Revenge of the Rose (6 page)

 
          
Wheldrake
was about to ask more when he changed his mind and stared instead, with abiding
pride, at his spit and his catch. Elric’s own cares were considerably lightened
by his relish for the little man’s company and quirks of character.

 
          
And
now Master Wheldrake has found his sought-for volume and has a handy candle to
light at the fire so that he might read aloud to the last Prince of Melniboné
an account of some demigod of his own dimension and his challenge of a
kingship, when there comes a sound of a horse walking slowly through the wheat—a
horse which hesitates with every few steps as if controlled by a clever master.
So Elric shouts out—

 
          
“Greetings,
horseman. Would you share our meat?”

 
          
There’s
a pause, then the answering voice is muffled, distant, yet courteous:

 
          
“I’d
share your heat, sir, for a while. It’s mighty cold just now, to me.”

 
          
The
horse continues towards them at the same pace, still pausing from time to time,
still cautious, until at last they see its shadow against the firelight and a
rider dismounts, walking softly towards them, a silhouette of alarming
symmetry, a big man clad from head to foot in armour that flashes silver, gold,
sometimes blue-grey. On his helm is a plume of dark yellow and his breastplate
is etched with the yellow-and-black Arms of Chaos, the arms of a soulbonded
servant of the Lords of Unlikelihood, which are eight arrows radiating from a
central hub, representing the variety and multiplicity of Chaos. Behind him his
perfect war-stallion was furnished with a hood and surcoat of radiant
black-and-silver silk, a high saddle of ornamental ivory and ebony, and silver
harness bound with gold.

 
          
Elric
got to his feet, ready for confrontation but chiefly puzzled by the stranger’s
appearance. The newcomer wore a helm apparently without a visor, but all of a
piece from neck to crown. Only the eye-slits relieved the smoothness of the
coruscating steel, which seemed to contain living matter just below its
polished surface: matter that flowed and stirred and threatened. Through those
slits peered a pair of eyes displaying an angry pain which Elric understood. He
was unable to identify a feeling of close affinity with the man as he came up
to the fire and stretched gauntleted hands towards the flames. The firelight
caught the metal and again suggested that something living was contained in it,
trapped in it—some enormous energy, so powerful it could be observed
through
the steel. And yet the fingers
stretched and curled like any fleshly finger warmed back to circulation, and
the stranger’s sigh was one of simple comfort.

 
          
“Will
you take a little rabbit, sir?” Wheldrake gestured towards the roasting coney.

 
          
“Thank
you, no, sir.”

 
          
“Will
you unburden yourself of your helm and sit with us? You’re in no danger.”

 
          
“I
believe you, sir. But I am unable to remove this helm at present and have not,
I’ll be frank, fed upon commonplace sustenance for some while.”

 
          
At
this Wheldrake raised a ruddy eyebrow. “Does Chaos send her servants to become
cannibals, these days, sir?”

 
          
“She’s
had servants a-plenty who have been that,” said the armoured man, turning his
back now to the fire’s heat, “but I am not of their number. I have not eaten
flesh, fruit or vegetable, sir, for nigh on two thousand years. Or it could be
more. I ceased attempting such a reckoning long ago. There are realms that are
always Night and realms sweltering in perpetual Day and others where night and
day fly by with a speed not of our usual perception.”

 
          
“Some
sort of vow, is it, sir?” says Wheldrake tentatively. “Some holy purpose?”

 
          
“A
quest, aye, but for something simpler, sir, than you would believe.”

 
          
“What
are you seeking, sir? A particular lost bride?”

 
          
“You
are perceptive, sir.”

 
          
“Merely
well-read, sir. But that is not all, eh?”

 
          
“I
seek nothing less than death, sir. It is to that unhappy doom that the Balance
did consign me when I betrayed her those numberless millennia since. It is also
my doom to fight against those who serve the Balance, though I love the Balance
with a ferocity, sir, that has never dissipated. It was ordained—though I have
no reason to trust the oracle in question—that I should find peace at the hand
of a servant of the Balance—one who was as I once was.”

 
          
“And
what were you once?” enquired Wheldrake, who had followed this last a little
more swiftly than the albino.

 
          
“I
was once a Prince of the Balance, a Servant and Confidant of that Unordinary
Intelligence that tolerates, celebrates and loves all life throughout the
multiverse and yet which both Law and Chaos would overthrow if they could.
Discontented with multiplicity and massive adjustment in the multiverse,
guessing something of a great conjunction which must come throughout the Key
Planes and set the realities for countless aeons—realities where the Balance
might no longer exist, I gave in to experiment. The notion was too strong for
me. Curiosity and folly, self-importance and pride led me to convince myself
that in doing what I attempted to do, I served the interests of the Balance.
And for my failure, or my success, I would have paid an equal price. The price
I now pay.”

 
          
“That
is not the whole of your story, sir.” Wheldrake was enthralled. “You will not
bore me, I know, if you wish to embroider it with more detail.”

 
          
“I
cannot, sir. I speak as I do because that is all I am allowed to unburden of my
tale. The rest is for me alone to know until such time I shall be released and
then it can be told.”

 
          
“Released
by death, sir? It would create some difficulties regarding the telling, I’d
guess.”

 
          
“The
Balance doubtless will decide such things,” said the stranger, without much
humour.

 
          
“Is
general death all you look for, sir? Or has death a name?” Elric spoke softly,
with some sympathy.

 
          
“I
am seeking three sisters. They came this way, I think, a few days since. Would
you have seen three sisters? Riding together?”

 
          
“I
regret, sir, that we are but recently transported to this realm, through no
desire of our own, and thus are newly here without maps or directions.” Elric
shrugged. “I had hoped you would know a little of the place.”

 
          
“It
is in what they call the Nine Millionth Ring, the maguses here. It exists
within what they have formalized as the Realms of Central Significance, and it
is true there is an unusual quality to the plane which I have yet to identify.
It is not a true Centre, for that is the Realm of the Balance, but it is what I
would call a quasi-centre. You’ll forgive the jargon, sir, I hope, of the
philosopher. I was for some generations an alchemist in
Prague
.”

 
          
“
Prague
!” cries Wheldrake with a caw of delighted
recognition. “Those bells and towers, sir. And do you know Mirenburg, perhaps?
Even more beautiful!”

 
          
“The
memories are no doubt pleasant enough,” says the armoured man, “since I do not
recall them. I would take it that you, too, are upon a quest here?”

 
          
“Not
I, sir,” says Wheldrake, “unless it be for Putney Common and my lost half-pint.”

 
          
“I
am seeking something, aye,” agreed Elric cautiously. He had hoped to learn a
little of the geography rather than the mystical and astrological placing of
this world. “I am Elric of Melniboné.”

 
          
His
name does not seem of any great significance to the armoured man. “And I am
Gaynor, once a Prince of the Universal, now called the Damned. Perhaps we have
met? Without these names or even faces? In some other incarnation?”

 
          
“It
is not my misfortune to recall any other lives,” says Elric softly, at last
disturbed by Gaynor’s enquiries. “I understand you only a little, sir. I am a
mercenary soldier en route to a new location with a view to finding myself a
fresh patron. To the supernatural, I am almost a stranger.”

 
          
And
he was grateful that Wheldrake’s eyebrows were rising at that moment from
behind Gaynor. Why he should decide upon such subterfuge he did not understand,
only that, for all his being drawn to Gaynor, for all their mutual patronage
under Chaos, he feared something in him. Gaynor had no reason to wish him harm
and Elric guessed that Gaynor did not waste anything of himself in meaningless
challenges or killings, yet still Elric grew more close-lipped, as if he, too,
were fated by the Balance never to speak of his own story, and at length they
settled down to sleep, three strange figures in what appeared to be an infinity
of wheat.

 
          
Early
the next morning, Gaynor resumed his saddle. “I was glad of the company,
gentlemen. If you travel yonder, you’ll find a pretty settlement. The people
there are traders and welcome strangers. They treat us, indeed, with unusual
respect. I go on my way. I have been informed that my sisters journeyed towards
a place called the Gypsy Nation. Know you anything of that?”

 
          
“I
regret, sir,” said Wheldrake, wiping his hands upon an enormous red cotton
handkerchief, “we are virgins in this world. Innocent as babes. We are wholly
at a disadvantage, having but recently arrived in this realm and having no
notion of its people or its gods. Perhaps, if I might be somewhat forward, I
would suggest that you are yourself of divine or semi-divine origin?”

 
          
The
answering laugh seemed to find an internal echo, as if the prince’s helm
disguised the entrance to some infinite chasm. It was far away, yet oddly
intimate. “I told you, Master Wheldrake. I was a Prince of the Balance. But not
now. Now, I assure you, sir, there is nothing divine about Gaynor the Damned.”

 
          
Murmuring
that he still did not understand the significance of the prince’s title, Wheldrake
subsided. “If we could help, sir, we would—”

 
          
“Who
are these women you seek?” Elric asked.

 
          
“Three
sisters, similar in looks and upon a quest or errand of some singular urgency
to themselves. They are searching, I gather, for a lost countryman or perhaps
even a brother and had asked hereabouts for the Gypsy Nation. When the people
heard they sought the Nation they put them on their way but refused all further
intercourse. My only advice to you would be to avoid the subject completely,
unless it is raised by them! I have a suspicion, moreover, that once you
encounter this band of nomads, you have precious little chance of leaving their
ranks unscathed.”

 
          
“I
am grateful for your advice, Prince Gaynor,” said Elric. “And did you learn who
grows so much wheat, and why?”