Elric of Melniboné Read online

  The men in yellow armour saw Elric and Cymoril as the two approached the smallest of the eastern gates.

  “They have found us at last,” smiled Elric through the rain, “but somewhat belatedly, eh, Cymoril?”

  Cymoril, still embattled with her sense of doom, merely nodded and tried to smile in reply.

  Elric took this as an expression of disappointment, nothing more, and called to his guards: “Ho, men! Soon we shall all be dry again!”

  But the captain of the guard rode up urgently, crying: “My lord emperor is needed at Monshanjik Tower where spies are held.”

  “Spies?”

  “Aye, my lord.” The man's face was pale. Water cascaded from his helm and darkened his thin cloak. His horse was hard to control and kept sidestepping through pools of water, which had gathered wherever the road was in disrepair. “Caught in the maze this morning. Southern barbarians, by their chequered dress. We are holding them until the emperor himself can question them.”

  Elric waved his hand. “Then lead on, captain. Let's see the brave fools who dare Melnibone's sea-maze.”

  The Tower of Monshanjik had been named for the wizard-architect who had designed the sea-maze millennia before. The maze was the only means of reaching the great harbour of Imrryr and its secrets had been carefully guarded, for it was their greatest protection against sudden attack. The maze was complicated and pilots had to be specially trained to steer ships through it. Before the maze had been built, the harbour had been a kind of inland lagoon, fed by the sea which swept in through a system of natural caverns in the towering cliff which rose between lagoon and ocean. There were five separate routes through the sea-maze and any individual pilot knew but one. In the outer wall of the cliff there were five entrances. Here Young Kingdom ships waited until a pilot came aboard. Then one of the gates to one of the entrances would be lifted, all aboard the ship would be blindfolded and sent below save for the oar-master and the steersman who would also be masked in heavy steel helms so that they could see nothing, do nothing but obey the complicated instructions of the pilot. And if a Young Kingdom ship should fail to obey any of those instructions and should crush itself against the rock walls, well Melnibone did not mourn for it and any survivors from the crew would be taken as slaves. All who sought to trade with the Dreaming City understood the risks, but scores of merchants came every month to dare the dangers of the maze and trade their own poor goods for the splendid riches of Melnibone.

  The Tower of Monshanjik stood overlooking the harbour and the massive mole which jutted out into the middle of the lagoon. It was a sea-green tower and was squat compared with most of those in Imrryr, though still a beautiful and tapering construction, with wide windows so that the whole of the harbour could be seen from it. From Monshanjik Tower most of the business of the harbour was done and in its lower cellars were kept any prisoners who had broken any of the myriad rules governing the functioning of the harbour. Leaving Cymoril to return to the palace with a guard, Elric entered the tower, riding through the great archway at the base, scattering not a few merchants who were waiting for permission to begin their bartering, for the whole of the ground floor was full of sailors, merchants and Melnibonean officials engaged in the business of trade, though it was not here that the actual wares were displayed. The great echoing babble of a thousand voices engaged in a thousand separate aspects of bargaining slowly stilled as Elric and his guard rode arrogantly through to another dark arch at the far end of the hall. This arch opened onto a ramp which sloped and curved down into the bowels of the tower.

  Down this ramp clattered the horsemen, passing slaves, servants and officials who stepped hastily aside, bowing low as they recognised the emperor. Great brands illuminated the tunnel, guttering and smoking and casting distorted shadows onto the smooth, obsidian walls. A chill was in the air now, and a dampness, for water washed about the outer walls below the quays of Imrryr. And still the emperor rode on and still the ramp struck lower through the glassy rock. And then a wave of heat rose to meet them and shifting light could be seen ahead and they passed into a chamber that was full of smoke and the scent of fear. From the low ceiling hung chains and from eight of the chains, swinging by their feet, hung four people. Their clothes had been torn from them, but their bodies were clothed in blood from tiny wounds, precise but severe, made by the artist who stood, scalpel in hand, surveying his handiwork.

  The artist was tail and very thin, almost like a skeleton in his stained, white garments. His lips were thin, his eyes were slits, his fingers were thin, his hair was thin and the scalpel he held was thin, too, almost invisible save when it flashed in the light from the fire which erupted from a pit on the far side of the cavern. The artist was named Doctor Jest and the art he practised was a performing art rather than a creative one (though he could argue otherwise with some conviction): the art of drawing secrets from those who kept them. Doctor Jest was the Chief Interrogator of Melnibone. He turned sinuously as Elric entered, the scalpel held between the thin thumb and the thin forefinger of his fight hand; he stood poised and expectant, almost like a dancer, and then bowed from the waist.

  “My sweet emperor!” His voice was thin. It rushed from his thin throat as if bent on escape and one was inclined to wonder if one had heard the words at all, so quickly had they come and gone.

  “Doctor. Are these the southlanders caught this morning?”

  “Indeed they are, my lord.” Another sinuous bow. “For your pleasure.”

  Coldly Elric inspected the prisoners. He felt no sympathy for them. They were spies. Their actions had led them to this pass. They had known what would happen to them if caught. But one of them was a boy and another a woman, it appeared, though they writhed so in their chains it was quite difficult to tell at first. It seemed a shame. Then the woman snapped what remained of her teeth at him and hissed: “Demon!” And Elric stepped back, saying:

  “Have they informed you of what they were doing in our maze, doctor?”

  “They still tantalise me with hints. They have a fine sense of drama. I appreciate that. They are here, I would say, to map a route through the maze which a force of raiders might then follow: But they have so far withheld the details. That is the game. We all understand how it must be played.”

  “And when will they tell you, Doctor Jest?”

  “Oh, very soon, my lord.”

  “It would be best to know if we are to expect attackers. The sooner we know, the less time we shall lose dealing with the attack when it comes. Do you not agree, doctor?”

  “I do, my lord.”

  “Very well.” Elric was irritated by this break in his day. It had spoiled the pleasure of the ride, it had brought him face to face with his duties too quickly.

  Doctor Jest returned to his charges and, reaching out with his free hand, expertly seized the genitals of one of the male prisoners. The scalpel flashed. There was a groan. Doctor Jest tossed something onto the fire. Elric sat in the chair prepared for him. He was bored rather than disgusted by the rituals attendant upon the gathering of information and the discordant screams, the clash of the chains, the thin whisperings of Doctor Jest, all served to ruin the feeling of well-being he had retained even as he reached the chamber. But it was one of his kingly duties to attend such rituals and attend this one he must until the information was presented to him and he could congratulate his Chief Interrogator and issue orders as to the means of dealing with any attack and even when that was over he must confer with admirals and with generals, probably through the rest of the night, choosing between arguments, deciding on the deposition of men and ships. With a poorly disguised yawn he leaned back and watched as Doctor Jest ran fingers and scalpel, tongue, tongs and pincers over the bodies. He was soon thinking of other matters: philosophical problems which he had still failed to resolve.

  It was not that Elric was inhumane; it was that he was, still, a Melnibonean. He had been used to such sights since childhood. He could not have saved the prisoners, even if he had d
esired, without going against every tradition of the Dragon Isle. And in this case it was a simple matter of a threat being met by the best methods available. He had become used to shutting off those feelings which conflicted with his duties as emperor. If there had been any point in freeing the four who danced now at Doctor Jest's pleasure he would have freed them, but there was no point and the four would have been astonished if they had received any other treatment than this. Where moral decisions were concerned Elric was, by and large, practical. He would make his decision in the context of what action he could take. In this case, he could take no action. Such a reaction had become second nature to him. His desire was not to reform Melnibone but to reform himself, not to initiate action but to know the best way of responding to the actions of others. Here, the decision was easy to make. A spy was an aggressor. One defended oneself against aggressors in the best possible way. The methods employed by Doctor Jest were the best methods.

  “My lord?”

  Absently, Elric looked up.

  “We have the information now, my lord.” Doctor Jest's thin voice whispered across the chamber. Two sets of chains were now empty and slaves were gathering things up from the floor and flinging them on the fire. The two remaining shapeless lumps reminded Elric of meat carefully prepared by a chef.

  One of the lumps still quivered a little, but the other was still.

  Doctor Jest slid his instruments into a thin case he carried in a pouch at his belt. His white garments were almost completely covered in stains.

  “It seems there have been other spies before these,” Doctor Jest told his master. “These came merely to confirm the route. If they do not return in time, the barbarians will still sail.”

  “But surely they will know that we expect them?” Elric said.

  “Probably not, my lord. Rumours have been spread amongst the Young Kingdom merchants and sailors that four spies were seen in the maze and were speared—slain whilst trying to escape.”

  “I see.” Elric frowned. “Then our best plan will be to lay a trap for the raiders.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “You know the route they have chosen?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Elric turned to one of his guards. “Have messages sent to all our generals and admirals. What's the hour?”

  “The hour of sunset is just past, my liege.”

  “Tell them to assemble before the Ruby Throne at two hours past sunset.”

  Wearily, Elric rose. “You have done well, as usual, Doctor Jest.”

  The thin artist bowed low, seeming to fold himself in two. A thin and somewhat unctuous sigh was his reply.

  5.

  A Battle:

  The King Proves His War-Skill

  Yyrkoon was the first to arrive, all clad in martial finery, accompanied by two massive guards, each holding one of the prince's ornate war-banners.

  “My emperor!” Yyrkoon's shout was proud and disdainful. “Would you let me command the warriors? It will relieve you of that care when, doubtless, you have many other concerns with which to occupy your time.”

  Elric replied impatiently: “You are most thoughtful, Prince Yyrkoon, but fear not for me. I shall command the armies and the navies of Melnibone, for that is the duty of the emperor.”

  Yyrkoon glowered and stepped to one side as Dyvim Tvar, Lord of the Dragon Caves, entered. He had no guard whatsoever with him and it seemed he had dressed hastily. He carried his helmet under his arm.

  “My emperor—I bring news of the dragons...”

  “I thank you, Dyvim Tvar, but wait until all my commanders are assembled and impart that news to them, too.”

  Dyvim Tvar bowed and went to stand on the opposite side of the hall to that on which Prince Yyrkoon stood.

  Gradually the warriors arrived until a score of great captains waited at the foot of the steps which led to the Ruby Throne where Elric sat. Elric himself still wore the clothes in which he had gone riding that morning. He had not had time to change and had until a little while before been consulting maps of the mazes—maps which only he could read and which, at normal times, were hidden by magical means from any who might attempt to find them.

  “Southlanders would steal Imrryr's wealth and slay us all,” Elric began. “They believe they have found a way through our sea-maze. A fleet of a hundred warships sails on Melnibone even now. Tomorrow it will wait below the horizon until dusk, then it will sail to the maze and enter. By midnight it expects to reach the harbour and to have taken the Dreaming City before dawn. Is that possible, I wonder?”

  “No!” Many spoke the single word.

  “No.” Elric smiled. “But how shall we best enjoy this little war they offer us?”

  Yyrkoon, as ever, was first to shout. “Let us go to meet them now, with dragons and with battle-barges. Let us pursue them to their own land and take their war to them. Let us attack their nations and burn their cities! Let us conquer them and thus ensure our own security!”

  Dyvim Tvar spoke up again:

  “No dragons,” he said.

  “What?” Yyrkoon whirled. “What?”

  “No dragons, prince. They will not be awakened. The dragons sleep in their caverns, exhausted by their last engagement on your behalf.”

  “Mine?”

  “You would use them in our conflict with the Vilmirian pirates. I told you that I would prefer to save them for a larger engagement. But you flew them against the pirates and you burned their little boats and now the dragons sleep.”

  Yyrkoon glowered. He looked up at Elric. “I did not expect...”

  Elric raised his hand. “We need not use our dragons until such a time as we really need them. This attack from the southlander fleet is nothing. But we will conserve our strength if we bide our time. Let them think we are unready. Let them enter the maze. Once the whole hundred are through, we close in, blocking off all routes in or out of the maze. Trapped, they will be crushed by us.”

  Yyrkoon looked pettishly at his feet, evidently wishing he could think of some flaw in the plan. Tall, old Admiral Magum Colim in his sea-green armour stepped forward and bowed. “The golden battle-barges of Imrryr are ready to defend their city, my liege. It will take time, however, to manoeuvre them into position. It is doubtful if all will fit into the maze at once.”

  “Then sail some of them out now and hide them around the coast, so that they can wait for any survivors that may escape our attack,” Elric instructed him.

  “A useful plan, my liege.” Magum Colim bowed and sank back into the crowd of his peers.

  The debate continued for some time and then they were ready and about to leave. But then Prince Yyrkoon bellowed once more:

  “I repeat my offer to the emperor. His person is too valuable to risk in battle. My person—it is worthless. Let me command the warriors of both land and sea while the emperor may remain at the palace, untroubled by the battle, confident that it will be won and the southlanders trounced—perhaps there is a book he wishes to finish?”

  Elric smiled. “Again I thank you for your concern, Prince Yyrkoon. But an emperor must exercise his body as well as his mind. I will command the warriors tomorrow.”

  When Elric arrived back at his apartments it was to discover that Tanglebones had already laid out his heavy, black wargear. Here was the armour which had served a hundred Melnibonean emperors; an armour which was forged by sorcery to give it a strength unequalled on the Realm of Earth, which could, so rumour went, even withstand the bite of the mythical runeblades, Stormbringer and Mournblade, which had been wielded by the wickedest of Melnibone's many wicked rulers before being seized by the Lords of the Higher Worlds and hidden forever in a realm where even those Lords might rarely venture.

  The face of the tangled man was full of joy as he touched each piece of armour, each finely balanced weapon, with his long, gnarled fingers. His seamed face looked up to regard Elric's care-ravaged features. “Oh, my lord! Oh, my king! Soon you will know the joy of the fight!”

&
nbsp; “Aye, Tanglebones—and let us hope it will be a joy.”

  “I taught you all the skills—the art of the sword and the poignard—the art of the bow—the art of the spear, both mounted and on foot. And you learned well, for all they say you are weak. Save one, there's no better swordsman in Melnibone.”

  “Prince Yyrkoon could be better than me,” Elric said reflectively. “Could he not?”

  “I said ‘save one’, my lord.”

  “And Yyrkoon is that one. Well, one day perhaps we'll be able to test the matter. I'll bathe before I don all that metal.”

  “Best make speed, master. From what I hear, there is much to do.”

  “And I'll sleep after I've bathed.” Elric smiled at his old friend's consternation. “It will be better thus, for I cannot personally direct the barges into position. I am needed to command the fray—and that I will do better when I've rested.”

  “If you think it good, lord king, then it is good.”

  “And you are astonished. You are too eager, Tanglebones, to get me into all that stuff and see me strut about in it as if I were Arioch himself...”

  Tanglebones's hand flew to his mouth as if he had spoken the words, not his master, and he was trying to block them. His eyes widened.

  Elric laughed. “You think I speak bold heresies, eh? Well, I've spoken worse without any ill befalling me. On Melnibone, Tanglebones, the emperors control the demons, not the reverse.”

  “So you say, my liege.”

  “It is the truth.” Elric swept from the room, calling for his slaves. The war-fever filled him and he was jubilant.

  Now he was in all his black gear: the massive breastplate, the padded jerkin, the long greaves, the mail gauntlets. At his side was a five-foot broadsword which, it was said, had belonged to a human hero called Aubec. Resting on the deck against the golden rail of the bridge was the great round warboard, his shield, bearing the sign of the swooping dragon. And a helm was on his head; a black helm, with a dragon's head craning over the peak, and dragon's wings flaring backward above it, and a dragon's tail curling down the back. All the helm was black, but within the helm there was a white shadow from which glared two crimson orbs, and from the sides of the helm strayed wisps of milk-white hair, almost like smoke escaping from a burning building. And, as the helm turned in what little light came from the lantern hanging at the base of the mainmast, the white shadow sharpened to reveal features—fine, handsome features—a straight nose, curved lips, up-slanting eyes. The face of Emperor Elric of Melnibone peered into the gloom of the maze as he listened for the first sounds of the sea-raider's approach.