The Sleeping Sorceress (22 page)

And sure enough the mist was beginning to surround them. Elric tried to disperse it by waving his arms, but then it had gathered thickly around him and its melancholy groaning filled his ears, its hideous colours blinded his eyes. He tried to rush through it, but it remained with him. And now he thought he heard words amongst the groans. “Elric is weak. Elric is foolish. Elric must die!”

“Stop this!” he cried. He bumped into another body and fell to his knees. He began to crawl, desperately trying to peer through the mist. Now faces formed in the mist—frightful faces, more terrifying than any he had ever seen, even in his worst nightmares.

“Cymoril!” he cried. “Cymoril!”

And one of the faces became the face of Cymoril—a Cymoril who leered at him and mocked him and whose face slowly aged until he saw a filthy crone and, ultimately, a skull on which the flesh rotted. He closed his eyes, but the image remained.

“
Cymoril
,” whispered the voices. “
Cymoril.
”

And Elric grew weaker as he became more desperate. He cried out for Dyvim Tvar, but heard only a mocking echo of the name, as he had heard Cymoril’s. He shut his lips and he shut his eyes and, still crawling, tried to free himself from the groaning mist. But hours seemed to pass before the groans became whines and the whines became faint strands of sound and he tried to rise, opening his eyes to see the mist fading, but then his legs buckled and he fell down against the first step which led to the Ruby Throne. Again he had ignored Cymoril’s advice concerning her brother—and again she was in danger. Elric’s last thought was a simple one:

“I am not fit to live,” he thought.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

To Call the Chaos Lord

As soon as he recovered from the blow which had knocked him unconscious and thus wasted even more time, Elric sent for Dyvim Tvar. He was eager for news. But Dyvim Tvar could report nothing. Yyrkoon had summoned sorcerous aid to free him, sorcerous aid to effect his escape. “He must have had some magical means of leaving the island, for he could not have gone by ship,” said Dyvim Tvar.

“You must send out expeditions,” said Elric. “Send a thousand detachments if you must. Send every man in Melniboné. Strive to wake the dragons that they might be used. Equip the golden battle-barges. Cover the world with our men if you must, but find Cymoril.”

“All those things I have already done,” said Dyvim Tvar, “save that I have not yet found Cymoril.”

A month passed and Imrryrian warriors marched and rode through the Young Kingdoms seeking news of their renegade countrymen.

“I worried more for myself than for Cymoril and I called that ‘morality’,” thought the albino. “I tested my sensibilities, not my conscience.”

A second month passed and Imrryrian dragons sailed the skies to South and East, West and North, but though they flew across mountains and seas and forests and plains and, unwittingly, brought terror to many a city, they found no sign of Yyrkoon and his band.

“For, finally, one can only judge oneself by one’s actions,” thought Elric. “I have looked at what I have done, not at what I meant to do or thought I would like to do, and what I have done has, in the main, been foolish, destructive and with little point. Yyrkoon was right to despise me and that was why I hated him so.”

A fourth month came and Imrryrian ships stopped in remote ports and Imrryrian sailors questioned other travelers and explorers for news of Yyrkoon. But Yyrkoon’s sorcery had been strong and none had seen him (or remembered seeing him).

“I must now consider the implications of all these thoughts,” said Elric to himself.

Wearily, the swiftest of the soldiers began to return to Melniboné, bearing their useless news. And as faith disappeared and hope faded, Elric’s determination increased. He made himself strong, both physically and mentally. He experimented with new drugs which would increase his energy. He read much in the library, though this time he read only certain grimoires and he read those over and over again.

These grimoires were written in the High Speech of Melniboné—the ancient language of sorcery with which Elric’s ancestors had been able to communicate with the supernatural beings they had summoned. And at last Elric was satisfied that he understood them fully, though what he read sometimes threatened to stop him in his present course of action.

And when he was satisfied—for the dangers of misunderstanding the implications of the things described in the grimoires were catastrophic—he slept for three nights in a drugged slumber.

And then Elric was ready. He ordered all slaves and servants from his quarters. He placed guards at the doors with instructions to admit no-one, no matter how urgent their business. He cleared one great chamber of all furniture so that it was completely empty save for one grimoire which he had placed in the very centre of the room. Then he seated himself beside the book and began to think.

When he had meditated for more than five hours Elric took a brush and a jar of ink and began to paint both walls and floor with complicated symbols, some of which were so intricate that they seemed to disappear at an angle to the surface on which they had been laid. At last this was done and Elric spreadeagled himself in the very centre of his huge rune, face down, one hand upon his grimoire, the other (with the Actorios upon it) stretched palm down. The moon was full. A shaft of its light fell directly upon Elric’s head, turning the hair to silver. And then the Summoning began.

Elric sent his mind into twisting tunnels of logic, across endless plains of ideas, through mountains of symbolism and endless universes of alternate truths; he sent his mind out further and further and as it went he sent with it the words which issued from his writhing lips—words that few of his contemporaries would understand, though their very sound would chill the blood of any listener. And his body heaved as he forced it to remain in its original position and from time to time a groan would escape him. And through all this a few words came again and again.

One of these words was a name. “Arioch”.

Arioch, the patron demon of Elric’s ancestors; one of the most powerful of all the Dukes of Hell, who was called Knight of the Swords, Lord of the Seven Darks, Lord of the Higher Hell and many more names besides.

“Arioch!”

It was on Arioch whom Yyrkoon had called, asking the Lord of Chaos to curse Elric. It was Arioch whom Yyrkoon had sought to summon to aid him in his attempt upon the Ruby Throne. It was Arioch who was known as the Keeper of the Two Black Swords—the swords of unearthly manufacture and infinite power which had once been wielded by emperors of Melniboné.

“Arioch! I summon thee.”

Runes, both rhythmic and fragmented, howled now from Elric’s throat. His brain had reached the plane on which Arioch dwelt. Now it sought Arioch himself.

“Arioch! It is Elric of Melniboné who summons thee.”

Elric glimpsed an eye staring down at him. The eye floated, joined another. The two eyes regarded him.

“Arioch! My Lord of Chaos! Aid me!”

The eyes blinked—and vanished.

“Oh, Arioch! Come to me! Come to me! Aid me and I will serve you.”

A silhouette that was not a human form turned slowly until a black, faceless head looked down upon Elric. A halo of red light gleamed behind the head.

Then that, too, vanished.

Exhausted, Elric let the image fade. His mind raced back through plane upon plane. His lips no longer chanted the runes and the names. He lay exhausted upon the floor of his chamber, unable to move, in silence.

He was certain that he had failed.

There was a small sound. Painfully he raised his weary head.

A fly had come into the chamber. It buzzed about erratically, seeming almost to follow the lines of the runes Elric had so recently painted.

The fly settled first upon one rune and then on another.

It must have come in through the window, thought Elric. He was annoyed by the distraction but still fascinated by it.

The fly settled on Elric’s forehead. It was a large, black fly and its buzz was loud, obscene. It rubbed its forelegs together, and it seemed to be taking a particular interest in Elric’s face as it moved over it. Elric shuddered, but he did not have the strength to swat it. When it came into his field of vision, he watched it. When it was not visible he felt its legs covering every inch of his face. Then it flew up and, still buzzing loudly, hovered a short distance from Elric’s nose. And then Elric could see the fly’s eyes and recognize something in them. They were the eyes—and yet not the eyes—he had seen on that other plane.

It began to dawn on him that this fly was no ordinary creature. It had features that were in some way faintly human.

The fly smiled at him.

From his hoarse throat and through his parched lips Elric was able to utter but one word:

“Arioch?”

And a beautiful youth stood where the fly had hovered. The beautiful youth spoke in a beautiful voice—soft and sympathetic and yet manly. He was clad in a robe that was like a liquid jewel and yet which did not dazzle Elric, for in some way no light seemed to come from it. There was a slender sword at the youth’s belt and he wore no helm, but a circlet of red fire. His eyes were wise and his eyes were old and when they were looked at closely they could be seen to contain an ancient and confident evil.

“Elric.”

That was all the youth said, but it revived the albino so that he could raise himself to his knees.

“Elric.”

And Elric could now stand. He was filled with energy.

The youth was taller, now, than Elric. He looked down at the Emperor of Melniboné and he smiled the smile that the fly had smiled. “You alone are fit to serve Arioch. It is long since I was invited to this plane, but now that I am here I shall aid you, Elric. I shall become your patron. I shall protect you and give you strength and the source of strength, though master I be and slave you be.”

“How must I serve you, Duke Arioch?” Elric asked, having made a monstrous effort of self-control, for he was filled with terror by the implications of Arioch’s words.

“You will serve me by serving yourself for the moment. Later a time will come when I shall call upon you to serve me in specific ways, but (for the moment) I ask little of you, save that you swear to serve me.”

Elric hesitated.

“You must swear that,” said Arioch reasonably, “or I cannot help you in the matter of your cousin Yyrkoon or his sister Cymoril.”

“I swear to serve you,” said Elric. And his body was flooded with ecstatic fire and he trembled with joy and he fell to his knees.

“Then I can tell you that, from time to time, you can call on my aid and I will come if your need is truly desperate. I will come in whichever form is appropriate, or no form at all if that should prove appropriate. And now you may ask me one question before I depart.”

“I need the answers to two questions.”

“Your first question I cannot answer. I will not answer. You must accept that you have now sworn to serve me. I will not tell you what the future holds. But you need not fear, if you serve me well.”

“Then my second question is this: Where is Prince Yyrkoon?”

“Prince Yyrkoon is in the South, in a land of barbarians. By sorcery and by superior weapons and intelligence he has effected the conquest of two mean nations, one of which is called Oin and the other of which is called Yu. Even now he trains the men of Oin and the men of Yu to march upon Melniboné, for he knows that your forces are spread thinly across the earth, searching for him. Ask a third.”

“How has he hidden?”

“He has not. But he has gained possession of the Mirror of Memory—a magical device whose hiding place he discovered by his sorceries. Those who look into this mirror have their memories taken. The mirror contains a million memories: the memories of all who have looked into it. Thus anyone who ventures into Oin or Yu or travels by sea to the capital which serves both is confronted by the mirror and forgets that he has seen Prince Yyrkoon and his Imrryrians in those lands. It is the best way of remaining undiscovered.”

“It is.” Elric drew his brows together. “Therefore it might be wise to consider destroying the mirror. But what would happen then, I wonder?”

Arioch raised his beautiful hand. “Although I have answered further questions which are, one could argue, part of the same question, I will answer no more. It could be in your interest to destroy the mirror, but it might be better to consider other means of countering its effects, for it does, I remind you, contain many memories, some of which have been imprisoned for thousands of years. Now I must go. And you must go—to the lands of Oin and Yu which lie several months’ journey from here, to the South and well beyond Lormyr. They are best reached by the Ship Which Sails Over Land and Sea. Farewell, Elric.”

And a fly buzzed for a moment upon the wall before vanishing.

Elric rushed from the room, shouting for his slaves.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

The Ship Which Sails Over Land and Sea

“And how many dragons still sleep in the caverns?” Elric paced the gallery overlooking the city. It was morning, but no sun came through the dull clouds which hung low upon the towers of the Dreaming City. Imrryr’s life continued unchanged in the streets below, save for the absence of the majority of her soldiers who had not yet returned home from their fruitless quests and would not be home for many months to come.

Dyvim Tvar leaned on the parapet of the gallery and stared unseeingly into the streets. His face was tired and his arms were folded on his chest as if he sought to contain what was left of his strength.

“Two perhaps. It would take a great deal to wake them and even then I doubt if they’d be useful to us. What is this ‘Ship Which Sails Over Land and Sea’ which Arioch spoke of?”

“I’ve read of it before—in the Silver Grimoire and in other tomes. A magic ship. Used by a Melnibonéan hero even before there was Melniboné and the empire. But where it exists, and if it exists, I do not know.”

“Who would know?” Dyvim Tvar straightened his back and turned it on the scene below.

“Arioch?” Elric shrugged. “But he would not tell me.”

“What of your friends the water elementals? Have they not promised you aid? And would they not be knowledgable in the matter of ships?”

Elric frowned, deepening the lines which now marked his face. “Aye—Straasha might know. But I’m loath to call on his aid again. The water elementals are not the powerful creatures that the Lords of Chaos are. Their strength is limited and, moreover, they are inclined to be capricious, in the manner of the elements. What is more, Dyvim Tvar, I hesitate to use sorcery, save where absolutely imperative . . .”

“You are a sorcerer, Elric. You have but lately proved your greatness in that respect, involving the most powerful of all sorceries, the summoning of a Chaos Lord—and you still hold back? I would suggest, my lord king, that you consider such logic and that you judge it unsound. You decided to use sorcery in your pursuit of Prince Yyrkoon. The die is already cast. It would be wise to use sorcery now.”

“You cannot conceive of the mental and physical effort involved . . .”

“I can conceive of it, my lord. I am your friend. I do not wish to see you pained—and yet . . .”

“There is also the difficulty, Dyvim Tvar, of my physical weakness,” Elric reminded his friend. “How long can I continue in the use of these overstrong potions that now sustain me? They supply me with energy, aye—but they do so by using up my few resources. I might die before I find Cymoril.”

“I stand rebuked.”

But Elric came forward and put his white hand on Dyvim Tvar’s butter-coloured cloak. “But what have I to lose, eh? No. You are right. I am a coward to hesitate when Cymoril’s life is at stake. I repeat my stupidities—the stupidities which first brought this pass upon us all. I’ll do it. Will you come with me to the ocean?”

“Aye.”

Dyvim Tvar began to feel the burden of Elric’s conscience settling upon him also. It was a peculiar feeling to come to a Melnibonéan and Dyvim Tvar knew very well that he liked it not at all.

Elric had last ridden these paths when he and Cymoril were happy. It seemed a long age ago. He had been a fool to trust that happiness. He turned his white stallion’s head towards the cliffs and the sea beyond them. A light rain fell. Winter was descending swiftly on Melniboné.

They left their horses on the cliffs, lest they be disturbed by Elric’s sorcery-working, and clambered down to the shore. The rain fell into the sea. A mist hung over the water little more than five ship lengths from the beach. It was deathly still and, with the tall, dark cliffs behind them and the wall of mist before them, it seemed to Dyvim Tvar that they had entered a silent netherworld where might easily be encountered the melancholy souls of those who, in legend, had committed suicide by a process of slow self-mutilation. The sound of the two men’s boots on shingle was loud and yet was at once muffled by the mist which seemed to suck at noise and swallow it greedily as if it sustained its life on sound.

“Now,” Elric murmured. He seemed not to notice the brooding and depressive surroundings. “Now I must recall the rune which came so easily, unsummoned, to my brain not many months since.” He left Dyvim Tvar’s side and went down to the place where the chill water lapped the land and there, carefully, he seated himself, cross-legged. His eyes stared, unseeingly, into the mist.

To Dyvim Tvar the tall albino appeared to shrink as he sat down. He seemed to become like a vulnerable child and Dyvim Tvar’s heart went out to Elric as it might go out to a brave, nervous boy, and he had it in mind to suggest that the sorcery be done with and they seek the lands of Oin and Yu by ordinary means.

But Elric was already lifting his head as a dog lifts its head to the moon. And strange, thrilling words began to tumble from his lips and it became plain that, even if Dyvim Tvar did speak now, Elric would not hear him.

Dyvim Tvar was no stranger to the High Speech—as a Melnibonéan noble he had been taught it as a matter of course—but the words seemed nonetheless strange to him, for Elric used peculiar inflections and emphases, giving the words a special and secret weight and chanting them in a voice which ranged from bass groan to falsetto shriek. It was not pleasant to listen to such noises coming from a mortal throat and now Dyvim Tvar had some clear understanding of why Elric was reluctant to use sorcery. The Lord of the Dragon Caves, Melnibonéan though he was, found himself inclined to step backward a pace or two, even to retire to the cliff-tops and watch over Elric from there, and he had to force himself to hold his ground as the Summoning continued.

For a good space of time the rune-chanting went on. The rain beat harder upon the pebbles of the shore and made them glisten. It dashed most ferociously into the still, dark sea, lashed about the fragile head of the chanting, pale-haired figure, and caused Dyvim Tvar to shiver and draw his cloak more closely about his shoulders.

“Straasha—Straasha—Straasha . . .”

The words mingled with the sound of the rain. They were now barely words at all but sounds which the wind might make or a language which the sea might speak.

“
Straasha . . .”

Again Dyvim Tvar had the impulse to move, but this time he desired to go to Elric and tell him to stop, to consider some other means of reaching the lands of Oin and Yu.

“
Straasha!
”

There was a cryptic agony in the shout.

“
Straasha!
”

Elric’s name formed on Dyvim Tvar’s lips, but he found that he could not speak it.

“
Straasha!
”

The cross-legged figure swayed. The word became the calling of the wind through the Caverns of Time.

“
Straasha!
”

It was plain to Dyvim Tvar that the rune was, for some reason, not working and that Elric was using up all his strength to no effect. And yet there was nothing the Lord of the Dragon Caves could do. His tongue was frozen. His feet seemed frozen to the ground.

He looked at the mist. Had it crept closer to the shore? Had it taken on a strange, almost luminous, green tinge? He peered closely.

There was a massive disturbance of the water. The sea rushed up the beach. The shingle crackled. The mist retreated. Vague lights flickered in the air and Dyvim Tvar thought he saw the shining silhouette of a gigantic figure emerging from the sea and he realized that Elric’s chant had ceased.

“King Straasha,” Elric was saying in something approaching his normal tone. “You have come. I thank you.”

The silhouette spoke and the voice reminded Dyvim Tvar of slow, heavy waves rolling beneath a friendly sun.

“
We elementals are concerned, Elric, for there are rumours that you have invited Chaos Lords back to your plane and the elementals have never loved the Lords of Chaos. Yet I know that if you have done this it is because you are fated to do it and therefore we hold no enmity against you.
”

“The decision was forced upon me, King Straasha. There was no other decision I could make. If you are therefore reluctant to aid me, I shall understand that and call on you no more.”

“
I will help you, though helping you is harder now, not for what happens in the immediate future but what is hinted will happen in years to come. Now you must tell me quickly how we of the water can be of service to you.
”

“Do you know ought of the Ship Which Sails Over Land and Sea? I need to find that ship if I am to fulfill my vow to find my love, Cymoril.”

“
I know much of that ship, for it is mine. Grome also lays claim to it. But it is mine. Fairly, it is mine.
”

“Grome of the Earth?”

“
Grome of the Land Below the Roots. Grome of the Ground and all that lives under it. My brother. Grome. Long since, even as we elementals count time, Grome and I built that ship so that we could travel between the realms of Earth and Water whenever we chose. But we quarreled (may we be cursed for such foolishness) and we fought. There were earthquakes, tidal waves, volcanic eruptions, typhoons and battles in which all the elementals joined, with the result that new continents were flung up and old ones drowned. It was not the first time we had fought each other, but it was the last. And finally, lest we destroy each other completely, we made a peace. I gave Grome part of my domain and he gave me the Ship Which Sails Over Land and Sea. But he gave it somewhat unwillingly and thus it sails the sea better than it sails the land, for Grome thwarts its progress whenever he can. Still, if the ship is of use to you, you shall have it.
”

“I thank you, King Straasha. Where shall I find it?”

“
It will come. And now I grow weary, for the further from my own realm I venture, the harder it is to sustain my mortal form. Farewell, Elric—and be cautious. You have a greater power than you know and many would make use of it to their own ends.
”

“Shall I wait here for the Ship Which Sails Over Land and Sea?”

“
No . . .”
the sea-king’s voice was fading as his form faded. Grey mist drifted back where the silhouette and the green lights had been. The sea again was still. “
Wait. Wait in your tower . . . It will come . . .”

A few wavelets lapped the shore and then it was as if the king of the water elementals had never been there at all. Dyvim Tvar rubbed his eyes. Slowly at first he began to move to where Elric still sat. Gently he bent down and offered the albino his hand. Elric looked up in some surprise. “Ah, Dyvim Tvar. How much time has passed?”

“Some hours, Elric. It will soon be night. What little light there is begins to wane. We had best ride back for Imrryr.”

Stiffly Elric rose to his feet, with Dyvim Tvar’s assistance. “Aye . . .” he murmured absently. “The sea-king said . . .”

“I heard the sea-king, Elric. I heard his advice and I heard his warning. You must remember to heed both. I like too little the sound of this magic boat. Like most things of sorcerous origin, the ship appears to have vices as well as virtues, like a double-bladed knife which you raise to stab your enemy and which, instead, stabs you . . .”

“That must be expected where sorcery is concerned. It was you who urged me on, my friend.”

“Aye,” said Dyvim Tvar almost to himself as he led the way up the cliff-path towards the horses. “Aye. I have not forgotten that, my lord king.”

Elric smiled wanly and touched Dyvim Tvar’s arm. “Worry not. The Summoning is over and now we have the vessel we need to take us swiftly to Prince Yyrkoon and the lands of Oin and Yu.”

“Let us hope so.” Dyvim Tvar was privately skeptical about the benefits they would gain from the Ship Which Sails Over Land and Sea. They reached the horses and he began to wipe the water off the flanks of his own roan. “I regret,” he said, “that we have once again allowed the dragons to expend their energy on a useless endeavour. With a squadron of my beasts, we could do much against Prince Yyrkoon. And it would be fine and wild, my friend, to ride the skies again, side by side, as we used to.”

“When all this is done and Princess Cymoril brought home, we shall do that,” said Elric, hauling himself wearily into the saddle of his white stallion. “You shall blow the Dragon Horn and our dragon brothers will hear it and you and I shall sing the Song of the Dragon Masters and our goads shall flash as we straddle Flamefang and his mate Sweetclaw. Ah, that will be like the days of old Melniboné, when we no longer equate freedom with power, but let the Young Kingdoms go their own way and be certain that they let us go ours!”

Dyvim Tvar pulled on his horse’s reins. His brow was clouded. “Let us pray that day will come, my lord. But I cannot help this nagging thought which tells me that Imrryr’s days are numbered and that my own life nears its close . . .”

“Nonsense, Dyvim Tvar. You’ll survive me. There’s little doubt of that, though you be my elder.”

Dyvim Tvar said, as they galloped back through the closing day: “I have two sons. Did you know that, Elric?”

“You have never mentioned them.”

“They are by old mistresses.”

“I am happy for you.”

“They are fine Melnibonéans.”

“Why do you mention this, Dyvim Tvar?” Elric tried to read his friend’s expression.

“It is that I love them and would have them enjoy the pleasures of the Dragon Isle.”

“And why should they not?”

“I do not know.” Dyvim Tvar looked hard at Elric. “I could suggest that it is your responsibility, the fate of my sons, Elric.”

“Mine?”

“It seems to me, from what I gathered from the water elemental’s words, that your decisions could decide the fate of the Dragon Isle. I ask you to remember my sons, Elric.”

“I shall, Dyvim Tvar. I am certain they shall grow into superb Dragon Masters and that one of them shall succeed you as Lord of the Dragon Caves.”

“I think you miss my meaning, my lord emperor.”

And Elric looked solemnly at his friend and shook his head. “I do not miss your meaning, old friend. But I think you judge me harshly if you fear I’ll do ought to threaten Melniboné and all she is.”