To Rescue Tanelorn (44 page)

“This is the power of the Gods of Chaos!” cried Elric, a familiar elation filling him as the blood of old Melniboné was fired. “Surrender!”

“Why do you want them to surrender?” asked the Duke of Queens in some disappointment.

“Their city evidently has the power to fly through the dimensions. If I became its lord I could force it to return to my own plane,” said Elric reasonably.

“The Morphail Effect…” began Werther, but realized he was spoiling the spirit of the game. “Sorry.”

The blue ray came again, but puttered out and faded before it reached them.

“Their power is gone!” cried Elric. “Your sorcery defeats them, my lords. Let us land and demand they honour us as their new rulers.”

With a sigh, Werther ordered the chariot to set down in the largest square. Here they waited until a few of the citizens began to arrive, cautious and angry, but evidently in no mood to give any further resistance.

Elric addressed them. “It was necessary to attack and conquer you, for I must return to my own realm, there to fulfill my great destiny. If you will take me to Melniboné, I will demand nothing further from you.”

“One of us really ought to take a translation pill,” said Werther. “These people probably have no idea where they are.”

A meaningless babble came from the citizens. Elric frowned. “They understand not the High Speech,” he said. “I will try the common tongue.” He spoke in a language neither Werther, the Duke of Queens nor the citizens of this settlement could understand.

He began to show signs of frustration. He drew his sword Stormbringer. “By the Black Sword, know that I am Elric, last of the royal line of Melniboné! You must obey me. Is there none here who understands the High Speech?”

Then, from the crowd, stepped a being far taller than the others. He was dressed in robes of dark blue and deepest scarlet and his face was haughty, beautiful and full of evil.

“I speak the High Tongue,” he said.

Werther and the Duke of Queens were nonplused. This was no-one they recognized.

Elric gestured. “You are the ruler of the city?”

“Call me that, if you will.”

“Your name?”

“I am known by many names. And you know me, Elric of Melniboné, for I am your lord and your friend.”

“Ah,” said Elric lowering his sword, “this is the greatest deception of them all. I am a fool.”

“Merely a mortal,” said the newcomer, his voice soft, amused and full of a subtle arrogance. “Are these the renegades who helped you?”

“Renegades?” said Werther. “Who are you, sir?”

“You should know me, rogue lords. You aid a mortal and defy your brothers of Chaos.”

“Eh?” said the Duke of Queens. “I haven’t got a brother.”

The stranger ignored him. “Demigods who thought that by helping this mortal they could threaten the power of the Greater Ones.”

“So you did aid me against your own,” said Elric. “Oh, my friends!”

“And they shall be punished!”

Werther began: “We regret any damage to your city. After all, you were not invited…”

The Duke of Queens was laughing. “Who are you? What disguise is this?”

“Know me for your master.” The eyes of the stranger glowed with myriad fires. “Know me for Arioch, Duke of Hell!”

“Arioch!” Elric became filled with a strange joy. “Arioch! I called upon thee and was not answered!”

“I was not in this realm,” said the Duke of Hell. “I was forced to be absent. And while I was gone, fools thought to displace me.”

“I really cannot follow all this,” said the Duke of Queens. He set aside his mace. “I must confess I become a trifle bored, sir. If you will excuse me.”

“You will not escape me.” Arioch lifted a languid hand and the Duke of Queens was frozen to the ground, unable to move anything save his eyes.

“You are interfering, sir, with a perfectly—” Werther too was struck dumb and paralyzed.

But Elric refused to quail. “Lord Arioch, I have given you blood and souls. You owe me…”

“I owe you nothing, Elric of Melniboné. Nothing I do not choose to owe. You are my slave…”

“No,” said Elric. “I serve you. There are old bonds. But you cannot control me, Lord Arioch, for I have a power within me which you fear. It is the power of my very mortality.”

The Duke of Hell shrugged. “You will remain in the Realm of Chaos for ever. Your mortality will avail you little here.”

“You need me in my own realm, to be your agent. That, too, I know, Lord Arioch.”

The handsome head lowered a fraction as if Arioch considered this. The beautiful lips smiled. “Aye, Elric. It is true that I need you to do my work. For the moment it is impossible for the Lords of Chaos to interfere directly in the world of mortals, for we should threaten our own existence. The rate of entropy would increase beyond even our control. The day has not yet come when Law and Chaos must decide the issue once and for all. But it will come soon enough for you, Elric.”

“And my sword will be at your service, Lord Arioch.”

“Will it, Elric?”

Elric was surprised by this doubting tone. He had always served Chaos, as his ancestors had. “Why should I turn against you? Law has no attractions for one such as Elric of Melniboné.”

The Duke of Hell was silent.

“And there is the bargain,” added Elric. “Return me to my own realm, Lord Arioch, so that I might keep it.”

Arioch sighed. “I am reluctant.”

“I demand it,” bravely said the albino.

“Oho!” Arioch was amused. “Well, mortal, I’ll reward your courage and I’ll punish your insolence. The reward will be that you are returned whence you came, before you called on Chaos in your battle with that pathetic wizard. The punishment is that you will recall every incident that occurred since then—but only in your dreams. You will be haunted by the puzzle for the rest of your life—and you will never for a moment be able to express what mystifies you.”

Elric smiled. “I am already haunted by a curse of that kind, my lord.”

“Be that as it may, I have made my decision.”

“I accept it,” said the albino, and he sheathed his sword, Stormbringer.

“Then come with me,” said Arioch, Duke of Hell. And he drifted forward, took Elric by the arm, and lifted them both high into the sky, floating over distorted scenes, half-formed dream-worlds, the whims of the Lords of Chaos, until they came to a gigantic rock shaped like a skull. And through one of the eye-sockets Lord Arioch bore Elric of Melniboné. And down strange corridors that whispered and displayed all manner of treasures. And up into a landscape, a desert in which grew many strange plants, while overhead could be seen a land of snow and mountains, equally alien. And from his robes Arioch, Duke of Hell, produced a wand and he bade Elric to take hold of the wand, which was hot to the touch and glittered, and he placed his own slender hand at the other end, and he murmured words which Elric could not understand and together they began to fade from the landscape, into the darkness of limbo where many eyes accused them, to an island in a grey and storm-tossed sea; an island littered with destruction and with the dead.

Then Arioch, Duke of Hell, laughed a little and vanished, leaving the Prince of Melniboné sprawled amongst corpses and ruins while heavy rain beat down upon him.

And in the scabbard at Elric’s side, Stormbringer stirred and murmured once more.

In Which There is a Small Celebration at the End of Time

Werther de Goethe and the Duke of Queens blinked their eyes and found that they could move their heads. They stood in a large, pleasant room full of charts and ancient instruments. Mistress Christia was there, too.

Una Persson was smiling as she watched golden light fade from the sky. The city had disappeared, hardly any the worse for its existence. She had managed to save the two friends without a great deal of fuss, for the citizens had still been bewildered by what had happened to them. Because of the megaflow distortion, the Morphail Effect would not manifest itself. They would never understand where they had been or what had actually happened.

“Who on earth was that fellow who turned up?” asked the Duke of Queens. “Some friend of yours, Mrs. Persson? He’s certainly no sportsman.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t agree. You could call him the ultimate sportsman,” she said. “I am acquainted with him, as a matter of fact.”

“It’s not Jagged in disguise is it?” said Mistress Christia who did not really know what had gone on. “This is Jagged’s castle—but where is Jagged?”

“You are aware how mysterious he is,” Una answered. “I happened to be here when I saw that Werther and the Duke were in trouble in the city and was able to be of help.”

Werther scowled (a very good copy of Elric’s own scowl). “Well, it isn’t good enough.”

“It was a jolly adventure while it lasted, you must admit,” said the Duke of Queens.

“It wasn’t meant to be jolly,” said Werther. “It was meant to be significant.”

Lord Jagged entered the room. He wore his familiar yellow robes. “How pleasant,” he said. “When did all of you arrive?”

“I have been here for some time,” Mrs. Persson explained, “but Werther and the Duke of Queens…”

“Just got here,” explained the Duke. “I hope we’re not intruding. Only we had a slight mishap and Mrs. Persson was good enough…”

“Always delighted,” said the insincere lord. “Would you care to see my new—”

“I’m on my way home,” said the Duke of Queens. “I just stopped by. Mrs. Persson will explain.”

“I, too,” said Werther suspiciously, “am on my way back.”

“Very well. Goodbye.”

Werther summoned an air car, a restrained figure of death, in rags with a sickle, who picked the three up in his hand and bore them towards a bleak horizon.

It was only days later, when he went to visit Mongrove to tell him of his adventures and solicit his friend’s advice, that Werther realized he was still speaking High Melnibonéan. Some nagging thought remained with him for a long while after that. It concerned Lord Jagged, but he could not quite work out what was involved.

After this incident there were no further disruptions at the End of Time until the conclusion of the story concerning Jherek Carnelian and Mrs. Amelia Underwood.

In Which Elric of Melniboné Recovers from a Variety of Enchantments and Becomes Determined to Return to the Dreaming City

Elric was awakened by the rain on his face. Wearily he peered around him. To left and right there were only the dismembered corpses of the dead, the Krettii and the Filkharian sailors destroyed during his battle with the half-brute who had somehow gained so much sorcerous power. He shook his milk-white hair and he raised crimson eyes to the grey, boiling sky.

It seemed that Arioch had aided him, after all. The sorcerer was destroyed and he, Elric, remained alive. He recalled the sweet, bantering tones of his patron demon. Familiar tones, yet he could not remember what the words had been.

He dragged himself over the dead and waded through the shallows towards the Filkharian ship which still had some of its crew. They were, by now, anxious to head out into open sea again rather than face any more terrors on Sorcerers’ Isle.

He determined to see Cymoril, whom he loved, to regain his throne from Yyrkoon, his cousin…

In Which a Brief Reunion Takes Place at the Time Centre

With the manuscript of Colonel Pyat’s rather dangerous volume of memoirs safely back in her briefcase, Una Persson decided it was the right moment to check into the Time Centre. Alvarez should be on duty again and his instruments should be registering any minor imbalances resulting from the episode concerning the gloomy albino.

Alvarez was not alone. Lord Jagged was there, in a disreputable Norfolk jacket and smoking a battered briar. He had evidently been holidaying in Victorian England. He was pleased to see her.

Alvarez ran his gear through all functions. “Sweet and neat,” he said. “It hasn’t been as good since I don’t know when. We’ve you to thank for that, Mrs. P.”

She was modest.

“Certainly not. Jagged was the one. Your disguise was wonderful, Jagged. How did you manage to imitate that character so thoroughly? It convinced Elric. He really thought you were whatever it was—a Chaos Duke?”

Jagged waved a modest hand.

“I mean,” said Una, “it’s almost as if you
were
this fellow ‘Arioch’…”

But Lord Jagged only puffed on his pipe and smiled a secret and superior smile.

THE BLACK BLADE’S SONG

(T
HE
W
HITE
W
OLF’S
S
ONG)