The Bane of the Black Sword (elric saga) Read online

Elric half-smiled. "The Gods of Melnibone protect thee wherever thou art," he said quietly and turned away from the carnage, leaving the room.

  On the stairway, he met Nikorn of Ilmar.

  The merchant's rugged face was full of anger. He trembled with rage. There was a big sword in his hand.

  "So I've found you, wolf," he said. "I gave you your life-and you have done this to me! "

  Elric said tiredly: "It was to be. But I gave my word that I would not take your life and, believe me, I would not, Nikorn, even had I not pledged my word."

  Nikorn stood two steps from the door blocking the exit. "Then I'll take yours. Come-engage! " He moved out into the courtyard, half-stumbled over an Imrryrian corpse, righted himself and waited, glowering, for Elric to emerge. Elric did so, his runesword sheathed.

  "No."

  "Defend yourself, wolf! "

  Automatically, the albino's right hand crossed to his sword hilt, but he still did not unsheath it. Nikorn cursed and aimed a well-timed blow which barely missed the white-faced sorcerer. He skipped back and now he tugged out Stormbringer, still reluctant, and stood poised and wary, waiting for the Bakshaanite's next move.

  Elric intended simply to disarm Nikorn. He did not want to kill or maim this brave man who had spared him when he had been entirely at the other's mercy.

  Nikorn swung another powerful stroke at Elric and the albino parried. Stormbringer was moaning softly, shuddering and pulsating. Metal clanged and then the fight was on in full earnest as Nikorn's rage turned to calm, possessed fury. Elric was forced to defend himself with all his skill and power. Though older than the albino, and a city merchant, Nikorn was a superb swordsman. His speed was fantastic and, at times, Elric was not on the defensive only because he desired it.

  But something was happening to the runeblade. It was twisting in Elric's hand and forcing him to make a counter-attack. Nikorn backed away-a light akin to fear in his eyes as he realised the potency of Elric's hellforged steel. The merchant fought grimly-and Elric did not fight at all. He felt entirely in the power of the whining sword which hacked and cut at Nikorn's guard.

  Stormbringer suddenly shifted in Elric's hand. Nikorn screamed. The runesword left Elric's grasp and plunged on its own accord towards the heart of his opponent.

  "No! " Elric tried to catch hold of his blade but could not. Stormbringer plunged into Nikorn's great heart and wailed in demoniac triumph. "No! " Elric got hold of the hilt and tried to pull it from Nikorn. The merchant shrieked in hell-brought agony. He should have been dead.

  He still half-lived.

  "It's taking me-the thrice-damned thing is taking me! " Nikorn gurgled horribly, clutching at the black steel with hands turned to claws. "Stop it, Elric-I beg you, stop it! Please! "

  Elric tried again to tug the blade from Nikorn's heart. He could not. It was rooted in flesh, sinew and vitals. It moaned greedily, drinking into it all that was the being of Nikorn of Ilmar. It sucked the life-force from the dying man and all the while its voice was soft and disgustingly sensuous. Still Elric struggled to pull the sword free. It was impossible. "Damn you! " he moaned. "This man was almost my friend-I gave him my word not to kill him." But Stormbringer, though sentient, could not hear its master.

  Nikorn shrieked once more, the shriek dying to a low, lost whimper. And then his body died.

  It died-and the soul-stuff of Nikorn joined the souls of the countless others, friends, kin and enemies who had gone to feed that which fed Elric of Melnibone

  Elric sobbed.

  "Why is this curse upon me? Why?"

  He collapsed to the ground in the dirt and the blood.

  Minutes later, Moonglum came upon his friend lying face downward. He grasped Elric by his shoulder and turned him. He shuddered when he saw the albino's agony-racked face.

  "What happened?"

  Elric raised himself on one elbow and pointed to where Nikorn's body lay a few feet away. "Another, Moonglum. Oh, curse this blade! "

  Moonglum said uncomfortably: "He would have killed you no doubt. Do not think about it. Many a word's been broken through no fault of he who gave it. Come, my friend, Yishana awaits us in the Tavern of the Purple Dove."

  Elric struggled upright and began to walk slowly towards the battered gates of the palace where horses awaited them.

  As they rode for Bakshaan, not knowing what was troubling the people of that city, Elric tapped Stormbringer which hung, once more, at his side. His eyes were hard and moody, turned inwards on his own feelings.

  "Be wary of this devil-blade, Moonglum. It kills the foe-but savours the blood of friends and kin-folk most."

  Moonglum shook his head quickly, as if to clear it, and looked away. He said nothing.

  Elric made as if to speak again but then changed his mind. He needed to talk, then. He needed to-but there was nothing to say at all.

  Pilarmo scowled. He stared, hurt-faced, as his slaves struggled with his chests of treasure, lugging them out to pile them in the street beside his great house. In other parts of the city, Pilarmo's three colleagues were also in various stages of heart-break. Their treasure, too, was being dealt with in a like manner. The burghers of Bakshaan had decided who was to pay any possible ransom.

  And then a ragged citizen was shambling down the street, pointing behind him and shouting.

  "The albino and his companion-at the North gate! "

  The burghers who stood near to Pilarmo exchanged glances. Faratt swallowed.

  He said: "Elric comes to bargain. Quick. Open the treasure chests and tell the city guard to admit him." One of the citizens scurried off.

  Within a few minutes, while Faratt and the rest worked frantically to expose Pilarmo's treasure to the gaze of the approaching albino, Elric was galloping up the street, Moonglum beside him. Both men were expressionless. They knew enough not to show their puzzlement.

  "What's this?" Elric said, casting a look at Pilarmo.

  Faratt cringed. "Treasure," he whined. "Yours, Lord Elric-for you and your men. There's much more. There is no need to use sorcery. No need for your men to attack us. The treasure here is fabulous-its value is enormous. Will you take it and leave the city in peace?"

  Moonglum almost smiled, but he controlled his features.

  Elric said coolly: "It will do. I accept it. Make sure this and the rest is delivered to my men at Nikorn's castle or we'll be roasting you and your friends over open fires by the morrow."

  Faratt coughed suddenly, trembling. "As you say, Lord Elric. It shall be delivered."

  The two men wheeled their horses in the direction of the Tavern of the Purple Dove. When they were out of earshot Moonglum said: "From what I gathered, back there, it's Master Pilarmo and his friends who are paying that unasked for toll."

  Elric was incapable of any real humour, but he halfchuckled. "Aye. I'd planned to rob them from the start-and now their own fellows have done it for us. On our way back, we shall take our pick of the spoils."

  He rode on and reached the tavern. Yishana was waiting there, nervously, dressed for travelling.

  When she saw Elric's face she sighed with satisfaction and smiled silkily. "So Theleb K'aarna is dead," she said. "Now we can resume our interrupted relationship, Elric."

  The albino nodded. "That was my part of the bargain-you kept yours when you helped Moonglum to get my sword back for me." He showed no emotion.

  She embraced him, but he drew back. "Later," he murmured. "But that is one promise I shall not break, Yishana."

  He helped the puzzled woman mount her waiting horse. They rode back towards Pilarmo's house.

  She asked: "And what of Nikorn-is he safe? I liked that man."

  "He died," Elric's voice was strained.

  "How?" she asked.

  "Because, like all merchants," Elric answered, "he bargained too hard."

  There was an unnatural silence among the three as they made their horses speed faster towards the Gates of Bakshaan, and Elric did not stop when the others did, to take their pick o
f Pilarmo's riches. He rode on, unseeing, and the others had to spur their steeds in order to catch up with him, two miles beyond the city.

  Over Bakshaan, no breeze stirred in the gardens of the rich. No winds came to blow cool on the sweating faces of the poor. Only the sun blazed in the heavens, round and red, and a shadow, shaped like a dragon, moved across it once, and then was gone.

  BOOK TWO

  Kings in Darkness

  Three Kings in Darkness lie, Gutheran of Org, and I, Under a bleak and sunless skyThe third Beneath the Hill.

  -Song of Veerkad by James Cawthorn.

  ONE

  Elric, Lord of the lost and sundered Empire of Melnibone rode like a fanged wolf from a trap-all slavering madness and mirth. He rode from Nadsokor, City of Beggars, and there was hate in his wake for he had been recognised as their old enemy before he could obtain the secret he had sought there. Now they hounded him and the grotesque little man who rode laughing at Elric's side; Moonglum the Outlander, from Elwher and the unmapped East

  The flames of brands devoured the velvet of the night as the yelling, ragged throng pushed their bony nags in pursuit of the pair.

  Starvelings and tattered jackals that they were, there was strength in their gaudy numbers and long knives and bone bows glinted in the brandlight. They were too strong for a couple of men to fight, too few to represent serious danger in a hunt, so Elric and Moonglum had chosen to leave the city without dispute and now sped towards the full and rising moon which stabbed its sickly beams through the darkness to show them the disturbing waters of the Varkalk River and a chance of escape from the incensed mob.

  They had half a mind to stand and face the mob, since the Varkalk was their only alternative. But they knew well what the beggars would do to them, whereas they were uncertain what would become of them once they had entered the river. The horses reached the sloping banks of the Varkalk and reared, with hooves lashing.

  Cursing, the two men spurred the steeds and forced them down towards the water. Into the river the horses plunged, snorting and spluttering. Into the river which led a roaring course towards the hell-spawned Forest of Troos which lay within the borders of Org, country of necromancy and rotting, ancient evil.

  Elric blew water away from his mouth and coughed. "They'll not follow us to Troos, I think," he shouted at his companion.

  Moonglum said nothing. He only grinned, showing his white teeth and the unhidden fear in his eyes. The horses swam strongly with the current and behind them the ragged mob shrieked in frustrated blood-lust while some of their number laughed and jeered.

  "Let the forest do our work for us! "

  Elric laughed back at them, wildly, as the horses swam on down the dark, straight river, wide and deep, towards a sun-starved morning, cold and spiky with ice. Scattered, slim-peaked crags loomed on either side of the flat plain, through which the river ran swiftly. Green-tinted masses of jutting blacks and browns spread colour through the rocks and the grass was waving on the plain as if for some purpose. Through the dawnlight, the beggar crew chased along the banks, but eventually gave up their quarry to return, shuddering, to Nadsokor.

  When they had gone, Elric and Moonglum made their mounts swim towards the banks and climb them, stumbling, to the top where rocks and grass had already given way to sparse forest land which rose starkly on all sides, staining the earth with sombre shades. The foliage waved jerkily, as if alive-sentient.

  It was a forest of malignantly erupting blooms, bloodcoloured and sickly-mottled. A forest of bending, sinuously smooth trunks, black and shiny; a forest of spiked leaves of murky purples and gleaming greens-certainly an unhealthy place if judged only by the odour of rotting vegetation which was almost unbearable, impinging as it did upon the fastidious nostrils of Elric and Moonglum.

  Moonglum wrinkled his nose and jerked his head in the direction they had come. "Back now?" he inquired. "We can avoid Troos and cut swiftly across a corner of

  Org to be in Bakshaan in just over a day. What say you, Elric?"

  Elric frowned. "I don't doubt they'd welcome us in Bakshaan with the same warmth we received in Nadsokor. They'll not have forgotten the destruction we wrought there-and the wealth we acquired from their merchants. No, I have a fancy to explore the forest a little. I have heard tales of Org and its unnatural forest and should like to investigate the truth of them. My blade and sorcery will protect us, if necessary."

  Moonglum sighed. "Elric-this once, let us not court the danger."

  Elric smiled icily. His scarlet eyes blazed out of his dead white skin with peculiar intensity. "Danger? It can bring only death."

  "Death is not to my liking, just yet," Moonglum said. "The fleshpots of Bakshaan, or if you prefer-Jadmaron the other hand..."

  But Elric was already urging his horse onward, heading for the forest. Moonglum sighed and followed.

  Soon dark blossoms hid most of the sky, which was dark enough, and they could see only a little way in all directions. The rest of the forest seemed vast and sprawling; they could sense this, though sight of most of it was lost in the depressing gloom.

  Moonglum recognised the forest from descriptions he had heard from mad-eyed travellers who drank purposefully in the shadows of Nadsokor's taverns.

  "This is the Forest of Troos, sure enough," he said to Elric. "It's told of how the Doomed Folk released tremendous forces upon the earth and caused terrible changes among men, beasts and vegetation. This forest is the last they created, and the last to perish."

  "A child will always hate its parents at certain times," Elric said mysteriously.

  "Children of whom to be extremely wary, I should think," Moonglum retorted. "Some say that when they were at the peak of their power, they had no Gods to frighten them."

  "A daring people, indeed," Elric replied, with a faint smile. "They have my respect. Now fear and the Gods are back and that, at least, is comforting."

  Moonglum puzzled over this for a short time, and then, eventually, said nothing.

  He was beginning to feel uneasy.

  The place was full of malicious rustlings and whispers, though no living animal inhabited it, as far as they could tell. There was a discomforting absence of birds, rodents or insects and, though they normally had no love for such creatures, they would have appreciated their company in the disconcerting forest.

  In a quavering voice, Moonglum began to sing a song in the hope that it would keep his spirits up and his thoughts off the lurking forest.

  "A grin and a word is my trade;

  From these, my profit is made.

  Though my body's not tall and my courage is small,

  My fame will take longer to fade."

  So singing, with his natural amiability returning, Moonglum rode after the man he regarded as a frienda friend who possessed something akin to mastery over him, though neither admitted it.

  Elric smiled at Moonglum's song. "To sing of one's own lack of size and absence of courage is not an action designed to ward off one's enemies, Moonglum."

  "But this way I offer no provocation," Moonglum replied glibly. "If I sing of my shortcomings, I am safe. If I were to boast of my talents, then someone might consider this to be a challenge and decide to teach me a lesson."

  "True," Elric assented gravely, "and well-spoken."

  He began pointing at certain blossoms and leaves, remarking upon their alien tint and texture, referring to them in words which Moonglum could not understand, though he knew the words to be part of a sorcerer's vocabulary. The albino seemed to be untroubled by the fears which beset the Eastlander, but often, Moonglum knew, appearances with Elric could hide the opposite of what they indicated.

  They stopped for a short break while Elric sifted through some of the samples he had torn from trees and plants. He carefully placed his prizes in his belt-pouch but would say nothing of why he did so to Moonglum.

  "Come," he said, "Troos's mysteries await us."

  But then a new voice, a woman's, said softly from the gloom: "Sav
e the excursion for another day, strangers."

  Elric reined his horse, one hand at Stormbringer's hilt. The voice had had an unusual effect upon him. It had been low, deep and had, for a moment, sent the pulse in his throat throbbing. Incredibly, he sensed that he was suddenly standing on one of Fate's roads, but where the road would take him, he did not know. Quickly, he controlled his mind and then his body and looked towards the shadows from where the voice had come.

  "You are very kind to offer us advice, madam," he said sternly. "Come, show yourself and give explanation..."

  She rode then, very slowly, on a black-coated gelding that pranced with a power she could barely restrain. Moonglum drew an appreciative breath for although heavy-featured, she was incredibly beautiful. Her face and bearing was patrician, her eyes were grey-green, combining enigma and innocence. She was very young. For all her obvious womanhood and beauty, Moonglum aged her at seventeen or little more.

  Elric frowned: "Do you ride alone?"

  "I do now," she replied, trying to hide her obvious astonishment at the albino's colouring. "I need aid-protection. Men who will escort me safely to Karlaak. There, they will be paid."

  "Karlaak, by the Weeping Waste? It lies the other side of Ilmiora, a hundred leagues away and a week's travelling at speed." Elric did not wait for her to reply to this statement. "We are not hirelings, madam."

  "Then you are bound by the vows of chivalry, sir, and cannot refuse my request."

  Elric laughed shortly. "Chivalry, madam? We come not from the upstart nations of the South with their strange codes and rules of behaviour. We are nobles of older stock whose actions are governed by our own desires. You would not ask what you do, if you knew our names."

  She wetted her full lips with her tongue and said almost timidly: "You are...?"

  "Elric of Melnibone", madam, called Elric Womanslayer in the West, and this is Moonglum of Elwher; he has no conscience."

  She said: "There are legends-the white-faced reaver, the hell-driven sorcerer with a blade that drinks the souls of men..."