The White Wolf's Son: The Albino Underground Page 16

  “I have heard nothing at all, my lord.”

  “You had visitors from Germania, eh?”

  “Indeed, sire. Sent by the Quay Savoy. With letters bearing your own seal. But I thought you had given orders for no mention of that to be made here …”

  “Fool, those were forgeries!” The voice was like a snake’s sudden hiss of warning. “We suspect traitors at court and have been following them. They, too, I’d guess, seek the Runestaff. Did you not have their luggage and clothing secretly searched? Were they not drugged and their bodies inspected? Have you all become such sentimentalists in Mirenburg, my lord, that you pamper these naked savages as if they were a favorite dog?”

  “Great King, the scrolls bore the Quay Savoy’s unbroken seals of office!”

  “Even so, Lord Olin.”

  “I beseech your forgiveness, my lord.” Lord Olin still lay visor-down upon the flagstones. He could not abase himself any further without breaking his own bones, or so it seemed.

  “We would suggest, Lord Olin, that when you return to Mirenburg, you be a little more rigorous in your dealings with barbarians and such. You yourself have said how important the city is to our security and tranquility.”

  “I will return at once and see to it, sire.”

  “Not at once, Lord Olin.” There was a terrible kind of happiness boiling at the back of King Huon’s strangely reptilian eyes. “You can only hope your deputy is more suspicious than you are! I want you to confer with Baron Brun of Dunninstrit, and before that with Baron Bous-Junge of Osfoud. They will ask you specific questions. Granbretan will show her gratitude for your speedy decision in bringing your news directly to us. Let us hope you are first strong enough to pay the price for your lapses of intelligence.”

  An onlooker would have sworn how at that moment Lord Olin merged with the flagstones. From his great mask helm, there came what might have been a muffled weeping.

  As the prehensile tongue flicked out, slowly the throne globe dimmed until only those awful eyes were visible. Then all was swirling darkness and silence.

  After some moments, when nothing had happened, Lord. Olin rose. There was something incongruous in the snarling wolverine head which topped that slumped and defeated body as it got to its feet and walked unsteadily down the long hall towards the distant doors. Through them he was directed to another antechamber and another, conscious of the eye of every courtier upon him. Finally he stood in a chamber fashioned of obsidian warped to resemble human figures and symbolic creatures from Granbretan’s most distant past.

  A servant in the mask and livery of the Order of the Snake signaled to him. With a deep bow the servant led the way to the newly installed moving pavement, which carried them rapidly through miles of palace and many levels of offices until they reached Baron Bous-Junge’s apartments, which had an unsavory reputation even in Londra. From inside came screams of such a timbre and pitch that even Granbretan’s most jaded courtiers, used to the variety of shrieks and groans achieved through uniquely extracted pain, found them exciting.

  On shaking legs, with dry mouth and stinging eyes, Lord Olin dared not pause. He must appear to go willingly to whatever fate Lord Huon had decreed, for if he did not, he would suffer a worse punishment. If he took his punishment as was expected, he might yet live to fulfill his ambitions of a peaceful retirement.

  The smell coming from the baron’s quarters, a mixture of alluring scents and the most disagreeable stinks, was enough to ensure that most men and women gave the place a wide berth. The main concentration of gases emanated from a low, squat doorway through which the servant led him.

  Baron Bous-Junge, leaving his bench, his tubes and retorts, greeted Lord Olin warmly. The cobra mask nodded on Bous-Junge’s shoulders, and he moved as if the weight of all his ceremony slowed him down.

  “My lord Olin, you honor me. I hear you came to report trouble in your province.”

  Lord Olin stammered his greetings in return. “A— a—rumor, ‘tis all, my lord Baron. We shall s-s-see what develops anon … mmmm …”

  As was traditional in Londra, no mention was made of the punishment, the horrible public humiliation, Lord Olin would soon be suffering.

  Baron Bous-Junge took Lord Olin by the arm and steered him through what seemed like miles of benches and equipment, where his specially trained slaves worked, many of them disfigured by chemicals or other forces, some of them probably not even human.

  “Let us hope it doesn’t have anything to do with this troubling rumor concerning the Runestaff and the men who seek to discover its ancient resting place,” murmured Bous-Junge.

  But Lord Olin did not want to know anything more than he knew already. He wondered: if he had sent Sir Edwold to Londra, might he have been spared his coming torture? He was suffering complex regrets.

  “Many do not believe there is such a thing as the Runestaff,” continued Bous-Junge conversationally as they left his laboratories and moved into the rather shabby and neglected luxury of his living apartments. “Even though I search for it, sometimes I myself am inclined to believe it doesn’t exist. I have studied all the legends concerning it.” Baron Bous-Junge’s sinister green mask tipped to one side. Behind it the hard, old eyes seemed amused. “But it is a troubling coincidence that we should hear all those rumors from different sources. The Empire stands for Law, for Balance, for the power of justice and equity. Our Empire is represented by such symbols as the Runestaff. There is always a certain power invested in these symbols. Could we ourselves have willed the Runestaff into existence, out of sheer need?”

  “Indeed, indeed, indeed,” babbled Lord Olin, his mind on his future.

  “After all, our own religion is a matter of ritual and tradition, little else.” An almost inaudible hiss of words, and Lord Olin, already trapped, was quick to sense further snares.

  “We worship our immortal king-emperor, Baron Bous-Junge!”

  “Of course we do, Lord Olin. Have you ever sworn an oath on the Runestaff?”

  Lord Olin, within his armor, was like a terrified rat in a cage. “Oath? No? Yes! No … No, of course not— too—too—powerful …”

  “Exactly. If we swear an oath by the Runestaff, that oath is binding. We do not invoke the Runestaff lightly.”

  Lord Olin racked his poor scrambled brains to remember if he had ever lightly invoked the Runestaff. He could not recall. He began to sweat. The sweat soaked into his underclothes, ran along channels in his molded helm and breastplate. He had begun to blubber. His snarling wolverine helm was like a greenhouse.

  “Exactly,” declared Baron Bous-Junge in answer to his own question. “My dear Lord Olin, I suspect there are plans afoot to obtain power over the original Runestaff and by this means affect the histories of our own realm in time as well as space.”

  Lord Olin was still unable to utter anything resembling intelligent speech. Baron Bous-Junge did not seem to mind. Equably he threw an arm about Lord Olin’s shoulders.

  “Are you curious about what gives me that suspicion?” The snake mask lifted to glance right and left. “Have you, I wonder, in your readings and travels, in your conversations, even in your dreams, heard of a creature not altogether human, with red eyes and bone-white skin, whom you might know in that part of the world as Count Zodiac?”

  “C-c—?”

  “Some reference, I understand, to an ancient Middle European outlaw or trickster. Anyway, he might well be the worst problem we face. Some suspect one of these Germanians to be a disguised Zodiac. Lord Taragorm’s oracles suggest it. Are you sure you haven’t heard of him? He has other names? Crimson Eyes? White Wolf? Silverskin? Some know him as Elric of Melniboné.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  IN HIS ASSUMED identity Elric of Melniboné experienced a frisson he had not known for some time. It had been many years since he had enjoyed the luxuries of so much power, and this was both attractive and relaxing to him. He had been raised, after all, in such opulence, and for a while, as emperor of his own nation, had taken it f
or granted.

  Yet Oonagh had not been found, and he knew his own role must soon be discovered. Every possible man and woman had been set to the task of seeking the girl out, with no success. They had not so much as seen or heard a breath of her. Although the mysterious albino boy might have traveled on, Elric had been certain Oonagh would be found here. All he and Scholar Ree had been able to divine indicated that she hid in this version of Mirenburg. If he had not been so certain, he would scarcely have concocted so elaborate a plot. As it was, he now had to fear the possibility of his sorcery wearing off and of being exposed to the vindictive masters of the Empire.

  Even his coconspirator, Yaroslaf Stredic, was growing nervous. Elric seemed determined to alert the Lords of the Dark Empire to the very rebellion Stredic planned. Why anger the Quay Savoy by locking up the two “Germanians”? He began to suspect that all his divinations had been wrong. Yet why would Klosterheim and von Minct, who most wanted to find her, also be looking here? Their presence seemed to confirm Elric’s own understanding.

  On the fourth morning of the search, Elric was close to calling it off when there was an incident in the factory quarter. Three ornithopters took off directly from the plant, flapping crazily into the air on metal wings, and from just above the topmost roofs, fired down into the city, aiming directly for the governor’s quarters and the garrisons. Soldiers returned their fire before the ornithopters lumbered off into the distance and disappeared. They were commandeered by the very slave workers employed to build them. These men learned everything they knew from studying their masters.

  Elric was not pleased with this development. Still posing as deputy protector, he now had to pretend to take measures against the factory district. He sent men in with orders to arrest the heads of the factories. When they went in, the guards were met with sustained fire and were driven back. Their captains came to Elric for further orders. He told them that the rebels had taken over all communications, and sent them off to the internal heliograph posts to destroy them. It was his belief, he said, that the rebellion would burn itself out.

  Next morning the rebellion had spread across other parts of the city. Rebels were well armed and well disciplined. Elric ordered more of his soldiers into the forests and hills, seeking the girl. He explained that she held the key to their defense.

  Eventually, he knew, the Dark Empire would retaliate. But he aimed to give the citizens all the time he could to take control of the city, believing that if the girl was hiding, she would come into the open once the rebels had won. A messenger was dispatched to the border, to the nearest intact heliograph, to signal that all was well with Mirenburg.

  By now the citizens had some fifty ornithopters and a variety of battle engines of the very latest design. If Londra attacked, they would almost certainly be driven back until more troops and machines were brought to the war zone.

  Elric made one last use of his stolen power. He sent his soldiers marching towards München, allegedly to relieve an even more embattled force there.

  And he gave orders for the two Germanians to be brought to him.

  The first order was obeyed. The second was not. The Germanians had disappeared. Their cell in the St. Maria and St. Maria was empty!

  Elric understood their power. No doubt they had discovered that Oonagh was not, after all, in this part of the multiverse.

  He would have given a great deal, however, to know where they had gone. The few spells he could readily cast gave him no further clues.

  It was time to look elsewhere for his great-granddaughter. Every instinct told him that she was now in even greater danger.

  Leaving the young Prince Yaroslaf in charge of the rebellion, he discarded his disguise, left his helm and armor behind, and set off into the Deep City to discover a gateway through to the roads between the worlds. He would have to begin his search all over again.

  Elric had begun to understand how strong were the other forces in play, supernatural forces more powerful even than the two Germanians, the Dark Empire or even the old Empire of Melniboné. He suspected the agency of Law or Chaos, and while he had no certain proof, he was fairly certain that his little great-grandchild and the mysterious boy had in some way been selected to become their means to the ultimate power. Though he knew loyalty to Chaos yet fought for Law, Elric hated both. Too much horror had befallen those he loved as one struggled to gain ascendancy over the other. He trusted none of the Higher Powers. They cared nothing for the mortals they used in their eternal struggle for ascendancy. And as Elric well knew, few mortals could refuse whatever fate the Lords of the Higher Worlds determined for them. His own struggles, even in the thousand years of his long dream quest, had rarely succeeded. The illusion of free will was maintained in spite of the evidence. Even our most private thoughts and yearnings, he suspected, were dictated by some preordained scenario in which Law battled Chaos. The best that we could hope for was a brief respite from their eternal war.

  Elric could now do nothing else but search for his young kinswoman and attempt to save her from the worst that might befall her. He shook his fist at the gods and rode off to find the moonbeam roads, leaving his young friend to build what looked to be a substantial force against the infamous war leader Shenegar Trott and the other feared military lords of the Dark Empire. Yaroslaf Stredic might not defeat his conquerors, but he would set an example which might spark further revolutions across Europa.

  Meanwhile, Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke of Köln, unknown to Elric, Baron Meliadus, Klosterheim or anyone else, returned to his cave two days after he had left to forage for food. The hero of Köln, still good-looking in spite of his grim experience, his blue eyes like honed steel, his blond hair streaked with grey, had news which might be good. In far-off Mirenburg, many miles from the foothills of the Bulgar Mountains, the citizens had at last risen against the Dark Empire.

  Hawkmoon’s friend, the wiry little mountain man Oladahn, was skeptical that any rebellion could succeed. The weapons of the Dark Empire were far too sophisticated. He scratched his red, hairy body and shook his head. They had attempted to withstand that final great attack upon Castle Brass and been defeated, in spite of their flamingos, their towers, their flame lances. Only by chance had the defenders found security in the secret marshes surrounding the castle before Meliadus and his forces had ruthlessly destroyed the majority of the flamingos, the horned horses and any human who had resisted them. They wanted no survivors, had completely destroyed the watchtowers, the old towns, every house and shed, bringing in an entirely new population from the Muskovian steppe, intending to ensure that not even a name would survive their conquest of the Kamarg. Neither had Meliadus been greatly disturbed by the probability that a few Kamargian peasants had escaped. They would never be able to rally fighters the way Dorian Hawkmoon of Köln had rallied them. Count Brass’s only child, his daughter Isolda, had been plucked by Meliadus from the fires of Castle Brass and, no longer worthy of being Meliadus’s wife, made a slave at Meliadus’s court until she had disappeared, killed no doubt in Londra by some rival for another slave’s affections. Bowgentle, the poet, was dead, as were all other defenders, or so Count Brass believed.

  But he was misled. Una Persson herself had visited the survivors soon after they escaped into the great Slavian Forest, where they had lain low for over a year before they felt safe enough to move on. They found refuge at last among Oladahn’s folk, the mountain brigands.

  Oladahn could not believe the news. “Meliadus, or whoever represents him there, would have swiftly put down any uprising. They are superior in weapons, if not numbers.”

  Hawkmoon was not so certain of this. His informant had been a Bulgar who had the news from a Slavian merchant. “Apparently they took over a new kind of flying machine and turned it against the Granbretanners.”

  “Well,” said Oladahn, scratching his hairy red arms, “it would not be the first time we’ve heard such rumors. If we believed them all …” His wide mouth clamped shut.

  Hawkmoon said he was
inclined to believe this. “It seems that many of those outlawed by the Empire are flocking to Mirenburg to strike while they may. At the first sign of Imperial gains they will melt away, to strike elsewhere—and disappear again. If they never attack Londra, they at least whittle away at the Empire.” The Duke of Köln had known defeat three times at the hands of the Dark Empire, yet he would fight Huon’s people until the end, even if he never defeated them.

  Hawkmoon passed a strong, bronzed hand through grey-blond hair. He was a handsome man. The dull black jewel at the center of his forehead somehow enhanced his looks. He frowned as he considered what he had heard. All the power of the sorcerous science he had once employed against the Dark Empire was now gone. He had only his sword, his armor and his horse with which to fight Granbretan, while two of the people he most loved in the world, his wife and his father-in-law, slept under the security of that cave’s roof, perhaps destined never fully to recover from the horrors they had experienced. He regretted refusing the help of that servant of the Runestaff, the Warrior in Jet and Gold, whose proffered gift might have given them the chance of defeating Meliadus when he brought all his force against the Ka-marg. But the opportunity had passed, and Hawkmoon had lost too much. Now he wondered if he had the courage to risk any more. His own life was nothing. The lives of those he loved were everything to him.

  With a sigh, the Duke of Köln considered his options.

  Should he lend his strength to the citizens of Mirenburg and the peasants of Wäldenstein, or should he wait for a more propitious moment? What were the chances of such a moment ever coming?

  As he turned to go deeper into the cave system, he heard a movement outside. He picked up his flame lance from where it lay hidden beneath a pile of straw. That and its recharger were almost all he had carried away with him from Castle Brass. He could not possibly have trusted the Warrior in Jet and Gold. The Warrior had already betrayed him at the Mad God’s court, then returned at a critical moment, pretending to bring them help against Meliadus. Yet should he have rejected that? Could he have misinterpreted the Warrior’s intentions? Could they have turned the tables against Meliadus, saved hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of lives, if he had accepted that help?