The Vanishing Tower Page 6

"And if the spell has not worked—" Moonglum murmured. He paused, straining his eyes through the gloom. "What is that?"

  Myshella's satisfied tone was almost ghoulish as she said: "It is the Noose of Flesh."

  Something was growing out of the snow. Something pink that quivered. Something huge. A great mass that arose on all sides of the Kelmain and made their horses rear up and snort.

  And it made the Kelmain shriek.

  The stuff was like flesh and it had grown so high that the whole Kelmain Host was obscured from sight. There were noises as they tried to train their battle-engines upon the stuff and blast their way through.

  There were shouts. But not a single horseman broke out of the Noose of Flesh.

  Then the substance began to fold in over the Kel­main and Elric heard a sound such as none he had heard before.

  It was a voice.

  A voice of a hundred thousand men all facing an identical terror, all dying an identical death.

  It was a moan of desperation, of hopelessness, of fear.

  But it was a moan so loud that it shook the walls of Castle Kaneloon.

  "It is no death for a warrior," murmured Moonglum, turning away.

  "But it was the only weapon we had," said Myshella. "I have possessed it for a good many years but never before did I feel the need to use it."

  "Of them all, only Theleb K'aarna deserved that death," said Elric.

  Night fell and the Noose of Flesh tightened around the Kelmain Host, crushing all but a few horses which had run free as the sorcery began to work.

  It crushed Prince Umbda, who spoke no language known in the Young Kingdoms, who spoke no lan­guage known to the ancients, who had come to conquer from beyond the World's Edge.

  It crushed Theleb K'aarna, who had sought, for the sake of his love for a wanton Queen, to conquer the world with the aid of Chaos.

  It crushed all the warriors of that near-human race, the Kelmain. And it crushed all who could have told the watchers what the Kelmain had been or from where they had originated.

  Then it absorbed them. Then it flickered and dis­solved and was dust again.

  No piece of flesh—man's nor beast's—remained. But over the snow was scattered clothing, arms, ar­mour, siege engines, riding accoutrements, coins, belt-buckles, for as far as the eye could see.

  Myshella nodded to herself. "That was the Noose of Flesh," she said. "I thank you for bringing it to me, Elric. I thank you, also, for finding the stone which revived me. I thank you for saving Lormyr."

  "Aye," said Elric. "Thank me." There was a weari­ness on him now. He turned away, shivering.

  Snow had begun to fall again.

  "Thank me for nothing, Lady Myshella. What I did was to satisfy my own dark urges, to sate my thirst for vengeance. I have destroyed Theleb K'aarna. The rest was incidental. I care nought for Lormyr, the Young Kingdoms, or any of your causes. ..."

  Moonglum saw that Myshella had a sceptical look in her eyes and she smiled slightly.

  Elric entered the castle and began to descend the steps to the hall.

  "Wait," Myshella said. "This castle is magical. It reflects the desires of any who enter it—should I wish it."

  Elric rubbed at his eyes. "Then plainly we have no desires. Mine are satisfied now that Theleb K'aarna is destroyed. I would leave this place now, my lady."

  "You have none?" said she.

  He looked at her directly. He frowned. "Regret breeds weakness. Regret achieves nothing. Regret is like a disease which attacks the internal organs and at last destroys. . . ."

  "And you have no desires?"

  He hesitated. "I understand you. Your own appear­ance, I'll admit. . . ." He shrugged. "But are you—?"

  She spread her hands. "Do not ask too many ques­tions of me." She made another gesture. "Now. See. This castle becomes what you most desire. And in it, the things you most desire!"

  And Elric looked about him, his eyes widening, and he began to scream.

  He fell to his knees in terror. He turned pleadingly to her.

  "No, Myshella! No. I do not desire this!"

  Hastily she made yet another sign.

  Moonglum helped his friend to his feet. "What was it? What did you see?"

  Elric straightened his back and rested his hand on his sword and said grimly and quietly to Myshella:

  "Lady, I would kill you for that if I did not under­stand you sought only to please me."

  He studied the ground for a moment before contin­uing:

  "Know this. Elric cannot have what he desires most. What he desires does not exist. What he desires is dead. All Elric has is sorrow, guilt, malice, hatred. This is all he deserves and all he will ever desire."

  She put her hands to her own face and walked back to the room where he had first seen her. Elric followed.

  Moonglum started after them but then he stopped and remained where he stood.

  He watched them enter the room and saw the door close.

  He walked back on to the battlements and stared into the darkness. He saw wings of silver and gold flashing in the moonlight and they became smaller and smaller until they had vanished.

  He sighed. It was cold.

  He went back into the castle and settled himself with his back against a pillar, preparing to sleep.

  But a little while later he heard laughter come from the room in the highest tower.

  And the laughter sent him running through the pas­sages, through the great hall where the fire had died, out of the door, into the night to seek the stables where he could feel more secure.

  But he could not sleep that night, for the distant laughter still pursued him.

  And the laughter continued until morning.

  Book Two

  To Snare the Pale Prince

  "... but it was in Nadsokor, City of Beggars, that Elric found an old friend and learned something con­cerning an old enemy ..."

  —The Chronicle of the Black Sword

  Chapter One

  The Beggar Court

  Nadsokor, city of Beggars, was infamous throughout the Young Kingdoms. Lying near the shores of that ferocious river, the Varkalk, and not too far from the Kingdom of Org in which blossomed the frightful Forest of Troos, and exuding a stink which seemed thick enough ten miles distant, Nadsokor was plagued by few visitors.

  From this unlovely place sallied out her citizens to beg their way about the world and steal what they could and bring it back to Nadsokor where half of their profits were handed over to their king in return for his protection.

  Their king had ruled for many years. He was called Urish the Seven-fingered, for he had but four fingers on his right hand and three upon his left. Veins had burst all over his once handsome face and filthy, in­fested hair framed that seedy countenance upon which age and grime had traced a thousand lines. From out of all this ruin peered two bright, pale eyes.

  As the symbol of his power Urish had a great cleaver called Hackmeat which was forever at his side. His throne was of crudely carved black oak, studded with bits of raw gold, bones and semi-precious gems. Be­neath this throne was Urish's Hoard—a chest of trea­sure which he let none but himself look upon.

  For the best part of every day Urish would lounge on his throne, presiding over a gloomy, festering hall throned with his Court: a rabble of rascals too foul in appearance and disposition to be tolerated anywhere but here.

  For heat and light there burned permanently braziers of garbage which gave out oily smoke and a stink which dominated all the other stinks in the hall.

  And now there was a visitor at Urish's Court.

  He stood before the dais on which the throne was mounted and from time to time he raised a heavily scented kerchief to his red, full lips.

  His face, which was normally dark in complexion, was somewhat grey and his eyes had something of a haunted, tortured look in them as they glanced from begrimed beggar to pile of rubbish to guttering brazier. Dressed in the loose brocade robes of the folk of Pan Tang, the visitor h
ad black eyes, a great hooked nose, blue-black ringlets and a curling beard. Kerchief to mouth, he bowed low when he reached Urish's throne.

  As always, greed, weakness and malice mingled to form King Urish's expression as he regarded the stranger whom one of his courtiers had but lately an­nounced.

  Urish had recognised the name and he believed he could guess the Pan Tangian's business here.

  "I heard you were dead, Theleb K'aarna—killed be­yond Lormyr, near World's Edge." Urish grinned to display the black crags which were the rotting remains of his teeth.

  Theleb K'aarna removed the kerchief from his lips and his voice was strangled at first, gaining strength as he remembered the wrongs recently done him. "My magic is not so weak I cannot escape a spell such as was woven that day. I conjured myself below the ground while Myshella's Noose of Flesh engulfed the Kelmain Host."

  Urish's disgusting grin widened.

  "You crept into a hole, is that it?"

  The sorcerer's eyes burned fiercely. "I'll not dispute the strength of my powers with—"

  He broke off and drew a deep breath which he at once regretted. He stared warily around him at the Beggar Court

  , all manged and maimed, which had deposited itself about the filthy hall, mocking him. The beggars of Nadsokor knew the power of poverty and disease—knew how it terrified those who were not used to it. And thus their very squalor was their safe­guard against intruders.

  A repulsive cough which might have been a laugh now seized King Urish. "And was it your magic that brought you here?" As his whole body shook his blood­shot eyes continued, beadily, to regard the sorcerer.

  "I have travelled across the seas and all across Vilmir to be here," Theleb K'aarna said, "because I had heard there was one you hated above all others. . . ."

  "And we hate all others—all who are not beggars," Urish reminded him. The king chuckled and the chuckle became, once more, a throaty, convulsive cough.

  "But you hate Elric of Melnibone most."

  "Aye. It would be fair to say that. Before he won fame as the Kinslayer, the traitor of Imrryr, he came to Nadsokor to deceive us, disguised as a leper who had begged his way from the Eastlands beyond Karlaak. He tricked me disgracefully and stole something from my Hoard. And my Hoard is sacred—I will not let another even glimpse it!"

  "I heard he stole a scroll from you," Theleb K'aarna said. "A spell which had once belonged to his cousin Yyrkoon. Yyrkoon wished to be rid of Elric and let him believe that the spell would release the Princess Cymoril from her sorcerous slumber. . . ."

  "Aye. Yyrkoon had given the scroll to one of our citizens when he went a-begging to the gates of Imrryr. He then told Elric what he had done. Elric disguised himself and came here. With the aid of sorcery he gained access to my Hoard—my sacred Hoard—and plucked the scroll from it. . . ."

  Theleb K'aarna looked sideways at the Beggar King. "Some would say that it was not Elric's fault—that Yyrkoon was to blame. He deceived you both. The spell did not awaken Cymoril, did it?"

  "No. But we have a Law in Nadsokor. . ." Urish raised the great cleaver Hackmeat and displayed its ragged, rusty blade. For all its battered appearance, it was a fearsome weapon. "That Law says that any man who looks upon the sacred Hoard of King Urish must die and die most horribly—at the hands of the Burning God!"

  "And none of your wandering citizens have yet man­aged to take this vengeance?"

  "I must pass the sentence personally upon him be­fore he dies. He must come again to Nadsokor, for it is only here that he may be acquainted with his doom."

  Theleb K'aarna said: "I have no love for Elric."

  Urish once more voiced the sound that was half laugh, half wheezing cough. "Aye—I have heard he has chased you all across the Young Kingdoms, that you have brought more and more powerful sorceries against him, yet every time he has defeated you."

  Theleb K'aarna frowned. "Have a care, King Urish. I have had bad luck, yet I am still one of Pan Tang's greatest sorcerers."

  "But you spend your powers freely and claim much from the Lords of Chaos. One day they will be tired of helping you and find another to do their work." King Urish closed soiled lips over black teeth. His pale eyes did not blink as he studied Theleb K'aarna.

  There were stirrings in the hall, the Beggar Court

  moved in closer: the click of a crutch, the scrape of a staff, the shuffle of misshapen feet. Even the oily smoke from the braziers seemed to menace him as it drifted reluctantly into the darkness of the roof.

  King Urish put one hand upon Hackmeat and the other upon his chin. Broken nails caressed stubble. From somewhere behind Theleb K'aarna a beggar woman let forth an obscene noise and then giggled.

  Almost as if to comfort himself the sorcerer placed the scented kerchief firmly over his mouth and nostrils. He began to draw himself up, prepared to deal with an attack if it came.

  "But you still have your powers now, I take it," said Urish suddenly, breaking the tension. "Or you would not be here."

  "My powers increase. . . ."

  "For the moment, perhaps."

  "My powers . . ."

  "I take it you come with a scheme which you hope will result in Elric's destruction," continued Urish easily. The beggars relaxed. Only Theleb K'aarna now showed any signs of discomfort. Urish's bright, blood­shot eyes were sardonic. "And you desire our help because you know we hate the white-faced reaver of Melnibone."

  Theleb K'aarna nodded. "Would you hear the details of my plan?"

  Urish shrugged. "Why not? At least they may be entertaining."

  Unhappily, Theleb K'aarna looked about him at the corrupt and tittering crew. He wished he knew a spell which would disperse the stink.

  He took a deep breath through his kerchief and then began to speak. ...

  Chapter Two

  The Stolen Ring

  On the other side of the tavern the young dandy pretended to order another skin of wine while actually taking a sly look towards the corner where Elric sat.

  Then the dandy leaned towards his compatriots—merchants and young nobles of several nations—and continued his murmured discourse.

  The subject of that discourse, Elric knew, was Elric. Normally he was disdainful of such behaviour, but he was weary and he was impatient for Moonglum to re­turn. He was almost tempted to order the young dandy to desist, if only to pass the time.

  Elric was beginning to regret his decision to visit Old Hrolmar.

  This rich city was a great meeting place for all the imaginative people of the Young Kingdoms. To it came explorers, adventurers, mercenaries, craftsmen, mer­chants, painters and poets for, under the rule of the famous Duke Avan Astran, this Vilmirian city state was undergoing a transformation in its character.

  Duke Avan was himself a man who had explored most of the world and had brought back great wealth and knowledge to Old Hrolmar. Its riches and its in­tellectual life attracted more riches, more intellectuals and so Old Hrolmar flourished.

  But where riches are and where intellectuals are, then gossip also flourishes, for if there is any breed of man who gossips more than the merchant or the sailor then it is the poet and the painter. And, naturally enough, there was much gossip concerning the doom-driven albino, Elric, already a hero of several ballads by poets not over-talented.

  Elric had allowed himself to be brought to the city because Moonglum had said it was the best place to find an income. Elric's carelessness with their wealth had made near-paupers of them, not for the first time, and they were in need of provisions and fresh steeds.

  Elric had been for skirting Old Hrolmar and riding on towards Tanelorn, where they had decided to go, but Moonglum had argued reasonably that they would need better horses and more food and equipment for the long ride across the Vilmirian and Ilmioran plains to the edge of the Sighing Desert, where mysterious Tane­lorn was situated. So Elric had at last agreed, though, after his encounter with Myshella and his witnessing of the destruction of the Noose of Flesh, he had become weary
and craved for the peace which Tanelorn offered.

  What made things worse was that this tavern was rather too well-lit and catering too much to the better end of the trade for Elric's taste. He would have preferred a lowlier sort of inn which would have been cheaper and where men were used to holding back their questions and their gossip. But Moonglum had thought it wise to spend the last of their wealth on a good inn, in case they should need to entertain someone. . . .

  Elric left the business of raising treasure to Moon­glum. Doubtless he intended to get it by thievery or trickery, but Elric did not care.

  He sighed and suffered the sidelong looks of the other guests and tried not to overhear the young dandy. He sipped his cup of wine and picked at the flesh of the cold fowl Moonglum had ordered before he went off. He drew his head into the high collar of his black cloak, but succeeded only in emphasising the bone-white pallor of his face and the milky whiteness of his long hair. He looked around him at the silks and furs and tapestries swirling about the tavern as their owners moved from table to table and he longed with all his heart to be on his way to Tanelorn, where men spoke little because they had experienced so much.

  ". . . killed mother and father, too—and the mother's lover, it is said. . . ."

  ". . . and they say he lies with corpses for preference. ..."

  ". . . and because of that the Lords of the Higher Worlds cursed him with the face of a corpse. . . ."

  "Incest, was it not? I got it from one who sailed with him that . . ."

  ". . . and his mother had congress with Arioch him­self, thus producing . . ."

  ". . . shortly before he betrayed his own people to Smiorgan and the rest!"

  "He looks a gloomy fellow, right enough. Not one to enjoy a jest. . . ."

  Laughter.

  Elric made himself relax in his chair and swallow more wine. But the gossip went on.

  "They say also that he is an imposter. That the real Elric died at Imrryr. . . ."

  "A true prince of Melnibone would dress in more lavish style. And he would ..."

  More laughter.