority of mortals …

 
          
Yet
kill them they must—or be killed. Or see whole realms perish as Chaos gathered
momentum, drawing upon the power of the conquered worlds to accomplish further
conquests …

 
          
With
the grace of dancers, with the precision of surgeons, with the sorrowing eyes
of unwilling slaughterers, the three sisters joined in battle with those who
had already destroyed most of their kinfolk.

 
          
Charion
Phatt, dismounted from a horse she found too unresponsive, darted here and
there with her sword, cutting swiftly at a Chaos creature’s vitals and slipping
in to cut again, using her psychic gifts to anticipate attack from any quarter
and never being present when the attack came. Like the sisters’, her movements
were efficient and she took no pleasure in the destruction …

 
          
 … Only
the Rose shared some of Elric’s joy, for she, like him, had been trained to
battle—even if her enemies were somewhat different—and Swift Thorn struck with
expert skill at exposed organs and vulnerable places on the malformed half-men,
using subtlety and speed as her chief defense—guiding her chestnut-and-silver
warhorse into the densest parts of the Chaos pack’s ranks and slicing so
accurately at a chosen target that she brought one monster tumbling down upon
another, a churning of heavy paws and legs which killed more of their own kind
even as they, themselves, perished.

 
          
The
wild exultant battle-song of his ancestors came to Elric’s lips as he followed
the Rose into the heart of the enemy and the sword fed him the energy it did
not take itself until his eyes glowed almost as hotly as Gaynor’s, so that it
seemed he, too, was filled to bursting with the fires of hell …

 
          
Now
Wheldrake began to gasp as he saw that the six thin needles of radiance still
flickered amongst all that slaughter—and already more than half the apparently
invincible Chaos army was destroyed, a mass of torn and crushed flesh, of
grotesque limbs and even more grotesque heads lifted in the final torments of
unholy death.

 
          
 … while
clambering through this carnage, pushing aside imploring claws and pleading
faces, plunging his steel heels into screaming mouths or agonized eyes, using
for leverage any limb or organ or foothold in bone or flesh he could find, his
flaring Chaos-blazoned armour all spotted with the blood and offal of his
ruined army, came Gaynor the Damned, the black-and-yellow sword forking and
fluttering in his hand like some living flag, and now there were names on his
lips—names which became curses—names which became the synonyms for everything
he hated, feared and most longingly desired …

 
          
 … but
this was a hatred expressed through random, disruptive violence and
destruction; a fear which found its swiftest form in raging aggression; a
desire so intense and so eternally frustrated that this had become the thing in
himself Gaynor hated worst of all and hated in every creature he
encountered …

 
          
 … and
it was upon Elric of Melniboné, who might have been his alter ego, some cosmic
opposite, who had chosen the hardest of roads to follow rather than the
easiest, that Gaynor the Damned concentrated the greatest volume of his enraged
hatred. For Elric might yet become what Gaynor the Damned had been and which he
could never be again …

 
          
 … so
thoroughly saturated with the air of Chaos was Gaynor that at this moment he
was little more than a half-beast himself. He growled and he shrieked as he
crawled over the corpses of his slain warriors, he made hideous, wordless
noises, he slobbered as if he already tasted Elric’s deficient blood …

 
          
“
Elric! Elric of Melniboné! Now I shall send
thee to do eternal service with thy banished master! Elric! Arioch awaits thee.
I offer up to him in friendly reconciliation the soul of his recalcitrant
servitor
 …”

 
          
But
Elric did not hear his enemy. His own ears were full of ancient battle-songs,
his concentration was upon his immediate opponents as, one by one, he cut them
down and took their souls for himself.