The Bane of the Black Sword
The fifth volume of the saga of Elric of Melnibone
by Michael Moorcock

BOOK ONE

The Stealer of Souls

In which Elric once again makes the ac-
quaintance of Queen Yishana of Jharkor
and Theleb K'aarna of Pan Tang and re-
ceives satisfaction at last.

ONE

In a city called Bakshaan, which was rich enough to
make all other cities of the North East seem poor, in a
tall-towered tavern one night, Elric, Lord of the smoking
ruins of Melnibone, smiled like a shark and dryly jested
with four powerful merchant princes whom, in a day or
so, he intended to pauperize.

Moonglum the Outlander, Elric's companion, viewed
the tall albino with admiration and concern. For Elric
to laugh and joke was rare—but that he should share his
good humour with men of the merchant stamp, that was
unprecedented. Moonglum congratulated himself that
he was Elric's friend and wondered upon the outcome of
the meeting. Elric had, as usual, elaborated little of his
plan to Moonglum.

"We need your particular qualities as swordsman and
sorcerer, Lord Elric, and will, of course, pay well for
them." Pilarmo, overdressed, intense and scrawny, was
main spokesman for the four.

"And how shall you pay, gentlemen?" inquired Elric
politely, still smiling.

Pilarmo's colleagues raised their eyebrows and even
their spokesman was slightly taken aback. He waved his
hand through the smoky air of the tavern-room which
was occupied only by the six men.

"In gold—in gems," answered Pilarmo.
"In chains," said Elric. "We free travellers need no
chains of that sort."

Moonglum bent forward out of the shadows where he
sat, his expression showing that he strongly disapproved
of Elric's statement.

Pilarmo and the other merchants were plainly aston-
ished, too. "Then how shall we pay you?"

"I will decide that later," Elric smiled. "But why talk
of such things until the time—what do you wish me to
do?"

Pilarmo coughed and exchanged glances with his
peers. They nodded. Pilarmo dropped his tone and
spoke slowly:

"You are aware that trade is highly competitive in
this city, Lord Elric. Many merchants vie with one an-
other to secure the custom of the people. Bakshaan is a
rich city and its populace is comfortably off, in the
main."

"This is well known," Elric agreed; he was privately
likening the well-to-do citizens of Bakshaan to sheep and
himself to the wolf who would rob the fold. Because of
these thoughts, his scarlet eyes were full of a humour
which Moonglum knew to be malevolent and ironic

"There is one merchant in this city who controls more
warehouses and shops than any other," Pilarmo contin-
ued. "Because of the size and strength of his caravans,
he can afford to import greater quantities of goods into
Bakshaan and thus sell them for lower prices. He is vir-
tually a thief—he will ruin us with his unfair methods."
Pilarmo was genuinely hurt and aggrieved.

"You refer to Nikorn of Ilmar?" Moonglum spoke
from behind Elric.

Pilarmo nodded mutely.

Elric frowned. "This man heads his own caravans-
braves the dangers of the desert, forest and mountain.
He has earned his position."

"That is hardly the point," snapped fat Tormiel, be — ringed and powdered, his flesh a-quiver.

"No, of course not." Smooth-tongued Kelos patted his
colleague's arm consolingly. "But we all admire bravery,
I hope." His friends nodded. Silent Deinstaf, the last of
the four, also coughed and wagged his hairy head. He
put his unhealthy fingers on the jewelled hilt of an or-
nate but virtually useless poignard and squared his
shoulders. "But," Kelos went on, glancing at Deinstaf

with approval, "Nikorn takes no risks selling his goods
cheaply—he's killing us with his low prices."

"Nikorn is a thorn in our flesh," Pilarmo elaborated
unnecessarily.

"And you gentlemen require myself and my compan-
ion to remove this thorn," Elric stated.

"In a nutshell, yes." Pilarmo was sweating. He seemed
more than a trifle wary of the smiling albino. Legends
referring to Elric and his dreadful, doom-filled exploits
were many and elaborately detailed. It was only because
of their desperation that they had sought his help in this
matter. They needed one who could deal in the nigro-
mantic arts as well as wield a useful blade. Elric's arrival
in Bakshaan was potential salvation for them.

"We wish to destroy Nikorn's power," Pilarmo contin-
ued. "And if this means destroying Nikorn, then—" He
shrugged and half-smiled, watching Elric's face.

"Common assassins are easily employed, particularly
in Bakshaan," Elric pointed out softly.

"Uh—true," Pilarmo agreed. "But Nikorn employs a
sorcerer—and a private army. The sorcerer protects him
and his palace by means of magic. And a guard of
desertmen serve to ensure that if magic fails, then
natural methods can be used for the purpose. Assassins
have attempted to eliminate the trader, but unfortu-
nately, they were not lucky."

Elric laughed. "How disappointing, my friends. Still,
assassins are the most dispensable members of the com-
munity—are they not? And their souls probably went to
placate some demon who would otherwise have plagued
more honest folk."

The merchants laughed half-heartedly and, at this,
Moonglum grinned, enjoying himself from his seat in
the shadows.

Elric poured wine for the other five. It was of a vin-
tage which the law in Bakshaan forbade the populace
from drinking. Too much drove the imbiber mad, yet
Elric had already quaffed great quantities and showed no
ill effects. He raised a cup of the yellow wine to his
lips and drained it, breathing deeply and with satisfac-
tion as the stuff entered his system. The others sipped

theirs cautiously. The merchants were already regretting
their haste in contacting the albino. They had a feeling
that not only were the legends true—but they did not do
justice to the strange-eyed man they wished to employ.

Elric poured more yellow wine into his goblet and his
hand trembled slightly and his dry tongue moved over
his lips quickly. His breathing increased as he allowed
the beverage to trickle down his throat. He had taken
more than enough to make other men into mewling idi-
ots, but those few signs were the only indication that the
wine had any effect upon him at all.

This was a wine for those who wished to dream of dif-
ferent and less tangible worlds. Elric drank it in the
hope that he would, for a night or so, cease to dream.

Now he asked: "And who is this mighty sorcerer, Mas-
ter Pilarmo?"

"His name is Theleb K'aarna," Pilarmo answered ner-
vously.

Elric's scarlet eyes narrowed. "The sorcerer of Pan
Tang?"

"Aye—he comes from that island."

Elric put his cup down upon the table and rose,
fingering his blade of black iron, the runesword
Stormbringer.

He said with conviction: "I will help you,
gentlemen." He had made up his mind not to rob them,
after all. A new and more important plan was forming
in his brain.

"Theleb K'aarna," he thought. "So you have made
Bakshaan your bolt-hole, eh?"

Theleb K'aarna tittered. It was an obscene sound,
coming as it did from the throat of a sorcerer of no
mean skill. It did not fit with his sombre, black-bearded
countenance, his tall, scarlet-robed frame. It was not a
sound suited to one of his extreme wisdom.

Theleb K'aarna tittered and stared with dreamy eyes
at the woman who lolled on the couch beside him. He
whispered clumsy words of endearment into her ear and
she smiled indulgently, stroking his long, black hair as
she would stroke the coat of a dog.

"You're a fool, for all your learning, Theleb
K'aarna," she murmured, her hooded eyes staring be-
yond him at the bright green and orange tapestries
which decorated the stone walls of her bed-chamber. She
reflected lazily that a woman could not but help take ad-
vantage of any man who put himself so into her power.

"Yishana, you are a bitch," Theleb K'aarna breathed
foolishly, "and all the learning in the world cannot com-
bat love. I love you." He spoke simply, directly, not un-
derstanding the woman who lay beside him. He had
seen into the black bowels of hell and had returned
sane, he knew secrets which would turn any ordinary
man's mind into quivering, jumbled jelly. But in certain
arts he was as unversed as his youngest acolyte. The art
of love was one of those. "I love you," he repeated, and
wondered why she ignored him.

Yishana, Queen of Jharkor, pushed the sorcerer away
from her and rose abruptly, swinging bare, well-formed
legs off the divan. She was a handsome woman, with
hair as black as her soul; though her youth was fading,
she had a strange quality about her which both repelled
and attracted men. She wore her multi-coloured silks
well and they swirled about her as, with light grace, she
strode to the barred window of the chamber and stared
out into the dark and turbulent night. The sorcerer
watched her through narrow, puzzled eyes, disappointed
at this halt to their love-making.

"What's wrong?"

The Queen continued to stare out at the night. Great
banks of black cloud moved like predatory monsters,
swiftly across the wind-torn sky. The night was raucous
and angry about Bakshaan; full of ominous portent.

Theleb K'aarna repeated his question and again re-
ceived no answer. He stood up angrily, then, and joined
her at the window.

"Let us leave now, Yishana, before it is too late. If El-
ric learns of our presence in Bakshaan, we shall both
suffer." She did not reply, but her breasts heaved
beneath the flimsy fabric and her mouth tightened.

The sorcerer growled, gripping her arm. "Forget your
renegade freebooter, Elric—you have me now, and I can

do much more for you than any sword-swinging medi-
cine-man from a broken and senile empire!"

Yishana laughed unpleasantly and turned on her
lover. "You are a fool, Theleb K'aarna, and you're
much less of a man than Elric. Three aching years have
passed since he deserted me, skulking off into the night
on your trail and leaving me to pine for him! But I still
remember his savage kisses and his wild love-making.
Gods! I wish he had an equal. Since he left, I've never
found one to match him—though many have tried and
proved better than you—until you came skulking back
and your spells drove them off or destroyed them." She
sneered, mocking and taunting him. "You've been too
long among your parchments to be much good to me!"

The sorcerer's face muscles tautened beneath his
tanned skin and he scowled. "Then why do you let me
remain? I could make you my slave with a potion—you
know that!"

"But you wouldn't—and are thus my slave, mighty
wizard. When Elric threatened to displace you in my af-
fections, you conjured that demon and Elric was forced
to fight it. He won you'll remember—but in his pride re-
fused to compromise. You fled into hiding and he went
in search of you—leaving me! That is what you did.
You're in love, Theleb K'aarna ..." she laughed in his
face. "And your love won't let you use your arts against
me—only my other lovers. I put up with you because
you are often useful, but if Elric were to return ..."

Theleb K'aarna turned away, pettishly picking at his
long black beard. Yishana said: "I half hate Elric, aye!
But that is better than half loving you!"

The sorcerer snarled: "Then why did you join me in
Bakshaan? Why did you leave your brother's son upon
your throne as regent and come here? I sent word and
you came—you must have some affection for me to do
that!"

Yishana laughed again. "I heard that a pale-faced sor-
cerer with crimson eyes and a howling runesword was
travelling in the North East. That is why I came, The-
leb K'aarna."

Theleb K'aarna's face twisted with anger as he bent

forward and gripped the woman's shoulder in his
taloned hand.

"You'll remember that this same pale-faced sorcerer
was responsible for your own brother's death," he spat.
"You lay with a man who was a slayer of his kin and
yours. He deserted the fleet, which he had led to pillage
his own land, when the Dragon Masters retaliated.
Dharmit, your brother, was aboard one of those ships
and he now lies scorched and rotting on the ocean bed."

Yishana shook her head wearily. "You always mention
this and hope to shame me. Yes, I entertained one who
was virtually my brothers' murderer—but Elric had
ghastlier crimes on his conscience and I still loved him,
in spite or because of them. Your words do not have the
effect you require, Theleb K'aarna. Now leave me, I
wish to sleep alone."

The sorcerer's nails were still biting into Yishana's
cool flesh. He relaxed his grip. "I am sorry," he said, his
voice breaking. "Let me stay."

"Go," she said softly. And, tortured by his own
weakness, Theleb K'aarna, sorcerer of Pan Tang, left.
Elric of Melnibone was in Bakshaan—and Elric had
sworn several oaths of vengeance upon Theleb K'aarna
on several separate occasions—in Lormyr, Nadsokor and
Taueloru, as well as in Jharkor. In his heart, the black-
bearded sorcerer knew who would win any duel which
might take place.

TWO

The four merchants had left swathed in dark cloaks.
They had not deemed it wise for anyone to be aware of
their association with Elric. Now, Elric brooded over a
fresh cup of yellow wine. He knew that he would need

help of a particular and powerful kind, if he were going
to capture Nikorn's castle. It was virtually unstormable
and, with Theleb K'aarna's nigromantic protection, a
particularly potent sorcery would have to be used. He
knew that he was Theleb K'aarna's match and more
when it came to wizardry, but if all his energy were ex-
pended on fighting the other magician, he would have
none left to effect an entry past the crack guard of
desert warriors employed by the merchant prince.

He needed help. In the forests which lay to the south
of Bakshaan, he knew he would find men whose aid
would be useful. But would they help him? He discussed
the problem with Moonglum.

"I have heard that a band of my countrymen have re-
cently come north from Vilmir where they have pillaged
several large towns," he informed the Eastlander. "Since
the great battle of Imrryr four years ago, the men of
Melnibone have spread outwards from the Dragon Isle,
becoming mercenaries and freebooters. It was because of
me that Imrryr fell—and this they know, but if I offer
them rich loot, they might aid me."

Moonglum smiled wryly. "I would not count on it, El-
ric," he said. "Such an act as yours can hardly be forgot-
ten, if you'll forgive my frankness. Your countrymen are
now unwilling wanderers, citizens of a razed city—the
oldest and greatest the world has known. When Imrryr
the Beautiful fell, there must have been many who
wished great suffering upon you."

Elric emitted a short laugh. "Possibly," he agreed,
"but these are my people and I know them. We Melni-
boneans are an old and sophisticated race—we rarely al-
low emotions to interfere with our general well-being."

Moonglum raised his eyebrows in an ironic grimace
and Elric interpreted the expression rightly. "I was an
exception for a short while," he said. "But now Cymoril
and my cousin lie in the ruins of Imrryr and my own
torment will avenge any ill I have done. I think my
countrymen will realise this."

Moonglum sighed. "I hope you are right, Elric. Who
leads this band?"

"An old friend," Elric answered. "He was Dragon

Master and led the attack upon the reaver ships after
they had looted Imrryr. His name is Dyvim Tvar, once
Lord of the Dragon Caves."

"And what of his beasts, where are they?"

"Asleep in the caves again. They can be roused only
rarely—they need years to recuperate while their venom
is re-distilled and their energy revitalised. If it were not
for this, the Dragon Masters would rule the world."

"Lucky for you that they don't," Moonglum comment-
ed.

Elric said slowly: "Who knows? With me to lead
them, they might yet. At least, we could carve a new em-
pire from this world, just as our forefathers did."

Moonglum said nothing. He thought, privately, that
the Young Kingdoms would not be so easily vanquished.
Melnibone and her people were ancient, cruel and
wise—but even their cruelty was tempered with the soft
disease which comes with age. They lacked the vitality
of the barbarian race who had been the ancestors of the
builders of Imrryr and her long-forgotten sister cities.
Vitality was often replaced by tolerance—the tolerance
of the aged, the ones who have known past glory but
whose day is done.

"In the morning," said Elric, "we will make contact
with Dyvim Tvar and hope that what he did to the
reaver fleet, coupled with the conscience-pangs which I
have personally suffered, will serve to give him a
properly objective attitude to my scheme.

"And now, sleep, I think," Moonglum said. "I need it,
anyway—and the wench who awaits me might be
growing impatient."

Elric shrugged. "As you will. I'll drink a little more
wine and seek my bed later."

The black clouds which had huddled over Bakshaan
on the previous night, were still there in the morning.
The sun rose behind them, but the inhabitants were
unaware of it. It rose unheralded, but in the fresh, rain-
splashed dawn, Elric and Moonglum rode the narrow
streets of the city, heading for the south gate and the
forests beyond.

Elric had discarded his usual garb for a simple jerkin
of green-dyed leather which bore the insignia of the
royal line of Melnibone: a scarlet dragon, rampant on a
gold field. On his finger was the Ring of Kings, the
single rare Actorious stone set in a ring of rune-carved
silver. This was the ring that Elric's mighty forefathers
had worn; it was many centuries old. A short cloak
hung from his shoulders and his hose was also blue,
tucked into high black riding boots. At his side hung
Stormbringer.

A symbiosis existed between man and sword. The man
without the sword could become a cripple, lacking sight
and energy—the sword without the man could not drink
the blood and the souls it needed for its existence. They
rode together, sword and man, and none could tell
which was master.

Moonglum, more conscious of the inclement weather
than his friend, hugged a high-collared cloak around
him and cursed the elements occasionally.

It took them an hour's hard riding to reach the out-
skirts of the forest. As yet, in Bakshaan, there were only
rumours of the Imrryrian freebooters' coming. Once or
twice, a tall stranger had been seen in obscure taverns
near the southern wall, and this had been remarked
upon but the citizens of Bakshaan felt secure in their
wealth and power and had reasoned, with a certain
truth in their conviction, that Bakshaan could withstand
a raid far more ferocious than those raids which had
taken weaker Vilmirian towns. Elric had no idea why
his countrymen had driven northwards to Bakshaan.
Possibly they had come only to rest and turn their loot
into food supplies in the bazaars.

The smoke of several large campfires told Elric and
Moonglum where the Melniboneans, were entrenched.
With a slackening of pace, they guided their horses in
that direction while wet branches brushed their faces
and the scents of the forest, released by the life-bringing
rain, impinged sweetly upon their nostrils. It was with a
feeling akin to relaxation that Elric met the outguard
who suddenly appeared from the undergrowth to bar
their way along the forest trail.

The Imrryrian guard was swathed in furs and steel.
Beneath the visor of an intricately worked helmet he
peered at Elric with wary eyes. His vision was slightly
impaired by the visor and the rain which dripped from
it so that he did not immediately recognise Elric.

"Halt. What do you in these parts?"

Elric said impatiently, "Let me pass—it is Elric, your
lord and your Emperor."

The guard gasped and lowered the long-bladed spear
he carried. He pushed back his helmet and gazed at the
man before him with a myriad of different emotions
passing across his face. Among these were amazement,
reverence and hate.

He bowed stiffly. "This is no place for you, my liege.
You renounced and betrayed your people five years ago
and while I acknowledge the blood of kings which flows
in your veins, I cannot obey you or do you the homage
which it would otherwise be your right to expect."

"Of course," said Elric proudly, sitting his horse
straight-backed. "But let your leader—my boyhood
friend Dyvim Tvar—be the judge of how to deal with
me. Take me to him at once and remember that my
companion has done you no ill, but treat him with re-
spect as befits the chosen friend of an Emperor of Melni-
bone."

The guard bowed again and took hold of the reins of
Elric's mount. He led the pair down the trail and into a
large clearing wherein were pitched the tents of the men
of Imrryr. Cooking fires flared in the centre of the great
circle of pavilions and the fine-featured warriors of
Melnibone sat talking softly around them. Even in the
light of the gloomy day, the fabrics of the tents were
bright and gay. The soft tones were wholly
Melnibonean in texture. Deep, smoky greens, azure,
ochre, gold, dark blue. The colours did not clash—they
blended. Elric felt sad nostalgia for the sundered, multi-
coloured towers of Imrryr the Beautiful.

As the two companions and their guide drew nearer,
men looked up in astonishment and a low muttering re-
placed the sounds of ordinary conversation.

"Please remain here," the guard said to Elric. "I will

inform Lord Dyvim Tvar of your coming." Elric nodded
his acquiescence and sat firmly in his saddle conscious of
the gaze of the gathered warriors. None approached him
and some, whom Elric had known personally in the old
days, were openly embarrassed. They were the ones who
did not stare but rather averted their eyes, tending to
the cooking fires or taking a sudden interest in the pol-
ish of their finely-wrought longswords and dirks. A few
growled angrily, but they were in a definite minority.
Most of the men were simply shocked—and also inquisi-
tive. Why had this man, their king and their betrayer,
come to their camp?

The largest pavilion, of gold and scarlet, had at its
peak a banner upon which was emblazoned a dormant
dragon, blue upon white. This was the tent of Dyvim
Tvar and from it the Dragon Master hurried, buckling
on his sword-belt, his intelligent eyes puzzled and wary.

Dyvim Tvar was a man a little older than Elric and
he bore the stamp of Melnibonean nobility. His mother
had been a princess, a cousin to Elric's own mother. His
cheek-bones were high and delicate, his eyes slightly
slanting while his skull was narrow, tapering at the jaw.
Like Elric, his ears were thin, near lobeless and coming
almost to a point. His hands, the left one now folded
around the hilt of his sword, were long-fingered and,
like the rest of his skin, pale, though not nearly so pale
as the dead white of the albino's. He strode towards the
mounted Emperor of Melnibone and now his emotions
were controlled. When he was five feet away from Elric,
Dyvim Tvar bowed slowly, his head bent and his face
hidden. When he looked up again, his eyes met those of
Elric and remained fixed.

"Dyvim Tvar, Lord of the Dragon Caves, greets Elric,
Master of Melnibone, Exponent of her Secret Arts."
The Dragon Master spoke gravely the age-old ritual
greeting.

Elric was not as confident as he seemed as he replied:
"Elric, Master of Melnibone, greets his loyal subject and
demands that he give audience to Dyvim Tvar." It was
not fitting, by ancient Melnibonean standards, that the

king should request an audience with one of his subjects
and the Dragon Master understood this. He now said:

"I would be honoured if my liege would allow me to
accompany him to my pavilion."

Elric dismounted and led the way towards Dyvim
Tvar's pavilion. Moonglum also dismounted and made
to follow, but Elric waved him back. The two Imrryrian
noblemen entered the tent.

Inside, a small oil-lamp augmented the gloomy day-
light which filtered through the colourful fabric. The
tent was simply furnished, possessing only a soldier's
hard bed, a table and several carved wooden stools.
Dyvim Tvar bowed and silently indicated one of these
stools. Elric sat down.

For several moments, the two men said nothing. Nei-
ther allowed emotion to register on their controlled fea-
tures. They simply sat and stared at one another. Even-
tually Elric said:

"You know me for a betrayer, a thief, a murderer of
my own kin and a slayer of my countrymen, Dragon
Master."

Dyvim Tvar nodded. "With my liege's permission, I
will agree with him."

"We were never so formal in the old days, when
alone," Elric said. "Let us forget ritual and tradition—
Melnibone is broken and her sons are wanderers. We
meet, as we used to, as equals—only, now, this is wholly
true. We are equals. The Ruby Throne crashed in the
ashes of Imrryr and now no emperor may sit in state.

Dyvim Tvar sighed. "This is true, Elric—but why have
you come here? We were content to forget you. Even
while thoughts of vengeance were fresh, we made no
move to seek you out. Have you come to mock?"

"You know I would never do that, Dyvim Tvar.
I rarely sleep, in these days, and when I do I have such
dreams that I would rather be awake. You know that
Yyrkoon forced me to do what I did when he usurped
the throne for the second time, after I had trusted him
as Regent, when, again for the second time, he put his
sister, whom I loved, into a sorcerous slumber. To aid
that reaver fleet was my only hope of forcing him to

undo his work and release Cymoril from the spell. I was
moved by vengeance but it was Stormbringer, my sword,
which slew Cymoril, not I."

"Of this, I am aware." Dyvim Tvar sighed again and
rubbed one jewelled hand across his face. "But it does
not explain why you came here. There should be no
contact between you and your people. We are wary of
you Elric. Even if we allowed you to lead us again you
would take your own doomed path and us with you.
There is no future there for myself and my men."

"Agreed. But I need your help for this one time—then
our ways can part again."

"We should kill you, Elric. But which would be the
greater crime? Failure to do justice and slay our be-
trayer—or regicide? You have given me a problem at a
time when there are too many problems already. Should
I attempt to solve it?"

"I but played a part in history," Elric said earnestly.
"Time would have done what I did, eventually. I but
brought the day nearer—and brought it when you and
our people were still resilient enough to combat it and
turn to a new way of life."

Dyvim Tvar smiled ironically. "That is one point of
view, Elric—and it has truth in it, I grant you. But tell it
to the men who lost their kin and their homes because
of you. Tell it to warriors who had to tend maimed com-
rades, to brothers, fathers and husbands whose wives,
daughters and sisters—proud Melnibonean women—were
used to pleasure the barbarian pillagers."

"Aye," Elric dropped his eyes. When he next spoke it
was quietly. "I can do nothing to replace what our
people have lost—would that I could. I yearn for Imrryr
often, and her women, and her wines and entertain-
ments. But I can offer plunder. I can offer you the
richest palace in Bakshaan. Forget the old wounds and
follow me this once."

"Do you seek the riches of Bakshaan, Elric? You were
never one for jewels and precious metal! Why, Elric?"

Elric ran his hands through his white hair. His red
eyes were troubled. "For vengeance, once again, Dyvim
Tvar. I owe a debt to a sorcerer from Pan Tang—The-

leb K'aarna. You may have heard of him—he is fairly
powerful for one of a comparatively young race."

"Then we're joined in this, Elric," Dyvim Tvar spoke
grimly. "You are not the only Melnibonean who owes
Theleb K'aarna a debt! Because of that bitch-queen
Yishana of Jharkor, one of our men was done to death a
year ago in a most foul and horrible manner. Killed by
Theleb K'aarna because he gave his embraces to
Yishana who sought a substitute for you. We can unite
to avenge that blood, King Elric, and it will be a fitting
excuse for those who would rather have your blood on
their knives."

Elric was not glad. He had a sudden premonition that
this fortunate coincidence was to have grave and unpre-
dictable outcomings. But he smiled.

THREE

In a smoking pit, somewhere beyond the limitations of
space and time, a creature stirred. All around it,
shadows moved. They were the shadows of the souls of
men and these shadows which moved through the bright
darkness were the masters of the creature. It allowed
them to master it—so long as they paid its price. In the
speech of men, this creature had a name. It was called
Quaolnargn and would answer to this name if called.
Now it stirred. It heard its name carrying over the
barriers which normally blocked its way to the Earth.
The calling of the name effected a temporary pathway
through those intangible barriers. It stirred again, as its
name was called for the second time. It was unaware of
why it was called or to what it was called. It was only
muzzily conscious of one fact. When the pathway was
opened to it, it could feed. It did not eat flesh and it did

not drink blood. It fed on the minds and the souls of
adult men and women. Occasionally, as an appetizer, it
enjoyed the morsels, the sweetmeats as it were, of the in-
nocent life-force which it sucked from children. It ig-
nored animals since there was not enough awareness in
an animal to savour. The creature was, for all its alien
stupidity, a gourmet and a connoisseur.

Now its name was called for the third time. It stirred
again and flowed forward. The time was approaching
when it could, once again, feed...

Theleb K'aarna shuddered. He was, basically, he felt,
a man of peace. It was not his fault that his avaricious
love for Yishana had turned him mad. It was not his
fault that, because of her, he now controlled several
powerful and malevolent demons who, in return for the
slaves and enemies he fed them, protected the palace of
Nikorn the merchant. He felt, very strongly, that none
of it was his fault. It was circumstance which had
damned him. He wished sadly that he had never met
Yishana, never returned to her after that unfortunate
episode outside the walls of Tanelorn. He shuddered
again as he stood within the pentacle and summoned
Quaolnargn. His embryonic talent for precognition had
shown him a little of the near-future and he knew that
Elric was preparing to do battle with him. Theleb
K'aarna was taking the opportunity of summoning all
the aid he could control. Quaolnargn must be sent to
destroy Elric, if it could, before the albino reached the
castle. Theleb K'aarna congratulated himself that he still
retained the lock of white hair which had enabled him,
in the past, to send another, now deceased, demon
against Elric.

Quaolnargn knew that it was reaching its master. It
propelled itself sluggishly forward and felt a stinging
pain as it entered the alien continuum. It knew that its
master's soul hovered before it but, for some reason, was
disappointingly unattainable. Something was dropped in
front of it. Quaolnargn scented at it and knew what it
must do. This was part of its new feed. It flowed grate-
fully away, intent on finding its prey before the pain

which was endemic of a prolonged stay in the strange
place grew too much.

Elric rode at the head of his countrymen. On his right
was Dyvim Tvar, the Dragon Master, on his left, Moon-
glum of Elwher. Behind him rode two hundred fighting
men and behind them the wagons containing their loot,
their war-machines and their slaves.

The caravan was resplendent with proud banners and
the gleaming, long-bladed lances of Imrryr. They were
clad in steel, with tapering greaves, helmets and shoul-
der-pieces. Their breastplates were polished and glinted
where their long fur jerkins were open. Over the jerkins
were flung bright cloaks of Imrryrian fabrics, scintillat-
ing in the watery sunshine. The archers were immedi-
ately close to Elric and his companions. They carried
unstrung bone bows of tremendous power, which only
they could use. On their backs were quivers crammed
with black-fletched arrows. Then came the lancers, with
their shining lances at a tilt to avoid the low branches of
the trees. Behind these rode the main strength—the
Imrryrian swordsmen carrying longswords and shorter
stabbing weapons which were too short to be real swords
and too long to be named as knives. They rode, skirting
Bakshaan, for the palace of Nikorn which lay to the
north of Bakshaan. They rode, these men, in silence.
They could think of nothing to say while Elric, their
liege, led them to battle for the first time in five years.

Stormbringer, the black hellblade, tingled under El-
ric's hand, anticipating a new sword-quenching. Moon-
glum fidgeted in his saddle, nervous of the forthcoming
fight which he knew would involve dark sorcery. Moon-
glum had no liking for the sorcerous arts or for the crea-
tures they spawned. To his mind, men should fight their
own battles without help. They rode on, nervous and
tense.

Stormbringer shook against Elric's side. A faint moan
emanated from the metal and the tone was one of warn-
ing. Elric raised a hand and the cavalcade reined to a
halt.

"There is something coming near which only I can

deal with," he informed the men. "I will ride on
ahead."

He spurred his horse into a wary canter, keeping his
eyes before him. Stormbringer's voice was louder, sharp-
er—a muted shriek. The horse trembled and Elric's
own nerves were tense. He had not expected trouble so
soon and he prayed that whatever evil was lurking in
the forest was not directed against him.

"Arioch, be with me," he breathed. "Aid me now, and
I'll dedicate a score of warriors to you. Aid me, Arioch."

A foul odour forced itself into Elric's nostrils. He
coughed and covered his mouth with his hands, his eyes
seeking the source of the stink. The horse whinnied. El-
ric jumped from the saddle and slapped his mount on
the rump, sending it back along the trail. He crouched
warily, Stormbringer now in his grasp, the black metal
quivering from point to pommel.

He sensed it with the witch-sight of his forefathers be-
fore he saw it with his eyes. And he recognised its shape.
He, himself, was one of its masters. But this time he had
no control over Quaolnargn—he was standing in no pen-
tacle and his only protection was his blade and his wits.
He knew, also, of the power of Quaolnargn and shud-
dered. Could he overcome such a horror single-handedly?

"Arioch! Arioch! Aid me!" It was a scream, high and
desperate.

"Arioch!"

There was no time to conjure a spell. Quaolnargn was
before him, a great green toad-thing which hopped
along the trail obscenely, moaning to itself in its Earth-
fostered pain. It towered over Elric so that the albino
was in its shadow before it was ten feet away from him.
Elric breathed quickly and screamed once more: "Ari-
och! Blood and souls, if you aid me, now!"

Suddenly, the toad-demon leapt.

Elric sprang to one side, but was caught by a long-
nailed foot which sent him flying into the undergrowth.
Quaolnargn turned clumsily and its filthy mouth opened
hungrily, displaying a deep toothless cavity from which
a foul odour poured.

"Arioch!"

In its evil and alien insensitivity, the toad-thing did
not even recognize the name of so powerful a demon-
god. It could not be frightened—it had to be fought.

And as it approached Elric for the second time, the
clouds belched rain from their bowels and a downpour
lashed the forest.

Half-blinded by the rain smashing against his face, El-
ric backed behind a tree, his runesword ready. In ordi-
nary terms, Quaolnargn was blind. It could not see El-
ric or the forest. It could not feel the rain. It could only
see and smell men's souls—its feed. The toad-demon
blundered past him and, as it did so, Elric leapt high,
holding his blade with both hands, and plunged it to
the hilt into the demon's soft and quivering back.
Flesh—or whatever Earth-bound stuff formed the
demon's body—squelched nauseatingly. Elric pulled at
Stormbringer's hilt as the sorcerous sword seared into
the hellbeast's back, cutting down where the spine
should be but where no spine was. Quaolnargn piped its
pain. Its voice was thin and reedy, even in such extreme
agony. It retaliated.

Elric felt his mind go numb and then his head was
filled with a pain which was not natural in any sense.
He could not even shriek. His eyes widened in horror as
he realised what was happening to him. His soul was
being drawn from his body. He knew it. He felt no
physical weakness, he was only aware of looking out
into...

But even that awareness was fading. Everything was
fading, even the pain, even the dreadful hell-spawned
pain.

"Arioch!" he croaked.

Savagely, he summoned strength from somewhere.
Not from himself, not even from Stormbringer—from
somewhere. Something was aiding him at last, giving
him strength—enough strength to do what he must.

He wrenched the blade from the demon's back. He
stood over Quaolnargn. Above him. He was floating
somewhere, not in the air of Earth. Just floating over
the demon. With thoughtful deliberation he selected a
spot on the demon's skull which he somehow knew to be

the only spot on his body where Stormbringer might
slay. Slowly and carefully, he lowered Stormbringer and
twisted the runesword through Quaolnargn's skull.
The toad-thing whimpered, dropped—and vanished.
Elric lay sprawled in the undergrowth, trembling the
length of his aching body. He picked himself up slow-
ly.   All   his   energy   had   been   drained   from   him.
Stormbringer, too, seemed to have lost its vitality, but
that, Elric knew would return and, in returning, bring
him new strength.

But then he felt his whole frame tugged rigid. He was
astounded. What was happening? His senses began to
blank out. He had the feeling that he was staring down
a long, black tunnel which stretched into nowhere. Ev-
erything was vague. He was aware of motion. He was
travelling. How—or where, he could not tell.

For brief seconds he travelled, conscious only of an
unearthly feeling of motion and the fact that Storm-
bringer, his life, was clutched in his right hand.

Then he felt hard stone beneath him and he opened
his eyes—or was it, he wondered, that his vision re-
turned?—and looked up at the gloating face above him.

"Theleb K'aarna," he whispered hoarsely, "how did
you effect this?"

The sorcerer bent down and tugged Stormbringer
from Elric's enfeebled grasp. He sneered. "I followed
your commendable battle with my messenger, Lord El-
ric. When it was obvious that somehow you had sum-
moned aid—I quickly conjured another spell and
brought you here. Now I have your sword and your
strength. I know that without it you are nothing. You
are in my power, Elric of Melnibone."

Elric gasped air into his lungs. His whole body was
pain-racked. He tried to smile, but he could not. It was
not in his nature to smile when he was beaten. "Give
me back my sword."

Theleb K'aarna gave a self-satisfied smirk. He chuck-
led. "Who talks of vengeance, now, Elric?"

"Give me my sword!" Elric tried to rise but he was
too weak. His vision blurred until he could hardly see
the gloating sorcerer.

"And what kind of bargain do you offer?"Theleb
K'aarna asked. "You are not a well man, Lord Elric—
and sick men do not bargain. They beg."

Elric trembled in impotent anger. He tightened his
mouth. He would not beg—neither would he bargain. In
silence, he glowered at the sorcerer.

"I think that first," Theleb K'aarna said smiling. "I
shall lock this away." He hefted Stormbringer in his
hand and turned towards a cupboard behind him. From
his robes he produced a key with which he unlocked the
cupboard and placed the runesword inside, carefully
locking the door again when he had done so. "Then, I
think, I'll show our virile hero to his ex-mistress—the sis-
ter of the man he betrayed four years ago."

Elric said nothing.

"After that," Theleb K'aarna continued, "my em-
ployer Nikorn shall be shown the assassin who thought
he could do what others failed to achieve." He smiled.
"What a day," he chuckled. "What a day! So full. So
rich with pleasure."

Theleb K'aarna tittered and picked up a hand-bell.
He rang it. A door behind Elric opened and two tall
desert warriors strode in. They glanced at Elric and then
at Theleb K'aarna. They were evidently amazed.

"No questions," Theleb K'aarna snapped. "Take this
refuse to the chambers of Queen Yishana."

Elric fumed as he was hefted up between the two.
The men were dark-skinned, bearded and their eyes
were deep-set beneath shaggy brows. They wore the
heavy wool-trimmed metal caps of their race, and their
armour was not of iron but of thick, leather-covered
wood. Down a long corridor they lugged Elric's weak-
ened body and one of them rapped sharply on a door.

Elric recognised Yishana's voice bid them enter. Be-
hind the desert-men and their burden came the titter-
ing, fussing sorcerer. "A present for you, Yishana," he
called.

The desert men entered. Elric could not see Yishana
but he heard her gasp. "On the couch," directed the sor-
cerer. Elric was deposited on yielding fabric. He lay
completely exhausted on the couch, staring up at a

bright, lewd mural which had been painted on the ceil-
ing.

Yishana bent over him. Elric could smell her erotic
perfume. He said hoarsely: "An unprecedented reunion,
Queen." Yishana's eyes were, for a moment, concerned,
then they hardened and she laughed cynically.

"Oh—my hero has returned to me at last. But I'd
rather he'd come at his own volition, not dragged here
by the back of his neck like a puppy. The wolf's teeth
have all been drawn and there's no one to savage me at
nights." She turned away, disgust on her painted face.
"Take him away, Theleb K'aarna. You have proved
your point."

The sorcerer nodded.

"And now," he said, "to visit Nikorn—I think he
should be expecting us by this time ..."

FOUR

Nikorn of Ilmar was not a young man. He was well past
fifty but had preserved his youth. His face was that of a
peasant, firm-boned but not fleshy. His eyes were keen
and hard as he stared at Elric who had been mockingly
propped in a chair.

"So you are Elric of Melnibone the Wolf of the Snarl-
ing Sea, spoiler, reaver and woman-slayer. I think that
you could hardly slay a child now. However, I will say
that it discomforts me to see any man in such a posi-
tion—particularly one who has been so active as you. Is
it true what the spell-maker says? Were you sent here by
my enemies to assassinate me?"

Elric was concerned for his men. What would they do?
Wait—or go on. If they stormed the palace now they
were doomed—and so was he.

"Is it true?" Nikorn was insistent.

"No," whispered Elric. "My quarrel was with Theleb
K'aarna. I have an old score to settle with him."

"I am not interested in old scores, my friend," Nikorn
said, not unkindly. "I am interested in preserving my
life. Who sent you here?"

"Theleb K'aarna speaks falsely if he told you I was
sent," Elric lied. "I was interested only in paying my
debt."

"It is not only the sorcerer who told me, I'm afraid,"
Nikorn said. "I have many spies in the city and two of
them independently informed me of a plot by local mer-
chants to employ you to kill me."

Elric smiled faintly. "Very well," he agreed. "It was
true, but I had no intention of doing what they asked."

Nikorn said: "I might believe you, Elric of Melni-
bone. But now I do not know what to do with you. I
would not turn anyone over to Theleb K'aarna's mer-
cies. May I have your word that you will not make an
attempt on my life again?"

"Are we bargaining, Master Nikorn?" Elric said
faintly.

"We are."

"Then what do I give my word in return for, sir?"

"Your life and freedom, Lord Elric."

"And my sword?"

Nikorn shrugged regretfully. "I'm sorry—not your
sword."

"Then take my life," said Elric brokenly.

"Come now—my bargain's good. Have your life and
freedom and give your word that you will not plague
me again."

Elric breathed deeply. "Very well."

Nikorn moved away. Theleb K'aarna who had been
standing in the shadows put a hand on the merchant's
arm. "You're going to release him?"

"Aye," Nikorn said. "He's no threat to either of us
now."

Elric was aware of a certain feeling of friendship in
Nikorn's attitude towards him. He, too, felt something
of the same. Here was a man both courageous and

clever.  But—Elric    fought    madness—without    Storm-
bringer, what could he do to fight back?

The two hundred Imrryrian warriors lay hidden in
the undergrowth as dusk gave way to night. They
watched and wondered. What had happened to Elric?
Was he now in the castle as Dyvim Tvar thought? The
Dragon Master knew something of the art of divining, as
did all members of the royal line of Melnibone. From
what small spells he had conjured, it seemed that Elric
now lay within the castle walls.

But without Elric to battle Theleb K'aarna's power,
how could they take it?

Nikorn's palace was also a fortress, bleak and un-
lovely. It was surrounded by a deep moat of dark, stag-
nant water. It stood high above the surrounding forest,
built into rather than on to the rock. Much of it had
been carved out of the living stone. It was sprawling
and rambling and covered a large area, surrounded by
natural buttresses. The rock was porous in places, and
slimy water ran down the walls of the lower parts,
spreading through dark moss. It was not a pleasant
place, judging from the outside, but it was almost cer-
tainly impregnable. Two hundred men could not take
it, without the aid of magic.

Some of the Melnibonean warriors were becoming im-
patient. There were a few who muttered that Elric had,
once again, betrayed them. Dyvim Tvar and Moonglum
did not believe this. They had seen the signs of con-
flict—and heard them—in the forest.

They waited: Hoping for a signal from the castle it-
self.

They watched the castle's great main gate—and their
patience at last proved of value. The huge wood and
metal gate swung inwards on chains and a white-faced
man in the tattered regalia of Melnibone appeared be-
tween two desert warriors. They were supporting him, it
seemed. They pushed him forward—he staggered a few
yards along the causeway of slimy stone which bridged
the moat.

Then he fell. He began to crawl wearily, painfully,
forward.

Moonglum growled. "What have they done to him? I
must help him." But Dyvim Tvar held him back.

"No—it would not do to betray our presence here. Let
him reach the forest first, then we can help him."

Even those who had cursed Elric, now felt pity for the
albino as, staggering and crawling alternately, he
dragged his body slowly towards them. From the battle-
ments of the fortress a tittering laugh was borne down
to the ears of those below. They also caught a few
words.

"What now, wolf?" said the voice. "What now?"

Moonglum clenched his hands and trembled with
rage, hating to see his proud friend so mocked in his
weakness. "What's happened to him? What have they
done?"

"Patience," Dyvim Tvar said. "We'll find out in a
short while."

It was an agony to wait until Elric finally crawled on
his knees into the undergrowth.

Moonglum went forward to aid his friend. He put a
Supporting arm around Elric's shoulders but the albino
snarled and shook it off, his whole countenance aflame
with terrible hate—made more terrible because it was
impotent. Elric could do nothing to destroy that which
he hated. Nothing.

Dyvim Tvar said urgently: "Elric, you must tell us
What happened. If we're to help you—we must know
what happened."

Elric breathed heavily and nodded his agreement. His
face partially cleared of the emotion he felt and weakly
he stuttered out the story.

"So," Moonglum growled, "our plans come to noth-
ing—and you have lost your strength for ever."

Elric shook his head. "There must be a way," he
gasped. "There must!"

"What? How? If you have a plan, Elric—let me hear it
now,"

Elric swallowed thickly and mumbled. "Very well,

Moonglum, you shall hear it. But listen carefully, for I
have not the strength to repeat it."

Moonglum was a lover of the night, but only when it
was lit by the torches found in cities. He did not like the
night when it came to open countryside and he was not
fond of it when it surrounded a castle such as Nikorn's,
but he pressed on and hoped for the best.

If Elric had been right in his interpretation, then the
battle might yet be won and Nikorn's palace taken. But
it still meant danger for Moonglum and he was not one
deliberately to put himself into danger.

As he viewed the stagnant waters of the moat with dis-
taste he reflected that this was enough to test any friend-
ship to the utmost. Philosophically, he lowered himself
down into the water and began to swim across it.

The moss on the fortress offered a flimsy handhold,
but it led to ivy which gave a better grip. Moonglum
slowly clambered up the wall. He hoped that Elric had
been right and that Theleb K'aarna would need to rest
for a while before he could work more sorcery. That was
why Elric had suggested he make haste. Moonglum
clambered on, and eventually reached the small un-
barred window he sought. A normal size man could not
have entered, but Moonglum's small frame was proving
useful.

He wriggled through the gap, shivering with cold, and
landed on the hard stone of a narrow staircase which
ran both up and down the interior wall of the fortress.
Moonglum frowned, and then took the steps leading up-
wards. Elric had given him a rough idea of how to reach
his destination.

Expecting the worst, he went soft-footed up the stone
steps. He went towards the chambers of Yishana, Queen
of Jharkor.

In an hour, Moonglum was back, shivering with cold
and dripping with water. In his hands he carried
Stormbringer. He carried the runesword with cautious
care—nervous of its sentient evil. It was alive again;
alive with black, pulsating life.

"Thank the gods I was right," Elric murmured weakly
from where he lay surrounded by two or three Imrryri-
ans, including Dyvim Tvar who was staring at the al-
bino with concern. "I prayed that I was correct in my
assumption and Theleb K'aarna was resting after his
earlier exertions on my behalf..."

He stirred, and Dyvim Tvar helped him to sit up-
right. Elric reached out a long white hand—reached like
an addict of some terrible drug towards the sword. "Did
you give her my message?" he asked as he gratefully
seized the pommel.

"Aye," Moonglum said shakily, "and she agreed. You
were also right in your other interpretation, Elric. It did
not take her long to inveigle the key out of a weary
Theleb K'aarna. The sorcerer was tremendously tired
and Nikorn was becoming nervous wondering if an at-
tack of any kind would take place while Theleb K'aarna
was incapable of action. She went herself to the cup-
board and got me the blade."

"Women can sometimes be useful," said Dyvim Tvar
dryly. "Though usually, in matters like these, they're a
hindrance." It was possible to see that something other
than immediate problems of taking the castle were
worrying Dyvim Tvar, but no one thought to ask him
what it was that bothered him. It seemed a personal
thing.

"I agree, Dragon Master," Elric said, almost gaily.
The gathered men were aware of the strength which
poured swiftly back into the albino's deficient veins, im-
buing him with a new hellborn vitality. "It is time for
our vengeance. But remember—no harm to Nikorn. I
gave him my word."

He folded his right hand firmly around Stormbringer's
hilt. "Now for a sword-quenching. I believe I can obtain
the help of just the allies we need to keep the sorcerer
occupied while we storm the castle. I'll need no pentacle
to summon my friends of the air!"

Moonglum licked his long lips. "So it's sorcery again.
In truth, Elric, this whole country is beginning to stink
of wizardry and the minions of Hell."

Elric murmured for his friend's ears: "No Hell-beings

these—but honest elementals, equally powerful in many
ways. Curb your belly-fear, Moonglum—a little more
simple conjuring and Theleb K'aarna will have no
desire to retaliate."

The albino frowned, remembering the secret pacts of
his forefathers. He took a deep breath and closed his
pain-filled scarlet eyes. He swayed, the runesword half-
loose in his grip. His chant was low, like the far-off
moaning of the wind itself. His chest moved quickly up
and down, and some of the younger warriors, those who
had never been fully initiated into the ancient lore of
Melnibone", stirred with discomfort. Elric's voice was not
addressing human folk—his words were for the invisible,
the intangible—the supernatural. An old and ancient
rhyme began the casting of word-runes ...

"Hear the doomed one's dark decision,
Let the Wind Giant's wail be heard,
Graoll and Misha's mighty moaning
Send my enemy like a bird.

"By the sultry scarlet stones,
By the bane of my black blade,
By the Lasshaar's lonely mewling,
Let a mighty wind be made.

"Speed of sunbeams from their homeland,
Swifter than the sundering storm,
Speed of arrow deerwards shooting,
Let the sorcerer so be borne."

His voice broke and he called high and clear:

"Misha! Misha! In the name of my fathers I summon
thee, Lord of the Winds!"

Almost at once, the trees of the forest suddenly bent
as if some great hand had brushed them aside. A terri-
ble soughing voice swam from nowhere. And all but El-
ric, deep in his trance, shivered.

"ELRIC OF MELNIBONE," the voice roared like a distant
storm, 'WE KNEW YOUR FATHERS, I KNOW THEE. THE DEBT

WE OWE THE LINE OF ELRIC IS FORGOTTEN BY MORTALS BUT

GRAOLL AND MISHA, KINGS OF THE WIND, REMEMBER. HOW
MAY THE LASSAHAR AID THEE?"

The voice seemed almost friendly—but proud and
aloof and awe-inspiring.

Elric, completely in a state of trance now, jerked his
whole body in convulsions. His voice shrieked piercingly
from his throat—and the words were alien, unhuman, vi-
olently disturbing to the ears and nerves of the human
listeners. Elric spoke briefly and then the invisible Wind
Giant's great voice roared and sighed:

"I WILL DO AS YOU DESIRE." Then the trees bent once
more and the forest was still and muted.

Somewhere in the gathered ranks, a man sneezed sharp-
ly and this was a sign for others to start talking—specu-
lating.

For many moments, Elric remained in his trance and
then, quite suddenly, he opened his enigmatic eyes and
looked gravely around him, puzzled for a second. Then
he clasped Stormbringer more firmly and leaned for-
ward, speaking to the men of Imrryr. "Soon Theleb
K'aarna will be in our power, my friends, and so also
will we possess the loot of Nikorn's palace!"

But Dyvim Tvar shuddered then. "I'm not so given
skilled in the esoteric arts as you, Elric," he said quietly.
"But in my soul I see three wolves leading a pack to
slaughter and one of those wolves must die. My doom is
near me, I think."

Elric said uncomfortably: "Worry not, Dragon Master.
You'll live to mock the ravens and spend the spoils of
Bakshaan." But his voice was not convincing.

FIVE

In his bed of silk and ermine, Theleb K'aarna stirred
and awoke. He had a brooding inkling of coming trou-
ble and he remembered that earlier in his tiredness he
had given more to Yishana than had been wise. He
could not remember what it was and now he had a
presentiment of danger—the closeness of which over-
shadowed thoughts of any past indiscretion. He arose
hurriedly and pulled his robe over his head, shrugging
into it as he walked towards a strangely-silvered mirror
which was set on one wall of his chamber and reflected
no image.

With bleary eyes and trembling hands he began
preparations. From one of the many earthenware jars
resting on a bench near the window, he poured a sub-
stance which seemed like dried blood mottled with the
hardened blue venom of the black serpent whose home-
land was in far Dorel which lay on the edge of the
world. Over this, he muttered a swift incantation,
scooped the stuff into a crucible and hurled it at the
mirror, one arm shielding his eyes. A crack sounded,
hard and sharp to his ears, and bright green light erupt-
ed suddenly and was gone. The mirror flickered deep
within itself, the silvering seemed to undulate and
flicker and flash and then a picture began to form.

Theleb K'aarna knew that the sight he witnessed had
taken place in the recent past. It showed him Elric's
summoning of the Wind Giants.

Theleb K'aarna's dark features grinned with a terrible
fear. His hands jerked as spasms shook him. Half-gibber-
ing, he rushed back to his bench and, leaning his hands

upon it, stared out of the window into the deep night.
He knew what to expect.

A great and dreadful storm was blowing—and he was
the object of the Lasshaar's attack. He had to retaliate,
else his own soul would be wrenched from him by the
Giants of the Wind and flung to the air spirits, to be
borne for eternity on the winds of the world. Then his
voice would moan like a banshee around the cold peaks
of high ice-clothed mountains for ever—lost and lonely.
His soul would be damned to travel with the four winds
wherever their caprice might bear it, knowing no rest.

Theleb K'aarna had a respect born of fear for the
powers of the aeromancer, the rare wizard who could
control the wind elementals—and aeromancy was only
one of the arts which Elric and his ancestors possessed.
Then Theleb K'aarna realised what he was battling—ten
thousand years and hundreds of generations of sorcerers
who had gleaned knowledge from the Earth and beyond
it and passed it down to the albino whom he, Theleb
K'aarna, had sought to destroy. Then Theleb K'aarna
fully regretted his actions. Then—it was too late.

The sorcerer had no control over the powerful Wind
Giants as Elric had. His only hope was to combat one ele-
ment with another. The fire-spirits must be summoned,
and quickly. All of Theleb K'aarna's pyromantic powers
would be required to hold off the ravening supernatural
winds which were soon to shake the air and the earth.
Even Hell would shake to the sound and the thunder of
the Wind Giants' wrath.

Quickly, Theleb K'aarna marshalled his thoughts and,
with trembling hands, began to make strange passes in
the air and promise unhealthy pacts with whichever of
the powerful fire elementals would help him this once.
He promised himself to eternal death for the sake of a
few more years of life.

With the gathering of the Wind Giants came the
thunder and the rain. The lightning flashed sporadi-
cally, but not lethally. It never touched the earth. Elric,
Moonglum, and the men of Imrryr were aware of dis-
turbing movements in the atmosphere, but only Elric

with his witch sight could see a little of what was hap-
pening. The Lasshaar Giants were invisible to other
eyes.

The war engines which the Imrryrians were even now
constructing from pre-fashioned parts were puny things
compared to the Wind Giants' might. But victory
depended upon these engines since the Lasshaar's fight
would be with the supernatural not the natural.

Battle-rams and siege ladders were slowly taking shape
as the warriors worked with frantic speed. The hour of
the storming came closer as the wind rose and thunder
rattled. The moon was blanked out by huge billowings
of black cloud, and the men worked by the light of
torches. Surprise was no great asset in an attack of the
kind planned.

Two hours before dawn, they were ready.

At last the men of Imrryr, Elric, Dyvim Tvar and
Moonglum riding high at their head, moved towards the
castle of Nikorn. As they did so, Elric raised his voice in
an unholy shout—and thunder rumbled in answer to
him. A great gout of lightning seared out of the sky
towards the palace and the whole place shook and
trembled as a ball of mauve and orange fire suddenly
appeared over the castle and absorbed the lightning!
The battle between fire and air had begun.

The surrounding countryside was alive with a weird
and malignant shrieking and moaning, deafening to the
ears of the marching men. They sensed conflict all
round them, and only a little was visible.

Over most of the castle an unearthly glow hung, wax-
ing and waning, defending a gibbering wretch of a sor-
cerer who knew that he was doomed if once the Lords
of the Flame gave way to the roaring Wind Giants.

Elric smiled without humour as he observed the war.
On the supernatural plane, he now had little to fear.
But there was still the castle and he had no extra super-
natural aid to help him take that. Swordplay and skill
in battle was the only hope against the ferocious desert
warriors who now crowded the battlements, preparing to
destroy the two hundred men who came against them.

Up rose the Dragon Standards their cloth-of-gold fab-

ric flashing in the eerie glow. Spread out, walking
slowly, the sons of Imrryr moved forward to do battle.
Up, also, rose the siege ladders as captains directed war-
riors to begin the assault. The defenders' faces were pale
spots against the dark stone and thin shouts came from
them; but it was impossible to catch their words.

Two great battle-rams, fashioned the day before, were
brought to the vanguard of the approaching warriors.
The narrow causeway was a dangerous one to pass over,
but it was the only means of crossing the moat at
ground level. Twenty men carried each of the great
iron-tipped rams and now they began to run forward
while arrows hailed downwards. Their shields protecting
them from most of the shafts, the warriors reached the
causeway and rushed across it. Now the first ram con-
nected with the gate. It seemed to Elric as he watched
this operation that nothing of wood and iron could
withstand the vicious impact of the ram, but the gates
shivered almost imperceptibly—and held!

Like vampires, hungry for blood, the men howled and
staggered aside crabwise to let pass the log held by their
comrades. Again the gates shivered, more easily noticed
this time, but they yet held.

Dyvim Tvar roared encouragement to those now
scaling the siege ladders. These were brave, almost des-
perate men, for few of the first climbers would reach the
top and even if they were successful, they would be
hard-pressed to stay alive until their comrades arrived.

Boiling lead hissed from great cauldrons set on
spindles so that they could be easily emptied and filled
quickly. Many a brave Imrryrian warrior fell earth-
wards, dead from the searing metal before he reached
the sharp rocks beneath. Large stones were released out
of leather bags hanging from rotating pulleys which
could swing out beyond the battlements and rain bone-
crushing death on the besiegers. But still the invaders
advanced, voicing half-a-hundred war-shouts and steadily
scaling their long ladders, whilst their comrades, using a
shield barrier still, to protect their heads, concentrated
on breaking down the gates.

Elric and his two companions could do little to help

the sealers or the rammers at that stage. All three were
hand-to-hand fighters, leaving even the archery to their
rear ranks of bowmen who stood in rows and shot their
shafts high into the castle defenders.

The gates were beginning to give. Cracks and splits
appeared in them, ever widening. Then, all at once,
when hardly expected, the right gate creaked on tor-
tured hinges and fell. A triumphant roar erupted from
the throats of the invaders and, dropping their hold on
the logs, they led their companions through the breach,
axes and maces swinging like scythes and flails before
them—and enemy heads springing from necks like wheat
from the stalk.

"The castle is ours!" shouted Moonglum, running for-
ward and upward towards the gap in the archway. "The
castle's taken."

"Speak not too hastily of victory," replied Dyvim
Tvar, but he laughed as he spoke and ran as fast as the
others to reach the castle.

"And where is your doom, now?" Elric called to his
fellow Melnibonean, then broke off sharply when Dyvim
Tvar's face clouded and his mouth set grimly. For a mo-
ment there was tension between them, even as they ran,
then Dyvim Tvar laughed loud and made a joke of it.
"It lies somewhere, Elric, it lies somewhere—but let us
not worry about such things, for if my doom hangs over
me, I cannot stop its descent when my hour arrives!" He
slapped Elric's shoulder, feeling for the albino's unchar-
acteristic confusion.

Then they were under the mighty archway and in the
courtyard of the castle where savage fighting had de-
veloped almost into single duels, enemy choosing enemy
and fighting him to the death.

Stormbringer was the first of the three men's blades to
take blood and send a desert man's soul to Hell. The
song it sang as it was lashed through the air in strong
strokes was an evil one—evil and triumphant.

The dark-faced desert warriors were famous for their
courage and skill with swords. Their curved blades were
reaping havoc in the Imrryrian ranks for, at that stage,
the desert men far outnumbered the Melnibonean force.

Somewhere above, the inspired sealers had got a firm
foothold on the battlements and were closing with the
men of Nikorn, driving them back, forcing many over
the unrailed edges of the parapets. A falling, still
screaming warrior plummeted down, to land almost on
Elric, knocking his shoulder and causing him to fall
heavily to the blood-and-rain-slick cobbles. A badly
scarred desert man, quick to see his chance, moved for-
ward with a gloating look on his travesty of a face. His
scimitar moved up, poised to hack Elric's neck from his
shoulders, and then his helmet split open and his fore-
head spurted a sudden gout of blood.

Dyvim Tvar wrenched a captured axe from the skull
of the slain warrior and grinned at Elric as the albino
rose.

"We'll both live to see victory, yet," he shouted over
the din of the warring elementals above them and the
sound of clashing arms. "My doom, I will escape until—"
He broke off, a look of surprise on his fine-boned face,
and Elric's stomach twisted inside him as he saw a steel
point appear in Dyvim Tvar's right side. Behind the
Dragon Master, a maliciously smiling desert warrior
pulled his blade from Dyvim Tvar's body. Elric cursed
and rushed forward. The man put up his blade to de-
fend himself, backing hurriedly away from the infuriat-
ed albino. Stormbringer swung up and then down, it
howled a death-song and sheared right through the
curved steel of Elric's opponent—and it kept on going,
straight through the man's shoulder blade, splitting him
half in two. Elric turned back to Dyvim Tvar who was
still standing up, but was pale and strained. His blood
dripped from his wound and seeped through his gar-
ments.

"How badly are you hurt?" Elric said anxiously. "Can
you tell?"

"That trollspawn's sword passed through my ribs, I
think—no vitals were harmed." Dyvim Tvar gasped and
tried to smile. "I'm sure I'd know if he'd made more of
the wound."

Then he fell. And when Elric turned him, he looked
into a dead and staring face. The Dragon Master, Lord

of the Dragon Caves, would never tend his beasts again.

Elric felt sick and weary as he got up, standing over
the body of his kinsman. Because of me, he thought, an-
other fine man has died. But this was the only conscious
thought he allowed himself for the meantime. He was
forced to defend himself from the slashing swords of a
couple of desert men who came at him in a rush.

The archers, their work done outside, came running
through the breach in the gate and their arrows poured
into the enemy ranks.

Elric shouted loudly: "My kinsman Dyvim Tvar lies
dead, stabbed in the back by a desert warrior—avenge
him brethren. Avenge the Dragon Master of Imrryr!"

A low moaning came from the throats of the Melni-
boneans and their attack was even more, ferocious than
before. Elric called to a bunch of axe-men who ran
down from the battlements, their victory assured,

"You men, follow me. We can avenge the blood that
Theleb K'aarna took!" He had a good idea of the geog-
raphy of the castle.

Moonglum shouted from somewhere. "One moment,
Elric, and I'll join you!" A desert warrior fell, his back
to Elric, and from behind him emerged a grinning
Moonglum, his sword covered in blood from point to
pommel.

Elric led the way to a small door, set into the main
tower of the castle. He pointed at it and spoke to the axe-
men. "Set to with your axes, lads, and hurry!"

Grimly, the axe-men began to hack at the tough tim-
ber. Impatiently, Elric watched as the wood chips
started to fly.

The conflict was appalling. Theleb K'aarna sobbed in
frustration. Kakatal, the Fire Lord, and his minions
were having little effect on the Wind Giants. Their
power appeared to be increasing if anything. The sor-
cerer gnawed his knuckles and quaked in his chamber
while below him the human warriors fought, bled and
died. Theleb K'aarna made himself concentrate on one
thing only—total destruction of the Lasshaar forces. But
he knew, somehow, even then, that sooner or later, in
one way or another, he was doomed.

The axes drove deeper and deeper into the stout tim-
ber. At last it gave. "We're through, my lord," one of
the axe-men indicated the gaping hole they'd made.

Elric reached his arm through the gap and prised up
the bar which secured the door. The bar moved up-
wards and then fell with a clatter to the stone flagging.
Elric put his shoulder to the door and pushed.

Above them, now, two huge, almost-human figures
had appeared in the sky, outlined against the night. One
was golden and glowing like the sun and seemed to
wield a great sword of fire. The other was dark blue and
silver, writhing, smoke-like, with a flickering spear of
restless orange in his hand.

Misha and Kakatal clashed. The outcome of their
mighty struggle might well decide Theleb K'aarna's fate.

"Quickly," Elric said. "Upwards!"

They ran up the stairs. The stairs which led to The-
leb K'aarna's chamber.

Suddenly the men were forced to stop as they came to
a door of jet-black, studded with crimson iron. It had no
keyhole, no bolts, no bars, but it was quite secure. Elric
directed the axe-men to begin hewing at it. All six
struck at the door in unison.

In unison, they screamed and vanished. Not even a
wisp of smoke remained to mark where they had disap-
peared.

Moonglum staggered backwards, eyes wide in fear. He
was backing away from Elric who remained firmly by
the door, Stormbringer throbbing in his hand. "Get out,
Elric—this is a sorcery of terrible power. Let your friends
of the air finish the wizard!"

Elric shouted half-hysterically: "Magic is best fought
by magic!" He hurled his whole body behind the blow
which he struck at the black door. Stormbringer whined
into it, shrieked as if in victory and howled like a soul-
hungry demon. There was a blinding flash, a roaring in
Elric's ears, a sense of weightlessness; and then the door
had crashed inwards. Moonglum witnessed this—he had
remained against his will.

"Stormbringer has rarely failed me, Moonglum," cried
Elric as he leapt through the aperture. "Come, we have

reached Theleb K'aarna's den—" He broke off, staring
at the gibbering thing on the floor. It had been a man.
It had been Theleb K'aarna. Now it was hunched and
twisted—sitting in the middle of a broken pentacle and
tittering to itself.

Suddenly, intelligence came into its eyes. "Too late
for vengeance, Lord Elric," it said. "I have won, you
see—I have claimed your vengeance as my own."

Grim-faced and speechless, Elric stepped forward,
lifted Stormbringer and brought the moaning runesword
down into the sorcerer's skull. He left it there for several
moments.

"Drink your fill, hell-blade," he murmured. "We have
earned it, you and I."

Overhead, there was a sudden silence.

SIX

"It's untrue! You lie!" screamed the frightened man.
"We were not responsible." Pilarmo faced the group of
leading citizens. Behind the overdressed merchant were
his three colleagues—those who had earlier met Elric and
Moonglum in the tavern.

One of the accusing citizens pointed a chubby finger
towards the north and Nikorn's palace.

"So—Nikorn was an enemy of all other traders in
Bakshaan. That I accept. But now a horde of bloody-
handed reavers attack his castle with the aid of
demons—and Elric of Melnibone leads them! You know
that you were responsible—the gossip's all over the city.
You employed Elric—and this is what's happened!"

"But we didn't know he would go to such lengths to
kill Nikorn!" Fat Tormiel wrung his hands, his face ag-
grieved and afraid. "You are wronging us. We only ..."

"We're wronging you!" Faratt, spokesman for his fel-
low citizens, was thick-lipped and florid. He waved his
hands in angry exasperation. "When Elric and his
jackals have done with Nikorn—they'll come to the city.
Fool! That is what the albino sorcerer planned to begin
with. He was only mocking you—for you provided him
with an excuse. Armed men we can fight—but not foul
sorcery!"

"What shall we do? What shall we do? Bakshaan will
be razed within the day!" Tormiel turned on Pilarmo.
"This was your idea—you think of a plan!"

Pilarmo stuttered: "We could pay a ransom—bribe
them—give them enough money to satisfy them."

"And who shall give this money?" asked Faratt.

Again the argument began.

Elric looked with distaste at Theleb K'aarna's broken
corpse. He turned away and faced a blanch-featured
Moonglum who said hoarsely: "Let's away, now, Elric.
Yishana awaits you in Bakshaan as she promised. You
must keep your end of the bargain I made for you."

Elric nodded wearily. "Aye—the Imrryrians seem to
have taken the castle by the sound of it. We'll leave
them to their spoiling and get out while we may. Will
you allow me a few moments here, alone? The sword re-
jects the soul."

Moonglum sighed thankfully. "I'll join you in the
courtyard within the quarter hour. I wish to claim some
measure of the spoils." He left clattering down the stairs
while Elric remained standing over his enemy's body.
He spread out his arms, the sword, dripping blood, still
in his hand.

"Dyvim Tvar," he cried, "You and our countrymen
have been avenged. Let any evil one who holds the soul
of Dyvim Tvar release it now and take instead the soul
of Theleb K'aarna."

Within the room something invisible and intangible—
but sensed all the same—flowed and hovered over the
sprawled body of Theleb K'aarna. Elric looked out of
the window and thought he heard the beating of dragon
wings—smelled the acrid breath of dragons—saw a shape

winging across the dawn sky bearing Dyvim Tvar the
Dragon Master away.

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 al-
bino, and a city merchant, Nikorn was a superb swords-
man. 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 hell-
forged 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 dy-
ing man and all the while its voice was soft and disgust-
ingly 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 ag-
ony-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 Storm-
bringer 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 ran-
som.

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 ex-
pressionless. They knew enough not to show their puz-
zlement.

"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 at-
tack us. The treasure here is fabulous—its value is enor-
mous. Will you take it and leave the city in peace?"

Moonglum almost smiled, but he controlled his fea-
tures.

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 pay-
ing that unasked for toll."

Elric was incapable of any real humour, but he half-
chuckled. "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 wait-
ing 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 bar-
gain—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 bar-
gained 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 of Pilarmo's riches. He rode on, unsee-
ing, 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 sky—
The third Beneath the Hill.

—Song of Veerkad
by James Cawthorn.

ONE

Elric, Lord of the lost and sundered Empire of Melni-
bone 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 dis-
turbing waters of the Varkalk River and a chance of es-
cape 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. Scat-
tered, 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 beg-
gar 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, stum-
bling, 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, blood-
coloured and sickly-mottled. A forest of bending, sinu-
ously 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 rot-
ting vegetation which was almost unbearable, impinging
as it did upon the fastidious nostrils of Elric and Moon-
glum.

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 Nad-
sokor. 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—Jadmar—
on the other hand..."

But Elric was already urging his horse onward, head-
ing 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 purpose-
fully 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 whis-
pers, 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 friend—
a 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 re-
plied glibly. "If I sing of my shortcomings, I am safe. If
I were to boast of my talents, then someone might con-
sider 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, re-
marking 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 vo-
cabulary. 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: "Save 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 explana-
tion ..."

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 as-
tonishment at the albino's colouring. "I need aid—pro-
tection. 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 trav-
elling 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 al-
most timidly: "You are... ?"

"Elric of Melnibone", madam, called Elric Woman-
slayer 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 ..."

"Aye, that's true. And however magnified they are
with the retelling, they cannot hint, those tales, at the
darker truths which lie in their origin. Now, madam, do
you still seek our aid?" Elric's voice was gentle, without
menace, as he saw that she was very much afraid, al-
though she had managed to control the signs of fear and
her lips were tight with determination.

"I have no choice. I am at your mercy. My father, the
Senior Senator of Karlaak, is very rich. Karlaak is called
the City of the Jade Towers, as you will know, and such
rare jades and ambers we have. Many could be yours."

"Be careful, madam, lest you anger me," warned Elric,
although Moonglum's bright eyes lighted with avarice.
"We are not nags to be hired or goods to be bought.
Besides which," he smiled disdainfully, "I am from
crumbling Imrryr, the Dreaming City, from the Isle of
the Dragon, hub of Ancient Melnibone, and I know
what beauty really is. Your baubles cannot tempt one
who has looked upon the milky Heart of Arioch, upon
the blinding iridescence that throbs from the Ruby
Throne, of the languorous and unnameable colours in
the Actorios stone of the Ring of Kings. These are more
than jewels, madam—they contain the life-stuff of the
universe."

"I apologise, Lord Elric, and to you Sir Moonglum."

Elric laughed, almost with affection. "We are grim
clowns, lady, but the Gods of Luck aided our escape
from Nadsokor and we owe them a debt. We'll escort
you to Karlaak, City of the Jade Towers, and explore
the Forest of Troos another time."

Her thanks was tempered with a wary look in her
eyes.

"And now we have made introductions," said Elric,
"perhaps you would be good enough to give your name
and tell us your story."

"I am Zarozinia from Karlaak, a daughter of the
Voashoon, the most powerful clan in South Eastern Il-
miora. We have kinsmen in the trading cities on the
coasts of Pikarayd and I went with two cousins and my
uncle to visit them."

"A perilous journey, Lady Zarozinia."

"Aye and there are not only natural dangers, sir. Two
weeks ago we made our goodbyes and began the journey
home. Safely we crossed the Straits of Vilmir and there
employed men-at-arms, forming a strong caravan to
journey through Vilmir and so to Ilmiora. We skirted
Nadsokor since we had heard that the City of Beggars is
inhospitable to honest travellers ..."

Here, Elric smiled: "And sometimes to dishonest trav-
ellers, as we can appreciate."

Again the expression on her face showed that she had
some difficulty in equating his obvious good humour
with his evil reputation. "Having skirted Nadsokor," she
continued, "we came this way and reached the borders
of Org wherein, of course, Troos lies. Very warily we
travelled, knowing dark Org's reputation, along the
fringes of the forest. And then we were ambushed and
our hired men-at-arms deserted us."

"Ambushed, eh?" broke in Moonglum. "By whom,
madam, did you know?"

"By their unsavoury looks and squat shapes they
seemed natives. They fell upon the caravan and my
uncle and cousins fought bravely but were slain. One of
my cousins slapped the rump of my gelding and sent it
galloping so that I could not control it. I heard—terrible
screams—mad, giggling shouts—and when I at last
brought my horse to a halt, I was lost. Later I heard you
approach and waited in fear for you to pass, thinking
you also were of Org, but when I heard your accents
and some of your speech, I thought that you might help
me."

"And help you we shall, madam," said Moonglum
bowing gallantly from the saddle. "And I am indebted
to you for convincing Lord Elric here of your need. But
for you, we should be deep in this awful forest by now
and experiencing strange terrors no doubt. I offer my
sorrow for your dead kinsfolk and assure you that you
will be protected from now onwards by more than
swords and brave hearts, for sorcery can be called up if
needs be."

"Let's hope there'll be no need," frowned Elric. "You
talk blithely of sorcery, friend Moonglum—you who hate
the art."

Moonglum grinned.

"I was consoling the young lady, Elric. And I've had
occasion to be grateful for your horrid powers. I'll ad-
mit. Now I suggest that we make camp for the night
and so refreshed be on our way at dawn."

"I'll agree to that," said Elric, glancing almost with
embarrassment at the girl. Again he felt the pulse in his
throat and this time he had more difficulty in control-
ling it.

The girl also seemed fascinated by the albino. There
was an attraction between them which might be strong
enough to throw both their destinies along wildly differ-
ent paths than any they had guessed.

Night came again quickly, for the days were short in
those parts. While Moonglum tended the fire, nervously
peering around him, Zarozinia, her richly embroidered
cloth-of-gold gown shimmering in the firelight, walked
gracefully to where Elric sat sorting the herbs he had
collected. She glanced at him cautiously and then seeing
that he was absorbed, stared at him with open curiosity.

He looked up and smiled faintly, his eyes for once un-
protected, his strange face frank and pleasant. "Some of
these are healing herbs," he said, "and others are used
in summoning spirits. Yet others give unnatural strength
to the imbiber and some turn men mad. They will be
useful to me."

She sat down beside him, her thick-fingered hands

pushing her black hair back. Her small breasts lifted
and fell rapidly.

"Are   you  really   the   terrible   evil-bringer   of   the
legends, Lord Elric? I find it hard to credit."

"I have brought evil to many places," he said, "but
usually there has already been evil to match mine. I
seek -no excuses, for I know what I am and I know what
I have  done.   I  have   slain  malignant  sorcerers   and
destroyed oppressors, but I have also been responsible
for slaying fine men, and a woman, my cousin, whom I
loved, I killed—or my sword did."
"And you are master of your sword?"
"I often wonder. Without it, I am helpless." He put
his hand around Stormbringer's hilt. "I should be grate-
ful to it." Once again his red eyes seemed to become
deeper, protecting some bitter emotion rooted at the
core of his soul.

"I'm sorry if I revived unpleasant recollection ..."
"Do not feel sorry, Lady Zarozinia. The pain is within
me—you did not put it there. In fact I'd say you relieve
it greatly by your presence."

Half-startled, she glanced at him and smiled. "I am no
wanton, sir," she said, "but..."
He got up quickly.
"Moonglum, is the fire going well?"
"Aye, Elric. She'll stay in for the night." Moonglum
cocked his head on one side. It was unlike Elric to make
such empty queries, but Elric said nothing further so the
Eastlander shrugged, turned away to check his gear.

Since he could think of little else to say, Elric turned
and said quietly, urgently: "I'm a killer and a thief, not
fit to ..."

"Lord Elric, I am ..."

"You are infatuated by a legend, that is all."
"No! If you feel what I feel, then you'll know it's
more."

"You are young."

"Old enough."

"Beware. I must fulfil my destiny."

"Your destiny?"

"It is no destiny at all, but an awful thing called

doom. And I have no pity except when I see something
in my own soul. Then I have pity—and I pity. But I
hate to look and this is part of the doom which drives
me. Not Fate, nor the Stars, nor Men, nor Demons, nor
Gods. Look at me, Zarozinia—it is Elric, poor white
chosen plaything of the Gods of Time—Elric of Melni-
bone who causes his own gradual and terrible destruc-
tion."

"It is suicide!"

"Aye. I drive myself to slow death. And those who go
with me suffer also."

"You speak falsely, Lord Elric—from guilt-madness."

"Because I am guilty, lady."

"And does Sir Moonglum go to doom with you?"

"He is unlike others—he is indestructible in his own
self-assurance."

"I am confident, also, Lord Elric."

"But your confidence is that of youth, it is different"

"Need I lose it with my youth?"

"You have strength. You are as strong as we are. I'll
grant you that"

She opened her arms, rising. "Then be reconciled, El-
ric of Melnibone"

And he was. He seized her, kissing her with a deeper
need than that of passion. For the first time Cymoril of
Imrryr was forgotten as they lay down, together on the
soft turf, oblivious of Moonglum who polished away at
his curved sword with wry jealousy.

They all slept and the fire waned.

Elric, in his joy, had forgotten, or not heeded, that he
had a watch to take and Moonglum, who had no source
of strength but himself, stayed awake for as long as he
could but sleep overcame him.

In the shadows of the awful trees, figures moved with
shambling caution.

The misshapen men of Org began to creep inwards
towards the sleepers.

Then Elric opened his eyes, aroused by instinct, stared
at Zarozinia's peaceful face beside him, moved his eyes

without turning his head and saw the danger. He rolled
over, grasped Stormbringer and tugged the runeblade
from its sheath. The sword hummed, as if in anger at
being awakened.

"Moonglum! Danger!" Elric bellowed in fear, for he
had more to protect than his own life. The little man's
head jerked up. His curved sabre was already across his
knees and he jumped to his feet, ran towards Elric as
the men of Org closed in.

"I apologise," he said.

"My fault, I.. ."

And then the men of Org were at them. Elric and
Moonglum stood over the girl as she came awake, saw
the situation and did not scream. Instead she looked
around for a weapon but found none. She remained
still, where she was, the only thing to do.

Smelling like offal, the gibbering creatures, some
dozen of them, slashed at Elric and Moonglum with
heavy blades like cleavers, long and dangerous.

Stormbringer whined and smote through a cleaver,
cut into a neck and beheaded the owner. Blood gurgled
from the corpse as it slumped back across the fire.
Moonglum ducked beneath a howling cleaver, lost his
balance, fell, slashed at his opponent's legs and ham-
strung him so that he collapsed shrieking. Moonglum
stayed on the ground and lunged upwards, taking an-
other in the heart. Then he sprang to his feet and stood
shoulder to shoulder with Elric while Zarozinia got up
behind them.

"The horses," grunted Elric. "If it's safe, try to get
them."

There were still seven natives standing and Moon-
glum groaned as a cleaver sliced flesh from his left arm,
retaliated, pierced the man's throat, turned slightly and
sheared off another's face. They pressed forward, taking
the attack to the incensed foe. His left hand covered
with his own blood, Moonglum painfully pulled his
long poignard from its sheath and held it with his
thumb along the handle, blocked an opponent's swing,
closed in and killed him with a ripping upward thrust

of the dagger, the action of which caused his wound to
pound with agony.

Elric held his great runesword in both hands and
swung it in a semi-circle, hacking down the howling mis-
shapen things. Zarozinia darted towards the horses,
leaped on to her own and led the other two towards the
fighting men. Elric smote at another and got into his
saddle, thanking his own forethought to leave the equip-
ment on the horses in case of danger. Moonglum quickly
joined him and they thundered out of the clearing.

"The saddle-bags," Moonglum called in greater agony
than that created by his wound. "We've left the saddle-
bags!"

"What of it? Don't press your luck, my friend."

"But all our treasure's in them!"

Elric laughed, partly in relief, partly from real hu-
mour. "We'll retrieve them, friend, never fear."

"I know you, Elric. You've no value for the realities."

But even Moonglum was laughing as they left the en-
raged men of Org behind them and slowed to a canter.

Elric reached and hugged Zarozinia. "You have the
courage of your noble clan in your veins," he said.

"Thank you," she replied, pleased with the compli-
ment, "but we cannot match such swordsmanship as that
displayed by you and Moonglum. It was fantastic."

"Thank the blade," he said shortly.

"No. I will thank you. I think you place too much re-
liance upon that hell weapon, however powerful it is."

"I need it"

"For what?"

"For my own strength and, now, to give strength to
you."

"I'm no vampire," she smiled, "and need no such fear-
ful strength as that supplies."

"Then be assured that I do," he told her gravely.
"You would not love me if the blade did not give me
what I need. I am like a spineless sea-thing without it."

"I do not believe that, but will not dispute with you
now."

They rode for a while without speaking.

Later, they stopped, dismounted, and Zarozinia put
herbs that Elric had given her upon Moonglum's wound-
ed arm and began to bind it.

Elric was thinking deeply. The forest rustled with ma-
cabre, sensuous sounds. "We're in the heart of Troos,"
he said, "and our intention to skirt the forest has been
forestalled. I have it in mind to call on the King of Org
and so round off our visit."

Moonglum laughed. "Shall we send our swords along
first? And bind our own hands?" His pain was already
eased by the herbs which were having quick effect.

"I mean it. We owe, all of us, much to the men of
Org. They slew Zarozinia's uncle and cousins, they
wounded you and they now have our treasure. We have
many reasons for asking the King for recompense. Also,
they seem stupid and should be easy to trick."

"Aye. The King will pay us back for our lack of com-
mon-sense by tearing our limbs off."

"I'm in earnest. I think we should go."

"I'll agree that I'd like our wealth returned to us. But
we cannot risk the lady's safety, Elric."

"I am to be Elric's wife, Moonglum. Therefore if he
visits the King of Org, I shall come too."

Moonglum lifted an eyebrow. "A quick courtship."

"She speaks the truth, however. We shall all go to
Org—and sorcery will protect us from the King's un-
called-for wrath."

"And still you wish for death and vengeance, Elric,"
shrugged Moonglum mounting. "Well, it's all the same
to me since your roads, whatever else, are profitable
ones. You may be the Lord of Bad Luck by your own
reckoning, but you bring good luck to me, I'll say that."

"No more courting death," smiled Elric, "but we'll
have some revenge, I hope."

"Dawn will be with us soon," Moonglum said. "The
Orgian citadel lies six hours ride from here by my work-
ing, south-south-east by the Ancient Star, if the map I
memorised in Nadsokor was correct."

"You have an instinct for direction that never fails,
Moonglum. Every caravan should have such a man as
you."

"We base an entire philosophy on the stars in El-
wher," Moonglum replied. "We regard them as the mas-
ter plan for everything that happens on Earth. As they
revolve around the planet they see all things, past,
present and future. They are our Gods."

"Predictable Gods, at least," said Elric and they rode
off towards Org with light hearts considering the enor-
mity of their risk.

TWO

Little was known of the tiny kingdom of Org save that
the Forest of Troos lay within its boundaries and to
that, other nations felt, it was welcome. The people
were unpleasant to look upon, for the most part, and
their bodies were stunted and strangely altered. Legend
had it that they were the descendants of the Doomed
Folk. Their rulers, it was said, were shaped like normal
men in so far as their outward bodily appearance went,
but their minds were warped more horribly than the
limbs of their subjects.

The inhabitants were few and were generally scat-
tered, ruled by their king from his citadel which was
also called Org.

It was for this citadel that Elric and his companions
rode and, as they did so, Elric explained how he
planned to protect them all from the natives of Org.

In the forest he had found a particular leaf which,
when used with certain invocations (which were
harmless in that the invoker was in little danger of
being harmed by the spirits he marshalled) would invest
that person, and anyone else to whom he gave the drug
distilled from the leaf, with temporary invulnerability.

The spell somehow reknitted the skin and flesh struc-

ture so that it could withstand any edge and almost any
blow. Elric explained, in a rare garrulous mood, how
the drug and spell combined to achieve the effect, but
his archaicisms and esoteric words meant little to the
other two.

They stopped an hour's ride from where Moonglum
expected to find the citadel so that Elric could prepare
the drug and invoke the spell.

He worked swiftly over a small fire, using an al-
chemist's pestle and mortar, mixing the shredded leaf
with a little water. As the brew bubbled on the fire, he
drew peculiar runes on the ground, some of which were
twisted into such alien forms that they seemed to disap-
pear into a different dimension and reappear beyond it.

"Bone and blood and flesh and sinew,
Spell and spirit bind anew;
Potent potion work the life charm,
Keep its takers safe from harm."

So Elric chanted as a small pink cloud formed in the
air over the fire, wavered, reformed into a spiral shape
which curled downwards into the bowl. The brew splut-
tered and then was still. The albino sorcerer said: "An
old boyhood spell, so simple that I'd near forgotten it.
The leaf for the potion grows only in Troos and there-
fore it is rarely possible to perform."

The brew, which had been liquid, had now solidified
and Elric broke it into small pellets. "Too much," he
warned, "taken at one time is poison, and yet the effect
can last for several hours. Not always, though, but we
must accept that small risk." He handed both of them a
pellet which they received dubiously. "Swallow them
just before we reach the citadel," he told them, "or in
the event of the men of Org finding us first."

Then they mounted and rode on again.

Some miles to the south-east of Troos, a blind man
sang a grim song in his sleep and so woke himself...

They reached the brooding citadel of Org at dusk.

Guttural voices shouted at them from the battlements of
the square-cut ancient dwelling place of the Kings of
Org. The thick rock oozed moisture and was corroded
by lichen and sickly, mottled moss. The only entrance
large enough for a mounted man to pass through was
reached by a path almost a foot deep in evil-smelling
black mud.

"What's your business at the Royal Court of Gutheran
the Mighty?"

They could not see who asked the question.

"We seek hospitality and an audience with your
liege," called Moonglum cheerfully, successfully hiding
his nervousness. "We bring important news to Org."

A twisted face peered down from the battlements,
"Enter strangers and be welcome," it said unwelcom-
ingly.

The heavy wooden drawgate shifted upwards to allow
them entrance and the horses pushed their way slowly
through the mud and so into the courtyard of the cita-
del.

Overhead, the grey sky was a racing field of black tat-
tered clouds which streamed towards the horizon as if to
escape the horrid boundaries of Org and the disgusting
Forest of Troos.

The courtyard was covered, though not so deeply,
with the same foul mud as had unpaired their progress
to the citadel. It was full of heavy, unmoving shadow.
On Elric's right, a flight of steps went up to an arched
entrance which was hung, partially, with the same
unhealthy lichen he had seen on the outer walls and,
also, in the Forest of Troos.

Through this archway, brushing at the lichen with a
pale, beringed hand, a tall man came and stood on the
top step, regarding the visitors through heavy-lidded
eyes. He was, in contrast to the others, handsome, with a
massive, leonine head and long hair as white as Elric's;
although the hair on the head of this great, solid man
was somewhat dirty, tangled, unbrushed. He was dressed
in a heavy jerkin of quilted, embossed leather, a yellow
kit which reached to his ankles and he carried a wide-

bladed dagger, naked in his belt. He was older than El-
ric, aged between forty and fifty and his powerful if
somewhat decadent face was seamed and pock-marked.

He stared at them in silence and did not welcome
them; instead he signed to one of the battlement guards
who caused the drawgate to be lowered. It came down
with a crash, blocking off their way of escape.

"Kill the men and keep the woman," said the massive
man in a low monotone. Elric had heard dead men
speak in that manner.

As planned, Elric and Moonglum stood either side of
Zarozinia and remained where they were, arms folded.

Puzzled, shambling creatures came warily at them,
their loose trousers dragging in the mud, their hands
hidden by the long shapeless sleeves of their filthy gar-
ments. They swung their cleavers. Elric felt a faint shock
as the blade thudded on to his arm, but that was all.
Moonglum's experience was similar.

The men fell back, amazement and confusion on their
bestial faces.

The tall man's eyes widened. He put one ring-covered
hand to his thick lips, chewing at a nail.

"Our swords have no effect upon them, King! They
do not cut and they do not bleed. What are these folk?"

Elric laughed theatrically. "We are not common folk,
little human, be assured. We are the messengers of the
Gods and come to your King with a message from our
great masters. Do not worry, we shall not harm you
since we are in no danger of being harmed. Stand aside
and make us welcome."

Elric could see that King Gutheran was puzzled and
not absolutely taken in by his words. Elric cursed to
himself. He had measured their intelligence by those he
had seen. This king, mad or not, was much more intelli-
gent, was going to be harder to deceive. He led the way
up the steps towards glowering Gutheran.

"Greetings, King Gutheran. The Gods have, at last,
returned to Org and wish you to know this."

"Org has had no Gods to worship for an eternity,"
said Gutheran hollowly, turning back into the citadel.
"Why should we accept them now?"

"You are impertinent, King."

"And you are audacious. How do I know you come
from the Gods?" He walked ahead of them, leading
them through the low-roofed halls.

"You saw that the swords of your subjects had no ef-
fect upon us."

"True. I'll take that incident as proof for the mo-
ment. I suppose there must be a banquet in your—
honour—I shall order it. Be welcome, messengers." His
words were ungracious but it was virtually impossible to
detect anything from Gutheran's tone, since the man's
voice stayed at the same pitch.

Elric pushed his heavy riding cloak back from his
shoulders and said lightly: "We shall mention your
kindness to our masters."

The Court was a place of gloomy halls and false
laughter and although Elric put many questions to
Gutheran, the king would not answer them, or did so by
means of ambiguous phrases which meant nothing.
They were not given chambers wherein they could re-
fresh themselves but instead stood about for several
hours in the main hall of the citadel and Gutheran,
while he was with them and not giving orders for the
banquet, sat slumped on his throne and chewed at bis
nails, ignoring them.

"Pleasant hospitality," whispered Moonglum.

"Elric—how long will the effects of the drug last?"
Zarozinia had remained close to him. He put his arm
around her shoulders. "I do not know. Not much long-
er. But it has served its purpose. I doubt if they will try
to attack us a second time. However, beware of other at-
tempts, subtler ones, upon our lives."

The main hall, which had a higher roof than the oth-
ers and was completely surrounded by a gallery which
ran around it well above the floor, fairly close to the
room, was chilly and unwarmed. No fires burned in the
several hearths, which were open and let into the floor,
and the walls dripped moisture and were undecorated;
damp, solid stone, timeworn and gaunt. There were not

even rushes upon the floor which was strewn with old
bones and pieces of decaying food.

"Hardly house-proud, are they?" commented Moon-
glum looking around him with distaste and glancing at
brooding Gutheran who was seemingly oblivious of their
presence.

A servitor shambled into the hall and whispered a few
words to the king. He nodded and arose, leaving the
Great Hall.

Soon men came in, carrying benches and tables and
began to place them about the hall.

The banquet was, at last, due to commence. And the
air had menace in it.

The three visitors sat together on the right of the
King who had donned a richly jewelled chain of king-
ship, whilst his son and several pale-faced female mem-
bers of the Royal line sat on the left, unspeaking even
among themselves.

Prince Hurd, a sullen-faced youth who seemed to bear
a resentment against his father, picked at the unappetis-
ing food which was served them all.

He drank heavily of the wine which had little flavour
but was strong, fiery stuff and this seemed to warm the
company a little.

"And what do the Gods want of us poor folk of Org?"
Hurd said, staring hard at Zarozinia with more than,
friendly interest

Elric answered: "They ask nothing of you but your
recognition. In return they will, on occasions, help you."

"That is all?" Hurd laughed. "That is more than
those from the Hill can offer, eh, father?"

Gutheran turned his great head slowly to regard his
son.

"Yes," he murmured, and the word seemed to carry
warning.

Moonglum said: "The Hill-what is that?"

He got no reply. Instead a high-pitched laugh came
from the entrance to the Great Hall. A thin, gaunt man
stood there staring ahead with a fixed gaze. His features,
though emaciated, strongly resembled Gutheran's. He

carried a stringed instrument and plucked at the gut so
that it wailed and moaned with melancholy insistence.

Kurd said savagely: "Look, father, 'tis blind Veerkad,
the minstrel, your brother. Shall he sing for us?"
"Sing?"

"Shall he sing his songs, father"

Gutheran's mouth trembled and twisted and he said
after a moment: "He may entertain our guests with an
heroic ballad if he wishes, but..."

"But certain other songs he shall not sing ..." Kurd
grinned maliciously. He seemed to be tormenting his fa-
ther deliberately in some way which Elric could not
guess. Kurd shouted at the blind man: "Come Uncle
Veerkad—sing!"

"There are strangers present," said Veerkad hollowly
above the wail of his own music. "Strangers in Org"

Hurd   giggled   and   drank   more   wine.   Gutheran
scowled and continued to tremble, gnawing at his nails.
Elric called: "We'd appreciate a song, minstrel."
"Then you'll have the song of the Three Kings in
Darkness, strangers, and hear the ghastly story of the
Kings of Org."

"No!" shouted Gutheran, leaping from his place, but
Veerkad was already singing:

"Three Kings in darkness lie,
Gutheran of Org, and I,
Under a bleak and sunless sky-
The third beneath the Hill
When shall the third arise
Only when another dies..."

"Stop!" Gutheran got up in an obviously insane rage
and stumbled across the table, trembling in terror, his
face blanched, striking at the blind man, his brother.
Two blows and the minstrel fell, slumping to the floor
and not moving. "Take him out! Do not let him enter
again." The king shrieked and foam flecked his lips.

Hurd, sober for a moment, jumped across the table,
scattering dishes and cups and took his father's arm.

"Be calm, father. I have a new plan for our entertain-
ment."

"You! You seek my throne. 'Twas you who goaded
Veerkad to sing his dreadful song. You know I cannot
listen without ..." He stared at the door. "One day the
legend shall be realised and the Hill-King shall come.
Then shall I, you and Org perish."

"Father," Hurd was smiling horribly, "let the female
visitor dance for us a dance of the Gods."

"What"

"Let the woman dance for us, father."

Elric heard him. By now the drug must have worn off.
He could not afford to show his hand by offering his
companions further doses. He got to his feet.

"What sacrilege do you speak, Prince"

"We have given you entertainment. It is the custom in
Org for our visitors to give us entertainment also."

The hall was filled with menace. Elric regretted his
plan to trick the men of Org. But there was nothing he
could do. He had intended to exact tribute from them
in the name of the Gods, but obviously these mad men
feared more immediate and tangible dangers than any
the Gods might represent.

He had made a mistake, put the lives of his friends in
danger as well as his own. What should he do? Zarozinia
murmured: "I have learned dances in Ilmiora where all
ladies are taught the art. Let me dance for them. It
might placate them and bedazzle them to make our
work easier."

"Arioch knows our work is hard enough now. I was a
fool to have conceived this plan. Very well, Zarozinia,
dance for them, but with caution." He shouted at Hurd:
"Our companion will dance for you, to show you the
beauty that the Gods create. Then you must pay the
tribute, for our masters grow impatient."

"The tribute" Gutheran looked up. "You mentioned
nothing of tribute."

"Your recognition of the Gods must take the form of
precious stones and metals, King Gutheran. I thought
you to understand that."
"You seem more like common thieves than uncom-

mon messengers, my friends. We are poor in Org and
have nothing to give away to charlatans."

"Beware of your words, King!" Elric's clear voice
echoed warningly through the hall.

"We'll see the dance and then judge the truth of what
you've told us."

Elric seated himself, grasped Zarozinia's hand beneath
the table as she arose, giving her comfort.

She walked gracefully and confidently into the centre
of the hall and there began to dance. Elric, who loved
her, was amazed at her splendid grace and artistry. She
danced the old, beautiful dances of Ilmiora, entrancing
even the thick-skulled men of Org and, as she danced, a
great golden Guest Cup was brought in.

Kurd leaned across his father and said to Elric: "The
Guest Cup, Lord. It is our custom that our guests drink
from it in friendship."

Elric nodded, annoyed at being disturbed in his
watching of the wonderful dance, his eyes fixed on Zaro-
zinia as she postured and glided. There was silence in
the hall.

Kurd handed him the cup and absently he put it to
his lips, seeing this Zarozinia danced on to the table and
began to weave along it to where Elric sat. As he took
the first sip, Zarozinia cried out and, with her foot,
knocked the cup from his hand. The wine splashed on
to Gutheran and Hurd who half rose, startled. "It was
drugged, Elric. They drugged it!"

Hurd lashed at her with his hand, striking her across
the face. She fell from the table and lay moaning
slightly on the filthy floor. "Bitch! Would the messengers
of the Gods be harmed by a little drugged wine"

Enraged, Elric pushed aside Gutheran and struck sav-
agely at Hurd so that the young man's mouth gushed
blood. But the drug was already having effect. Gutheran
shouted something and Moonglum drew his sabre, glanc-
ing upwards. Elric was swaying, his senses were jumbled
and the scene had an unreal quality. He saw servants
grasp Zarozinia but could not see how Moonglum was
faring. He felt sick and dizzy, could hardly control his
limbs.

Summoning up his last remaining strength, Elric
dubbed Hurd down with one tremendous blow. Then
he collapsed into unconsciousness.

THREE

There was the cold clutch of chains about his wrists and
a thin drizzle was falling directly on to his face which
stung where Hurd's nails had ripped it

He looked about him. He was chained between two
stone menhirs upon an obvious burial barrow of gigan-
tic size. It was night and a pale moon hovered in the
heavens above him. He looked down at the group of
men below. Hurd and Gutheran were among them.
They grinned at him mockingly.

"Farewell, messenger. You will serve us a good pur-
pose and placate the Ones from the Hill!" Hurd called
as he and the others scurried back towards the citadel
which lay, silhouetted, a short distance away.

Where was he? What had happened to Zarozinia—and
Moonglum? Why had he been chained thus upon—real-
isation and remembrance came—the Hill!

He shuddered, helpless in the strong chains which
held him. Desperately he began to tug at them, but they
would not yield. He searched his brain for a plan, but
he was confused by torment and worry for his friends'
safety. He heard a dreadful scuttling sound from below
and saw a ghastly white shape dart into the gloom.
Wildly he struggled in the rattling iron which held him,

In the Great Hall of the citadel, a riotous celebration
was now reaching the state of an ecstatic orgy. Gutheran
and Hurd were totally drunk, laughing insanely at their
victory.

Outside the Hall, Veerkad listened and hated. Particu-
larly he hated his brother, the man who had deposed
and blinded him to prevent his study of sorcery by
means of which he had planned to raise the King from
Beneath the Hill.

"The time has come, at last," he whispered to himself
and stopped a passing servant.

"Tell me—where is the girl kept"

"In Gutheran's chamber, master."

Veerkad released the man and began to grope his way
through the gloomy corridors up twisting steps, until he
reached the room he sought. Here he produced a key,
one of many he'd had made without Gutheran's know-
ing, and unlocked the door.

Zarozinia saw the blind man enter and could do noth-
ing. She was gagged and bound with her own dress and
still dazed from the blow Hurd had given her. They had
told her of Elric's fate, but Moonglum had so far es-
caped them, guards hunted him now in the stinking cor-
ridors of Org.

"I've come to take you to your companion, lady,"
smiled blind Veerkad, grasping her roughly with
strength that his insanity had given him, picked her up
and fumbled his way towards the door. He knew the
passages of Org perfectly, for he had been born and
grown up among them.

But two men were in the corridor outside Gutheran's
chambers. One of them was Hurd, Prince of Org, who
resented his father's appropriation of the girl and
desired her for himself. He saw Veerkad bearing the girl
away and stood silent while his uncle passed.

The other man was Moonglum, who observed what
was happening from the shadows where he had hidden
from the searching guards. As Hurd followed Veerkad,
on cautious feet. Moonglum followed him.

Veerkad went out of the citadel by a small side door
and carried his living burden towards the looming
Burial Hill.

All about the foot of the monstrous barrow swarmed

the leprous-white ghouls who sensed the presence of El-
ric, the folk of Org's sacrifice to them.

Now Elric understood.

These were the things that Org feared more than the
Gods. These were the living-dead ancestors of those who
now revelled in the Great Hall. Perhaps these were actu-
ally the Doomed Folk. Was that their doom? Never to
rest? Never to die? Just to degenerate into mindless
ghouls? Elric shuddered.

Now desperation brought back his memory. His voice
was an agonised wail to the brooding sky and the puls-
ing earth.

"Arioch! Destroy the stones. Save your servant! Ari-
och—master—aid me!"

It was not enough. The ghouls gathered together and
began to scuttle, gibbering up the barrow towards the
helpless albino.

"Arioch! These are the things that would forsake your
memory! Aid me to destroy them!"

The earth trembled and the sky became overcast, hid-
ing the moon but not the white-faced, bloodless ghouls
who were now almost upon him.

And then a ball of fire formed in the sky above him
and the very sky seemed to shake and sway around it
Then, with a roaring crash two bolts of lightning
slashed down, pulverising the stones and releasing Elric.

He got to his feet, knowing that Arioch would de-
mand his price, as the first ghouls reached him.

He did not retreat, but in his rage and desperation
leapt among them, smashing and flailing with the
lengths of chain. The ghouls fell back and fled, gibber-
ing in fear and anger, down the hill and into the bar-
row.

Elric could now see that there was a gaping entrance
to the barrow below him; black against the blackness.
Breathing heavily, he found that his belt pouch had
been left him. From it he took a length of slim, gold
wire and began frantically to pick at the locks of the
manacles.

Veerkad chuckled to himself and Zarozinia hearing
him was almost mad with terror. He kept drooling the
words into her ear: "When shall the third arise? Only
when other dies. When that other's blood flows red—
we'll hear the footfalls of the dead. You and I, we shall
resurrect him and such vengeance will he wreak upon
my cursed brother. Your blood, my dear, it will be that
released him." He felt that the ghouls were gone and
judged them placated by their feast. "Your lover has
been useful to me," he laughed as he began to enter the
barrow. The smell of death almost overpowered the girl
as the blind madman bore her downwards into the heart
of the Hill.

Hurd, sobered after his walk in the colder air, was
horrified when he saw where Veerkad was going; the
barrow, the Hill of the King, was the most feared spot
in the land of Org. Hurd paused before the black en-
trance and turned to run. Then, suddenly, he saw the
form of Elric, looming huge and bloody, descending the
barrow slope, cutting off his escape.

With a wild yell he fled into the Hill passage.

Elric had not previously noticed the Prince, but the
yell startled him and he tried to see who had given it
but was too late. He began to run down the steep in-
cline towards the entrance of the barrow. Another figure
came scampering out of the darkness.

"Elric! Thank the stars and all the Gods of Earth!
You live!"

"Thank Arioch, Moonglum. Where's Zarozinia?"

"In there—the mad minstrel took her with him and
Hurd followed. They are all insane, these kings and
princes, I see no sense to their actions."

"I have an idea that the minstrel means Zarozinia no
good. Quickly, we must follow."

"By the stars, the stench of death! I have breathed
nothing like it—not even at the great battle of the Esh-
mir Valley where the armies of Elwher met those of Ka-
leg Vogun, usurper prince of the Tanghensi, and half a
million corpses strewed the valley from, end to end."

"If you've no stomach..."

"I wish I had none. It would not be so bad.
Come..."

They rushed into the passage, led by the far away
sounds of Veerkad's maniacal laughter and the some-
what nearer movements of a fear-maddened Kurd who
was now trapped between two enemies and yet more
afraid of a third.

Hurd blundered along in the blackness, sobbing to
himself in his terror. __

In the phosphorescent Central Tomb, surrounded by
the mummified corpses of his ancestors, Veerkad
chanted the resurrection ritual before the great coffin of
the Hill-King—a giant thing, half as tall again as Veer-
kad who was tall enough. Veerkad was forgetful for his
own safety and thinking only of vengeance upon his
brother Gutheran. He held a long dagger over Zarozinia
who lay huddled and terrified upon the ground near the
coffin.

The spilling of Zarozinia's blood would be the culmi-
nation of the ritual and then-
Then Hell would, quite literally, be let loose. Or so
Veerkad planned. He finished his chanting and raised
the knife just as Hurd came screeching into the Central
Tomb with his own sword drawn. Veerkad swung
round, his blind face working in thwarted rage.

Savagely, without stopping for a moment, Hurd ran
his sword into Veerkad's body, plunging the blade in up
to the hilt so that its bloody point appeared sticking
from his back. But the other, in his groaning death
spasms, locked his hands about the Prince's throat.
Locked them immovably.

Somehow, the two men retained a semblance of life
and, struggling with each other in a macabre death-
dance, swayed about the glowing chamber. The coffin of
the Hill-King began to tremble and shake slightly, the
movement hardly perceptible.

So Elric and Moonglum found Veerkad and Hurd.
Seeing that both were near dead, Elric raced across the
Central Tomb to where Zarozinia lay, unconscious, mer-

cifully, from her ordeal. Elric picked her up and made
to return.

He glanced at the throbbing coffin.

"Quickly, Moonglum. That blind fool has invoked the
dead, I can tell. Hurry, my friend, before the hosts of
Hell are upon us."

Moonglum gasped and followed Elric as he ran back
towards the cleaner air of night.

"Where to now, Elric?"

"We'll have to risk going back to the citadel. Our
horses are there and our goods. We need the horses to
take us quickly away, for I fear there's going to be a ter-
rible blood-letting soon if my instinct is right."

"There should not be too much opposition, Elric
They were all drunk when I left That was how I man-
aged to evade them so easily. By now, if they continued
drinking as heavily as when last I saw them, they'll be
unable to move at all."

"Then let's make haste."

The left the Hill behind them and began to run
towards the citadel.

FOUR

Moonglum had spoken truth. Everyone was lying about
the Great Hall in drunken sleep. Open fires had been lit
in the hearths and they blazed, sending shadows skip-
ping around the Hall. Elric said softly:

"Moonglum, go with Zarozinia to the stables and
prepare our horses. I will settle our debt with Gutheran
first." He pointed. "See, they have heaped their booty
upon the table, gloating in their apparent victory."

Stormbringer lay upon a pile of burst sacks and sad-

dlebags which contained the loot stolen from Zarozinia's
uncle and cousins and from Elric and Moonglum.

Zarozinia, now conscious but confused, left with
Moonglum to locate the stables and Elric picked his way
towards the table, across the sprawled shapes of drunken
men of Org, around the blazing fires and caught up,
thankfully, his hell-forged runeblade.

Then he leaped over the table and was about to grasp
Gutheran, who still had his fabulously gemmed chain of
kingship around his neck, when the great doors of the
Hall crashed open and a howling blast of icy air sent
the torches dancing and leaping. Elric turned, Gutheran
forgotten, and his eyes widened.

Framed in the doorway stood the King from Beneath
the Hill.

The long-dead monarch had been raised by Veerkad
whose own blood had completed the work of resur-
rection. He stood in rotting robes, his fleshless bones
covered by tight, tattered skin. His heart did not beat,
for he had none; he drew no breath, for his lungs had
been eaten by the creatures which feasted on such
things. But, horribly, he lived ...

The King from the Hill. He had been the last great
ruler of the Doomed Folk who had, in their fury,
destroyed half the Earth and created the Forest of
Troos. Behind the dead King crowded the ghastly hosts
who had been buried with him in a legendary past

The massacre began!

What secret vengeance was being reaped, Elric could
only guess at—but whatever the reason, the danger was
still very real.

Elric pulled out Stormbringer as the awakened horde
vented their anger upon the living. The Hall became
filled with the shrieking, horrified screams of the unfor-
tunate Orgians. Elric remained, half-paralysed in his
horror, beside the throne. Aroused, Gutheran woke up
and saw the King from the Hill and his host. He
screamed, almost thankfully:

"At last I can rest!"

And fell dying in a seizure, robbing Elric of his ven-
geance.

Veerkad's grim song echoed in Elric's memory. The
Three Kings in Darkness—Gutheran, Veerkad and the
King from Beneath the Hill. Now only the last lived—
and he had been dead for millennia.
 The King's cold, dead eyes roved the Hall and saw
Gutheran sprawled upon his throne, the ancient chain
of office still about his throat. Elric wrenched it off the
body and backed away as the King from Beneath the
Hill advanced. And then his back was against a pillar
and there were feasting ghouls everywhere else.

The dead King came nearer and then, with a whis-
tling moan which came from the depths of his decay-
ing body, launched himself at Elric who found himself
fighting desperately against the Hill-King's clawing,
abnormal strength, cutting at flesh that neither bled nor
suffered pain. Even the sorcerous runeblade could do
nothing against this horror that had no soul to take
and no blood to let.

Frantically, Elric slashed and hacked at the Hill-King
but ragged nails raked his flesh and teeth snapped at his
throat. And above everything came the almost overpow-
ering stench of death as the ghouls, packing the Great
Hall with their horrible shapes, feasted on the living
and the dead.

Then Elric heard Moonglum's voice calling and saw
him upon the gallery which ran around the Hall. He
held a great oil jar.

"Lure him close to the central fire, Elric. There may
be a way to vanquish him. Quickly man, or you're fin-
ished!"

In a frantic burst of energy, the Melnibonean forced
the giant king towards the flames. Around them, the
ghouls fed off the remains of their victims, some of
whom still lived, their screams calling hopelessly over
the sound of carnage.

The Hill-King now stood, unfeeling, with his back to
the leaping central fire. He still slashed at Elric. Moon-
glum hurled the jar.

It shattered upon the stone hearth, spraying the King
with blazing oil. He staggered, and Elric struck with his
full power, the man and the blade combining to push

the Hill-King backwards. Down went the King into the
flames and the flames began to devour him.

A dreadful, lost howling came from the burning giant
as he perished.

Flames licked everywhere throughout the Great Hall
and soon the place was like Hell itself, an inferno of
licking fire through which the ghouls ran about, still
feasting, unaware of their destruction. The way to the
door was blocked.

Elric stared around him and saw no way of escape-
save one.

Sheathing Stormbringer, he ran a few paces and
leaped upwards, just grasping the rail of the gallery as
flames engulfed the spot where he had been standing.

Moonglum reached down and helped him to clamber
across the rail.

"I'm disappointed, Elric," he grinned, "you forgot to
bring the treasure."

Elric showed him what he grasped in his left hand-
the jewel-encrusted chain of kingship.

"This bauble is some reward for our hardships," he
smiled, holding up the glittering chain. "I stole nothing,
by Arioch! There are no kings left in Org to wear it!
Come let's join Zarozinia and get our horses."

They ran from the gallery as masonry began to crash
downwards into the Great Hall.

They rode fast away from the halls of Org and look-
ing back saw great fissures appear in the walls and heard
the roar of destruction as the flames consumed every-
thing that had been Org. They destroyed the seat of the
monarchy, the remains of the Three Kings in Darkness,
the present and the past. Nothing would be left of Org
save an empty burial mound and two corpses, locked to-
gether, lying where their ancestors had lain for centuries
in the Central Tomb. They destroyed the last link with
the previous age and cleansed the Earth of an ancient
evil. Only the dreadful Forest of Troos remained to
mark the coming and the passing of the Doomed Folk.

And the Forest of Troos was a warning.

Weary and yet relieved, the three saw the outlines of
Troos in the distance, behind the blazing funeral pyre.

And yet, in his happiness, Elric had a fresh problem
on his mind now that danger was past.

"Why do you frown now, love?" asked Zarozinia.

"Because I think you spoke the truth. Remember you
said I placed too much reliance on my runeblade here?"

"Yes—and I said I would not dispute with you."

"Agreed. But I have a feeling that you were partially
right. On the burial mound and in it I did not have
Stormbringer with me—and yet I fought and won, be-
cause I feared for your safety." His voice was quiet.
"Perhaps, in tune, I can keep my strength by means of
certain herbs I found in Troos and dispense with the
blade for ever?"

Moonglum shouted with laughter hearing these words.

"Elric—I never thought I'd witness this. You daring to
think of dispensing with that foul weapon of yours. I
don't know if you ever shall, but the thought is comfort-
ing."

"It is, my friend, it is." He leaned in his saddle and
grasped Zarozinia's shoulders, pulling her dangerously
towards him as they galloped without slackening speed.
And as they rode he kissed her, heedless of their pace.

"A new beginning!" he shouted above the wind. "A
new beginning, my love!"

And then they all rode laughing towards Karlaak by
the Weeping Waste, to present themselves, to enrich
themselves, and to attend the strangest wedding the
Northern Lands had ever witnessed.

BOOK THREE

The Flamebringers

In which Moonglum returns from the East-
lands with disturbing news ..,

ONE

Bloody-beaked hawks soared on the frigid wind. They
soared high above a mounted horde inexorably moving
across the Weeping Waste.

The horde had crossed two deserts and three moun-
tain ranges to be there and hunger drove them onwards.
They were spurred on by remembrances of stories heard
from travellers who had come to their Eastern home-
land, by the encouragements of their thin-lipped leader
who swaggered in his saddle ahead of them, one arm
wrapped around a ten-foot lance decorated with the
gory trophies of bis pillaging campaigns.

The riders moved slowly and wearily, unaware that
they were nearing their goal.

Far behind the horde, a stocky rider left Elwher, the
singing, boisterous capital of the Eastern world, and
came soon to a valley.

The hard skeletons of trees had a blighted look and
the horse kicked earth the colour of ashes as its rider
drove it fiercely through the sick wasteland that had
once been gentle Eshmir, the golden garden of the East.

A plague had smitten Eshmir and the locust had
stripped her of her beauty. Both plague and locust went
by the same name—Terarn Gashtek, Lord of the Mount-
ed Hordes, sunken-faced carrier of destruction; Terarn
Gashtek, insane blood-drawer, the shrieking flame
bringer. And that was his other name—Flame Bringer.

The rider who witnessed the evil that Terarn Gashtek
had brought to gentle Eshmir was named Moonglum.
Moonglum was riding, now, for Karlaak by the Weeping
Waste, the last outpost of the Western civilisation of
which those in the Eastlands knew little. In Karlaak,

Moonglum knew he would find Elric of Melnibone who
now dwelt permanently in his wife's graceful city. Moon-
glum was desperate to reach Karlaak quickly, to warn
Elric and to solicit his help.

He was small and cocky, with a broad mouth and a
shock of red hair, but now his mouth did not grin and
his body was bent over the horse as he pushed it on
towards Karlaak. For Eshmir, gentle Eshmir, had been
Moonglum's home province and, with his ancestors, had
formed him into what he was.
So, cursing, Moonglum rode for Karlaak.
But so did Terarn Gashtek. And already the Flame
Bringer had reached the Weeping Waste. The horde
moved slowly, for they had wagons with them which had
at one time dropped far behind but now the supplies
they carried were needed. As well as provisions, one of
the wagons carried a bound prisoner who lay on his
back cursing Terarn Gashtek and his slant-eyed battle-
mongers.

Drinij Bara was bound by more than strips of leather,
that was why he cursed, for Drinij Bara was a sorcerer
who could not normally be held in such a manner. If he
had not succumbed to his weakness for wine and women
just before the Flame Bringer had come down on the
town in which he was staying, he would not have been
trussed so, and Terarn Gashtek would not now have
Drinij Bara's soul.

Drinij Bara's soul reposed in the body of a small,
black cat—the cat which Terarn Gashtek had caught
and carried with him always, for, as was the habit of
Eastern sorcerers, Drinij Bara had hidden his soul in the
body of the cat for protection. Because of this he was
now slave to the Lord of the Mounted Hordes, and had
to obey him lest the man slay the cat and so send his
soul to Hell.

It was not a pleasant situation for the proud sorcerer,
but he did not deserve less.

There was on the pale face of Elric of Melnibone
some slight trace of an earlier haunting, but his mouth
smiled and his crimson eyes were at peace as he looked

down at the young, black-haired woman with whom he
walked in the terraced gardens of Karlaak.

"Elric," said Zarozinia, "have you found your hap-
piness?"

He nodded. "I think so. Stormbringer, now hangs
amid cobwebs in your father's armoury. The drugs I dis-
covered in Troos keep me strong, my eyesight clear, and
need to be taken only occasionally. I need never think
of travelling or fighting again. I am content, here, to
spend my time with you and study the books in Kar-
laak's library. What more would I require?"

"You compliment me overmuch, my lord. I would be-
come complacent."

He laughed. "Rather that than you were doubting.
Do not fear, Zarozinia, I possess no reason, now, to jour-
ney on. Moonglum, I miss, but it was natural that he
should become restless of residence in a city and wish to
revisit his homeland."

"I am glad you are at peace, Elric. My father was at
first reluctant to let you live here, fearing the black evil
that once accompanied you, but three months have
proved to him that the evil has gone and left no fuming
berserker behind it."

Suddenly there came a shouting from below them, in
the street a man's voice was raised and he banged at the
gates of the house.

"Let me in, damn you, I must speak with your mas-
ter."

A servant came running: "Lord Elric—there is a man
at the gates with a message. He pretends friendship with
you."

"His name?"

"An alien one—Moonglum, he says."

"Moonglum! His stay in Elwher has been short. Let
him in!"

Zarozinia's eyes held a trace of fear and she held El-
ric's arm fiercely. "Elric—pray he does not bring news to
take you hence."

"No news could do that. Fear not, Zarozinia." He hur-
ried out of the garden and into the courtyard of the

house. Moonglum rode hurriedly through  the gates,
dismounting as he did so.

"Moonglum, my friend! Why the haste? Naturally, I
am pleased to see you after such a short time, but you
have been riding hastily—why?"

The little Eastlander's face was grim beneath its
coating of dust and his clothes were filthy from hard rid-
ing.

"The Flame Bringer comes with sorcery to aid him,"
he panted. "You must warn the city."

"The Flame Bringer? The name means nothing—you
sound delirious, my friend."

"Aye, that's true, I am. Delirious with hate. He
destroyed my homeland, killed my family, my friends
and now plans conquests in the West. Two years ago he
was little more than an ordinary desert raider but then
he began to gather a great horde of barbarians around
him and has been looting and slaying his way across the
Eastern lands. Only Elwher has not suffered from his at-
tacks, for the city was too great for even him to take.
But he has turned two thousand miles of pleasant coun-
try into a burning waste. He plans world conquest, rides
westwards with five hundred thousand warriors!"

"You mentioned sorcery—what does this barbarian
know of such sophisticated arts?"

"Little himself, but he has one of our greatest wizards
in his power—Drinij Bara. The man was captured as he
lay drunk between two wenches in a tavern in Phum.
He had put his soul into the body of a cat so that no
rival sorcerer might steal it while he slept. But Terarn
Gashtek, the Flame Bringer, knew of this trick, seized
the cat and bound its legs, eyes and mouth, so imprison-
ing Drinij Bara's evil soul. Now the sorcerer is his
slave—if he does not obey the barbarian, the cat will be
killed by an iron blade and Drinij Bara's soul will go to
Hell."

"These are unfamiliar sorceries to me," said Elric.
"They seem little more than superstitions."

"Who knows that they may be—but so long as Drinij
Bara believes what he believes, he will do as Terarn

Gashtek dictates. Several proud cities have been de-
stroyed with the aid of his magic."

"How far away is this Flame Bringer?"

"Three days' ride at most. I was forced to come hence
by a longer route, to avoid his outriders."

"Then we must prepare for a siege."

"No, Elric—you must prepare to flee!"

"To flee—should I request the citizens of Karlaak to
leave their beautiful city unprotected, to leave their
homes?"

"If they will not—you must, and take your bride with
you. None can stand against such a foe."

"My own sorcery is no mean thing."

"But one man's sorcery is not enough to hold back
half a million men also aided by sorcery."

"And Karlaak is a trading city—not a warrior's
fortress. Very well, I will speak to the Council of Elders
and try to convince them."

"You must convince them quickly, Elric, for if you do
not Karlaak will not stand half a day before Terarn
Gashtek's howling blood-letters."

"They are stubborn," said Elric as the two sat in his
private study later that night. "They refuse to realise
the magnitude of the danger. They refuse to leave and I
cannot leave them for they have welcomed me and
made me a citizen of Karlaak."

"Then we must stay here and die?"

"Perhaps. There seems to be no choice. But I have an-
other plan. You say that this sorcerer is a prisoner of
Terarn Gashtek. What would he do if he regained his
soul?"

"Why he would take vengeance upon his captor. But
Terarn Gashtek would not be so foolish as to give him
the chance. There is no help for us there."

"What if we managed to aid Drinij Bara?"

"How? It would be impossible."

"It seems our only chance. Does this barbarian know
of me or my history?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Would he recognise you?"

"Why should he?"

"Then I suggest we join him."

"Join him—Elric you are no more sane than when we
rode as free travellers together!"

"I know what I am doing. It would be the only way to
get close to him and discover a subtle way to defeat him.
We will set off at dawn, there is no time to waste."

"Very well. Let's hope your old luck is good, but I
doubt it now, for you've forsaken your old ways and the
luck went with them."

"Let us find out."

"Will you take Stormbringer?"

"I had hoped never to have to make use of that hell-
forged blade again. She's a treacherous sword at best."

"Aye—but I think you'll need her in this business."

"Yes, you're right. I'll take her."

Elric frowned, his hands clenched. "It will mean
breaking my word to Zarozinia."

"Better break it—than give her up to the Mounted
Hordes."

Elric unlocked the door to the armoury, a pitch torch
flaring in one hand. He felt sick as he strode down the
narrow passage lined with dulled weapons which had
not been used for a century.

His heart pounded heavily as he came to another
door and flung off the bar to enter the little room in
which lay the disused regalia of Karlaak's long-dead
War Chieftains—and Stormbringer. The black blade be-
gan to moan, as if welcoming him as he took a deep
breath of the musty air and reached for the sword. He
clutched the hilt and his body was racked by an unholy
sensation of awful ecstasy. His face twisted as he
sheathed the blade and he almost ran from the armoury
towards cleaner air.

Elric and Moonglum mounted their plainly equipped
horses and, garbed like common mercenaries, bade ur-
gent farewell to the Councillors of Karlaak.

Zarozinia kissed Elric's pale hand.

"I realise the need for this," she said, her eyes full of
tears, "but take care, my love."

"I shall. And pray that we are successful in whatever
we decide to do."

"The White Gods be with you."

"No—pray to the Lords of the Darks, for it is their
evil help I'll need in this work. And forget not my
words to the messenger who is to ride to the south-west
and find Dyvim Slorm."

"I'll not forget," she said, "though I worry lest you
succumb again to your old black ways."

"Fear for the moment—I'll worry about my own fate
later."

"Then farewell, my lord, and be lucky."

"Farewell, Zarozinia. My love for you will give me
more power even than this foul blade here." He spurred
his horse through the gates and then they were riding
for the Weeping Waste and a troubled future.

TWO

Dwarfed by the vastness of the softly turfed plateau
which was the Weeping Waste, the place of eternal
rains, the two horsemen drove their hard-pressed steeds
through the drizzle.

A shivering desert warrior, huddled against the
weather, saw them come towards him. He stared
through the rain trying to make out details of the riders,
then wheeled his stocky pony and rode swiftly back in
the direction he had come. Within minutes he had
reached a larger group of warriors attired like himself in
furs and tasselled iron helmets. They carried short bone
bows and quivers of long arrows fletched with hawk
feathers. There were curved scimitars at their sides.

He exchanged a few words with his fellows and soon
they were all lashing their horses towards the two riders.

"How much further lies the camp of Terarn Gashtek,
Moonglum?" Elric's words were breathless, for both men
had ridden for a day without halt
"Not much further, Elric. We should be—look!"
Moonglum  pointed  ahead.  About  ten  riders  came
swiftly towards   them.   "Desert  barbarians—the   Flame
Bringer's men.  Prepare for a fight—they won't waste
time parleying."

Stormbringer scraped from the scabbard and the
heavy blade seemed to aid Elric's wrist as he raised it, so
that it felt almost weightless.

Moonglum drew both his swords, holding the short
one with the same hand with which he grasped his
horse's reins.

The Eastern warriors spread out in a half circle as
they rode down on the companions, yelling wild war-
shouts. Elric reared his mount to a savage standstill and
met the first rider with Stormbringer's point full in the
man's throat. There was a stink like brimstone as it
pierced flesh and the warrior drew a ghastly choking
breath as he died, his eyes staring out in full realisation
of his terrible fate—for Stormbringer drank souls as well
as blood.

Elric cut savagely at another desertman, lopping off
his sword arm and splitting his crested helmet and the
skull beneath. Rain and sweat ran down his white, taut
features and into his glowing crimson eyes, but he
blinked it aside, half-fell in his saddle as he turned to
defend himself against another howling scimitar, parried
the sweep, slid his own runeblade down its length,
turned the blade with a movement of his wrist and
disarmed the warrior. Then he plunged his sword into
the man's heart and the desert warrior yelled like a wolf
at the moon, a long baying shout before Stormbringer
took his soul.

Elric's face was twisted in self-loathing as he fought
intently with superhuman strength. Moonglum stayed
clear of the albino's sword for he knew its liking for the
lives of Elric's friends.

Soon only one opponent was left. Elric disarmed him
and had to hold his own greedy sword back from the
man's throat.

Reconciled to the horror of his death, the man said
something in a guttural tongue which Elric half-recog-
nised. He searched his memory and realised that it was a
language close to one of the many ancient tongues
which, as a sorcerer, he had been required to learn years
before.

He said in the same language: "Thou art one of the
warriors of Terarn Gashtek the Flame Bringer."

"That is true. And you must be the White-faced Evil
One of legends. I beg you to slay me with a cleaner
weapon than that which you hold."

"I do not wish to kill thee at all. We were coming
hence to join Terarn Gashtek. Take us to him."

The man nodded hastily and clambered back on his
horse.

"Who are you who speaks the High Tongue of our
people?"

"I am called Elric of Melnibone—dost thou know the
name?"

The warrior shook his head. "No, but the High
Tongue has not been spoken for generations, save by
shamans—yet you're no shaman but, by your dress, seem
a warrior."

"We are both mercenaries. But speak no more. I will
explain the rest to thy leader."

They left a jackal's feast behind them and followed
the quaking Easterner in the direction he led them.

Fairly soon, the low-lying smoke of many camp-fires
could be observed and at length they saw the sprawling
camp of the barbarian War Lord's mighty army.

The camp encompassed over a mile of the great
plateau. The barbarians had erected skin tents on
rounded frames and the camp had the aspect of a large
primitive town. Roughly in the centre was a much
larger construction, decorated with a motley assortment
of gaudy silks and brocades.

Moonglum said in the Western tongue: "That must
be Terarn Gashtek's dwelling. See, he has covered its

half-cured hides with a score of Eastern battle-flags." His
face grew grimmer as he noted the torn standard of Esh-
mir, the lion-flag of Okara and the blood-soaked pen-
nants of sorrowing Changshai.

The captured warrior led them through the squatting
ranks of barbarians who stared at them impassively and
muttered to one another. Outside Terarn Gashtek's
tasteless dwelling was his great war-lance decorated with
more trophies of his conquests—the skulls and bones of
Eastern princes and kings.

Elric said: "Such a one as this must not be allowed to
destroy the reborn civilisation of the Young Kingdoms."

"Young kingdoms are resilient," remarked Moonglum,
"but it is when they are old that they fall—and it is of-
ten Terarn Gashtek's kind that tear them down."

"While I live he shall not destroy Karlaak—nor reach
as far as Bakshaan."

Moonglum said: "Though, in my opinion, he'd be
welcome to Nadsokor. The City of Beggars deserves such
visitors as the Flame Bringer. If we fail, Elric, only the
sea will stop him—and perhaps not that."

"With Dyvim Slorm's aid—we shall stop him. Let us
hope Karlaak's messenger finds my kinsman soon,"

"If he does not we shall be hard put to fight off half a
million warriors, my friend."

The barbarian shouted: "Oh, Conqueror—mighty
Flame Bringer—there are men here who wish to speak
with you."

A slurred voice snarled: "Bring them in."

They entered the badly smelling tent which was
lighted by a fire flickering in a circle of stones. A gaunt
man, carelessly dressed in bright captured clothing,
lounged on a wooden bench. There were several women
in the tent, one of whom poured wine into a heavy
golden goblet which he held out.

Terarn Gashtek pushed the woman aside, knocking
her sprawling and regarded the newcomers. His face was
almost as fleshless as the skulls hanging outside his tent.
His cheeks were sunken and his slanting eyes narrow
beneath thick brows.

"Who are these?"

"Lord, I know not—but between them they slew ten of
our men and would have slain me."

"You deserved no more than death if you let yourself
be disarmed. Get out—and find a new sword quickly or
I'll let the shamans have your vitals for divination."
The man slunk away.

Terarn Gashtek seated himself upon the bench once
more.

"So, you slew ten of my bloodletters, did yon, and
came here to boast to me about it? What's the explana-
tion?"

"We but defended ourselves against your warriors—we
sought no quarrel with them." Elric now spoke the
cruder tongue as best he could.

"You defended yourselves fairly well, I grant you. We
reckon three soft-living house-dwellers to one of us. You
are a Westerner, I can tell that, though your silent
friend has the face of an Elwherite. Have you come
from the East or the West?"

"The West," Elric said, "we are free travelling war-
riors, hiring our swords to those who'll pay or promise
us good booty."

"Are all Western warriors as skilful as you?" Terarn
Gashtek could not hide his sudden realisation that he
might have under-estimated the men he hoped to con-
quer.

"We are a little better than most," lied Moonglum,
"but not much."

"What of sorcery—is there much strong magic here?"

"No," said Elric, "the art has been lost to most."

The barbarian's thin mouth twisted into a grin, half
of relief, half of triumph. He nodded his head, reached
into his gaudy silks and produced a small black and
white bound cat. He began to stroke its back. It
wriggled but could do no more than hiss at its captor.
"Then we need not worry," he said.

"Now, why did you come here? I could have you tor-
tured for days for what you did, slaying ten of my best
outriders."

"We recognised the chance of enriching ourselves by
aiding you, Lord Flame Bringer," said Elric. "We could

show you the richest towns, lead you to ill-defended cit-
ies that would take little time to fall. Will you enlist
us?"

"I've need of such men as you, true enough. I'll enlist
you readily—but mark this, I'll not trust you until you've
proved loyal to me. Find yourselves quarters now—and
come to the feast, tonight. There I'll be able to show
you something of the power I hold—the power which
will smash the strength of the West and lay it waste for
ten thousand miles."

"Thanks," said Elric. "I'll look forward to tonight."

They left the tent and wandered through the haphaz-
ard collection of tents and cooking fires, wagons and ani-
mals. There seemed little food, but wine was in abun-
dance and the taut, hungry stomachs of the barbarians
were placated with that.

They stopped a warrior and told him of Terarn
Gashtek's orders to them. The warrior sullenly led them
to a tent.

"Here—it was shared by three of the men you slew. It
is yours by right of battle, as are the weapons and booty
inside."

"We're richer already," grinned Elric with feigned de-
light.

In the privacy of the tent, which was less clean than
Terarn Gashtek's, they debated.

"I feel uncommonly uncomfortable," said Moonglum,
"surrounded by this treacherous horde. And every time
I think of what they made of Eshmir, I itch to slay more
of them. What now?"

"We can do nothing now—let us wait until tonight
and see what develops." Elric sighed. "Our task seems
impossible—I have never seen so great a horde as this."

"They are invincible as they are," said Moonglum.
"Even without Drinij Bara's sorcery to tumble down the
walls of cities, no single nation could withstand them
and, with the Western Nations squabbling among them-
selves, they could never unite in time. Civilisation itself
is threatened. Let us pray for inspiration—your dark
gods are at least sophisticated, Elric, and we must hope

that they'll resent the barbarian's intrusion as much as
we do."

"They play strange games with their human pawns,"
Elric replied, "and who knows what they plan?"

Terarn Gashtek's smoke-wreathed tent had been fur-
ther lighted by rush torches when Elric and Moonglum
swaggered in, and the feast, consisting primarily of wine,
was already in progress.

"Welcome, my friends," shouted the Flame Bringer,
waving his goblet. "These are my captains—come, join
them!"

Elric had never seen such an evil-looking group of
barbarians. They were all half-drunk and, like their
leader, had draped a variety of looted articles of cloth-
ing about themselves. But their swords were their own.

Room was made on one of the benches and they ac-
cepted wine which they drank sparingly.

"Bring in our slave I" yelled Terarn Gashtek. "Bring
in Drinij Bara our pet sorcerer." Before him on the
table lay the bound and struggling cat and beside it an
iron blade.

Grinning warriors dragged a morose-faced man close
to the fire and forced him to kneel before the barbarian
chief. He was a lean man and he glowered at Terarn
Gashtek and the little cat Then his eyes saw the iron
blade and his gaze faltered.

"What do you want with me now?" he said sullenly.

"Is that the way to address your master, spell-maker?
Still, no matter. We have guests to entertain—men who
have promised to lead us to fat merchant cities. We re-
quire you to do a few minor tricks for them."

"I'm no petty conjurer. You cannot ask this of one of
the greatest sorcerers in the world!"

"We do not ask—we order. Come, make the evening
lively. What do you need for your magic-making? A few
slaves—the blood of virgins? We shall arrange it."

"I'm no mumbling shaman—I need no such trap-
pings."

Suddenly the sorcerer saw Elric. The albino felt the
man's powerful mind tentatively probing his own. He

had been recognised as a fellow sorcerer. Would Drinij
Bara betray him?

Elric was tense, waiting to be denounced. He leaned
back in his chair and, as he did so, made a sign with his
hand which would be recognised by Western sorcerers-
would the Easterner know it?

He did. For a moment he faltered, glancing at the
barbarian leader. Then he turned away and began to
make new passes in the air, muttering to himself.

The beholders gasped as a cloud of golden smoke
formed near the roof and began to metamorphose into
the shape of a great horse bearing a rider which all
recognised as Terarn Gashtek. The barbarian leader
leaned forward, glaring at the image.

"What's this?"

A map showing great land areas and seas seemed to
unroll beneath the horse's hooves. "The Western lands,"
cried Drinij Bara. "I make a prophecy."

"What is it?"

The ghostly horse began to trample the map. It split
and flew into a thousand smoky pieces. Then the image
of the horseman faded, also, into fragments.

"Thus will the mighty Flame Bringer rend the boun-
tiful nations of the West," shouted Drinij Bara.

The barbarians cheered exultantly, but Elric smiled
thinly. The Eastern wizard was mocking Terarn Gashtek
and his men.

The smoke formed into a golden globe which seemed
to blaze and vanish.

Terarn Gashtek laughed. "A good trick, magic-
maker—and a true prophecy. You have done your work
well. Take him back to his kennel!"

As Drinij Bara was dragged away, he glanced ques-
tioningly at Elric but said nothing.

Later that night, as the barbarians drank themselves
into a stupor, Elric and Moonglum slipped out of the
tent and made their way to the place where Drinij Bara
was imprisoned.

They reached the small hut and saw that a warrior
stood guard at the entrance. Moonglum produced a skin

of wine and, pretending drunkenness, staggered towards
the man. Elric stayed where he was.

"What do you want, Outlander?" growled the guard.

"Nothing my friend, we are trying to get back to our
own tent, that's all. Do you know where it is?"

"How should I know?"

"True—how should you? Have some wine—it's good—
from Terarn Gashtek's own supply."

The man extended a hand. "Let's have it."

Moonglum took a swig of the wine. "No, I've changed
my mind. It's too good to waste on common warriors."

"Is that so?" The warrior took several paces towards
Moonglum. "We'll find out, won't we? And maybe we'll
mix some of your blood with it to give it flavour, my
little friend."

Moonglum backed away. The warrior followed.

Elric ran softly towards the tent and ducked into it to
find Drinij Bara, wrists bound, lying on a pile of
uncured hides. The sorcerer looked up.

"You—what do you want?"

"We've come to aid you, Drinij Bara."

"Aid me? But why? You're no friend of mine. What
would you gain? You risk too much."

"As a fellow sorcerer, I thought I'd help you," Elric
said.

"I thought you were that. But, in my land, sorcerers
are not so friendly to one another—the opposite, in
fact."

"I'll tell you the truth—we need your aid to halt the
barbarian's bloody progress. We have a common enemy.
If we can help you regain your soul, will you help?"

"Help—of course. All I do is plan the way I'll avenge
myself. But for my sake be careful—if he suspects that
you're here to aid me, he'll slay the cat and slay us, too."

"We'll try to bring the cat to you. Will that be what
you need?"

"Yes. We must exchange blood, the cat and I, and my
soul will then pass back into my own body."

"Very well, I'll try to—" Elric turned, hearing voices
outside. "What's that?"

The sorcerer replied fearfully. "It must be Terarn
Gashtek—he comes every night to taunt me."

"Where's the guard?" The barbarian's harsh voice
came closer as he entered the little tent. "What's . . . ?"
He saw Elric standing above the sorcerer.

His eyes were puzzled and wary. "What are you doing
here, Westerner—and what have you done with the
guard?"

"Guard?" said Elric, "I saw no guard. I was looking
for my own tent and heard this cur cry out, so I entered.
I was curious, anyway, to see such a great sorcerer clad
in filthy rags and bound so."

Terarn Gashteck scowled. "Any more of such unwary
curiosity my friend, and you'll be discovering what your
own heart looks like. Now, get hence—we ride on in the
morning."

Elric pretended to flinch and stumbled hurriedly from
the tent.

A lone man in the livery of an Official Messenger of
Karlaak goaded his horse southwards. The mount gal-
loped over the crest of a hill and the messenger saw a
village ahead. Hurriedly he rode into it, shouting at the
first man he saw.

"Quickly, tell me—know you ought of Dyvim Slorm
and his Imrryrian mercenaries? Have they passed this
way?"

"Aye—a week ago. They went towards Rignariom by
Jadmar's border, to offer their services to the Vilmirian
Pretender."

"Were they mounted or on foot?"

"Both."

"Thanks, friend," cried the messenger behind him
and galloped out of the village in the direction of Rig-
nariom.

The messenger from Karlaak rode through the
night—rode along a recently made trail. A large force
had passed that way. He prayed that it had been Dyvim
Slorm and his Imrryrian warriors.

In the sweet-smelling garden city of Karlaak, the at-

mosphere was tense as the citizens waited for news they
knew they could not expect for some time. They were
relying on both Elric and on the messenger. If only one
were successful, there would be no hope for them. Both
had to be successful. Both.

THREE

The tumbling sound of moving men cut through the
weeping morning and the hungry voice of Terarn
Gashtek lashed at them to hurry.

Slaves packed up his tent and threw it into a wagon.
He rode forward and wrenched his tall war-lance from
the soft earth, wheeled his horse and rode westwards, his
captains, Elric and Moonglum among them, behind
him.

Speaking the Western tongue, Elric and Moonglum
debated their problem. The barbarian was expecting
them to lead him to his prey, his outriders were cover-
ing wide distances so that it would be impossible to lead
him past a settlement. They were in a quandary for it
would be disgraceful to sacrifice another township to
give Karlaak a few days' grace, yet...

A little later two whooping outriders came galloping
up to Terarn Gashtek.

"A town, lord! A small one and easy to take!"

"At last—this will do to test our blades and see how
easy Western flesh is to pierce. Then we'll aim at a big-
ger target." He turned to Elric: "Do you know this
town?"

"Where does it lie?" asked Elric thickly.

"A dozen miles to the south-west," replied the
outrider.

In spite of the fact that the town was doomed, Elric
felt almost relieved. They spoke of the town of Gorjhan.
"I know it," he said.

Cavim the Saddler, riding to deliver a new set of
horse furniture to an outlying farm, saw the distant
riders, their bright helmets caught by a sudden beam of
sunlight. That the riders came from off the Weeping
Waste was undoubtable—and he recognised menace in
their massed progress.

He turned his mount about and rode with the speed
of fear, back the way he had come to the town of
Gorjhan.

The flat, hard mud of the street trembled beneath the
thudding hooves of Cavim's horse and his high, excited
shout knifed through shuttered windows.

"Raiders come! 'Ware the raiders!"

Within a quarter of an hour, the head-men of the
town had met in hasty conference and debated whether
to run or to fight. The older men advised their neigh-
bours to flee the raiders, other younger men preferred to
stay ready, armed to meet a possible attack. Some argued
that their town was too poor to attract any raider.

The townspeople of Gorjhan debated and quarrelled,
and the first wave of raiders came screaming to their
walls.

With the realisation that there was no time for fur-
ther argument came the realisation of their doom, and
they ran to the ramparts with their pitiful weapons.

Terarn Gashtek roared through the milling barbari-
ans who churned the mud around Gorjhan: "Let's waste
no time in siege. Fetch the sorcerer!"

They dragged Drinij Bara forward. From his gar-
ments, Terarn Gashtek produced the small black cat
and held an iron blade at its throat.

"Work your spell, sorcerer, and tumble the walls
quickly."

The sorcerer scowled, his eyes seeking Elric, but the
albino averted his own eyes and turned his horse away.

The sorcerer produced a handful of powder from his
belt pouch and hurled it into the air where it became

first a gas, then a flickering ball of flame and finally a
face, a dreadful unhuman face, formed in the flame.

"Dag-Gadden the Destroyer," intoned Drinij Bara,
"you are sworn to our ancient pact—will you obey me?"

"I must, therefore I will. What do you command?"

"That you obliterate the walls of this town and so
leave the men inside naked, like crabs without their
shells."

"My pleasure is to destroy and destroy I shall." The
flaming face faded, altered, shrieked a searing course up-
ward and became a blossoming scarlet canopy which hid
the sky.

Then it swept down over the town and, in the instant
of its passing, the walls of Gorjhan groaned, crumbled
and vanished.

Elric shuddered—if Dag-Gadden came to Karlaak,
such would be their fate.

Triumphant, the barbarian battlemongers swept into
the defenceless town.

Careful to take no part in the massacre, Elric and
Moonglum were also helpless to aid the slaughtered
townspeople. The sight of the senseless, savage blood-
shed around them enervated them. They ducked into a
small house which seemed so far untouched by the pil-
laging barbarians. Inside they found three cowering chil-
dren huddled around an older girl who clutched an old
scythe in her soft hands. Shaking with fear, she prepared
to stand them off.

"Do not waste our time, girl," Elric said, "or you'll be
wasting your lives. Does this house have a loft?"

She nodded.

"Then get to it quickly. We'll make sure you're un-
harmed."

They stayed in the house, hating to observe the
slaughter-madness which had come upon the howling
barbarians. They heard the dreadful sounds of carnage
and smelled the stench of dead flesh and running blood.

A barbarian, covered in blood which was not his own,
dragged a woman into the house by her hair. She made
no attempt to resist, her face stunned by the horror she
had witnessed.

Elric growled: "Find another nest, hawk—we've made
this our own."

The man said: "There's room enough here for what I
want."

Then, at last, Elric's clenched muscles reacted almost
in spite of him. His right hand swung over to his left
hip and the long fingers locked around Stormbringer's
black hilt. The blade leapt from the scabbard as Elric
stepped forward and, his crimson eyes blazing his sick-
ened hatred, he smashed his sword down through the
man's body. Unnecessarily, he clove again, hacking the
barbarian in two. The woman remained where she lay,
conscious but unmoving.

Elric picked up her inert body and passed it gently to
Moonglum. "Take her upstairs with the others," he said
brusquely.

The barbarians had begun to fire part of the town,
their slaying all but done. Now they looted. Elric
stepped out of the doorway.

There was precious little for them to loot but, still
hungry for violence, they spent their energy on smash-
ing inanimate things and setting fire to the broken, pil-
laged dwellings.

Stormbringer dangled loosely in Elric's hand as he
looked at the blazing town. His face was a mask of
shadow and frisking light as the fire threw up still long-
er tongues of flame to the misty sky.

Around him, barbarians squabbled over the pitiful
booty; and occasionally a woman's scream cut above the
other sounds, intermingled with rough shouts and the
clash of metal.

Then he heard voices which were pitched differently
to those in the immediate vicinity. The accents of the
reavers mingled with a new tone—a whining, pleading
tone. A group led by Terarn Gashtek came into view
through the smoke.

Terarn Gashtek held something bloody in his hand—a
human hand, severed at the wrist—and behind him
swaggered several of his captains holding a naked old
man between them. Blood ran over his body and gushed
from his ruined arm, spurting sluggishly.

Terarn Gashtek frowned when he saw Elric. Then he
shouted: "Now Westerner, you shall see how we placate
our Gods with better gifts than meal and sour milk as
this swine once did. He'll soon be dancing a pretty
measure, I'll warrant—won't you, Lord Priest?"

The whining note went out of the old man's voice
then and he stared with fever-bright eyes at Elric. His
voice rose to a frenzied and high-pitched shriek which
was curiously repellent.

"You dogs can howl over me!" he spat, "but Mirath
and T'aargano will be revenged for the ruin of their
priest and their temple—you have brought flame here
and you shall die by flame." He pointed the bleeding
stump of his arm at Elric— "And you—you are a traitor
and have been one in many causes, I can see it written
in you. Though now ... You are—" the priest drew
breath...

Elric licked his lips.

"I am what I am," he said, "And you are nothing but
an old man soon to die. Your gods cannot harm us, for
we do not pay them any respect. I'll listen no more to
your senile meanderings!"

There was in the old priest's face all the knowledge of
his past torment and the torment which was to come.
He seemed to consider this and then was silent.

"Save your breath for screaming," said Terarn
Gashtek to the uncomprehending priest.

And then Elric said: "It's bad luck to kill a priest,
Flame Bringer!"

"You seem weak of stomach, my friend. His sacrifice
to our own gods will bring us good luck, fear not."

Elric turned away. As he entered the house again, a
wild shriek of agony seared out of the night and the
laughter which followed was not pleasant.

Later, as the still burning houses lit the night, Elric
and Moonglum, carrying heavy sacks on their shoulders,
clasping a woman each, moved with a simulation of
drunkenness to the edge of the camp. Moonglum left
the sacks and the women with Elric and went back, re-
turning soon with three horses.

They opened the sacks to allow the children to climb

out and watched the silent women mount the horses,
aiding the children to clamber up.

Then they galloped away.

"Now," said Elric savagely, "we must work our plan
tonight, whether the messenger reached Dyvim Slorm or
not. I could not bear to witness another such sword-
quenching."

Terarn Gashtek had drunk himself insensible. He lay
sprawled in an upper room of one of the unburned
houses.

Elric and Moonglum crept towards him. While Elric
watched to see that he was undisturbed, Moonglum
knelt beside the barbarian leader and, lightfingered, cau-
tiously reached inside the man's garments. He smiled in
self-approval as he lifted out the squirming cat and re-
placed it with a stuffed rabbit-skin he had earlier
prepared for the purpose. Holding the animal tight, he
arose and nodded to Elric. Together, warily, they left
the house and made their way through the chaos of the
camp.

"I ascertained that Drinij Bara lies in the large
wagon,' Elric told his friend. "Quickly, now, the main
danger's over."

Moonglum said: "When the cat and Drinij Bara have
exchanged blood and the sorcerer's soul is back in his
body—what then, Elric?"

"Together, our powers may serve at least to hold the
barbarians back, but—" he broke off as a large group of
warriors came weaving towards them.

"It's the Westerner and his little friend," laughed one.
"Where are you off to, comrades?"

Elric sensed their mood. The slaughter of the day had
not completely satiated their blood-lust. They were look-
ing for trouble.

"Nowhere in particular," he replied. The barbarians
lurched around them, encircling them.

"We've heard much of your straight blade, stranger,"
grinned their spokesman, "and I'd a mind to test it
against a real weapon." He grabbed his own scimitar
out of his belt. "What do you say?"

"I'd spare you that," said Elric coolly.

"You are generous—but I'd rather you accepted my in-
vitation."

"Let us pass," said Moonglum.

The barbarians' faces hardened. "Speak you so to the
conquerors of the world?" said the leader.

Moonglum took a step back and drew his sword, the
cat squirming in his left hand.

"We'd best get this done," said Elric to his friend. He
tugged his runeblade from its scabbard. The sword sang
a soft and mocking tune and the barbarians heard it.
They were disconcerted.

"Well?" said Elric, holding the half-sentient blade out

The barbarian who had challenged him looked uncer-
tain of what to do. Then he forced himself to shout:
"Clean iron can withstand any sorcery," and launched
himself forward.

Elric, grateful for the chance to take further ven-
geance, blocked his swing, forced the scimitar back and
aimed a blow which sliced the man's torso just above
the hip. The barbarian screamed and died. Moonglum,
dealing with a couple more, killed one but another
came in swiftly and his sweeping sword sliced the little
Eastlander's left shoulder. He howled—and dropped the
cat. Elric stepped in, slew Moonglum's opponent,
Stormbringer wailing a triumphant dirge. The rest of
the barbarians turned and ran off.

"How bad is your wound?" gasped Elric, but Moon-
glum was on his knees staring through the gloom.

"Quick, Elric—can you see the cat? I dropped it in the
struggle. If we lose it—we too are lost."

Frantically, they began to hunt through the camp.

But they were unsuccessful, for the cat, with the dex-
terity of its kind, had hidden itself.

A few moments later they heard the sounds of uproar
coming from the house which Terarn Gashtek had com-
mandeered.

"He's discovered that the cat's been stolen!" ex-
claimed Moonglum. "What do we do now?"

"I don't know—keep searching and hope he does not
suspect us."

They continued to hunt, but with no result. While
they searched, several barbarians came up to them. One
of them said:

"Our leader wishes to speak with you."

"Why?"

"He'll inform you of that. Come on."

Reluctantly, they went with the barbarians to be con-
fronted by a raging Terarn Gashtek. He clutched the
stuffed rabbit skin in one claw-like hand and his face
was warped with fury.

"My hold over the sorcerer has been stolen from me,"
he roared. "What do you know of it?"

"I don't understand," said Elric.

"The cat is missing—I found this rag in its place. You
were caught talking to Drinij Bara recently, I think you
were responsible."

"We know nothing of this," said Moonglum.

Terarn Gashtek growled: "The camp's in disorder, it
will take a day to re-organise my men—once loosed like
this they will obey no one. But when I've restored order,
I shall question the whole camp. If you tell the truth,
then you will be released, but meanwhile you will be
given all the time you need to speak with the sorcerer."
He jerked his head. "Take them away, disarm them,
bind them and throw them in Drinij Bara's kennel."

As they were led away, Elric muttered: "We must es-
cape and find that cat, but meanwhile we need not
waste this opportunity to confer with Drinij Bara."

Drinij Bara said in the darkness: "No, Brother Sor-
cerer, I will not aid you. I will risk nothing until the cat
and I are united."

"But Terarn Gashtek cannot threaten you any more."

"What if he recaptures the cat—what then?"

Elric was silent. He shifted his bound body uncom-
fortably on the hard boards of the wagon. He was about
to continue his attempts at persuasion when the awning
was thrown aside and he saw another trussed figure
thrown towards them. Through the blackness he said in
the Eastern tongue: "Who are you?"

The man replied in the language of the West: "I do
not understand you."

"Are you, then, a Westerner?" asked Elric in the com-
mon speech.

"Yes—I am an Official Messenger from Karlaak. I was
captured by these odorous jackals as I returned to the
city."

"What? Are you the man we sent to Dyvim Slorm, my
kinsman? I am Elric of Melnibone."

"My lord, are we all, then prisoners? Oh, gods—Kar-
laak is truly lost."

"Did you get to Dyvim Slorm?"

"Aye—I caught up with him and his band. Luckily
they were nearer to Karlaak than we suspected."

"And what was his answer to my request?"

"He said that a few young ones might be ready, but
even with sorcery to aid him it would take some time to
get to the Dragon Isle. There is a chance."

"A chance is all we need—but it will be no good
unless we accomplish the rest of our plan. Somehow
Drinij Bara's soul must be regained so that Terarn
Gashtek cannot force him to defend the barbarians.
There is one idea I have—a memory of an ancient kin-
ship that we of Melnibone had for a being called Meer-
clar. Thank the gods that I discovered those drugs in
Troos and I still have my strength. Now, I must call my
sword to me."

He closed his eyes and allowed his mind and body first
to relax completely and then concentrate on one single
thing—the sword Stormbringer.

For years the evil symbiosis had existed between man
and sword and the old attachments lingered.

He cried: "Stormbringer! Stormbringer, unite with
your brother! Come, sweet runeblade, come hell-forged
kinslayer, your master needs thee ..."

Outside, it seemed that a wailing wind had suddenly
sprung up. Elric heard shouts of fear and a whistling
sound. Then the covering of the wagon was sliced apart
to let in the starlight and the moaning blade quivered
in the air over his head. He struggled upwards, already
feeling nauseated at what he was about to do, but he
was reconciled that he was not, this time, guided by self-

interest but by the necessity to save the world from the
barbarian menace.

"Give me thy strength, my sword," he groaned as his
bound hands grasped the hilt. "Give me thy strength
and let us hope it is for the last time."

The blade writhed in his hands and he felt an awful
sensation as its power, the power stolen vampire-like,
from a hundred brave men, flowed into his shuddering
body.

He became possessed of a peculiar strength which was
not by any means wholly physical. His white face twisted
as he concentrated on controlling the new power and
the blade, both of which threatened to possess him en-
tirely. He snapped his bonds and stood up.

Barbarians were even now running towards the
wagon. Swiftly he cut the leather ropes binding the oth-
ers and, unconscious of the nearing warriors, called a
different name.

He spoke a new tongue, an alien tongue which nor-
mally he could not remember. It was a language taught
to the Sorcerer Kings of Melnibone, Elric's ancestors,
even before the building of Imrryr, the Dreaming City,
over ten thousand years previously.

"Meerclar of the Cats, it is I, your kinsman, Elric of
Melnibone, last of the line that made vows of friendship
with you and your people. Do you hear me, Lord of the
Cats?"

Far beyond the Earth, dwelling within a world set
apart from the physical laws of space and time which
governed the planet, glowing in a deep warmth of blue
and amber, a manlike creature stretched itself and
yawned, displaying tiny, pointed teeth. It pressed its head
languidly against its furry shoulder—and listened.

The voice it heard was not that of one of its people,
the kind he loved and protected. But he recognised the
language.

He smiled to himself as remembrance came and he
felt the pleasant sensation of fellowship. He remem-
bered a race which, unlike other humans (whom he dis-
dained) had shared his qualities—a race which, like him,

loved pleasure, cruelty and sophistication for its own
sake. The race of Melniboneans.

Meerclar, Lord of the Cats, Protector of the Feline
Kind, projected himself gracefully towards the source of
the voice,

"How may I aid thee?" he purred.

"We seek one of your folk, Meerclar, who is some-
where close to here."

"Yes, I sense him. What do you want of him?"

"Nothing which is his—but he has two souls, one of
them not his own."

"That is so—his name is Fiarshern of the great family
of Trrechoww. I will call him. He will come to me."

Outside, the barbarians were striving to conquer their
fear of the supernatural events taking place in the
wagon. Terarn Gashtek cursed them: "There are five
hundred thousand of us and a few of them. Take them
now!"

His warriors began to move cautiously forward.

Fiarshern, the cat, heard a voice which it knew in-
stinctively to be that of one which it would be foolish to
disobey. It ran swiftly towards the source of that voice.

"Look—the cat—there it is. Seize it quickly."

Two of Terarn Gashtek's men jumped forward to do
his bidding, but the little cat eluded them and leaped
lightly into the wagon.

"Give the human back its soul, Fiarshern," said Meer-
clar softly. The cat moved towards its human master
and dug its delicate teeth into the sorcerer's veins.

A moment later Drinij Bara laughed wildly. "My soul
is mine again. Thank you, great Cat Lord. Let me repay
you!"

"There is no need," smiled Meerclar mockingly, "and,
anyway, I perceive that your soul is already bartered.
Goodbye, Elric of Melnibone. I was pleased to answer
your call, though I see that you no longer follow the an-
cient pursuits of your fathers. Still, for the sake of old
loyalties I do not begrudge you this service. Farewell, I
go back to a warmer place than this inhospitable one."

The Lord of the Cats faded and returned to the world

of blue and amber warmth where he once more resumed
his interrupted sleep.

"Come, Brother Sorcerer," cried Drinij Bara exul-
tantly. "Let us take the vengeance which is ours."

He and Elric sprang from the wagon, but the two oth-
ers were not quite so quick to respond.

Terarn Gashtek and his men confronted them. Many
had bows with long arrows fitted to them.

"Shoot them down swiftly," yelled the Flame Bringer.
"Shoot them now before they have time to summon fur-
ther demons!"

A shower of arrows whistled towards them. Drinij
Bara smiled, spoke a few words as he moved his hands
almost carelessly. The arrows stopped in midflight,
turned back and each uncannily found the throat of the
man who had shot it. Terarn Gashtek gasped and
wheeled back, pushing past his men and, as he retreated,
shouted for them to attack the four.

Driven by the knowledge that if they fled they would
be doomed, the great mass of barbarians closed in.

Dawn was bringing light to the cloud-ripped sky as
Moonglum looked upwards. "Look, Elric," he shouted
pointing.

"Only five," said the albino. "Only five—but perhaps
enough."

He parried several lashing blades on his own sword
and, although he was possessed of superhuman strength,
all the power seemed to have left the sword so that it
was only as useful as an ordinary blade. Still fighting, he
relaxed his body and felt the power leave him, flowing
back into Stormbringer.

Again the runeblade began to whine and thirstily
sought the throats and hearts of the savage barbarians.

Drinij Bara had no sword, but he did not need one,
he was using subtler means to defend himself. All
around him were the gruesome results, boneless masses
of flesh and sinew.

The two sorcerers and Moonglum and the messenger
forced their way through the half-insane barbarians who
were desperately attempting to overcome them. In the
confusion it was impossible to work out a coherent plan

of action. Moonglum and the messenger grabbed scimi-
tars from the corpses of the barbarians and joined in the
battle.

Eventually, they had reached the outer limits of the
camp. A whole mass of barbarians had fled, spurring
their mounts westwards. Then Elric saw Terarn
Gashtek, holding a bow. He saw the Flame Bringer's in-
tention and shouted a warning to his fellow sorcerer
who had his back to the barbarian. Drinij Bara, yelling
some disturbing incantation, half-turned, broke off, at-
tempted to begin another spell, but the arrow pierced
his eye.

He screamed: "No!"

Then he died.

Seeing his ally slain, Elric paused and stared at the
sky and the great wheeling beasts which he recognised.

Dyvim Slorm, son of Elric's cousin Dyvim Tvar the
Dragon Master, had brought the legendary dragons of
Imrryr to aid his kinsman. But most of the huge beasts
slept, and would sleep for another century—only five
dragons had been aroused. As yet, Dyvim Slorm could
do nothing for fear of harming Elric and his comrades.

Terarn Gashtek, too, had seen the magnificent beasts.
His grandiose plans of conquest were already fading
and, thwarted, he ran towards Elric.

"You white-faced filth," he howled, "you have been re-
sponsible for all this—and you will pay the Flame
Bringer's price!"

Elric laughed as he brought up Stormbringer to pro-
tect himself from the incensed barbarian. He pointed to
the sky: "These, too, can be called Flame Bringers, Ter-
arn Gashtek—and are better named than thou!"

Then he plunged the evil blade full into Terarn
Gashtek's body and the barbarian gave a choking moan
as his soul was drawn from him.

"Destroyer, I may be, Elric of Melnibone," he gasped,
"but my way was cleaner than yours. May you and all
you hold dear be cursed for eternity!"

Elric laughed, but his voice shook slightly as he stared
at the barbarian's corpse. "I've rid myself of such curses
once before, my friend. Yours will have little effect, I

think." He paused. "By Arioch, I hope I'm right. I'd
thought my fate cleansed of doom and curses, but per-
haps I was wrong...."

The huge horde of barbarians were nearly all mount-
ed now and fleeing westwards. They had to be stopped
for, at the pace they were travelling, they would soon
reach Karlaak and only the Gods knew what they would
do when they got to the unprotected city.

Above him, he heard the flapping of thirty-foot wings
and scented the familiar smell of the great flying reptiles
which had pursued him years before when he had led a
reaver fleet on the attack of his home-city. Then he
heard the curious notes of the Dragon Horn and saw
that Dyvim Slorm was seated on the back of the leading
beast, a long spearlike goad in his gauntleted right
hand.

The dragon spiralled downward and its great bulk
came to rest on the ground thirty feet away, its leathery
wings folding back along its length. The Dragon Master
waved to Elric.

"Greetings, King Elric, we barely managed to arrive
in time I see."

"Time enough, kinsman," smiled Elric. "It is good to
see the son of Dyvim Tvar again. I was afraid you might
not answer my plea."

"Old scores were forgotten at the Battle of Bakshaan
when my father Dyvim Tvar died aiding you in the
siege of Nikorn's fortress. I regret only the younger
beasts were ready to be awakened. You'll remember the
others were used but a few years past."

"I remember," said Elric. "May I beg another favour
Dyvim Slorm?"

"What is that?"

"Let me ride the chief dragon. I am trained in the
arts of the Dragon Master and have good reason for rid-
ing against the barbarians—we were forced to witness in-
sensate carnage a while ago and may, perhaps, pay them
back in their own coinage."

Dyvim Slorm nodded and swung off his mount. The
beast stirred restlessly and drew back the lips of its ta-

pering snout to reveal teeth as thick as a man's arm, as
long as a sword. Its forked tongue flickered and it
turned its huge, cold eyes to regard Elric.

Elric sang to it in the old Melnibonean speech, took
the goad and the Dragon Horn from Dyvim Slorm and
carefully climbed into the high saddle at the base of the
dragon's neck. He placed his booted feet into the great
silver stirrups.

"Now, fly, dragon brother," he sang, "up, up and have
your venom ready."

He heard the snap of displaced air as the wings began
to beat and then the great beast was clear of the ground
and soaring upwards into the grey and brooding sky.

The other four dragons followed the first and, as he
gained height, sounding specific notes on the horn to
give them directions, he drew his sword from its scab-
bard.

Centuries before, Elric's ancestors had ridden their
dragon steeds to conquer the whole of the Western
World. There had been many more dragons in the
Dragon Caves in those days. Now only a handful re-
mained, and of those only the youngest had slept suffi-
ciently long enough to be awakened.

High in the wintry sky climbed the huge reptiles and
Elric's long white hair and stained black cloak flew be-
hind him as he sang the exultant Song of the Dragon
Masters and urged his charges westwards.

Wild wind-horses soar the cloud-trails,
Unholy horn doth sound its blast,
You and we were first to conquer,
You and we shall be the last!

Thoughts of love, of peace, of vengeance even were
lost in that reckless sweeping across the glowering skies
which hung over that ancient Age of the Young King-
doms. Elric, archetypal, proud and disdainful in his
knowledge that even his deficient blood was the blood of
the Sorcerer Kings of Melnibone, became detached.

He had no loyalties then, no friends and, if evil

possessed him, then it was a pure, brilliant evil, untaint-
ed by human drivings.

High soared the dragons until below them was the
heaving black mass, marring the landscape, the fear-
driven horde of barbarians who, in their ignorance, had
sought to conquer the lands beloved of Elric of Melni-
bone.

"Ho, dragon brothers—loose your venom—burn—burn!
And in your burning cleanse the world!"

Stormbringer joined in the wild shout and, diving, the
dragons swept across the sky, down upon the crazed bar-
barians, shooting streams of combustible venom which
water could not extinguish, and the stink of charred
flesh drifted upwards through the smoke and flame so
that the scene became a scene of Hell—and proud Elric
was a Lord of Demons reaping awful vengeance.

He did not gloat, for he had done only what was
needed, that was all. He shouted no more but turned his
dragon mount back and upward, sounding his horn and
summoning the other reptiles to him. And as he
climbed, the exultation left him and was replaced by
cold horror.

"I am still a Melnibonean," He thought, "and cannot
rid myself of what else I do. And, in my strength I am
still weak, ready to use this cursed blade in any small
emergency." With a shout of loathing, he flung the
sword away, flung it into space. It screamed like a
woman and went plummeting downwards towards the
distant earth.

"There," he said, "It is done at last." Then, in calmer
mood, he returned to where he had left his friends and
guided his reptilian mount to the ground.

Dyvim Slorm said: "Where is the sword of your fore-
fathers, King Elric?" But the albino did not answer, just
thanked his kinsman for the loan of the dragon leader.
Then they all remounted the dragons and flew back
towards Karlaak to tell them the news.

Zarozinia saw her lord riding the first dragon and
knew that Karlaak and the Western World were saved,
the Eastern World avenged. His stance was proud but
his face was grave as he went to meet her outside the

city. She saw in him a return of an earlier sorrow which
he had thought forgotten. She ran to him and he caught
her in his arms, holding her close but saying nothing.

He bade farewell to Dyvim Slorm and his fellow
Imrryrians and, with Moonglum and the messenger fol-
lowing at a distance, went into the city and thence to his
house, impatient of the congratulations which the cit-
izens showered upon him.

"What is it, my lord?" Zarozinia said as, with a sigh,
he sprawled wearily upon the great bed. "Can speaking
help?"

"I'm tired of swords and sorcery, Zarozinia, that is all.
But at last I have rid myself once and for all of that
hell-blade which I had thought my destiny to carry al-
ways."

"Stormbringer you mean?"

"What else?"

She said nothing. She did not tell him of the sword
which, apparently of its own volition, had come scream-
ing into Karlaak and passed into the armoury to hang,
in its old place, in darkness there.

He closed his eyes and drew a long, sighing breath.

"Sleep well, my lord," she said softly. With tearful
eyes and a sad mouth she lay herself down beside him.

She did not welcome the morning.

EPILOGUE

To Rescue Tanelorn ...

In which we learn of the further adventures
of Rackhir the Red Archer and other heroes
and places Elric has hitherto encountered
only in what he chooses to consider, his
dreams . . .

Epilogue

TO RESCUE TANELORN ...

Beyond the tall and ominous glass-green forest of Troos,
well to the North and unheard of in Bakshaan, Elwher
or any other city of the Young Kingdoms, on the shift-
ing shores of the Sighing Desert lay Tanelorn, a lonely,
long-ago city, loved by those it sheltered.

Tanelorn had a peculiar nature in that it welcomed
and held the wanderer. To its peaceful streets and low
houses came the gaunt, the savage, the brutalised, the
tormented, and in Tanelorn they found rest.

Now, most of these troubled travellers who dwelt in
peaceful Tanelorn had thrown off earlier allegiances to
the Lords of Chaos who, as gods, took more than a mild
interest in the affairs of men. It happened, therefore,
that these same Lords grew to resent the unlikely city of
Tanelorn and, not for the the first time decided to act
against it.

They instructed one of their number (more they could
not, then, send) Lord Narjhan, to journey to Nadsokor,
the City of Beggars, which had an old grudge against
Tanelorn and raise an army that would attack undefend-
ed Tanelorn and destroy it and its inhabitants. So he
did this, arming his ragged army and promising them
many things.

Then, like a ferocious tide, did the beggar rabble set
off to tear down Tanelorn and slay its residents. A great
torrent of men and women in rags, on crutches, blind,
maimed, but moving steadily, ominously, implacably
Northwards towards the Sighing Desert

In Tanelorn dwelt the Red Archer, Rackhir, from the
Eastlands beyond the Sighing Desert, beyond the Weep-

ing Waste. Rackhir had been born a Warrior Priest, a
servant of the Lords of Chaos, but had forsaken this life
for the quieter pursuits of thievery and learning. A man
with harsh features slashed from the bone of his skull,
strong, fleshless nose, deep eye-cavities, a thin mouth
and a thin beard. He wore a red skull-cap, decorated
with a hawk's feather, a red jerkin, tight-fitting and
belted at the waist, red breeks, and red boots. It was as if
all the blood in him had transferred itself to his gear
and left him drained. He was happy, however, in Tane-
lorn, the city which made all such men happy, and felt
he would die there if men died there. He did not know
if they did.

One day he saw Brut of Lashmar, a great, blond-
headed noble of shamed name, ride wearily, yet ur-
gently, through the low wall-gate of the city of peace.
Brut's silver harness and trappings were begrimed, his
yellow cloak torn and his broad-brimmed hat battered.
A small crowd collected around him as he rode into the
city square and halted. Then he gave his news.

"Beggars from Nadsokor, many thousands, move
against our Tanelorn," he said, "and they are led by
Narjhan of Chaos."

Now, all the men in there were soldiers of some kind,
good ones for the most part, and they were confident
warriors, but few in number. A horde of beggars, led by
such a being as Narjhan, could destroy Tanelorn, they
knew.

"Should we, then, leave Tanelorn?" said Uroch of
Nieva, a young, wasted man who had been a drunkard.

"We owe this city too much to desert her," Rackhir
said. "We should defend her—for her sake and ours.
There will never be such a city again."

Brut leaned forward in his saddle and said: "In prin-
ciple, Red Archer, I am in agreement with you. But
principle is not enough without deeds. How would you
suggest we defend this low-walled city against siege and
the powers of Chaos?"

"We should need help," Rackhir replied, "supernatu-
ral help if need be."

"Would the Grey Lords help us?" Zas the One-handed
asked the question. He was an old, torn wanderer who
had once gained a throne and lost it again.

"Aye—the Grey Lords!" Several voices chorused this
hopefully.

"Who are the Grey Lords?" said Uroch, but no one
heard him.

"They are not inclined to aid anyone at all," Zas the
One-handed pointed out, "but surely Tanelorn, coming
as it does under neither the Forces of Law nor the Lords
of Chaos, would be worth their while preserving. After
all, they have no loyalties either."

"I'm for seeking the Grey Lords' aid," Brut nodded.
"What of the rest of us?" There was general agreement,
then silence when they realised that they knew of no
means of contacting the mysterious and insouciant
beings. At last Zas pointed this out.

Rackhir said: "I know a seer—a hermit who lives in
the Sighing Desert. Perhaps he can help?"

"I think that, after all, we should not waste time look-
ing for supernatural assistance against this beggar
rabble," Uroch said. "Let us prepare, instead, to meet
the attack with physical means."

"You forget," Brut said wearily, "that they are led by
Narjhan of Chaos. He is not human and has the whole
strength of Chaos behind him. We know that the Grey
Lords are pledged neither to Law nor to Chaos but will
sometimes help either side if the whim takes them. They
are our only chance."

"Why not seek the aid of the Forces of Law, sworn en-
emies of Chaos and mightier than the Grey Lords?"
Uroch said.

"Because Tanelorn is a city owing allegiance to nei-
ther side. We are all of us men and women who have
broken our pledge to Chaos but have made no new one
to Law. The Forces of Law, in matters of this kind, will
help only those sworn to them. The Grey Lords only
may protect us, if they would." So said Zas.

"I will go to find my seer," Rackhir the Red Archer
said, "and if he knows how I may reach the Domain of

the Grey Lords, then I'll continue straight on, for there
is so little time. If I reach them and solicit their help
you will soon know I have done so. If not, you must die
in Tanelorn's defence and, if I live, I will join you in
that last battle."

"Very well," Brut agreed, "go quickly, Red Archer.
Let one of your own arrows be the measure of your
speed."

And taking little with him save his bone bow and
quiver of scarlet-fletched arrows, Rackhir set off for the
Sighing Desert.

From Nadsokor, South West through the land of Vil-
mir, even through the squalid country of Org which has
in it the dreadful forest of Troos, there was flame and
black horror in the wake of the beggar horde, and inso-
lent, disdainful of them though he led them, rode a
being completely clad in black armour with a voice that
rang hollow in the helm. People fled away at their ap-
proach and the land was made barren by their passing.
Most knew what had happened, that the beggar citizens
of Nadsokor had, contrary to their traditions of cen-
turies, vomited from their city in a wild, menacing
horde. Someone had armed them—someone had made
them go Northwards and Westwards towards the Sighing
Desert. But who was the one who led them? Ordinary
folk did not know. And why did they head for the Sigh-
ing Desert? There was no city beyond Karlaak, which
they had skirted, only the Signing Desert—and beyond
that the edge of the world. Was that their destination?
Were they heading, lemming-like, to their destruction?
Everyone hoped so, in their hate for the horrible horde.

Rackhir rode through the mournful wind of the Sigh-
ing Desert, his face and eyes protected against the parti-
cles of sand which flew about. He was thirsty and had
been riding a day. Ahead of him at last were the rocks
he sought.

He reached the rocks and called above the wind.

"Lamsar!"

The hermit came out in answer to Rackhir's shout

He was dressed in oiled leather to which sand clung. His
beard, too, was encrusted with sand and his skin seemed
to have taken on the colour and texture of the desert.
He recognised Rackhir immediately, by his dress, beck-
oned him into the cave, and disappeared back inside.
Rackhir dismounted and led his horse to the cave en-
trance and went in.

Lamsar was seated on a smooth rock. "You are wel-
come, Red Archer," he said, "and I perceive by your
manner that you wish information from me and that
your mission is urgent."

"I seek the help of the Grey Lords, Lamsar," said
Rackhir.

The old hermit smiled. It was as if a fissure had sud-
denly appeared in a rock. "To risk the journey through
the Five Gates, your mission must be important. I will
tell you how to reach the Grey Lords, but the road is a
difficult one."

"I'm willing to take it," Rackhir replied, "for Tane-
lorn is threatened and the Grey Lords could help her."

"Then you must pass through the First Gate, which
lies in our own dimension. I will help you find it."

"And what must I do then?"

"You must pass through all five gates. Each gateway
leads to a realm which lies beyond and within our own
dimension. In each realm you must speak with the dwell-
ers there. Some are friendly to men, some are not, but
all must answer your question; "Where lies the next
Gate?" though some may seek to stop you passing. The
last gate leads to the Grey Lords' Domain."

"And the first gate?"

"That lies anywhere in this realm. I will find it for
you now."

Lamsar composed himself to meditate and Rackhir,
who had expected some sort of gaudy miracle-working
from the old man, was disappointed.

Several hours went by until Lamsar said: "The gate is
outside. Memorise the following: If X is equal to the
spirit of humanity, then the combination of the two

must be of double power, therefore the spirit of human-
ity always contains the power to dominate itself."

"A strange equation," said Rackhir.

"Aye—but memorise it, meditate upon it and then we
will leave."

"We-you as well?"

"I think so."

The hermit was old. Rackhir did not want him on the
journey. But then he realised that the hermit's
knowledge could be of use to him, so did not object. He
thought upon the equation and, as he thought, his mind
seemed to glitter and become diffused until he was in a
strange trance and all his powers felt greater, both those
of mind and body. The hermit got up and Rackhir fol-
lowed him. They went out of the cave-mouth but, in-
stead of the Sighing Desert, there was a hazy cloud of
blue shimmering light ahead and when they had passed
through this, in a second, they found themselves in the
foothills of a low mountain-range and below them, in a
valley, were villages. The villages were strangely laid
out, all the houses in a wide circle about a huge am-
phitheatre containing, at its centre, a circular dais.

"It will be interesting to learn the reason why these
villages are so arranged," Lamsar said, and they began
to move down into the valley.

As they reached the bottom and came close to one of
the villages, people came gaily out and danced joyfully
towards them. They stopped in front of Rackhir and
Lamsar and, jumping from foot to foot as he greeted
them, the leader spoke.

"You are strangers, we can tell—and you are welcome
to all we have, food, accommodation, and entertain-
ment."

The two men thanked them graciously and accompa-
nied them back to the circular village. The amphithe-
atre was made of mud and seemed to have been stamped
out, hollowed into, the ground encompassed by the
houses. The leader of the villagers took them to his
house and offered them food.

"You have come to us at a Rest Time," he said, "but

do not worry, things will soon commence again. My
name is Yerleroo."

"We seek the next Gate," Lamsar said politely, "and
our mission is urgent. You will forgive us if we do not
stay long?"

"Come," said Yerleroo, "things are about to com-
mence. You will see us at our best, and must join us."

All the villagers had assembled in the amphitheatre,
surrounding the platform in the centre. Most of them
were light-skinned and light-haired, gay and smiling, ex-
cited—but a few were evidently of a different race, dark,
black-haired, and these were sullen.

Sensing something ominous in what he saw, Rackhir
asked the question directly: "Where is the next Gate?"

Yerleroo hesitated, his mouth worked and then he
smiled. "Where the winds meet," he said.

Rackhir declared angrily: "That's no answer."

"Yes it is," said Lamsar softly behind him. "A fair an-
swer."

"Now we shall dance," Yerleroo said. "First you shall
watch our dance and then you shall join in."

"Dance?" said Rackhir, wishing he had brought a
sword, or at least a dagger.

"Yes—you will like it. Everyone likes it. You will find
it will do you good."

"What if we do not wish to dance?"

"You must—it is for your own good, be assured."

"And he——" Rackhir pointed at one of the sullen
men. "Does he enjoy it?"

"It is for his own good."

Yerleroo clapped his hands and at once the fair-haired
people leapt into a frenetic, senseless dance. Some of
them sang. The sullen people did not sing. After a little
hesitation, they began to prance dully about, their
frowning features contrasting with their jerking bodies.
Soon the whole village was dancing, whirling, singing a
monotonous song.

Yerleroo flashed by, whirling. "Come, join in now."

"We had better leave," Lamsar said with a faint smile.
They backed away.

Yerleroo saw them. "No—you must not leave—you
must dance."

They turned and ran as fast as the old man could go.
The dancing villagers changed the direction of their
dance and began to whirl menacingly towards them in a
horrible semblance of gaiety.

"There's nothing for it," Lamsar said and stood his
ground, observing them through ironic eyes. "The
mountain gods must be invoked. A pity, for sorcery wea-
ries me. Let us hope their magic extends to this plane.
Gordar!"

Words in an unusually harsh language issued from
Lamsar's old mouth. The whirling villagers came on.

Lamsar pointed at them.

The villagers became suddenly petrified and slowly,
disturbingly, their bodies caught in a hundred positions,
turned to smooth, black basalt.

"It was for their own good," Lamsar smiled grimly.
"Come, to the place where the winds meet," and he took
Rackhir there quite swiftly.

At the place where the winds met they found the sec-
ond gateway, a column of amber-coloured flame, shot
through with streaks of green. They entered it and, in-
stantly, were in a world of dark, seething colour. Above
them was a sky of murky red in which other colours
shifted, agitated, changing. Ahead of them lay a forest,
dark, blue, black, heavy, mottled green, the tops of its
trees moving like a wild tide. It was a howling land of
unnatural phenomena.

Lamsar pursed his lips. "On this plane Chaos rules,
we must get to the next gate swiftly for obviously the
Lords of Chaos will seek to stop us."

"Is it always like this?" Rackhir gasped.

"It is always boiling midnight—but the rest, it changes
with the moods of the Lords. There are no rules at all."

They pressed on through the bounding, blossoming
scenery as it erupted and changed around them. Once
they saw a huge winged figure in the sky, smoky yellow,
and roughly man-shaped.

"Vezhan," Lamsar said, "let's hope he did not see us."

"Vezhan!" Rackhir whispered the name—for it was to
Vezhan that he had once been loyal.

They crept on, uncertain of their direction or even of
their speed in that disturbing land.

At length, they came to the shores of a peculiar ocean.

It was a grey, heaving, timeless sea, a mysterious sea
which stretched into infinity. There could be no other
shores beyond this rolling plain of water. No other lands
or rivers or dark, cool woods, no other men or women or
ships. It was a sea which led to nowhere. It was com-
plete to itself—a sea.

Over this timeless ocean hovered a brooding ochre
sun which cast moody shadows of black and green across
the water, giving the whole scene something of the look
of being enclosed in a vast cavern, for the sky above was
gnarled and black with ancient clouds. And all the
while the doom-carried crash of breakers, the lonely,
fated monotony of the ever-rearing white-topped waves;
the sound which portended neither death nor life nor
war nor peace—simply existence and shifting inharmony.
They could go no further.

"This has the air of our death about it," Rackhir said
shivering.

The sea roared and tumbled, the sound of it increas-
ing to a fury, daring them to go on towards it, welcom-
ing them with wild temptation—offering them nothing
but achievement—the achievement of death.

Lamsar said: "It is not my fate wholly to perish." But
then they were running back towards the forest, feeling
that the strange sea was pouring up the beach towards
them. They looked back and saw that it had gone no
further, that the breakers were less wild, the sea more
calm. Lamsar was little way behind Rackhir.

The Red Archer gripped his hand and hauled him
towards him as if he had rescued the old man from a
whirlpool. They remained there, mesmerised, for a long
time, while the sea called to them and the wind was a
cold caress on their flesh.

In the bleak brightness of the alien shore, under a sun
which gave no heat, their bodies shone like stars in the
night and they turned towards the forest, quietly.

"Are we trapped, then, in this Realm of Chaos?"
Rackhir said at length. "If we meet someone, they will
offer us harm—how can we ask our question?"

Then there emerged from the huge forest a great fig-
ure, naked and gnarled like the trunk of a tree, green as
lime, but the face was jovial.

"Greetings, unhappy renegades," it said.

"Where is the next gate?" said Lamsar quickly.

"You almost entered it, but turned away," laughed
the giant. "That sea does not exist—it is there to stop
travellers from passing through the gate."

"It exists here, in the Realm of Chaos," Rackhir said
thickly.

"You could say so—but what exists in Chaos save the
disorders of the minds of gods gone mad?"

Rackhir had strung his bone bow and fitted an arrow
to the string, but he did it in the knowledge of his own
hopelessness.

"Do not shoot the arrow," said Lamsar softly. "Not
yet." And he stared at the arrow and muttered.

The giant advanced carelessly towards them, unhur-
ried.

"It will please me to exact the price of your crimes
from you," it said, "for I am Hionhurn the Executioner.
You will find your death pleasant—but your fate unbear-
able." And he came closer, his clawed hands out-
stretched.

"Shoot!" croaked Lamsar and Rackhir brought the
bow-string to his cheek, pulled it back with might and
released the arrow at the giant's heart. "Run!" cried
Lamsar, and in spite of their forebodings they ran back
down the shore towards the frightful sea. They heard
the giant groan behind them as they reached the edge of
the sea and, instead of running into water, found them-
selves in a range of stark mountains.

"No mortal arrow could have delayed him," Rackhir
said. "How did you stop him?"

"I used an old charm—the Charm of Justice, which,

when applied to any weapon, makes it strike at the
unjust."

"But why did it hurt Hionhurn, an immortal?" Rack-
hir asked.

"There is no justice in the world of Chaos—something
constant and inflexible, whatever its nature, must harm
any servant of the Lords of Chaos."

"We have passed through the third gate," Rackhir
said, unstringing his bow, "and have the fourth and fifth
to find. Two dangers have been avoided—but what new
ones will we encounter now?"

"Who knows?" said Lamsar, and they walked on
through the rocky mountain pass and entered a forest
that was cool, even though the sun had reached its ze-
nith and was glaring down through parts of the thick fo-
liage. There was an air of ancient calm about the place.
They heard unfamiliar bird-calls and saw tiny golden
birds which were also new to them.

"There is something calm and peaceful about this
place—I almost distrust it," Rackhir said, but Lamsar
pointed ahead silently.

Rackhir saw a large domed building, magnificent in
marble and blue mosaic. It stood in a clearing of yellow
grass and the marble caught the sun, flashing like fire.

They neared the domed construction and saw that it
was supported by big marble columns set into a plat-
form of milky jade. In the centre of the platform, a
stairway of blue-stone curved upwards and disappeared
into a circular aperture. There were wide windows set
into the sides of the raised building but they could not
see inside. There were no inhabitants visible and it
would have seemed strange to the pair if there had
been. They crossed the yellow glade and stepped on to
the jade platform. It was warm, as if it had been ex-
posed to the sun. They almost slipped on the smooth
stone.

They reached the blue steps and mounted them, star-
ing upwards, but they could still see nothing. They did
not attempt to ask themselves why they were so as-
suredly invading the building; it seemed quite natural
that they should do what they were doing. There was no

alternative. There was an air of familiarity about the
place. Rackhir felt it but did not know why. Inside was
a cool, shadowy hall, a blend of soft darkness and bright
sunlight which entered by the windows. The floor was
pearl-pink and the ceiling deep scarlet. The hall re-
minded Rackhir of a womb.

Partially hidden by deep shadow was a small doorway
and beyond it, steps. Rackhir looked questioningly at
Lamsar. "Do we proceed in our exploration?"

"We must—to have our question answered, if
possible."

They climbed the steps and found themselves in a
smaller hall similar to the one beneath them. This hall,
however, was furnished with twelve wide thrones placed
in a semicircle in the centre. Against the wall, near the
door, were several chairs, upholstered in purple fabric.
The thrones were of gold, decorated with fine silver,
padded with white cloth.

A door behind the throne opened and a tall, fragile-
looking man appeared, followed by others whose faces
were almost identical. Only their robes were noticeably
different. Their faces were pale, almost white, their
noses straight, their lips thin but not cruel. Their eyes
were unhuman—green-flecked eyes which stared out-
wards with sad composure. The leader of the tall men
looked at Rackhir and Lamsar. He nodded and waved a
pale, long-fingered hand gracefully.

"Welcome," he said. His voice was high and frail, like
a girl's, but beautiful in its modulation. The other
eleven men seated themselves in the thrones but the first
man, who had spoken, remained standing. "Sit down,
please," he said.

Rackhir and Lamsar sat down on two of the purple
chairs.

"How did you come here?" enquired the man.

"Through the gates from Chaos," Lamsar replied.

"And were you seeking our realm?"

"No—we travel towards the Domain of the Grey
Lords."

"I thought so, for your people rarely visit us save by
accident"

"Where are we?" asked Rackhir as the man seated
himself in the remaining throne.

"In a place beyond time. Once our land was part of
the earth you know, but in the dim past it became sep-
arated from it. Our bodies, unlike yours, are immortal.
We choose this, but we are not bound to our flesh, as
you are."

"I don't understand," frowned Rackhir. "What are
you saying?"

"I have said what I can in the simplest terms under-
standable to you. If you do not know what I say then I
can explain no further. We are called the Guardians—
though we guard nothing. We are warriors, but we fight
nothing."

"What else do you do?" enquired Rackhir.

"We exist. You will want to know where the next
gateway lies?"

"Yes."

"Refresh yourselves here, and then we shall show you
the gateway."

"What is your function?" asked Rackhir.

"To function," said the man.

"You are unhuman!"

"We are human. You spend your lives chasing that
which is within you and that which you can find in any
other human being—but you will not look for it there—
you must follow more glamorous paths—to waste your
time in order to discover that you have wasted your
time. I am glad that we are no longer like you—but I
wish that it were lawful to help you further. This, how-
ever, we may not do."

"Ours is no meaningless quest," said Lamsar quietly,
with respect. "We go to rescue Tanelorn."

"Tanelorn?" the man said softly. "Does Tanelorn still
remain?"

"Aye," said Rackhir, "and shelters tired men who are
grateful for the rest she offers." Now he realised why the

building had been familiar—it had the same quality, but
intensified, as Tanelorn.

"Tanelorn was the last of our cities," said the
Guardian. "Forgive us for judging you—most of the trav-
ellers who pass through this plane are searchers, restless,
with no real purpose, only excuses, imaginary reasons
for journeying on. You must love Tanelorn to brave the
dangers of the gateways?"

"We do," said Rackhir, "and I am grateful that you
built her."

"We built her for ourselves, but it is good that others
have used her well—and she them."

"Will you help us?" Rackhir said. "For Tanelorn?"

"We cannot—it is not lawful. Now, refresh yourselves
and be welcome."

The two travellers were given foods, both soft and
brittle, sweet and sour, and drink which seemed to enter
the pores of their skin as they quaffed it, and then the
Guardian said: "We have caused a road to be made. Fol-
low it and enter the next world. But we warn you, it is
the most dangerous of all."

And they set off down the road that the Guardians
had caused to be made and passed through the fourth
gateway into a dreadful realm—the Ream of Law.

Nothing shone in the grey-lit sky, nothing moved, noth-
ing marred the grey.

Nothing interrupted the bleak grey plain stretching
on all sides of them, forever. There was no horizon. It
was a bright, clean wasteland. But there was a sense
about the air, a presence of something past, something
which had gone but left a faint aura of its passing.

"What dangers could be here?" said Rackhir shudder-
ing, "here where there is nothing?"

"The danger of the loneliest madness," Lamsar re-
plied. Their voices were swallowed in the grey expanse.

"When the Earth was very young'" Lamsar continued,
his words trailing away across the wilderness, "things
were like this—but there were seas, there were seas. Here
there is nothing."

"You are wrong," Rackhir said with a faint smile. "I
have thought—here there is Law."

"That is true—but what is Law without something to
decide between? Here is Law—bereft of justice."

They walked on, all about them an air of something
intangible that had once been tangible. On they walked
through this barren world of Absolute Law.

Eventually, Rackhir spied something. Something that
flickered, faded, appeared again until, as they neared it,
they saw that it was a man. His great head was noble,
firm, and his body was massively built, but the face was
twisted in a tortured frown and he did not see them as
they approached him.

They stopped before him and Lamsar coughed to at-
tract his attention. He turned that great head and re-
garded them abstractedly, the frown clearing at length,
to be replaced by a calmer, thoughtful expression.

"Who are you?" asked Rackhir.

The man sighed. "Not yet," he said, "not yet, it seems.
More phantoms."

"Are we the phantoms?" smiled Rackhir. "That seems
to be more your own nature." He watched as the man
began slowly to fade again, his form less definite,
melting. The body seemed to make a great heave, like a
salmon attempting to leap a dam, then it was back again
in a more solid form.

"I had thought myself rid of all that was superfluous,
save my own obstinate shape," the man said tiredly,
"but here is something, back again. Is my reason
failing—is my logic no longer what it was?"

"Do not fear," said Rackhir, "we are material beings."

"That is what I feared. For an eternity I have been
stripping away the layers of unreality which obscure the
truth. I have almost succeeded in the final act, and now
you begin to creep back. My mind is not what it was, I
think."

"Perhaps you worry lest we do not exist?" Lamsar said
slowly, with a clever smile.

"You know that is not so—you do not exist, just as I
do not exist." The frown returned, the features twisted,
the body began, again, to fade, only to resume, once
more, its earlier nature. The man sighed. "Even to reply
to you is betraying myself, but I suppose a little relax-
ation will serve to rest my powers and equip me for the
final effort of will which will bring me to the ultimate
truth—the truth of non-being."

"But non-being involves non-thought, non-will, non-
action," Lamsar said. "Surely you would not submit
yourself to such a fate?"

"There is no such thing as self. I am the only reason-
ing thing in creation—I am almost pure reason. A little
more effort and I shall be what I desire to be—the one
truth in this non-existent universe. That requires first
ridding myself of anything extraneous around me—such
as yourselves—and then making the final plunge into the
only reality."

"What is that?"

"The state of absolute nothingness where there is
nothing to disturb the order of things because there is
no order of things."

"Scarcely a constructive ambition," Rackhir said.

"Construction is a meaningless word—like all words,
like all so-called existence. Everything means nothing-
thai is the only truth."

"But what of this world? Barren as it is, it still has
light and firm rock. You have not succeeded in reason-
ing that out of existence," Lamsar said.

"That will cease when I cease," the man said slowly,
"just as you will cease to be. Then there can be nothing
but nothing and Law will reign unchallenged."

"But Law cannot reign—it will not exist either, ac-
cording to your logic."

"You are wrong—nothingness is the Law. Nothingness
is the object of Law. Law is the way to its ultimate state,
the state of non-being."

"Well," said Lamsar musingly, "then you had better
tell us where we may find the next gate."

"There is no gate."

"If there were, where would we find it?" Rackhir said.

"If a gate existed, and it does not, it would have been
inside the mountain, close to what was once called the
Sea of Peace."

"And where was that?" Rackhir asked, conscious, now
of their terrible predicament. There were no landmarks,
no sun, no stars—nothing by which they could determine
direction.

"Close to the Mountain of Severity."

"Which way do you go?" Lamsar enquired of the
man.

"Out—beyond—to nowhere."

"And where, if you succeed in your object, will we be
consigned?"

"To some other nowhere. I cannot truthfully answer.
But since you have never existed in reality, therefore you
can go on to no non-reality. Only I am real—and I do not
exist."

"We are getting nowhere," said Rackhir with a smirk
which changed to a frown.

"It is only my mind which holds the non-reality at

bay," the man said, "and I must concentrate or else it

will all come flooding back and I shall have to start from

the   beginning   again.   In   the   beginning,   there   was

everything—Chaos. I created nothing."

With resignation, Rackhir strung his bow, fitted an ar-
row to the string and aimed at the frowning man.

"You wish for non-being?" he said.

"I have told you so." Rackhir's arrow pierced his
heart, his body faded, became solid and slumped to the
grass as mountains, forests, and rivers appeared around
them. It was still a peaceful, well-ordered world and
Rackhir and Lamsar, as they strode on in search of the
Mountain of Severity, savoured it. There seemed to be
no animal life here and they talked, in puzzled terms,
about the man they had been forced to kill, until, at
length, they reached a great smooth pyramid which
seemed, though it was of natural origin, to have been
carved into this form. They walked around its base until
they discovered an opening.

There could be no doubt that this was the Mountain
of Severity, and a calm ocean lay some distance away.

They went into the opening and emerged into a delicate
landscape. They were now through the last gateway and
in the Domain of the Grey Lords.

There were trees like stiffened spider-webs.

Here and there were blue pools, shallow, with shining
water and graceful rocks balanced in them and around
their shores. Above them and beyond them the light
hills swept away towards a pastel yellow horizon which
was tinted with red, orange, and blue, deep blue.

They felt overlarge, clumsy, like crude, gross giants
treading on the fine, short grass. They felt as if they
were destroying the sanctity of the place.

Then they saw a girl come walking towards them.

She stopped as they came closer to her. She was
dressed in loose black robes which flowed about her as if
in a wind, but there was no wind. Her face was pale and
pointed, her black eyes large and enigmatic. At her long
throat was a jewel.

"Sorana," said Rackhir thickly, "you died."

"I disappeared," said she, "and this is where I came. I
was told that you would come to this place and decided
that I would meet you."

"But this is the Domain of the Grey Lords—and you
serve Chaos."

"I do—but many are welcome at the Grey Lords'
Court, whether they be of Law, Chaos, or neither.
Come, I will escort you there."

Bewildered, now, Rackhir let her lead the way across
the strange terrain and Lamsar followed him.

Sorana and Rackhir had been lovers once, in Yeshpo-
toom-Kahlai, the Unholy Fortress, where evil blossomed
and was beautiful. Sorana, sorceress, adventuress, was
without conscience but had had high regard for the Red
Archer since he had come to Yeshpotoom-Kahlai one
evening, covered in his own blood, survivor of a bizarre
battle between the Knights of Tumbru and Loheb
Bakra's brigand-engineers. Seven years ago, that had
been, and he had heard her scream when the Blue As-
sassins had crept into the Unholy Fortress, pledged to

murder evil-makers. Even then he had been in the
process of hurriedly leaving Yeshpotoom-Kahlai and had
considered it unwise to investigate what was obviously a
death-scream. Now she was here—and if she was here,
then it was for a strong reason and for her own con-
venience. On the other hand, it was in her interests to
serve Chaos and he must be suspicious of her.

Ahead of them now they saw many great tents of
shimmering grey which, in the light, seemed composed
of all colours. People moved slowly among the tents and
there was an air of leisure about the place.

"Here," Sorana said, smiling at him and taking his
hand, "the Grey Lords hold impermanent court. They
wander about their land and have few artifacts and only
temporary houses which you see. They will make you
welcome if you interest them."

"But will they help us?"

"You must ask them."

"You are pledged to Eequor of Chaos," Rackhir ob-
served, "and must aid her against us, is that not so?"

"Here," she smiled, "is a truce. I can only inform
Chaos of what I learn of your plans and, if the Grey
Lords aid you, must tell them how, if I can find out."

"You are frank, Sorana."

"Here there are subtler hypocrisies—and the subtlest
lie of all is the full truth," she said, as they entered the
area of tall tents and made their way towards a certain
one.

In a different realm of the Earth, the huge horde
careered across the grasslands of the North, screaming
and singing behind the black-armoured horseman, their
leader. Nearer and nearer they came to lonely Tane-
lorn, their motley weapons shining through the evening
mists. Like a boiling tidal wave of insensate flesh, the
mob drove on, hysterical with the hate for Tanelorn
which Narjhan had placed in their thin hearts. Thieves,
murderers, jackals, scavengers—a scrawny horde, but
huge...

And in Tanelorn the warriors were grim-faced as

their out-riders and scouts flowed into the city with
messages and estimates of the beggar army's strength.

Brut, in the silver armour of his rank, knew that two
full days had passed since Rackhir had left for the Sigh-
ing Desert Three more days and the city would be en-
gulfed by Narjhan's mighty rabble—and they knew there
was no chance of halting their advance. They might
have left Tanelorn to its fate, but they would not. Even
weak Uroch would not. For Tanelorn the Mysterious
had given them all a secret power which each believed
to be his only, a strength which filled them where before
they had been hollow men. Selfishly, they stayed—for to
leave Tanelorn to her fate would be to become hollow
again, and that they all dreaded.

Brut was the leader and he prepared the defence of
Tanelorn—a defence which might just have held against
the beggar army—but not against it and Chaos. Brut
shuddered when he thought that if Chaos had directed
its full force against Tanelorn, they would be sobbing in
Hell at that moment.

Dust rose high above Tanelorn, sent flying by the
hooves of the scouts' and messengers' horses. One came
through the gate as Brut watched. He pulled his mount
to a stop before the nobleman. He was the messenger
from Kaarlak, by the Weeping Waste, one of the nearest
major cities to Tanelorn.

The messenger gasped: "I asked Kaarlak for aid but,
as we supposed, they had never heard of Tanelorn and
suspected that I was an emissary from the beggar army
sent to lead their few forces into a trap. I pleaded with
the Senators, but they would do nothing."

"Was not Elric there—he knows Tanelorn?"

"No, he was not there. There is a rumour which says
that he himself fights Chaos now, for the minions of
Chaos captured his wife Zarozinia and he rides in pur-
suit of them. Chaos, it seems, gains strength everywhere
in our realm."

Brut was pale.

"What of Jadmar—will Jadmar send warriors?" The

messenger spoke urgently, for many had been sent to the
nearer cities to solicit aid.

"I do not know," replied Brut, "and it does not mat-
ter now—for the beggar army is not three days march
from Tanelorn and it would take two weeks for a Jad-
marian force to reach us."

"And Rackhir?"

"I have heard nothing and he has not returned. I
have the feeling he will not return. Tanelorn is
doomed."

Rackhir and Lamsar bowed before the three small
men who sat in the tent, but one of them said impa-
tiently: "Do not humble yourselves before us, friends—
we who are humbler than any." So they straightened
their backs and waited to be further addressed.

The Grey Lords assumed humility, but this, it seemed,
was their greatest ostentation, for it was a pride that
they had. Rackhir realised that he would need to use
subtle flattery and was not sure that he could, for he was
a warrior, not a courtier or a diplomat. Lamsar, too, re-
alised the situation and he said:

"In our pride, Lords, we have come to learn the sim-
pler truths which are only truths—the truths which you
can teach us."

The speaker gave us a self-deprecating smile and re-
plied: "Truth is not for us to define, guest, we can but
offer our incomplete thoughts. They might interest you
or help you to find your own truths."

"Indeed, that is so," Rackhir said, not wholly sure
with what he was agreeing, but judging it best to agree.
"And we wondered if you had any suggestions on a mat-
ter which concerns us—the protection of our Tanelorn."

"We would not be so prideful as to interfere our own
comments. We are not mighty intellects," the speaker re-
plied blandly, "and we have no confidence in our own
decisions, for who knows that they may be wrong and
based on wrongly assessed information?"

"Indeed," said Lamsar, judging that he must flatter
them with their own assumed humility, and it is lucky
for us, Lords, that we do not confuse pride with learn-

ing—for it is the quiet man who observes and says little
who sees the most. Therefore, though we realise that
you are not confident that your suggestions or help
would be useful, none the less we, taking example from
your own demeanour, humbly ask if you know of any
way in which we might rescue Tanelorn?"

Rackhir had hardly been able to follow the complexi-
ties of Lamsar's seemingly unsophisticated argument,
but he saw that the Grey Lords were pleased. Out of the
corner of his eye he observed Sorana. She was smiling to
herself and it seemed evident, by the characteristics of
that smile, that they had behaved in the right way. Now
Sorana was listening intently and Rackhir cursed to
himself that the Lords of Chaos would know of every-
thing and might, even if they did gain the Grey Lords'
aid, still be able to anticipate and stop any action they
took to save Tanelorn.

The speaker conferred in a liquid speech with his fel-
lows and said finally: "Rarely do we have the privilege
to entertain such brave and intelligent men. How may
our insignificant minds be put to your advantage?"

Rackhir realised quite suddenly, and almost laughed,
that the Grey Lords were not very clever after all. Their
flattery had got them the help they required. He said:

"Narjhan of Chaos heads a huge army of human
scum—a beggar army—and is sworn to tear down Tane-
lorn and kill her inhabitants. We need magical aid of
some kind to combat one so powerful as Narjhan and
defeat the beggars."

"But Tanelorn cannot be destroyed . . ." said a Grey
Lord. "She is Eternal . . ." said another. "But this
manifestation ..." murmured the third. "Ah, yes ..."

"There are beetles in Kaleef," said a Grey Lord who
had not spoken before, "which emit a peculiar venom."

"Beetles, Lord?" said Rackhir.

"They are the size of mammoths," said the third Lord,
"but can change their size—and change the size of their
prey if it is too large for their gullets."

"As for that matter," the first speaker said, "there is a
chimera which dwells in mountains South of here—it

can change its shape and contains hate for Chaos since
Chaos bred it and abandoned it with no real shape of its
own."

"Then there are four brothers of Himerscahl who are
endowed with sorcerous power," said the second Lord,
but the first interrupted him:

"Their magic is no good outside our own dimension,"
he said. "I had thought, however, of reviving the Blue
Wizard."

"Too dangerous and, anyway, beyond our powers,"
said his companion.

They continued to debate for a while, and Rackhir
and Lamsar said nothing, but waited.

Eventually the first speaker said:

"The Boatmen of Xerlerenes, we have decided, will
probably be best equipped to aid you in defence of
Tanelorn. You must go to the mountains of Xerlerenes
and find their lake."

"A lake," said Lamsar, "in a range of mountains, I
see."

"No," the Lord said, "their lake lies above the moun-
tains. We will find someone to take you there. Perhaps
they will aid you."

"You can guarantee nothing else?"

"Nothing—it is not our business to interfere. It is up
to them to decide whether they will aid you or not."

"I see," said Rackhir, "thank you."

How much time had passed since he had left Tane-
lorn? How much time before Narjhan's beggar army
reached the city? Or had it already done so?

Suddenly he thought of something, looked for Sorana,
but she had left the tent.

"Where lies Xerlerenes?" Lamsar was asking.

"Not in our realm, one of the Grey Lords replied,
"come we will find you a guide."

Sorana spoke the necessary word which took her im-
mediately into the blue half-world with which she was
so familiar. There were no other colours in it, but
many, many shades of blue. Here she waited until

Eequor noticed her presence. In the timelessness, she
could not tell how long she had waited.

The beggar horde came to an undisciplined and slow
halt at a sign from its leader. A voice rang hollowly
from the helm that was always closed.

"Tomorrow, we march against Tanelorn—the time we
have anticipated is almost upon us. Make camp now.
Tomorrow shall Tanelorn be punished and the stones
of her little houses will be dust on the wind."

The million beggars cackled their glee and wetted
their scrawny lips. Not one of them asked why they had
marched so far, and this was because of Narjhan's
power.

In Tanelorn, Brut and Zas the One-handed discussed
the nature of death in quiet, over-controlled tones. Both
were filled with sadness, less for themselves than for
Tanelorn, soon to perish. Outside, a pitiful army tried
to place a cordon around the town but failed to fill the
gaps between men, there were so few of them. Lights in
the houses burned as if for the last time, and candles
guttered moodily.

Sorana, sweating as she always did after such an ep-
isode, returned to the plane occupied by the Grey Lords
and discovered that Rackhir, Lamsar, and their guide
were preparing to leave. Eequor had told her what to
do—it was for her to contact Narjhan. The rest the
Lords of Chaos would accomplish. She blew her ex-lover
a kiss as he rode from the camp into the night. He
grinned at her defiantly, but when his face was turned
from her he frowned and they went in silence into the
Valley of the Currents where they entered the world
where lay the Mountains of Xerlerenes. Almost as soon
as they arrived, danger presented itself.

Their guide, a wanderer called Timeras, pointed into
the night sky which was spiked by the outlines of crags.

"This is a world where the air elementals are domi-
nant," he said. "Look!"

Flowing downwards in an. ominous sweep they saw a

flight of owls, great eyes gleaming. Only as they came
nearer did the men realise that these owls were huge, al-
most as large as a man. In the saddle Rackhir strung his
bow. Timeras said:

"How could they have learned of our presence so
soon?"

"Sorana," Rackhir said, busy with the bow, "she must
have warned the Lords of Chaos and they have sent
these dreadful birds." As the first one homed in, great
claws grasping, great beak gaping, he shot it in its
feathery throat and it shrieked and swept upwards.
Many arrows fled from his humming bow-string to find a
mark while Timeras drew his sword and slashed at
them, ducking as they whistled downwards.

Lamsar watched the battle but took no part, seemed
thoughtful at a time when action was desired of him.

He mused: "If the spirits of air are dominant in this
world, then they will resent a stronger force of other ele-
mentals," and he racked his brain to remember a spell.

Rackhir had but two arrows left in his quiver by the
time they had driven the owls off. The birds had not
been used, evidently, to a prey which fought back and
had put up a poor fight considering their superiority.

"We can expect more danger," said Rackhir some-
what shakily, "for the Lords of Chaos will use other
means to try and stop us. How far to Xerlerenes?"

"Not far," said Timeras, "but it's a hard road."

They rode on, and Lamsar rode behind them, lost in
his own thoughts.

Now they urged their horses up a steep mountain
path and a chasm lay below them, dropping, dropping,
dropping. Rackhir, who had no love for heights, kept as
close to the mountainside as was possible. If he had had
gods to whom he could pray, he would have prayed for
their help then.

The huge fish came flying—or swimming—at them as
they rounded a bend. They were semi-luminous, big as
sharks but with enlarged fins with which they planed
through the air like rays. They were quite evidently fish.

Timeras drew his sword, but Rackhir had only two ar-
rows left and it would have been useless against the air-
fish to have shot them, for there were many of the fish.

But Lamsar laughed and spoke in a high-pitched, stac-
cato speech. "Crackhor—pishtasta salaflar!"

Huge balls of flame materialised against the black
sky—flaring balls of multicoloured fire which shaped
themselves into strange, warlike forms and streamed
towards the unnatural fish.

The flame-shapes seared into the big fish and they
shrieked, struck at the fire-balls, burned, and fell flaming
down the deep gorge.

"Fire elementals!" Rackhir exclaimed.

"The spirits of the air fear such beings," Lamsar said
calmly.

The flame-beings accompanied them the rest of the
way to Xerlerenes and were with them when dawn
came, having frightened away many other dangers which
the Lords of Chaos had evidently sent against them.

They saw the boats of Xerlerenes in the dawn, at an-
chor on a calm sky, fluffy clouds playing around their
slender keels, their huge sails furled.

"The boatmen live aboard their vessels," Timeras
said, "for it is only their ships which deny the laws of
nature, not they."

Timeras cupped his hands about his mouth and
called through the still mountain air: "Boatmen of Xer-
lerenes, freemen of the air, guests come with a request
for aid!"

A black and bearded face appeared over the side of
one of the red-gold vessels. The man shielded his eyes
against the rising sun and stared down at them. Then he
disappeared again.

At length a ladder of slim thongs came snaking down
to where they sat their horses on the tops of the moun-
tains. Timeras grasped it, tested it and began to climb.
Rackhir reached out and steadied the ladder for him. It
seemed too thin to support a man but when he had it in
his hands he knew that it was the strongest he had ever
known.

Lamsar grumbled as Rackhir signalled for him to
climb, but he did so and quite nimbly. Rackhir was the
last, following his companions, climbing up through the
sky high above the crags, towards the ship that sailed on
the air.

The fleet comprised some twenty or thirty ships and
Rackhir felt that with these to aid him, there was a
good chance to rescue Tanelorn—if Tanelorn survived.
Narjhan would, anyway, be aware of the nature of the
aid he sought

Starved dogs barked the morning in and the beggar
horde, waking from where they had sprawled on the
ground, saw Narjhan already mounted, but talking to a
newcomer, a girl in black robes that moved as if in a
wind—but there was no wind. There was a jewel at her
long throat.

When he had finished conversing with the newcomer,
Narjhan ordered a horse be brought for her and she
rode slightly behind him when the beggar army moved
on—the last stage of their hateful journey to Tanelorn.

When they saw lovely Tanelorn and how it was so
poorly guarded, the beggars laughed, but Narjhan and
his new companion looked up into the sky.

"There may be time," said the hollow voice, and gave
the order to attack.

Howling, the beggars broke into a run towards Tane-
lorn. The attack had started.

Brut rose in his saddle and there were tears flowing
down his face and glistening in his beard. His huge war-
axe was in one gauntleted hand and the other held a
spiked mace across the saddle before him.

Zas the One-handed gripped the long and heavy
broadsword with its pommel of a rampant golden lion
pointed downwards. This blade had won him a crown
in Andlermaigne, but he doubted whether it would suc-
cessfully defend his peace in Tanelorn. Beside him stood
Uroch of Nieva, pale-faced but angry as he watched the
ragged horde's implacable approach.

Then, yelling, the beggars met with the warriors of

Tanelorn and, although greatly outnumbered, the war-
riors fought desperately for they were defending more
than life or love—they were defending that which had
told them of a reason for living.

Narjhan sat his horse aside from the battle, Sorana
next to him, for Narjhan could take no active part in
the battle, could only watch and, if necessary, use magic
to aid his human pawns or defend his person.

The warriors of Tanelorn, incredibly, held back the
roaring beggar horde, their weapons drenched with
blood, rising and falling in that sea of moving flesh,
flashing in the light of the red dawn.

Sweat now mingled with the salt tears in Brut's bris-
tling beard and with agility he leapt dear of his black
horse as the screaming beast was cut from under him.
The noble war-cry of his forefathers sang on his breath
and, although in his shame he had no business to use it,
he let it roar from him as he slashed about him with bit-
ing war-axe and rending mace. But he fought hopelessly
for Rackhir had not come and Tanelorn was soon to
die. His one fierce consolation was that he would die
with the city, his blood mingling with its ashes.

Zas, also, acquitted himself very well before he died of
a smashed skull. His old body twitched as trampling feet
stumbled over it as the beggars made for Uroch of
Nieva. The gold-pommelled sword was still gripped in
his single hand and his soul was fleeing for Limbo as
Uroch, too, was slain fighting.

Then the Ships of Xerlerenes suddenly materialised in
the sky and Brut, looking upward for an instant, knew
that Rackhir had come at last—though it might be too
late.

Narjhan, also, saw the Ships and was prepared for
them.

They skimmed through the sky, the fire elementals
which Lamsar had summoned, flying with them. The
spirits of air and flame had been called to rescue weak-
ening Tanelorn...

The Boatmen prepared their wagons and made them-
selves ready for war. Their black faces had a concen-

trated look and they grinned in their bushy beards.
War-harness clothed them and they bristled with
weapons—long, barbed tridents, nets of steel mesh,
curved swords, long harpoons. Rackhir stood in the
prow of the leading ship, his quiver packed with slim ar-
rows loaned him by the Boatmen. Below him he saw
Tanelorn and was relieved that the city still stood.

He could see the milling warriors below, but it was
hard to tell, from the air, which were friends and which
were foes. Lamsar called to the frisking fire elementals,
instructing them. Timeras grinned and held his sword
ready as the ships rocked on the wind and dropped
lower.

Now Rackhir observed Narjhan with Sorana beside
him.

"The bitch has warned him—he is ready for us,"
Rackhir said, wetting his lips and drawing an arrow
from his quiver.

Down the Ships of Xerlerenes dropped, coursing
downwards on the currents of air, their golden sails bil-
lowing, the warrior crews straining over the side and
keen for battle.

Then Narjhan summoned the Kyrenee.

Huge as a storm-cloud, black as its native Hell, the
Kyrenee grew from the surrounding air and moved its
shapeless bulk forward towards the Ships of Xerlerenes,
sending out flowing tendrils of poison towards them.
Boatmen groaned as the coils curled around their naked
bodies and crushed them.

Lamsar called urgently to his fire elementals and they
rose again from where they had been devouring beggars,
came together in one great blossoming of flame which
moved to do battle with the Kyrenee.

The two masses met and there was an explosion
which blinded the Red Archer with multi-coloured light
and sent the Ships rocking and shaking so that several
capsized and sent their crews hurtling downwards to
death.

Blotches of flame flew everywhere and patches of poi-
son blackness from the body of the Kyrenee were flung

about, slaying those they touched before disappearing.

There was a terrible stink in the air—a smell of bum-
ing, a smell of outraged elements which had never been
meant to meet.

The Kyrenee died, lashing about a wailing, while the
flame elementals, dying or returning to their own
sphere, faded and vanished. The remaining bulk of the
great Kyrenee billowed slowly down to the earth where
it fell upon the scrabbling beggars and killed them, leav-
ing nothing but a wet patch on the ground for yards
around, a patch glistening with the bones of beggars.

Now Rackhir cried: "Quickly—finish the fight before
Narjhan summons more horrors!"

And the boats sailed downwards while the Boatmen
cast their steel nets, pulling large catches of beggars
aboard their Ships and finishing the wriggling standings
with their tridents or spears.

Rackhir shot arrow after arrow and had the satisfac-
tion of seeing each one take a beggar just where he had
aimed it. The remaining warriors of Tanelorn, led by
Brut who was covered in sticky blood but grinning in
his victory, charged towards the unnerved beggars.

Narjhan stood his ground, while the beggars, fleeing,
streamed past him and the girl. Sorana seemed
frightened, looked up and her eyes met Rackhir's. The
Red Archer aimed an arrow at her, thought better of it
and shot instead at Narjhan. The arrow went into the
black armour but had no effect upon the Lord of Chaos.

Then the Boatmen of Xerlernes flung down their
largest net from the vessel in which Rackhir sailed and
they caught Lord Narjhan in its coils and caught So-
rana, too.

Shouting their exhilaration, they pulled the struggling
bodies aboard and Rackhir ran forward to inspect their
catch. Sorana had received a scratch across her face from
the net's wire, but the body of Narjhan lay still and
dreadful in the mesh.

Rackhir grabbed an axe from a Boatman and
knocked back the helm, his foot upon the chest.

"Yield, Narjhan of Chaos!" he cried in mindless mer-

riment. He was near hysterical with victory, for this was
the first time a mortal had ever bested a Lord of Chaos.

But the armour was empty, if it had ever been occu-
pied by flesh, and Narjhan was gone.

Calm settled aboard the Ships of Xerlerenes and over
the city of Tanelorn. The remnants of the warriors had
gathered in the city's square and were cheering their vic-
tory.

Friagho, the Captain of Xerlerenes, came up to Rack-
hir and shrugged. "We did not get the catch we came
for—but these will do. Thanks for the fishing, friend."

Rackhir smiled and gripped Friagho's black shoulder.
"Thanks for the aid—you have done us all a great service."

Friagho shrugged again and turned back to his nets,
his trident poised. Suddenly Rackhir shouted: "No, Fri-
agho—let that one be. Let me have the contents of that
net."

Sorana, the contents to which he'd referred, looked
anxious as if she had rather been transfixed on the
prongs of Friagho's trident. Friagho said: "Very well,
Red Archer—there are plenty more people on the land,"
pulled at the net to release her.

She stood up shakily, looking at Rackhir apprehen-
sively.

Rackhir smiled quite softly and said: "Come here, So-
rana." She went to him and stood staring up at his bony
hawk's face, her eyes wide. With a laugh he picked her
up and flung her over his shoulder.

"Tanelorn is safe!" he shouted. "You shall learn to
love its peace with me!" And he began to clamber down
the trailing ladders that the Boatmen had dropped over
the side.

Lamsar waited for him below. "I go now, to my her-
mitage again."

"I thank you for your aid," said Rackhir. "Without it
Tanelorn would no longer exist."

"Tanelorn will always exist while men exist," said the
hermit. "It was not a city you defended today. It was an
ideal. That is Tanelorn."

And Lamsar smiled.