The White Wolf's Son: The Albino Underground Page 13

  He removed his gloves as he advanced towards the fierce wolf and held out his right hand.

  “I thank you for your hospitality, sir. I have made a long journey and would trouble you for some minor assistance.”

  After some hesitation the wolf unbuttoned his right gauntlet and, removing it, extended his own hand to Elric.

  “I am Sir Edwold Krier, Knight Lieutenant of the Order of the Wolf. I rule this province on behalf of our great King Huon, whose throne is in distant Granbretan, at the very center of the world. I fear I am unfamiliar with your rank and station.”

  “Prince Elric of Melniboné.” Elric offered the man a slight bow. “My lands are far from here. Ours is an island nation. We have heard a little of this continent, and I come as an emissary, in peace.”

  “Then you are welcome, for we of the Empire of Granbretan wish only peace to our neighbors. We fear the aggression of those who envy us our wealth and way of life.”

  The masked man bowed and signed for Elric to follow some servants into the interior of the castle.

  “Granbretan?” Elric pretended to be puzzled. “But that, too, I understand, is an island, some many leagues from here.”

  “Indeed it is. I miss its sophistication, its pleasures. But I have my duty to do here. Sometimes it is fated that a man serves his nation best in some far-flung corner of a foreign land …”

  Now they were inside a rather starkly furnished hall, with functional chairs, benches and tables, some wall hangings, a few battle flags, a rather moth-eaten collection of large animal heads, some of which were unfamiliar to Elric. There was a melancholy air about the whole place. Clearly Krier had no family here, but the man was a good host. Wine was called for and brought. Out of politeness, Elric sipped a little, though he had little taste for what these people cultivated in their vineyards.

  “I sympathize,” said Elric, who missed the complex and varied pleasures he had forsaken when Imrryr had fallen to his own hand. Only as he grew older did he fully appreciate what he had destroyed. “Is there nothing you can do here? Some musicians, perhaps? I take it you are lord of this castle.”

  “I am governor commander of this province, which they call Raulevici or Seneschal, in the County of Wäldenstein.”

  “Your nation has conquered Wäldenstein? They attacked you?”

  “Europe is full of those who plot against Granbretan. We attacked them before they and their allies attacked us. They are no longer a serious threat to us.”

  “Very wise,” said Elric dryly. “And the threat is now averted, I take it.”

  “Apart from a few insurgents. Supporters of the old, unjust regime we supplanted. Such terrorists represent only a small fraction of Wäldensteiners, who are essentially a peaceful people with no great interest whether their prince or the protector general rules in Mirenburg.”

  If Elric expected Edwold Krier to remove his ornate helmet once they were inside, he was wrong. Only local troops went unmasked, it seemed. The wide, Slavic faces of the ordinary guards were visible, but those who commanded them were Granbretanners whose grotesque beast masks were never removed.

  Even when wine was poured for them, Sir Edwold sipped his through a specially shaped mouthpiece. Elric felt as if he were being entertained by some nonhuman creature. Yet Edwold Krier was pleasant enough, bidding Elric sit and rest while a female slave removed his boots and bathed his feet. He found this surprisingly refreshing.

  “You must stay the night, Lord Elric, and tell us something of your lands. We are starved for news here, as you can tell. Have you traveled through many of our towns? What kind of horse is that hairy steed of yours? I have seen nothing like it. And you are so lightly clad and armed!”

  “Thieves,” said Elric, “in the Bulgar mountains. I was set upon, my retinue slain, save for those who were able to retreat. It is possible they made it home. My gold and horses stolen, all but the one. My horse Samson has a preference to remain with me. His speed got me clear of the brigands.” He shrugged, almost daring his host to disbelieve him. “We wandered a good distance, I think, before I recovered my senses in your forest.”

  “My condolences. You have traveled many leagues. I am surprised our border patrols did not help you. Even though we do all we can to secure this savage land, insurgents still manage to form bands. Be assured, sir, those who have done this will be hunted down and captured. They must learn that the protection of the banner of Granbretan is real. Tomorrow you will, I hope, show me on the map where you were attacked, and I will send a message. Your property will be recovered, and justice will be delivered.”

  “I am grateful, sir.” Elric was to some degree amused by such pompous boasts. He knew that the Bulgar mountains were very far from here and almost certainly outside Granbretan’s effective jurisdiction.

  “Granbretan’s laws shall not be broken,” continued Edwold Krier. “From ocean to ocean one rule shall apply in the name of our noble King Huon, who lives forever, as our power lives forever.”

  Elric was scarcely able to repress his sardonic tongue at all this vainglory. He had heard such boasts once made by his own people, who had lived to see Melniboné’s towers crumble, her people slain or in chains and all her power turned to pain in the space of a single day. He wondered at the hubris of empires and whether their very size made them collapse so swiftly and decisively when they did fall.

  The two men passed the time in less boastful discussion, with Elric remarking on the beauty of the woods and the architecture of the castle while Edwold Krier told him of the original Wäldensteiner aristocrats who had lived there until they were unwise enough to rise against the Empire. Then dinner was served, and Elric was astonished at the ingenuity of his host, who managed to eat heartily without once removing his helmet.

  The hall was lit by tall oil lamps with reflectors of beaten silver to amplify and spread their flames. The light was caught by the bronze and steel of Sir Edwold’s wolf mask as, in response to Elric’s courteous questions, he explained that it was considered poor manners in Granbretan to remove the helm of one’s clan. He had the honor of belonging to what was the most prestigious and noblest, the Order of the Wolf, the same as that of Baron Meliadus, the Order’s Grand Marshal, second only to King Huon the Immortal, and the greatest active power in the Empire.

  Clearly Sir Edwold Krier hero-worshipped the grand marshal, eulogizing his valor, his wisdom, his influence, so that Elric pretended to be openmouthed with admiration while he sat concocting a plan which would involve some modest sorcery and might get him into Wäldenstein’s capital undetected. He had to hope that he had not been misled and that his powers would be effective in this world. He then feigned sleep in his chair and was wakened by Sir Edwold’s good-natured suggestion that he retire.

  “You are a kind host, sir. I must admit that my energy is not as other men’s. Were it not for potions prepared for me by my people’s apothecaries, I fear I would hardly be able to move abroad.”

  “I have heard this is a trait amongst people of your coloration,” said Sir Edwold. “You have weak eyes, I gather. And are lassitudinous by nature.”

  Elric smiled and shook his head. “My albinism is different to any you might be familiar with. My eyesight is no worse than any of my other frailties. Few albinos in your lands have red eyes. Generally they are blue or grey. Just as with your people’s albinism, mine is inherited, blood which from time to time recurs in my family. But I assure you, neither true albinos nor albinos of my kind are necessarily unhealthy for want of a little pigment.”

  “Forgive me—I had not meant to—”

  “You made a common judgment, sir. I am not offended.”

  The wolf rose in his seat. “Then I’ll let you restore yourself, Lord Elric. Tomorrow you must, if you will, tell me more of your land. I admit I have never before even heard of a red-eyed, ivory-skinned race with tapering ears. I am a poorly educated man, I fear.”

  He seemed to have missed Elric’s point.

  “Believe me, sir,
I am as ignorant of your world as you are of mine.” Elric got up from his chair to follow a servant to his room. The young fellow was broad-faced with fair hair and pale blue eyes, evidently of local stock. His features also had a closed, self-possessed quality Elric noticed at once, and there was a sense of contained anger, which Elric understood. When they reached his room Elric closed the door. “How long have you served your master?” he asked in the Slavic dialect he had learned hundreds of years earlier.

  The man was surprised, frowning. “Since the fall of Mirenburg,” he said, “my lord.”

  “Those Granbretanners seem excellent warriors, eh?”

  “The Dark Empire conquers all she makes war upon.”

  “She’s a just empire, is she?”

  The man looked him in the eye. “They are the law, my lord, so we must assume they are just.”

  Elric could tell he dealt with a man of great education and not a little irony. He smiled. “They seem insecure braggarts to me. How did they come by their power?”

  “By growing rich, my lord. By building great engines of destruction. By controlling the trade and manufacturing of every nation they conquered. They mean to destroy the world, my lord, and rebuild it in the image of Granbretan.” Now there was a glimmer of fire in the young eyes. Elric was sure he had rightly judged his man.

  “So it would seem. Do they all wear masks?”

  “All, my lord. Only their lowlier slaves and servants go naked-faced, as they call it. This is one of the means by which they distinguish the conquered from the conquerors. To them it is an outrage to go about unmasked. Most wives, for instance, have never seen their husbands’ faces.”

  “Does Sir Edwold Krier have many visitors of his own kind?”

  “We are a remote province, my lord, and no threat to the Empire. I believe Sir Edwold has relatives in his native Vamerin, a town not far from Londra. They maintain a certain influence at court, I understand, and obtained the stewardship of our little province for him. I gather”—the Wäld dropped his gaze to the carpet—“I gather there was no other employment for him. He has few friends. He relies on clan loyalties and his clan’s influence at court.”

  “So few know him?”

  “I understand that to be the case, my lord.” There were questions in the young man’s eyes when he next looked up.

  “Do you know Mirenburg?”

  “I was educated there, before the conquest.”

  “It’s a rich place, I gather. A manufacturing center. Could you guide me about the city, if I needed it?”

  “I think so, my lord. But I don’t believe Sir Edwold would permit such a thing. And if I left without his permission, I would be killed.”

  “Your master will gladly order you to accompany me.”

  “With respect, I find that unlikely, my lord.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Yaroslaf Stredic, my lord.”

  “What is your background?”

  “I was once cousin to the prince of this place. Now that he is dead, I am its hereditary prince.”

  “And would you earn a title for yourself again?”

  Stredic’s face was a mixture of expressions. Elric’s smile was thin, questioning.

  “Well, Master Stredic, I intend to take you into my confidence. I possess certain powers in what some of your folk call the Dark Arts.”

  “You’re a sorcerer?” Stredic’s pale eyes widened.

  “I have a few small skills in that direction. I hope to employ some of them tonight.”

  Now Stredic frowned. For a moment he seemed genuinely afraid. Cautiously he murmured, “I am not sure I entirely believe in magic, my lord.”

  “I have learned how to call on beings who are invisible to the majority of us, marshal energies which others cannot summon easily. I have gained certain disciplines.”

  Elric preferred to be counted as a clever conjurer or a charlatan. He was amused by Stredic’s mixture of superstition and disbelief, even a hint of disapproval. He took something of a risk by trusting the man but guessed Stredic hated Granbretan enough to cooperate. Swiftly he explained what he intended to do and what the risks were.

  Two hours later, when the castle slept, Elric left his room and, led by Yaroslaf Stredic, found Edwold Krier’s apartments. Only one armed guard stood on duty outside his door, and the man had no suspicion. His wolf mask turned casually as the two men approached.

  Elric smiled as he greeted him. “I wonder if you have seen the twin of this object.” He held up his hand to display what was in his palm. The wolf mask looked, and its eyes were instantly fixed on the mirror Elric showed him. His limbs slackened, and his eyes grew dreamy. Then, slowly, he sank to the floor.

  Stredic was impressed. He kept silent as Elric opened the door and entered the antechamber. It was empty. A lantern burned from a central chain. It gave off light enough for the two men to pass into the bedroom, where Edwold Krier, his face covered by a Granbretanian “night mask” of gauze, slept the sleep of the just.

  This time Elric used what he called “low sorcery” to keep Sir Edwold sleeping. Next he removed the man’s mask to reveal a small, sharp face, more like a common rodent’s than an aggressive wolf’s. The flesh was almost repulsively pallid, kept as it had been from normal sunlight. The brown, sightless eyes, which Elric prized open, were vacant, bovine. The fleshy lips were slack, the teeth dull, yellowed. Elric smiled at a small joke Yaroslaf Stredic made regarding the true nature of the wolf.

  Then, with a warning to his companion to step away, Elric began his spell.

  Stredic looked on in some fear as the albino’s head fell back and his long, milk-white hair streamed out from his head in an invisible wind. Alien words poured from his pale lips, and his crimson eyes blazed with impossible fires. His voice rose and fell, creating mountains and valleys of sound. The bedchamber began to stir with shadows half-seen in the flickering light. Stredic felt the movements of chill breezes upon his flesh, so that he was tempted to back out of the room and seek cover. But Elric had reassured him that he would come to no harm, so he watched in fascination as Elric’s own face writhed and warped and his red eyes slowly changed to the color of Edwold Krier’s. When he next turned and spoke to the Wäld, it was in the voice and accents of the prone Seneschal.

  Then Elric stretched out his hand and touched the sleeping man’s arm. Slowly he leached all the color out of Edwold Krier’s flesh and took it for himself. When his skin was identical in color to the governor’s, and the governor’s pale as his own, he next went to a specially constructed stand at the head of the bed and removed the great wolf mask, raising it up and settling it down over his own head.

  “It fits. I’ll need no spell to change its size.” His voice was muffled by the helmet. He took it off again and set it back on its stand.

  Yaroslaf Stredic noticed how strange Elric’s long, handsome skull looked with its brown eyes and darker skin, but he was even more disturbed by what appeared to be Krier’s bloodless corpse lying on the bed.

  “Now,” said Elric, “as soon as we have moved this pale object to my room, set certain checks on his memory and left a few misleading clues, we ride for Mirenburg, you and I!”

  Yaroslaf Stredic looked with barely controlled horror at Elric as the Melnibonéan flung up his naked head and howled with laughter.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PROTECTOR OLIN DESLEUR, Knight Commander of the Order of the Wolverine, Governor of the City of Mirenburg, hero of the Battle of Snodgart, rose from his great bed of furs and silks, naked in all his manly glory, a thin helmet of gold and platinum snarling on his shoulders, giving him the appearance of a waking werewolf. He stretched and yawned. His boy slaves still lay sleeping in the bed. He ignored them as women came forward to bathe him with hot towels. He felt relaxed and sated, having enjoyed a night in which two of his boys had met their deaths pleasuring him. Their bodies had already been removed. Now he let the women bring his vulpine day mask, its massive jeweled helm thick with sharp silv
er teeth in a grinning muzzle of dark platinum, and place it over his head skillfully, on pain of death, as they slipped his night mask from beneath the more substantial one in such a way that his face was not glimpsed even for a moment. He then strolled onto his balcony to breakfast while Mirenburg began to move about her business.

  Olin Desleur was reasonably content with what he was inclined to call his exile from the court of Londra, where ancient King Huon, artificially kept alive in a globe of fluid, schemed further conquest with his favorite, Baron Meliadus of Kroiden, Grand Master of the Wolf, conqueror of the Kamarg. While Mirenburg could be boring, and he missed his native fells, there was a certain security in being absent from the intrigues of the court.

  At court one could die suddenly and in great humiliation merely for taking half a step in the wrong direction or being overheard insulting the wrong person. With all Europe under the imperial flag, the courtiers took to complicated scheming, unwilling, at least yet, to turn their warlike attention to Amarahk or Asiacommunista, whose alien inhabitants were said to be almost as powerful as the Dark Empire and must surely be the next threat to be averted by striking them before the Empire itself was struck. But for now no one considered it politic to begin much further expansion until the Empire was at peace or, at least, thoroughly under Huon and Meliadus’s heels.

  The Protector of Mirenburg found the province relatively easy to govern, for it was used to conquerors and had only known brief intervals of independence when it had not had to accommodate them. A few exemplary executions, one or two public torturings a week, and the population proved considerably more malleable than some of the other provinces which had fallen under his protection in the course of a successful career. Köln, for example. Then there had been the Kamarg, which had proved so ungovernable under its rebellious Countess Isolda, daughter of the Empire’s great enemy, Count Brass, that there had been nothing for it but to deport the entire population to the Afrikaanish mines and install more agreeable Muscovites (always grateful for a little warmth) in their place. The countess herself had come under the eye of the great Meliadus, who had made her a ward, so it was rumored, of his cousin Flana, with whom he was said to keep an exceptionally perverse liaison. But then it was rumored that Isolda of Brass had recently escaped and gone to join her lover with some miscellaneous bunch of raggle-taggle insurgents. Some even believed that her father, though wounded, still lived.