Elric of Melniboné Read online

  Slain upon the sea and his body taken by the waves. That was not a good portent, for it meant that Elric had gone to serve Pyaray, the Tentacled Whisperer of Impossible Secrets, the Chaos Lord who commanded the Chaos Fleet—dead ships, dead sailors, forever in his thrall—and it was not fitting that such a fate should befall one of the Royal Line of Melnibone. Ah, but the mourning would be long, thought Dyvim Tvar. He had loved Elric, for all that he had sometimes disapproved of his methods of ruling the Dragon Isle. Secretly he would go to the Dragon Caves that night and spend the period of mourning with the sleeping dragons who, now that Elric was dead, were all he had left to love. And Dyvim Tvar then thought of Cymoril, awaiting Elric's return.

  The ships began to emerge into the half-light of the evening. Torches and braziers already burned on the quays of Imrryr which were deserted save for a small group of figures who stood around a chariot which had been driven out to the end of the central mole. A cold wind blew. Dyvim Tvar knew that it was the Princess Cymoril who waited, with her guards, for the fleet.

  Though the flagship was the last to pass through the maze, the rest of the ships had to wait until it could be towed into position and dock first. If this had not been the required tradition, Dyvim Tvar would have left his ship and gone to speak to Cymoril, escort her from the quay and tell her what he knew of the circumstances of Elric's death. But it was impossible. Even before Terhali's Particular Satisfaction had dropped anchor, the main gangplank of The Son of the Pyaray had been lowered and the Emperor Yyrkoon, all swaggering pride, had stepped down it, his arms raised in triumphant salute to his sister who could be seen, even now, searching the decks of the ships for a sign of her beloved albino.

  Suddenly Cymoril knew that Elric was dead and she suspected that Yyrkoon had, in some way, been responsible for Elric's death. Either Yyrkoon had allowed Elric to be borne down by a group of southland reavers or else he had managed to slay Elric himself. She knew her brother and she recognised his expression. He was pleased with himself as he always had been when successful in some form of treachery or another. Anger flashed in her tear-filled eyes and she threw back her head and shouted at the shifting, ominous sky:

  “Oh! Yyrkoon has destroyed him!”

  Her guards were startled. The captain spoke solicitously. “Madam?”

  “He is dead—and that brother slew him. Take Prince Yyrkoon, captain. Kill Prince Yyrkoon, captain.”

  Unhappily, the captain put his right hand on the hilt of his sword. A young warrior, more impetuous, drew his blade, murmuring: “I will slay him, princess, if that is your desire.” The young warrior loved Cymoril with considerable and unthinking intensity.

  The captain offered the warrior a cautionary glance, but the warrior was blind to it. Now two others slid swords from scabbards as Yyrkoon, a red cloak wound about him, his dragon crest catching the light from the brands guttering in the wind, stalked forward and cried:

  “Yyrkoon is emperor now!”

  “No!” shrieked Yyrkoon's sister. “Elric! Elric! Where are you?”

  “Serving his new master, Pyaray of Chaos. His dead hands pull at the sweep of a Chaos ship, sister. His dead eyes see nothing at all. His dead ears hear only the crack of Pyaray's whips and his dead flesh cringes, feeling nought but that unearthly scourge. Elric sank in his armour to the bottom of the sea.”

  “Murderer! Traitor!” Cymoril began to sob.

  The captain, who was a practical man, said to his warriors in a low voice: “Sheath your weapons and salute your new emperor.”

  Only the young guardsman who loved Cymoril disobeyed. “But he slew the emperor! My lady Cymoril said so!”

  “What of it? He is emperor now. Kneel or you'll be dead within the minute.”

  The young warrior gave a wild shout and leapt towards Yyrkoon, who stepped back, trying to free his arms from the folds of his cloak. He had not expected this.

  But it was the captain who leapt forward, his own sword drawn; and hacked down the youngster so that he gasped, half-turned, then fell at Yyrkoon's feet.

  This demonstration of the captain's was confirmation of his real power and Yyrkoon almost smirked with satisfaction as he looked down at the corpse. The captain fell to one knee, the bloody sword still in his hand. “My emperor,” he said.

  “You show a proper loyalty, captain.”

  “My loyalty is to the Ruby Throne.”

  “Quite so.”

  Cymoril shook with grief and rage, but her rage was impotent. She knew now that she had no friends.

  Leering, the Emperor Yyrkoon presented himself before her. He reached out his hand and he caressed her neck, her cheek, her mouth. He let his hand fall so that it grazed her breast. “Sister,” he said, “thou art mine entirely now.”

  And Cymoril was the second to fall at his feet, for she had fainted.

  “Pick her up,” Yyrkoon said to the guard. “Take her back to her own tower and there be sure she remains. Two guards will be with her at all times, in even her most private moments they must observe her, for she may plan treachery against the Ruby Throne.”

  The captain bowed and signed to his men to obey the emperor. “Aye, my lord. It shall be done.”

  Yyrkoon looked back at the corpse of the young warrior. “And feed that to her slaves tonight, so that he can continue serving her.” He smiled.

  The captain smiled, too, appreciating the joke. He felt it was good to have a proper emperor in Melnibone again. An emperor who knew how to behave, who knew how to treat his enemies and who accepted unswerving loyalty as his right. The captain fancied that fine, martial times lay ahead for Melnibone. The golden battle-barges and the warriors of Imrryr could go a-spoiling again and instil in the barbarians of the Young Kingdoms a sweet and satisfactory sense of fear. Already, in his mind, the captain helped himself to the treasures of Lormyr, Argimiliar and Pikarayd, of Ilmiora and Jadmar. He might even be made governor, say, of the Isle of the Purple Towns. What luxuries of torment would he bring to those upstart sealords, particularly Count Smiorgan Baldhead who was even now beginning to try to make the isle a rival to Melnibone as a trading port. As he escorted the limp body of the Princess Cymoril back to her tower, the captain looked on that body and felt the swellings of lust within him. Yyrkoon would reward his loyalty, there was no doubt of that. Despite the cold wind, the captain began to sweat in his anticipation. He, himself, would guard the Princess Cymoril. He would relish it.

  Marching at the head of his army, Yyrkoon strutted for the Tower of D'arputna, the Tower of Emperors, and the Ruby Throne within. He preferred to ignore the litter which had been brought for him and to go on foot, so that he might savour every small moment of his triumph. He approached the tower, tall among its fellows at the very centre of Imrryr, as he might approach a beloved woman. He approached it with a sense of delicacy and without haste, for he knew that it was his.

  He looked about him. His army marched behind him. Magum Colim and Dyvim Tvar led the army. People lined the twisting streets and bowed low to him. Slaves prostrated themselves. Even the beasts of burden were made to kneel as he strode by. Yyrkoon could almost taste the power as one might taste a luscious fruit. He drew deep breaths of the air. Even the air was his. All Imrryr was his. All Melnibone. Soon would all the world be his. And he would squander it all. How he would squander it! Such a grand terror would he bring back to the earth; such a munificence of fear! In ecstasy, almost blindly, did the Emperor Yyrkoon enter the tower. He hesitated at the great doors of the throne room. He signed for the doors to be opened and as they opened he deliberately took in the scene tiny bit by tiny bit. The walls, the banners, the trophies, the galleries, all were his. The throne room was empty now, but soon he would fill it with colour and celebration and true, Melnibonean entertainments. It had been too long since blood had sweetened the air of this hall. Now he let his eyes linger upon the steps leading up to the Ruby Throne itself, but, before he looked at the throne, he heard Dyvim Tvar gasp behind him and his gaze went suddenly to the Ru
by Throne and his jaw slackened at what he saw. His eyes widened in incredulity.

  “An illusion!”

  “An apparition,” said Dyvim Tvar with some satisfaction.

  “Heresy!” cried the Emperor Yyrkoon, staggering forward, finger pointing at the robed and cowled figure which sat so still upon the Ruby Throne. “Mine! Mine!”

  The figure made no reply.

  “Mine! Begone! The throne belongs to Yyrkoon. Yyrkoon is emperor now! What are you? Why would you thwart me thus?”

  The cowl fell back and a bone-white face was revealed, surrounded by flowing, milk-white hair. Crimson eyes looked coolly down at the shrieking, stumbling thing which came towards them.

  “You are dead, Elric! I know that you are dead!”

  The apparition made no reply, but a thin smile touched the white lips.

  “You could not have survived. You drowned. You cannot come back. Pyaray owns your soul!”

  “There are others who rule in the sea,” said the figure on the Ruby Throne. “Why did you slay me, cousin?”

  Yyrkoon's guile had deserted him, making way for terror and confusion. “Because it is my right to rule! Because you were not strong enough, nor cruel enough, nor humorous enough...”

  “Is this not a good joke, cousin?”

  “Begone! Begone! Begone! I shall not be ousted by a spectre! A dead emperor cannot rule Melnibone!”

  “We shall see,” said Elric, signing to Dyvim Tvar and his soldiers.

  3.

  A Traditional Justice

  “Now indeed I shall rule as you would have had me rule, cousin.” Elric watched as Dyvim Tvar's soldiers surrounded the would-be usurper and seized his arms, relieving him of his weapons.

  Yyrkoon panted like a captured wolf. He glared around him as if hoping to find support from the assembled warriors, but they stared back at him either neutrally or with open contempt.

  “And you, Prince Yyrkoon, will be the first to benefit from this new rule of mine. Are you pleased?”

  Yyrkoon lowered his head. He was trembling now. Elric laughed, “Speak up, cousin.”

  “May Arioch and all the Dukes of Hell torment you for eternity,” growled Yyrkoon. He flung back his head, his wild eyes rolling, his lips curling: “Arioch! Arioch! Curse this feeble albino! Arioch! Destroy him or see Melnibone fall!”

  Elric continued to laugh. “Arioch does not hear you. Chaos is weak upon the earth now. It needs a greater sorcery than yours to bring the Chaos Lords back to aid you as they aided our ancestors. And now, Yyrkoon, tell me—where is the Lady Cymoril?”

  But Yyrkoon had lapsed, again, into a sullen silence.

  “She is at her own tower, my emperor,” said Magum Colim.

  “A creature of Yyrkoon's took her there,” said Dyvim Tvar. “The captain of Cymoril's own guard, he slew a warrior who tried to defend his mistress against Yyrkoon. It could be that Princess Cymoril is in danger, my lord.”

  “Then go quickly to the tower. Take a force of men. Bring both Cymoril and the captain of her guard to me.”

  “And Yyrkoon, my lord?” asked Dyvim Tvar.

  “Let him remain here until his sister returns.”

  Dyvim Tvar bowed and, selecting a body of warriors, left the throne room. All noticed that Dyvim Tvar's step was lighter and his expression less grim than when he had first approached the throne room at Prince Yyrkoon's back.

  Yyrkoon straightened his head and looked about the court. For a moment he seemed like a pathetic and bewildered child. All the lines of hate and anger had disappeared and Elric felt sympathy for his cousin growing again within him. But this time Elric quelled the feeling.

  “Be grateful, cousin, that for a few hours you were totally powerful, that you enjoyed domination over all the folk of Melnibone.”

  Yyrkoon said in a small, puzzled voice: “How did you escape? You had no time for making a sorcery, no strength for it. You could barely move your limbs and your armour must have dragged you deep to the bottom of the sea so that you should have drowned. It is unfair, Elric. You should have drowned.”

  Elric shrugged, “I have friends in the sea. They recognise my royal blood and my right to rule if you do not.”

  Yyrkoon tried to disguise the astonishment he felt. Evidently his respect for Elric had increased, as had his hatred for the albino emperor. “Friends.”

  “Aye,” said Elric with a thin grin.

  “I—I thought, too, you had vowed not to use your powers of sorcery.”

  “But you thought that a vow which was unbefitting for a Melnibonean monarch to make, did you not? Well, I agree with you. You see, Yyrkoon, you have won a victory, after all.”

  Yyrkoon stared narrowly at Elric, as if trying to divine a secret meaning behind Elric's words. “You will bring back the Chaos Lords?”

  “No sorcerer, however powerful, can summon the Chaos Lords or, for that matter, the Lords of Law, if they do not wish to be summoned. That you know. You must know it, Yyrkoon. Have you not, yourself, tried. And Arioch did not come, did he? Did he bring you the gift you sought—the gift of the two black swords?”

  “You know that?”

  “I did not. I guessed. Now I know.”

  Yyrkoon tried to speak but his voice would not form words, so angry was he. Instead, a strangled growl escaped his throat and for a few moments he struggled in the grip of his guards.

  Dyvim Tvar returned with Cymoril. The girl was pale but she was smiling. She ran into the throne room. “Elric!”

  “Cymoril! Are you harmed?”

  Cymoril glanced at the crestfallen captain of her guard who had been brought with her. A look of disgust crossed her fine face. Then she shook her head. “No. I am not harmed.”

  The captain of Cymoril's guard was shaking with terror. He looked pleadingly at Yyrkoon as if hoping that his fellow prisoner could help him. But Yyrkoon continued to stare at the floor.

  “Have that one brought closer.” Elric pointed at the captain of the guard. The man was dragged to the foot of the steps leading to the Ruby Throne. He moaned. “What a petty traitor you are,” said Elric. “At least Yyrkoon had the courage to attempt to slay me. And his ambitions were high. Your ambition was merely to become one of his pet curs. So you betrayed your mistress and slew one of your own men. What is your name?”

  The man had difficulty speaking, but at last he murmured, “It is Valharik, my name. What could I do? I serve the Ruby Throne, whoever sits upon it.”

  “So the traitor claims that loyalty motivated him. I think not.”

  “It was, my lord. It was.” The captain began to whine. He fell to his knees. “Slay me swiftly. Do not punish me more.”

  Elric's impulse was to heed the man's request, but he looked at Yyrkoon and then remembered the expression on Cymoril's face when she had looked at the guard. He knew that he must make a point now, whilst making an example of Captain Valharik. So he shook his head. “No. I will punish you more. Tonight you will die here according to the traditions of Melnibone, while my nobles feast to celebrate this new era of my rule.”

  Valharik began to sob. Then he stopped himself and got slowly to his feet, a Melnibonean again. He bowed low and stepped backward, giving himself into the grip of his guards.

  “I must consider a way in which your fate may be shared with the one you wished to serve,” Elric went on. “How did you slay the young warrior who sought to obey Cymoril?”

  “With my sword. I cut him down. It was a clean stroke. But one.”

  “And what became of the corpse.”

  “Prince Yyrkoon told me to feed it to Princess Cymoril's slaves.”

  “I understand. Very well, Prince Yyrkoon, you may join us at the feast tonight while Captain Valharik entertains us with his dying.”

  Yyrkoon's face was almost as pale as Elric's. “What do you mean?”

  “The little pieces of Captain Valharik's flesh which our Doctor Jest will carve from his limbs will be the meat on which you feast. You may give instructions as to how yo
u wish the captain's flesh prepared. We should not expect you to eat it raw, cousin.”

  Even Dyvim Tvar looked astonished at Elric's decision. Certainly it was in the spirit of Melnibone and a clever irony improving on Prince Yyrkoon's own idea, but it was unlike Elric—or, at least, it was unlike the Elric he had known up until a day earlier.

  As he heard his fate, Captain Valharik gave a great scream of terror and glared at Prince Yyrkoon as if the would-be usurper were already tasting his flesh. Yyrkoon tried to turn away, his shoulders shaking.

  “And that will be the beginning of it,” said Elric. “The feast will start at midnight. Until that time, confine Yyrkoon to his own tower.”

  After Prince Yyrkoon and Captain Valharik had been led away, Dyvim Tvar and Princess Cymoril came and stood beside Elric who had sunk back in his great throne and was staring bitterly into the middle-distance.

  “That was a clever cruelty,” Dyvim Tvar said.

  Cymoril said: “It is what they both deserve.”

  “Aye,” murmured Elric. “It is what my father would have done. It is what Yyrkoon would have done had our positions been reversed. I but follow the traditions. I no longer pretend that I am my own man. Here I shall stay until I die, trapped upon the Ruby Throne—serving the Ruby Throne as Valharik claimed to serve it.”

  “Could you not kill them both quickly?” Cymoril asked. “You know that I do not plead for my brother because he is my brother. I hate him most of all. But it might destroy you, Elric, to follow through with your plan.”