The Weird of the White Wolf Page 10

  “Sail on larboard stern!”

  The lookout must have been half asleep, for the ship bearing down on them could easily be made out from the deck. Elric stepped aside as the captain, a dark-faced Tarkeshite, came running along the deck.

  “What's the ship, captain?” called Moonglum.

  “A Pan Tang trireme—a warship. They're on ram­ming course.” The captain ran on, yelling orders to the helm to turn the ship aside.

  Elric and Moonglum crossed the deck to see the trireme better. She was a black-sailed ship, painted black and heavily gilded, with three rowers to an oar as against their two. She was big and yet elegant, with a high curving stern and a low prow. Now they could see the waters broken by her big, brass-sheathed ram. She had two lateen-rigged sails, and the wind was in her favour.

  The rowers were in a panic as they sweated to turn the ship according to the helmsman's orders. Oars rose and fell in confusion and Moonglum turned to Elric with a half-smile.

  “They'll never do it. Best ready your blade, friend.”

  Pan Tang was an isle of sorcerers, fully human, who sought to emulate the old power of Melnibone. Their fleets were among the best in the Young King­doms and raided with little discrimination. The Theocrat of Pan Tang, chief of the priest-aristoc­racy, was Jagreen Lern, who was reputed to have a pact with the powers of Chaos and a plan to rule the world.

  Elric regarded the men of Pan Tang as upstarts who could never hope to mirror the glory of his an­cestors, but even he had to admit that this ship was impressive and would easily win a fight with the Tarkeshite galley.

  Soon the great trireme was bearing down on them and captain and helmsman fell silent as they realised they could not evade the ram. With a harsh sound of crushed timbers, the ram connected with the stern, holing the galley beneath the waterline.

  Elric stood immobile, watching as the trireme's grappling irons hurtled towards their galley's deck. Somewhat half-heartedly, knowing they were no match for the well-trained and well-armoured Pan Tang crew, the Tarkeshites ran towards the stern, preparing to resist the boarders.

  Moonglum cried urgently: “Elric—we must help!” Reluctantly Elric nodded. He was loathe to draw the runesword from its scabbard at his side. Of late its power seemed to have increased.

  Now the scarlet-armoured warriors were swinging towards where the Tarkeshites waited. The first wave, armed with broadswords and battle-axes, hit the sailors, driving them back.

  Now Elric's hand fell to the hilt of Stormbringer. As he gripped it and drew it, the blade gave an odd, disturbing moan, as if of anticipation, and a weird black radiance flickered along its length. Now it throbbed in Elric's hand like something alive as the albino ran forward to aid the Tarkeshite sailors. Already half the defenders had been hewed down and as the rest retreated, Elric, with Moonglum at his heels, moved forward. The scarlet-armoured war­riors' expressions changed from grim triumph to startlement as Elric's great black-blade shrieked up and down and clove through a man's armour from shoulder to lower ribs.

  Evidently they recognized him and the sword, for both were legendary. Though Moonglum was a skilled swordsman, they all but ignored him as they realised that they must concentrate all their strength on bringing Elric down if they were to survive.

  The old, wild killing-lust of his ancestors now dominated Elric as the blade reaped souls. He and the sword became one and it was the sword, not El­ric, that was in control. Men fell on all sides, scream­ing more in horror than in pain as they realised what the sword had drawn from them. Four came at him with axes whistling. He sliced off one's head, cut a deep gash in another's midriff, lopped off an arm, and drove the blade point first into the heart of the last. Now the Tarkeshites were cheering, following after Elric and Moonglum as they cleared the sink­ing galley's decks of attackers.

  Howling like a wolf, Elric grabbed a rope—part of the black and gold trireme's rigging—and swung to­wards the enemy's decks.

  “Follow him!” Moonglum yelled. “This is our only chance—this ship's doomed!”

  The trireme had raised decks fore and aft. On the foredeck stood the captain, splendid in scarlet and blue, his face aghast at this turn of events. He had expected to get his prize effortlessly, now it seemed he was to be the prize!

  Stormbringer sang a wailing song as Elric pressed towards the foredeck, a song that was at once tri­umphant and ecstatic. The remaining warriors no longer rushed at him, and concentrated on Moon­glum, who was leading the Tarkeshite crew, leaving Elric's path to the captain clear.

  The captain, a member of the theocracy, would be harder to vanquish than his men. As Elric moved towards him, he noted that the man's armour had a peculiar glow to it—it had been sorcerously treated.

  The captain was typical of his kind—stocky, heav­ily-bearded, with malicious black eyes over a strong, hooked nose. His lips were thick and red and he was smiling a little as, with axe in one hand and sword in the other, he prepared to meet Elric, who was running up the steps.

  Elric gripped Stormbringer in both hands and lunged for the captain's stomach, but the man stepped sideways and parried with his sword, swing­ing the axe left-handed at Elric's unprotected head. The albino had to sway to one side, staggered, and fell to the deck, rolling as the broadsword thudded into the deck, just missing his shoulder. Stormbringer seemed to rise of its own accord to block a further axe blow and then chopped upwards to sheer off the head near the handle. The captain cursed and discarded the handle, gripped his broadsword in both hands and raised it. Again Stormbringer acted a fraction sooner than Eric's own reactions. He drove the blade up towards the man's heart. The magic-treated armour stopped it for a second; but then Storm­bringer shrilled a chilling, wailing song, shuddered as if summoning more strength, slipped on the armour again. And then the magic armour split like a nutshell, leaving Elric's opponent bare-chested, his arms still raised for the strike. His eyes widened. He backed away, his sword forgotten, his gaze fixed on the evil runeblade as it struck him under the breast­bone and drove in. He grimaced, whimpered, and dropped his sword, clutching instead at the blade, which was sucking out his soul.

  “By Chardros—not—not—aahhh!”

  He died knowing that even his soul was not safe from the hell-blade borne by the wolf-faced albino.

  Elric wrenched Stormbringer from the corpse, feeling his own vitality increase as the sword passed on its stolen energy, refusing to consider the knowledge that he needed the sword the more he used it.

  On the deck of the trireme, only the galley-slaves were left alive. But the deck was tilting badly, for the trireme's ram and grapples still tied it to the sinking Tarkeshite ship.

  “Cut the grappling ropes and back water—quickly!” Elric yelled. Sailors, realising what was happening, leapt forward to do as he ordered. The slaves backed water, and the ram came out with a groan of split wood. The grapples were cut and the doomed galley set adrift.

  Elric counted the survivors. Less than half the crew were alive, and their captain had died in the first onslaught. He addressed the slaves.

  “If you'd have your freedom, row well towards Dhakos,” he called. The sun was setting, but now that he was in command he decided to sail through the night by the stars.

  Moonglum shouted incredulously: “Why offer them their freedom? We could sell them in Dhakos and thus be paid for today's exertion!”

  Elric shrugged. “I offer them freedom because I choose to, Moonglum.”

  The redhead sighed and turned to supervise the throwing of the dead and wounded overboard. He would never understand the albino, he decided. It was probably for the best.

  And that was how Elric came to enter Dhakos in some style, when he had originally intended to slip into the city without being recognised.

  Leaving Moonglum to negotiate the sale of the trireme and divide the money between the crew and himself, Elric drew his hood over his head and pushed through the crowd which had collected, mak­ing for an inn he knew of by the west gate of the c
ity.

  Chapter Two

  Later that night, when Moonglum had gone to bed, Elric sat in the tavern room drinking. Even the most enthusiastic of the night's roisterers had left when they had noticed with whom they shared the room; and now Elric sat alone, the only light coming from a guttering reed torch over the outside door.

  Now the door opened and a richly-dressed youth stood there, staring in.

  “I seek the White Wolf,” he said, his head at a questioning angle. He could not see Elric clearly.

  “I'm sometimes called that name in these parts,” El­ric said calmly. “Do you seek Elric of Melnibone?”

  “Aye. I have a message.” The youth came in, keep­ing his cloak wrapped about him, for the room was cold though Elric did not notice it.

  “I am Count Yolan, deputy-commander of the city guard,” the youth said arrogantly, coming up to the table at which Elric sat and studying the albino rudely. “You are brave to come here so openly. Do you think the folk of Jharkor have such short memories they can forget that you led their king into a trap scarce two years since?”

  Elric sipped his wine, then said from behind the rim of his cup: “This is rhetoric, Count Yolan. What is your message?”

  Yolan's assured manner left him; he made a rather weak gesture. “Rhetoric to you, perhaps—but I for one feel strongly on the matter. Would not King Darmit be here today if you had not fled from the battle that broke the power of the Sea Lords and your own folk? Did you not use your sorcery to aid you in your flight, instead of using it to aid the men who thought they were your comrades?”

  Elric sighed. “I know your purpose here was not to bait me in this manner. Darmit died on board his flagship during the first attack on Imrryr's sea-maze, not in the subsequent battle.”

  “You sneer at my questions and then proffer lame lies to cover your own cowardly deed,” Yolan said bitterly. “If I had my way you'd be fed to your hell-blade there—I've heard what happened earlier.”

  Elric rose slowly. “Your taunts tire me. When you feel ready to deliver your message, give it to the inn-keeper.”

  He walked around the table, moving towards the stairs, but stopped as Yolan turned and plucked at his sleeve.

  Elric's corpse-white face stared down at the young noble. His crimson eyes flickered with a dangerous emotion. “I am not used to such familiarity, young man.”

  Yolan's hand fell away. “Forgive me. I was self-in­dulgent and should not have let my emotions over­ride diplomacy. I came on a matter of discretion—a message from Queen Yishana. She seeks your help.”

  “I'm as disinclined to help others as I am to ex­plain my actions,” Elric spoke impatiently. “In the past my help has not always been to the advantage of those who've sought it. Darmit, your queen's half-brother, discovered that.”

  Yolan said sullenly: “You echo my own warnings to the queen, sir. For all that, she desires to see you in private—tonight. . .” he scowled and looked away. “I would point out that I could have you arrested should you refuse.”

  “Perhaps.” Elric moved again towards the steps. “Tell Yishana that I stay the night here and move on at dawn. She may visit me if her request is so ur­gent.” He climbed the stairs, leaving a gape-mouthed Yolan sitting alone in the quiet of the tavern.

  Theleb K'aarna scowled. For all his skill in the black arts, he was a fool in love; and Yishana, sprawled on her fur-rich bed, knew it. It pleased her to have power over a man who could destroy her with a simple incantation if it were not for his love-weakness. Though Theleb K'aarna stood high in the hierarchy of Pan Tang, it was clear to her that she was in no danger from the sorcerer. Indeed, her in­tuition informed her that this man who loved to dominate others also needed to be dominated. She filled this need for him—with relish.

  Theleb K'aarna continued to scowl at her. “How can that decadent spell-singer help you where I can­not?” he muttered, sitting down on the bed and stroking her bejewelled foot.

  Yishana was not a young woman, neither was she pretty. Yet there was an hypnotic quality about her tall, full body, her lush black hair, and her wholly sensuous face. Few of the men she had singled out for her pleasure had been able to resist her.

  Neither was she sweet-natured, just, wise, nor self-sacrificing. The historians would append no noble soubriquet to her name. Still, there was some­thing so self-sufficient about her, something denying the usual standards by which a person was judged, that all who knew her admired her, and she was well-loved by those she ruled—loved rather as a wil­ful child is loved, yet loved with firm loyalty.

  Now she laughed quietly, mockingly at her sorcerer lover.

  “You're probably right, Theleb K'aarna, but Elric is a legend—the most spoken-of, least-known man in the world. This is my opportunity to discover what others have only speculated on—his true character.”

  Theleb K'aarna made a pettish gesture. He stroked his long black beard and got up, walking to a table bearing fruit and wine. He poured wine for them both. “If you seek to make me jealous again, you are succeeding, of course. I hold little hope for your ambition. Elric's ancestors were half-demons—his race is not human and cannot be judged by our yardsticks. To us, sorcery is learned after years of study and sacrifice—to Elric's kind, sorcery is intuitive—natural. You may not live to learn his secrets. Cymoril, his beloved cousin, died on his blade—and she was his betrothed!”

  “Your concern is touching.” She lazily accepted the goblet he handed to her. “But I'll continue with my plan, none the less. After all, you can hardly claim to have had much success in discovering the nature of this citadel!”

  “There are subtleties I have not properly plumbed as yet!”

  “Then perhaps Elric's intuition will provide an­swers where you fail,” she smiled. Then he got up and looked through the window at the sky where the full moon hung in a clear sky over the spires of Dhakos. “Yolan is late. If all went properly, he should have brought Elric here by now.”

  “Yolan was a mistake. You should not have sent such a close friend of Darmit's. For all we know, he's challenged Elric and killed him!”

  Again she couldn't resist laughter. “Oh, you wish too hard—it clouds your reason. I sent Yolan because I knew he would be rude to the albino and perhaps weaken his usual insouciance—arouse his curiosity. Yolan was a kind of bait to bring Elric to us!”

  “Then possibly Elric sensed this?”

  “I am not overly intelligent, my love—but I think my instincts rarely betray me. We shall see soon.”

  A little later there was a discreet scratch at the door and a handmaiden entered.

  “Your Highness, Count Yolan has returned.”

  “Only Count Yolan?” There was a smile on Theleb K'aarna's face. It was to disappear in a short while as Yishana left the room, garbed for the street.

  “You are a fool!” he snarled as the door slammed. He flung down his goblet. Already he had been un­successful in the matter of the citadel and, if Elric displaced him, he could lose everything. He began to think very deeply, very carefully.

  Chapter Three

  Though he claimed lack of conscience, Elric's tor­mented eyes belied the claim as he sat at his win­dow, drinking strong wine and thinking on the past. Since the sack of Imrryr, he had quested the world, seeking some purpose to his existence, some meaning to his life.

  He had failed to find the answer in the Dead God's Book. He had failed to love Shaarilla, the wingless woman of Myyrrhn, failed to forget Cymoril, who still inhabited his nightmares. And there were memories of other dreams—of a fate he dare not think upon.

  Peace, he thought, was all he sought. Yet even peace in death was denied him. It was in this mood that he continued to brood until his reverie was bro­ken by a soft scratching at the door.

  Immediately his expression hardened. His crimson eyes took on a guarded look, his shoulders lifted so that when he stood up he was all cool arrogance. He placed the cup on the table and said lightly:

  “Enter!”
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  A woman entered, swathed in a dark red cloak, unrecognisable in the gloom of the room. She closed the door behind her and stood there, motionless and unspeaking.

  When at length she spoke, her voice was almost hesitant, though there was some irony in it, too.

  “You sit in darkness, Lord Elric, I had thought to find you asleep ...”

  “Sleep, madam, is the occupation that bores me most. But I will light a torch if you find the darkness unattractive.” He went to the table and removed the cover from the small bowl of charcoal which lay there. He reached for a thin wooden spill and placed one end in the bowl, blowing gently. Soon the char­coal glowed, and the taper caught, and he touched it to a reed torch that hung in a bracket on the wall above the table.

  The torch flared and sent shadows skipping around the small chamber. The woman drew back her cowl and the light caught her dark, heavy fea­tures and the masses of black hair which framed them. She contrasted strongly with the slender, aes­thetic albino who stood a head taller, looking at her impassively.

  She was unused to impassive looks and the novelty pleased her.

  “You sent for me, Lord Elric—and you see I am here.” She made a mock curtsey.

  “Queen Yishana,” he acknowledged the curtsey with a slight bow. Now that she confronted him, she sensed his power—a power that perhaps attracted even more strongly than her own. And yet, he gave no hint that he responded to her. She reflected that a situation she had expected to be interesting might, ironically, become frustrating. Even this amused her.

  Elric, in turn, was intrigued by this woman in spite of himself. His jaded emotions hinted that Yishana might restore their edge. This excited him and perturbed him at once.

  He relaxed a little and shrugged. “I have heard of you, Queen Yishana, in other lands than Jharkor. Sit down if you wish.” He indicated a bench and seated himself on the edge of the bed.

  “You are more courteous than your Summons sug­gested,” she smiled as she sat down, crossed her legs, and folded her arms in front of her. “Does this mean that you will listen to a proposition I have?”