Elric At The End of Time
Book 7 of Elric
by Michael Moorcock
version 1.0

CONTENTS

Introduction • 9

Elric • 13

Elric at the End of Time • 15

The Last Enchantment • 69

The Secret Life of Elric of Melnibone • 84

Sojan the Swordsman • 93

Jerry Cornelius and Co. • 199

New Worlds-Jerry Cornelius • 201

In Lighter Vein • 215

The Stone Thing • 217

Introduction

ELRIC AT THE END OF TIME was the last story I wrote
about the albino prince. In some ways it's an affec-
tionate commentary on the kind of fantasy hero with
whom I'm most closely identified and it's also based
on the remark made some years ago by M. John
Harrison that the people who inhabit my End of
Time stories might, from Elric's perspective, seem to
be the very Lords of Chaos themselves. The story
brings together elements from most of the series
which, by the mid-seventies, I was completing. It
was finished in 1977, originally for a book which Big
O intended to publish and which Rodney Matthews
would illustrate. Big O effectively folded before the
book could appear. The Rodney Matthews paintings
all exist, but only a few of them have been seen
(principally in Rodney's own 1983 Calendar) which
is a great pity, since they represent some of his best
and most ambitious work. The only previous ap-
pearance of the story was in Terri Windling's and
Mark Arnold's Elsewhere anthology, which came out
in the USA in 1981.
The Last Enchantment was meant to be the final

Elric story. It was written in 1962, only a short while
after the first had appeared in magazine form and
before I wrote what was to become Stormbringer. I
gave the story to Ted Carnell for his magazine Sci-
ence Fantasy but he didn't want a "last" Elric story.
He persuaded me to write some more novellas and
in his capacity as my agent sent The Last Enchantment
to America, where it was rejected. Some fifteen years
later Ted's successor, Les Flood, came across the
story and returned it to me. It eventually appeared
in Ariel magazine in the U.S. in 1978, illustrated by
Tim Conrad. That was its only publication until now.
Like Elric at the End of Time it has never been pub-
lished in England and this is its first appearance in
book form.

The Sojan stories are my first fantasy tales to be
professionally published. They were begun in the
1950s for Tarzan Adventures, before I came to edit the
magazine. I was seventeen when they started to
appear and they were not published in book form
until Dave Britton and Mike Butterworth republished
them as Sojan, the first book they did as Savoy Edi-
tions. It was re-illustrated by Jim Cawthorn, the origi-
nal illustrator who has worked with me through my
whole career as a writer of fantastic fiction. This
book was primarily a compendium of my earliest
work, together with some of my writing about my
own fiction and I have included one or two other
pieces from Sojan here.

The Stone Thing was written in response to a re-
quest from Eric Bentcliffe, editor of the fanzine Triode,
which I used to write for in the fifties. It is one of
several parodies of my own work which I've done
over the years (some of which, it could be argued,
were not published as such) and it's one I'm par-

ticularly fond of. Triode specialised in humorous "fan
fiction"—stories written about actual personalities in
the SF field—and dates from the period in which
science fiction fans did not take themselves quite so
seriously as nowadays, and those who made religion
from an enthusiasm were generally mocked for it. I
hope the story itself will show some readers that I
am neither in touch with secret supernatural forces
nor the spokesman for an illuminating new mystical
knowledge. As a matter of fact I'm by nature ex-
traordinarily sceptical of the supernatural. I have
always conceived my fantastic stories simply as that—
fantastic stories, escapist entertainment which hopes
to give some pleasure to the reader. Any profundi-
ties in those romances are a tribute to the one who
discovers them rather than to me. For a long while
the exaggerated reaction of some readers to my fan-
tasies caused me to try to dismiss them altogether.
However, I should like to say that I denigrate nei-
ther the stories nor their readers, though I do prefer
my comedies to my melodramas and personally would
put a greater value on books such as Gloriana, The
Condition of Muzak, Byzantium Endures or The Brothel
in Rosenstrasse. I've always had a happy facility for
fantasy and I suppose it's common enough for some-
one to make less of something which comes easily to
them.

Some of the non-fiction pieces about Elric and Co.
which were in the original Sojan selection edited by
Dave Britton are still here, for whatever interest they
provide. I have Dave Britton and Mike Butterworth
to thank for many things, not least their willingness
to sift through long-forgotten piles of paper and find
manuscripts and tear-sheets (The Golden Barge would
never have been published had it not been for their

retaining a copy of the manuscript which I had
thought permanently lost) and I should also like to
recognise, once again, Ted Carnell's encouragement
as the editor of my first Elric stories, Peter Ledeboer's
kindness as the publisher who originally commis-
sioned the title story as a vehicle for Rodney Mat-
thew's illustrations, the present publishers Alison
Peacock, Simon Scott and Nick Webb of NEL and
the encouragement, inspiration and friendship of
many people, amongst them Jim Cawthorn, Eric
Bentcliffe, Ron Bennett, Alan Dodd, Arthur Thom-
son and Ethel Lindsay who have known me since,
as an enthusiastic and, I'm sure, sometimes irritating
fifteen-year-old, I first began to write the Sojan stories.

Michael Moorcock,
Fulham Road
July 1983

ELRIC

Elric at the End of Time

1. In Which Mrs. Persson Detects An Above Average
Degree of Chaos In The Megaflow

RETURNING FROM China to London and the Spring of
1936, Una Persson found an unfamiliar quality of
pathos in most of the friends she had last seen, as
far as she recalled, during the Blitz on her way back
from 1970. Then they had been desperately hearty: it
was a comfort to understand that the condition was
not permanent. Here, at present, Pierrot ruled and
she felt she possessed a better grip on her power.
This was, she admitted with shame, her favourite
moral climate for it encouraged in her an enormously
gratifying sense of spiritual superiority: the advan-
tage of having been born, originally, into a later and
probably more sophisticated age. The 1960s. Some
women, she reflected, were forced to have children
in order to enjoy this pleasure.

But she was uneasy, so she reported to the local
Time Centre and the bearded, sullen features of Ser-
geant Alvarez who welcomed her in white, apologis-
ing for the fact that he had himself only just that

morning left the Lower Devonian and had not had
time to change.

"It's the megaflow, as you guessed," he told her,
operating toggles to reveal his crazy display sys-
tems. "We've lost control."

"We never really had it." She lit a Sherman's and
shook her long hair back over the headrest of the
swivel chair, opening her military overcoat and loos-
ening her webbing. "Is it worse than usual?"

"Much." He sipped cold coffee from his battered
silver mug. "It cuts through every plane we can pick
up—a rogue current swerving through the dimen-
sions. Something of a twister."

"Jerry?"

"He's dormant. We checked. But it's like him,
certainly. Most probably another aspect."

"Oh, sod." Una straightened her shoulders.

"That's what I thought," said Alvarez. "Some-
one's going to have to do a spot of rubato." He
studied a screen. It was Greek to Una. For a moment
a pattern formed. Alvarez made a note. "Yes. It can
either be fixed at the nadir or the zenith. It's too late
to try anywhere in between. I think it's up to you,
Mrs. P."

She got to her feet. "Where's the zenith?"

"The End of Time."

"Well," she said, "that's something."

She opened her bag and made sure of her jar of
instant coffee. It was the one thing she couldn't get
at the End of Time.

"Sorry," said Alvarez, glad that the expert had
been there and that he could remain behind.

"It's just as well," she said. "This period's no
good for my moral well-being. I'll be off, then."

"Someone's got to." Alvarez failed to seem sym-
pathetic. "It's Chaos out there."

"You don't have to tell me."

She entered the make-shift chamber and was on
her way to the End of Time.

2. In Which The Eternal Champion Finds Himself at the
End of Time

ELRIC OF MELNIBONE shook a bone-white fist at the
greedy, glaring stars—the eyes of all those men whose
souls he had stolen to sustain his own enfeebled
body. He looked down. Though it seemed he stood
on something solid, there was only more blackness
falling away below him. It was as if he hung at the
centre of the universe. And here, too, were staring
points of yellow light. Was he to be judged?

His half-sentient runesword, Stormbringer, in its
scabbard on his left hip, murmured like a nervous
dog.

He had been on his way to Imrryr, to his home, to
reclaim his kingdom from his cousin Yyrkoon; sail-
ing from the Isle of the Purple Towns where he had
guested with Count Smiorgan Baldhead. Magic winds
had caught the Filkharian trader as she crossed the
unnamed water between the Vilmirian peninsula and
the Isle of Melnibone She had been borne into the
Dragon Sea and thence to The Sorcerer's Isle, so-
called because that barren place had once been the
home of Cran Liret, the Thief of Spells, a wizard
infamous for his borrowings, who had, at length,
been dispatched by those he sought to rival. But
much residual magic had been left behind. Certain
spells had come into the keeping of the Krettii, a
tribe of near-brutes who had migrated to the island

from the region of The Silent Land less than fifty
years before. Their shaman, one Grrodd Ybene Eenr,
had made unthinking use of devices buried by the
dying sorcerer as the spells of his peers sucked life
and sanity from them. Elric had dealt with more
than one clever wizard, but never with so mindless a
power. His battle had been long and exhausting and
had required the sacrifice of most of the Filkharians
as well as the entire tribe of Krettii. His sorcery had
become increasingly desperate. Sprite fought sprite,
devil fell upon devil, in planes both physical and
astral, all around the region of The Sorcerer's Isle.
Eventually Elric had mounted a massive summoning
against the allies of Grrodd Ybene Eenr with the
result that the shaman had been at last overwhelmed
and his remains scattered in Limbo. But Elric, cap-
tured by his own monstrous magickings, had fol-
lowed his enemy and now he stood in the Void,
crying out into appalling silence, hearing his words
only in his skull:

"Arioch! Arioch! Aid me!"

But his patron Duke of Hell was absent. He could
not exist here. He could not, for once, even hear his
favourite protege.

"Arioch! Repay my loyalty! I have given you blood and
souls!"

He did not breathe. His heart had stopped. All his
movements were sluggish.

The eyes looked down at him. They looked up at
him. Were they glad? Did they rejoice in his terror?

"Arioch!"

He yearned for a reply. He would have wept, but
no tears would come. His body was cold; less than
dead, yet not alive. A fear was in him greater than
any fear he had known before.

"Oh, Arioch! Aid me!"

He forced his right hand towards the pulsing pom-
mel of Stormbringer which, alone, still possessed
energy. The hilt of the sword was warm to his touch
and, as slowly he folded his fingers around it, it
seemed to swell in his fist and propel his arm up-
wards so that he did not draw the sword. Rather the
sword forced his limbs into motion. And now it
challenged the void, glowing with black fire, singing
its high, gleeful battlesong.

"Our destinies are intertwined, Stormbringer," said
Elric. "Bring us from this place, or those destinies
shall never be fulfilled."

Stormbringer swung like the needle of a compass
and Elric's unfeeling arm was wrenched round to go
with it. In eight directions the sword swung, as if to
the eight points of Chaos. It was questing—like a
hound sniffing a trail. Then a yell sounded from
within the strange metal of the blade; a distant cry of
delight, it seemed to Elric. The sound one would
hear if one stood above a valley listening to children
playing far below.

Elric knew that Stormbringer had sensed a plane
they might reach. Not necessarily their own, but one
which would accept them. And, as a drowning mari-
ner must yearn for the most inhospitable rock rather
than no rock at all, Elric yearned for that plane.

"Stormbringer. Take us there."

The sword hesitated. It moaned. It was suspicious.

"Take us there!" whispered the albino to his rune-
sword.

The sword struck back and forth, up and down, as
if it battled invisible enemies. Elric scarcely kept his
grip on it. It seemed that Stormbringer was fright-
ened of the world it had detected and sought to

drive it back but the act of seeking had in itself set
them both in motion. Already Elric could feel him-
self being drawn through the darkness, towards some-
thing he could see very dimly beyond the myriad
eyes, as dawn reveals clouds undetected in the night
sky.

Elric thought he saw the shapes of crags, pointed
and crazy. He thought he saw water, flat and ice-
blue. The stars faded and there was snow beneath
his feet, mountains all around him, a huge, blazing
sun overhead—and above that another landscape, a
desert, as a magic mirror might reflect the contrasting
character of he who peered into it—a desert, quite as
real as the snowy peaks in which he crouched, sword
in hand, waiting for one of these landscapes to fade
so that he might establish, to a degree, his bearings.
Evidently the two planes had intersected.

But the landscape overhead did not fade. He could
look up and see sand, mountains, vegetation, a sky
which met his own sky at a point half-way along the
curve of the huge sun—and blended with it. He
looked about him. Snowy peaks in all directions.
Above—desert everywhere. He felt dizzy, found that
he was staring downward, reaching to cup some of
the snow in his hand. It was ordinary snow, though
it seemed reluctant to melt in contact with his flesh.

"This is a world of Chaos," he muttered. "It obeys
no natural laws." His voice seemed loud, amplified
by the peaks, perhaps. "That is why you did not
want to come here. This is the world of powerful
rivals."

Stormbringer was silent, as if all its energy were
spent. But Elric did not sheath the blade. He began
to trudge through the snow toward what seemed to
be an abyss. Every so often he glanced upward, but

the desert overhead had not faded, sun and sky
remained the same. He wondered if he walked around
the surface of a miniature world. That if he contin-
ued to go forward he might eventually reach the
point where the two landscapes met. He wondered
if this were not some punishment wished upon him
by his untrustworthy allies of Chaos. Perhaps he
must choose between death in the snow or death in
the desert. He reached the edge of the abyss and
looked down.

The walls of the abyss fell for all of five feet before
reaching a floor of gold and silver squares which
stretched for perhaps another seven feet before they
reached the far wall, where the landscape continued—
snow and crags—uninterrupted.

"This is undoubtedly where Chaos rules," said
the Prince of Melnibone. He studied the smooth,
chequered floor. It reflected parts of the snowy ter-
rain and the desert world above it. It reflected the
crimson-eyed albino who peered down at it, his fea-
tures drawn in bewilderment and tiredness.

"I am at their mercy," said Elric. "They play with
me. But I shall resist them, even as they destroy
me." And some of his wild, careless spirit came back
to him as he prepared to lower himself onto the
chequered floor and cross to the opposite bank.

He was half-way over when he heard a grunting
sound in the distance and a beast appeared, its paws
slithering uncertainly on the smooth surface, its seven
savage eyes glaring in all directions as if it sought
the instigator of its terrible indignity.

And, at last, all seven eyes focused on Elric and
the beast opened a mouth in which row upon row of
thin, vicious teeth were arranged, and uttered a growl
of unmistakable resentment.

Elric raised his sword. "Back, creature of Chaos.
You threaten the Prince of Melnibone."

The beast was already propelling itself towards
him. Elric flung his body to one side, aiming a blow
with the sword as he did so, succeeding only in
making a thin incision in the monster's heavily mus-
cled hind leg. It shrieked and began to turn.

"Back."

Elric's voice was the brave, thin squeak of a lem-
ming attacked by a hawk. He drove at the thing's
snout with Stormbringer. The sword was heavy. It
had spent all its energy and there was no more to
give. Elric wondered why he, himself, did not weaken.
Possibly the laws of nature were entirely abolished
in the Realm of Chaos. He struck and drew blood.
The beast paused, more in astonishment than fear.

Then it opened its jaws, pushed its back legs against
the snowy bank, and shot towards the albino who
tried to dodge it, lost his footing, and fell, sprawling
backwards, on the gold and silver surface.

3. In Which Una Persson Discovers An Unexpected Snag

THE GIGANTIC beetle, rainbow carapace glittering,
turned as if into the wind, which blew from the
distant mountains, its thick, flashing wings beating
rapidly as it bore its single passenger over the queer
landscape.

On its back Mrs. Persson checked the instruments
on her wrist. Ever since Man had begun to travel in
time it had become necessary for the League to de-
velop techniques to compensate for the fluctuations
and disruptions in the spacetime continua; perpetu-
ally monitoring the chronoflow and megaflow. She
pursed her lips. She had picked up the signal. She

made the semi-sentient beetle swing a degree or two
SSE and head directly for the mountains. She was in
some sort of enclosed (but vast) environment. These
mountains, as well as everything surrounding them,
lay in the territory most utilised by the gloomy,
natural-born Werther de Goethe, poet and romantic,
solitary seeker after truth in a world no longer differ-
entiating between the degrees of reality. He would
not remember her, she knew, because, as far as
Werther was concerned, they had not met yet. He
had not even, if Una were correct, experienced his
adventure with Mistress Christia, the Everlasting Con-
cubine. A story on which she had dined out more
than once, in duller eras.

The mountains drew closer. From here it was pos-
sible to see the entire arrangement (a creation of
Werther's very much in character): a desert land-
scape, a central sun, and, inverted above it, winter
mountains. Werther strove to make statements, like
so many naive artists before him, by presenting sim-
ple contrasts: The World is Bleak/The World is
Cold/Barren Am I As I Grow Old/Tomorrow I Die,
Entombed in Cold/For Silver My Poor Soul Was Sold—
she remembered he was perhaps the worst poet she
had encountered in an eternity of meetings with bad
poets. He had taught himself to read and write in
old, old English so that he might carve those words
on one of his many abandoned tombs (half his time
was spent in composing obituaries for himself). Like
so many others he seemed to equate self-pity with
artistic inspiration. In an earlier age he might have
discovered his public and become quite rich (self-
pity passing for passion in the popular understand-
ing). Sometimes she regretted the passing of Whel-
drake, so long ago, so far away, in a universe bearing

scarcely any resemblances to those in which she
normally operated.

She brought her wavering mind back to the prob-
lem. The beetle dipped and circled over the desert,
but there was no sight of her quarry.

She was about to abandon the search when she
heard a faint roaring overhead and she looked up to
see another characteristic motif of Werther's—a gold
and silver chessboard on which, upside down, a
monstrous dog-like creature was bearing down on a
tiny white-haired man dressed in the most abomina-
ble taste Una had seen for some time.

She directed the aircar upwards and then, revers-
ing the machine as she entered the opposing grav-
ity, downwards to where the barbarically costumed
swordsman was about to be eaten by the beast.

"Shoo!" cried Una commandingly.

The beast raised a befuddled head.

"Shoo."

It licked lips and returned its seven-eyed gaze to
the albino, who was now on his knees, using his
large sword to steady himself as he climbed to his
feet.

The jaws opened wider and wider. The pale man
prepared, shakily, to defend himself.

Una directed the aircar at the beast's unkempt
head. The great beetle connected with a loud crack.
The monster's eyes widened in dismay. It yelped. It
sat on its haunches and began to slide away, its
claws making an unpleasant noise on the gold and
silver tiles.

Una landed the aircar and gestured for the stranger
to enter. She noticed with distaste that he was a
somewhat unhealthy looking albino with gaunt fea-
tures, exaggeratedly large and slanting eyes, ears

that were virtually pointed, and glaring, half-mad
red pupils.

And yet, undoubtedly, it was her quarry and there
was nothing for it but to be polite.

"Do, please, get in," she said. "I am here to res-
cue you."

"Shaarmraaam torjistoo quellahm vyeeanr," said the
stranger in an accent that seemed to Una to be vaguely
Scottish.

"Damn," she said, "that's all we need." She had
been anxious to approach the albino in private, be-
fore one of the denizens of the End of Time could
arrive and select him for a menagerie, but now she
regretted that Werther or perhaps Lord Jagged were
not here, for she realised that she needed one of
their translation pills, those tiny tablets which could
"engineer" the brain to understand a new language.
By a fluke—or perhaps because of her presence here
so often—the people at the End of Time currently
spoke formal early twentieth-century English.

The albino—who wore a kind of tartan divided
kilt, knee-length boots, a blue and white jerkin, a
green cloak and a silver breastplate, with a variety of
leather belts and metal buckles here and there upon
his person—was vehemently refusing her offer of a
lift. He raised the sword before him as he backed
away, slipped once, reached the bank, scrambled
through snow and disappeared behind a rock.

Mrs. Persson sighed and put the car into motion
again.

4. In Which The Prince of Melnibone Encounters Further
Terrors

XIOMBARG HERSELF, thought Elric as he slid beneath
the snows into the cave. Well, he would have no

dealings with the Queen of Chaos; not until he was
forced to do so.

The cave was large. In the thin light from the gap
above his head he could not see far. He wondered
whether to return to the surface or risk going deeper
into the cave. There was always the hope that he
would find another way out. He was attempting to
recall some rune that would aid him, but all he knew
depended either upon the aid of elementals who did
not exist on this plane, or upon the Lords of Chaos
themselves—and they were unlikely to come to his
assistance in their own Realm. He was marooned
here: the single mouse in a world of cats.

Almost unconsciously he found himself moving
downwards, realising that the cave had become a
tunnel. He was feeling hungry but, apart from the
monster and the woman in the magical carriage, had
seen no sign of life. Even the cavern did not seem
entirely natural.

It widened; there was phosphorescent light. He
realised that the walls were of transparent crystal
and, behind the walls, were all manner of artefacts.
He saw crowns, sceptres and chains of precious jew-
els; cabinets of complicated carving; weapons of
strangely turned metal; armour, clothing, things
whose use he could not guess—and food. There
were sweetmeats, fruits, flans and pies, all out of
reach.

Elric groaned. This was torment. Perhaps deliber-
ately planned torment. A thousand voices whispered
to him in a beautiful, alien language: "Bie-meee . . .
Bie-meee ..." the voices murmured. "Baa-gen baa-
gen . . ."

They seemed to be promising every delight, if
only he could pass through the walls; but they were

of transparent quartz, lit from within. He raised
Stormbringer, half-tempted to try to break down the
barrier, but he knew that even his sword was, at its
most powerful, incapable of destroying the magic of
Chaos.

He paused, gaping with astonishment at a group
of small dogs which looked at him with large brown
eyes, tongues lolling, and jumped up at him.

"O, Nee Tubbens!" intoned one of the voices.

"Gods." screamed Elric. "This torture is too much!"
He swung his body this way and that, threatening
with his sword, but the voices continued to murmur
and promise, displaying their riches but never allow-
ing him to touch.

The albino panted. His crimson eyes glared about
him. "You would drive me insane, eh? Well, Elric of
Melnibone has witnessed more frightful threats than
this. You will need to do more if you would destroy
his mind!"

And he ran through the whispering passages, look-
ing to neither his right nor his left, until, quite sud-
denly, he had run into blazing daylight and stood
staring down into pale infinity—a blue and endless
void.

He looked up. And he screamed.

Overhead were the gentle hills and dales of a rural
landscape, with rivers, grazing cattle, woods and
cottages. He expected to fall, headlong, but he did
not. He was on the brink of the abyss. The cliff-face
of red sandstone fell immediately below and then
was the tranquil void. He looked back: "Baa-gen . . .
O, Nee Tubbens ..."

A bitter smile played about the albino's bloodless
lips as, decisively, he sheathed his sword.

"Well, then," he said. "Let them do their worst!"

And, laughing, he launched himself over the brink
of the cliff.

5. In  Which  Werther  de  Goethe  Makes A  Wonderful
Discovery

WITH A gesture of quiet pride, Werther de Goethe
indicated his gigantic skull.

"It is very large, Werther," said Mistress Christia,
the Everlasting Concubine, turning a power ring to
adjust the shade of her eyes so that they perfectly
matched the day.

"It is monstrous," said Werther modestly. "It re-
minds us all of the Inevitable Night."

"Who was that?" enquired golden-haired Gaf the
Horse in Tears, at present studying ancient legendry.
"Sir Lew Grady?"

"I mean Death," Werther told him, "which over-
whelms us all."

"Well, not us," pointed out the Duke of Queens,
as usual a trifle literal minded. "Because we're im-
mortal, as you know."

Werther offered him a sad, pitying look and sighed
briefly. "Retain your delusions, if you will."

Mistress Christia stroked the gloomy Werther's
long, dark locks. "There, there," she said. "We have
compensations, Werther."

"Without Death," intoned the Last Romantic, "there
is no point to Life."

As usual, they could not follow him, but they
nodded gravely and politely.

"The skull," continued Werther, stroking the side
of his aircar (which was in the shape of a large flying
reptile) to make it circle and head for the left eye-
socket, "is a Symbol not only of our Morality, but
also of our Fruitless Ambitions."

"Fruit?" Bishop Castle, drowsing at the rear of the
vehicle, became interested. His hobby was currently
orchards. "Less? My pine-trees, you know, are prov-
ing a problem. The apples are much smaller than I
was led to believe."

"The skull is lovely," said Mistress Christia with
valiant enthusiasm. "Well, now that we have seen
it. . ."

"The outward shell," Werther told her. "It is what
it hides which is more important. Man's Foolish
Yearnings are all encompassed therein. His Greed,
his Need for the Impossible, the Heat of his Pas-
sions, the Coldness which must Finally Overtake
him. Through this eye-socket you will encounter a
little invention of my own called The Bargain Base-
ment of the Mind ..."

He broke off in astonishment.

On the top edge of the eye-socket a tiny figure
had emerged.

"What's that?" enquired the Duke of Queens, cran-
ing his head back. "A random thought?"

"It is not mine at all!"

The figure launched itself into the sky and seemed
to fly, with flailing limbs, towards the sun.

Werther frowned, watching the tiny man disap-
pear. "The gravity field is reversed there," he said
absently, "in order to make the most of the paradox,
you understand. There is a snowscape, a desert..."
But he was much more interested in the newcomer.
"How do you think he got into my skull?"

"At least he's enjoying himself. He seems to be
laughing," Mistress Christia bent an ear towards the
thin sound, which grew fainter and fainter at first,
but became louder again. "He's coming back."

Werther nodded. "Yes. The field's no longer re-
versed." He touched a power ring.

The laughter stopped and became a yell of rage.
The figure hurtled down on them. It had a sword in
one white hand and its red eyes blazed.

Hastily, Werther stroked another ring. The stranger
tumbled into the bottom of the aircar and lay there
panting, cursing and groaning.

"How wonderful!" cried Werther. "Oh, this is a
traveller from some rich, romantic past. Look at him!
What else could he be? What a prize!"

The stranger rose to his feet and raised the sword
high above his head, defying the amazed and de-
lighted passengers as he screamed at the top of his
voice:

"Heegeegrowinaz!"

"Good afternoon," said Mistress Christia. She
reached in her purse for a translation pill and found
one. "I wonder if you would care to swallow this—
it's quite harmless ..."

"Yakooom, oom glallio," said the albino contemptu-
ously.

"Aha," said Mistress Christia. "Well, just as you
please."

The Duke of Queens pointed towards the other
socket. A huge, whirring beetle came sailing from it.
In its back was someone he recognised with plea-
sure. "Mrs. Persson!"

Una brought her aircar alongside.

"Is he in your charge?" asked Werther with
undisguised disappointment. "If so, I could offer
you . . ."

"I'm afraid he means a lot to me," she said.

"From your own age?" Mistress Christia also
recognised Una. She still offered the translation pill
in the palm of her hand. "He seems a mite suspi-
cious of us."

"I'd noticed," said Una. "It would be useful if he
would accept the pill. However, if he will not, one of
us . . ."

"I would be happy," offered the generous Duke of
Queens. He tugged at his green and gold beard.
"Werther de Goethe, Mrs. Persson."

"Perhaps I had better," said Una nodding to
Werther. The only problem with translation pills was
that they did their job so thoroughly. You could
speak the language perfectly, but you could speak
no other.

Werther was, for once, positive. "Let's all take a
pill," he suggested.

Everyone at the End of Time carried translation
pills, in case of meeting a visitor from Space or the
Past.

Mistress Christia handed hers to Una and found
another. They swallowed.

"Creatures of Chaos," said the newcomer with
cool dignity, "I demand that you release me. You
cannot hold a mortal in this way, not unless he has
struck a bargain with you. And no bargain was struck
which would bring me to the Realm of Chaos."

"It's actually more orderly than you'd think," said
Werther apologetically. "Your first experience, you
see, was the world of my skull, which was deliber-
ately muddled. I meant to show what Confusion
was the Mind of Man ..."

"May I introduce Mistress Christia, the Everlast-
ing Concubine," said the Duke of Queens, on his
best manners. "This is Mrs. Persson, Bishop Castle,
Gaf the Horse in Tears. Werther de Goethe—your
unwitting host—and I am the Duke of Queens. We
welcome you to our world. Your name, sir ... ?"

"You must know me, my lord duke," said Elric.

"For I am Elric of Melnibone, Emperor by Right of
Birth, Inheritor of the Ruby Throne, Bearer of the
Actorios, Wielder of the Black Sword ..."

"Indeed!" said Werther de Goethe. In a whispered
aside to Mrs. Persson: "What a marvellous scowl!
What a noble sneer!"

"You are an important personage in your world,
then?" said Mistress Christia, fluttering the eyelashes
she had just extended by half an inch. "Perhaps you
would allow me ..."

"I think he wishes to be returned to his home,"
said Mrs. Persson hastily.

"Returned?" Werther was astonished. "But the
Morphail Effect! It is impossible."

"Not in this case, I think," she said. "For if he is
not returned there is no telling the fluctuations which
will take place throughout the dimensions ..."

They could not follow her, but they accepted her
tone.

"Aye," said Elric darkly, "return me to my realm,
so that I may fulfill my own doom-laden destiny ..."

Werther looked upon the albino with affectionate
delight. "Aha! A fellow spirit! I, too, have a doom-
laden destiny."

"I doubt it is as doom-laden as mine." Elric peered
moodily back at the skull as the two aircars fled
away towards a gentle horizon where exotic trees
bloomed.

"Well," said Werther with an effort, "perhaps it is
not, though I assure you ..."

"I have looked upon hell-born horror," said Elric,
"and communicated with the very Gods of the Ut-
termost Darkness. I have seen things which would
turn other men's minds to useless jelly . . ."

"Jelly?" interrupted Bishop Castle. "Do you, in

your turn, have any expertise with, for instance,
blackbird trees?"

"Your words are meaningless," Elric told him,
glowering. "Why do you torment me so, my lords? I
did not ask to visit your world. I belong in the world
of men, in the Young Kingdoms, where I seek my
weird. Why, I have but lately experienced adven-
tures ..."

"I do think we have one of those bores," mur-
mured Bishop Castle to the Duke of Queens, "so
common amongst time-travellers. They all believe
themselves unique."

But the Duke of Queens refused to be drawn. He
had developed a liking for the frowning albino. Gaf
the Horse in Tears was also plainly impressed, for
he had fashioned his own features into a rough
likeness of Elric's. The Prince of Melnibone pretended
insouciance, but it was evident to Una that he was
frightened. She tried to calm him.

"People here at the End of Time . . ." she began.

"No soft words, my lady." A cynical smile played
about the albino's lips. "I know you for that great
unholy temptress, Queen of the Swords, Xiombarg
herself."

"I assure you, I am as human as you, sir . . ."

"Human? I, human? I am not human, madam—
though I be a mortal, 'tis true. I am of older blood,
the blood of the Bright Empire itself, the blood of
R'lin K'ren A'a which Cran Liret mocked, not under-
standing what it was he laughed at. Aye, though
forced to summon aid from Chaos, I made no bar-
gain to become a slave in your realm ..."

"I assure you—um—your majesty," said Una, "that
we had not meant to insult you and your presence
here was no doing of ours. I am, as it happens, a

stranger here myself. I came especially to see you, to
help you escape ..."

"Ha!" said the albino. "I have heard such words
before. You would lure me into some worse trap
than this. Tell me, where is Duke Arioch? He, at
least, I owe some allegiance to."

"We have no one of that name," apologised Mis-
tress Christia. She enquired of Gaf, who knew ev-
eryone. "No time-traveller?"

"None," Gaf studied Elric's eyes and made a small
adjustment to his own. He sat back, satisfied.

Elric shuddered and turned away mumbling.

"You are very welcome here," said Werther. "I
cannot tell you how glad I am to meet one as essen-
tially morbid and self-pitying as myself!"

Elric did not seem flattered.

"What can we do to make you feel at home?"
asked Mistress Christia. She had changed her hair to
a rather glossy blue in the hope, perhaps, that Elric
would find it more attractive. "Is there anything you
need?"

"Need? Aye. Peace of mind. Knowledge of my
true destiny. A quiet place where I can be with
Cymoril, whom I love."

"What does this Cymoril look like?" Mistress
Christia became just a trifle over-eager.

"She is the most beautiful creature in the uni-
verse," said Elric.

"It isn't very much to go on," said Mistress Christia.
"If you could imagine a picture, perhaps? There are
devices in the old cities which could visualise your
thoughts. We could go there. I should be happy to
fill in for her, as it were ..."

"What? You offer me a simulacrum? Do you not
think I should detect such witchery at once? Ah, this

is loathsome! Slay me, if you will, or continue the
torment. I'll listen no longer!"

They were floating now, between high cliffs. On a
ledge far below a group of time-travellers pointed up
at them. One waved desperately.

"You've offended him, Mistress Christia," said
Werther pettishly. "You don't understand how sen-
sitive he is."

"Yes I do." She was aggrieved. "I was only being
sympathetic."

"Sympathy!" Elric rubbed at his long, somewhat
pointed jaw. "Ha! What do I want with sympathy?"

"I never heard anyone who wanted it more." Mis-
tress Christia was kind. "You're like a little boy,
really, aren't you?"

"Compared to the ancient Lords of Chaos, I am a
child, aye. But my blood is old and cold, the blood
of decaying Melnibone, as well you know." And
with a huge sigh the albino seated himself at the far
end of the car and rested his head on his fist. "Well?
What is your pleasure, my lords and ladies of Hell?"

"It is your pleasure we are anxious to achieve,"
Werther told him. "Is there anything at all we can
do? Some environment we can manufacture? What
are you used to?"

"Used to? I am used to the crack of leathery dragon
wings in the sweet, sharp air of the early dawn. I am
used to the sound of red battle, the drumming of
hooves on bloody earth, the screams of the dying,
the yells of the victorious. I am used to warring
against demons and monsters, sorcerers and ghouls.
I have sailed on magic ships and fought hand to
hand with reptilian savages. I have encountered the
Jade Man himself. I have fought side by side with

the elementals, who are my allies. I have battled
black evil . . ."

"Well," said Werther, "that's something to go on,
at any rate. I'm sure we can . . ."

"Lord Elric won't be staying," began Una Persson
politely. "You see—these fluctuations in the mega-
flow—not to mention his own destiny ... He should
not be here, at all, Werther."

"Nonsense!" Werther flung a black velvet arm about
the stiff shoulders of his new friend. "It is evident
that our destinies are one. Lord Elric is as grief-
haunted as myself!"

"How can you know what it is to be haunted by
grief . . . ?" murmured the albino. His face was half-
buried in Werther's generous sleeve.

Mrs. Persson controlled herself. She rose from
Werther's aircar and made for her own. "Well," she
said, "I must be off. I hope to see you later,
everybody."

They sang out their farewells.

Una Persson turned her beetle westward, towards
Castle Canaria, the home of her old friend Lord
Jagged.

She needed help and advice.

6. In Which Elric of Melnibone Resists the Temptations of
the Chaos Lords

ELRIC REFLECTED on the subtle way in which laughing
Lords of Chaos had captured him. Apparently, he
was merely a guest and quite free to wander where
he would in their Realm. Actually, he was in their
power as much as if they had chained him, for he
could not flee this flying dragon and they had al-
ready demonstrated their enormous magical gifts in

subtle ways, primarily with their shapechanging. Only
the one who called himself Werther de Goethe (plainly
a leader in the hierarchy of Chaos) still had the face
and clothing he had worn when first encountered.

It was evident that this realm obeyed no natural
laws, that it was mutable according to the whims of
its powerful inhabitants. They could destroy him
with a breath and had, subtly enough, given him
evidence of that fact. How could he possibly escape
such danger? By calling upon the Lords of Law for
aid? But he owed them no loyalty and they, doubt-
less, regarded him as their enemy. But if he were to
transfer his allegiance to Law . . .

These thoughts and more continued to engage
him, while his captors chatted easily in the ancient
High Speech of Melnibone, itself a version of the
very language of Chaos. It was one of the other
ways in which they revealed themselves for what
they were. He fingered his runesword, wondering if
it would be possible to slay such a lord and steal his
energy, giving himself enough power for a little while
to hurl himself back to his own sphere . . .

The one called Lord Werther was leaning over the
side of the beast-vessel. "Oh, come and see, Elric.
Look!"

Reluctantly, the albino moved to where Werther
peered and pointed.

The entire landscape was filled with a monstrous
battle. Creatures of all kinds and all combinations
tore at one another with huge teeth and claws. Shape-
less things slithered and hopped; giants, naked but
for helmets and greaves, slashed at these beasts with
great broadswords and axes, but were borne down.
Flame and black smoke drifted everywhere. There
was a smell. The stink of blood?

"What do you miss most?" asked the female. She
pressed a soft body against him. He pretended not
to be aware of it. He knew what magic flesh could
hide on a she-witch.

"I miss peace," said Elric almost to himself, "and I
miss war. For in battle I find a kind of peace ..."

"Very good!" Bishop Castle applauded. "You are
beginning to learn our ways. You will soon become
one of our best conversationalists."

Elric touched the hilt of Stormbringer, hoping to
feel it grow warm and vibrant under his hand, but it
was still, impotent in the Realm of Chaos. He ut-
tered a heavy sigh.

"You are an adventurer, then, in your own world?"
said the Duke of Queens. He was bluff. He had
changed his beard to an ordinary sort of black and
was wearing a scarlet costume; quilted doublet and
tight-fitting hose, with a blue and white ruff, an
elaborately feathered hat on his head. "I, too, am
something of a vagabond. As far, of course, as it is
possible to be here. A buccaneer, of sorts. That is,
my actions are in the main bolder than those of my
fellows. More spectacular. Vulgar. Like yourself, sir.
I admire your costume."

Elric knew that this Duke of Hell was referring to
the fact that he affected the costume of the southern
barbarian, that he did not wear the more restrained
colours and more cleverly wrought silks and metals
of his own folk. He gave tit for tat at this time. He
bowed.

"Thank you, sir. Your own clothes rival mine."

"Do you think so?" The hell-lord pretended plea-
sure. If Elric had not known better, the creature
would seem to be swelling with pride.

"Look!" cried Werther again. "Look, Lord Elric—
we are attacked."

Elric whirled.

From below were rising oddly-wrought vessels—
something like ships, but with huge round wheels at
their sides, like the wheels of water-clocks he had
seen once in Pikarayd. Coloured smoke issued from
chimneys mounted on their decks which swarmed
with huge birds dressed in human clothing. The
birds had multi-coloured plumage, curved beaks, and
they held swords in their claws, while on their heads
were strangely shaped black hats on which were
blazed skulls with crossed bones beneath.

"Heave to!" squawked the birds. "Or we'll put a
shot across your bowels!"

"What can they be?" cried Bishop Castle.

"Parrots," said Werther de Goethe soberly. "Oth-
erwise known as the hawks of the sea. And they
mean us no good."

Mistress Christia blinked.

"Don't you mean pirates, dear?"

Elric took a firm grip on his sword. Some of the
words the Chaos Lords used were absolutely mean-
ingless to him. But whether the attacking creatures
were of their own conception, or whether they were
true enemies of his captors, Elric prepared to do
bloody battle. His spirits improved. At least here
was something substantial to fight.

7. In Which Mrs. Persson Becomes Anxious About the Fu-
ture of the Universe

LORD JAGGED of Canaria was nowhere to be found.
His huge castle, of gold and yellow spires, an
embellished replica of Kings Cross station, was pop-

ulated entirely by his quaint robots, whom Jagged
found at once more mysterious and more trustwor-
thy than android or human servants, for they could
answer only according to a limited programme.

Una suspected that Jagged was, himself, upon
some mission, for he, too, was a member of the
League of Temporal Adventures. But she needed
aid. Somehow she had to return Elric to his own
dimensions without creating further disruptions in
the fabric of Time and Space. The Conjunction was
not due yet and, if things got any worse, might
never come. So many plans depended on the Con-
junction of the Million Spheres that she could not
risk its failure. But she could not reveal too much
either to Elric or his hosts. As a Guild member she
was sworn to the utmost and indeed necessary se-
crecy. Even here at the End of Time there were
certain laws which could be disobeyed only at
enormous risk. Words alone were dangerous when
they described ideas concerning the nature of Time.

She racked her brains. She considered seeking out
Jherek Carnelian, but then remembered that he had
scarcely begun to understand his own destiny. Be-
sides, there were certain similarities between Jherek
and Elric which she could only sense at present. It
would be best to go cautiously there.

She decided that she had no choice. She must
return to the Time Centre and see if they could
detect Lord Jagged for her.

She brought the necessary co-ordinates together in
her mind and concentrated. For a moment all memo-
ries, all sense of identity left her.

Sergeant Alvarez was beside himself. His screens
were no longer completely without form. Instead,
peculiar shapes could be seen in the arrangements of

lines. Una thought she saw faces, beasts, landscapes.
That had never occurred before. The instruments, at
least, had remained sane, even as they recorded
insanity.

"It's getting worse," said Alvarez. "You've hardly
any Time left. What there is, I've managed to bor-
row for you. Did you contact the rogue?"

She nodded. "Yes. But getting him to return ... I
want you to find Jagged."

"Jagged? Are you sure?"

"It's our only chance, I think."

Alvarez sighed and bent a tense back over his
controls.

8. In Which Elric and Werther Fight Side By Side Against
Almost Overwhelming Odds

SOMEWHERE, IT seemed to Elric, as he parried and
thrust at the attacking bird-monsters, rich and rous-
ing music played. It must be a delusion, brought on
by battle-madness. Blood and feathers covered the
carriage. He saw the one called Christia carried
off screaming. Bishop Castle had disappeared. Gaf
had gone. Only the three of them, shoulder to shoul-
der, continued to fight. What was disconcerting to
Elric was that Werther and the Duke of Queens bore
swords absolutely identical to Stormbringer. Perhaps
they were the legendary Brothers of the Black Sword,
said to reside in Chaos?

He was forced to admit to himself that he experi-
enced a sense of comradeship with these two, who
were braver than most in defending themselves
against such dreadful, unlikely monsters—perhaps
some creation of their own which had turned against
them.

Having captured the Lady Christia, the birds be-
gan to return to their own craft.

"We must rescue her!" cried Werther as the flying
ships began to retreat. "Quickly! In pursuit!"

"Should we not seek reinforcements?" asked Elric,
further impressed by the courage of this Chaos Lord.

"No time!" cried the Duke of Queens. "After them!"

Werther shouted to his vessel. "Follow those ships!"

The vessel did not move.

"It has an enchantment on it," said Werther. "We
are stranded! Ah, and I loved her so much!"

Elric became suspicious again. Werther had shown
no signs, previously, of any affection for the female.

"You loved her?"

"From a distance," Werther explained. "Duke of
Queens, what can we do? Those parrots will ransom
her savagely and mishandle her objects of virtue!"

"Dastardly poltroons!" roared the huge duke.

Elric could make little sense of this exchange. It
dawned on him, then, that he could still hear the
rousing music. He looked below. On some sort of
dais in the middle of the bizarre landscape a large
group of musicians was assembled. They played on,
apparently oblivious of what happened above. This
was truly a world dominated by Chaos.

Their ship began slowly to fall towards the band.
It lurched. Elric gasped and clung to the side as they
struck yielding ground and bumped to a halt.

The Duke of Queens, apparently elated, was al-
ready scrambling overboard. "There! We can follow
on those mounts."

Tethered near the dais was a herd of creatures
bearing some slight resemblance to horses but in a
variety of dazzling, metallic colours, with horns and
bony ridges on their backs. Saddles and bridles of

alien workmanship showed that they were domestic
beasts, doubtless belonging to the musicians.

"They will want some payment from us, surely,"
said Elric, as they hurried towards the horses.

"Ah, true!" Werther reached into a purse at his
belt and drew forth a handful of jewels. Casually he
flung them towards the musicians and climbed into
the saddle of the nearest beast. Elric and the Duke of
Queens followed his example. Then Werther, with a
whoop, was off in the direction in which the bird-
monsters had gone.

The landscape of this world of Chaos changed
rapidly as they rode. They galloped through forests
of crystalline trees, over fields of glowing flowers,
leapt rivers the colour of blood and the consistency
of mercury, and their tireless mounts maintained a
headlong pace which never faltered. Through clouds
of boiling gas which wept, through rain, through
snow, through intolerable heat, through shallow lakes
in which oddly fashioned fish wriggled and gasped,
until at last a range of mountains came in sight.

"There!" panted Werther, pointing with his own
runesword. "Their lair. Oh, the fiends! How can we
climb such smooth cliffs?"

It was true that the base of the cliffs rose some
hundred feet before they became suddenly ragged,
like the rotting teeth of the beggars of Nadsokor.
They were of dusky, purple obsidian and so smooth
as to reflect the faces of the three adventurers who
stared at them in despair.

It was Elric who saw the steps cut into the side of
the cliff.

"These will take us up some of the way, at least."

"It could be a trap," said the Duke of Queens. He,
too, seemed to be relishing the opportunity to take

action. Although a Lord of Chaos there was some-
thing about him that made Elric respond to a fellow
spirit.

"Let them trap us," said Elric laconically. "We
have our swords."

With a wild laugh, Werther de Goethe was the
first to swing himself from his saddle and run towards
the steps, leaping up them almost as if he had the
power of flight. Elric and the Duke of Queens fol-
lowed more slowly.

Their feet slipping in the narrow spaces not meant
for mortals to climb, ever aware of the dizzying drop
on their left, the three came at last to the top of the
cliff and stood clinging to sharp crags, staring across
a plain at a crazy castle rising into the clouds before
them.

"Their stronghold," said Werther.

"What are these creatures?" Elric asked. "Why do
they attack you? Why do they capture the Lady
Christia?"

"They nurse an abiding hatred for us," explained
the Duke of Queens, and looked expectantly at
Werther, who added:

"This was their world before it became ours."

"And before it became theirs," said the Duke of
Queens, "it was the world of the Yargtroon."

"The Yargtroon?" Elric frowned.

"They dispossessed the bodiless vampire goat-folk
of Kia," explained Werther. "Who, in turn, destroyed—
or thought they destroyed—the Grash-Tu-Xem, a
race of Old Ones older than any Old Ones except
the Elder Old Ones of Ancient Thriss."

"Older even than Chaos?" asked Elric.

"Oh, far older," said Werther.

"It's almost completely collapsed, it's so old," added
the Duke of Queens.

Elric was baffled. "Thriss?"

"Chaos," said the duke.

Elric let a thin smile play about his lips. "You still
mock me, my lord. The power of Chaos is the great-
est there is, only equalled by the power of Law."

"Oh, certainly," agreed the Duke of Queens.

Elric became suspicious again. "Do you play with
me, my lord?"

"Well, naturally, we try to please our guests ..."

Werther interrupted. "Yonder doomy edifice holds
the one I love. Somewhere within its walls she is
incarcerated, while ghouls taunt at her and devils
threaten."

"The bird-monsters,. . .?" began Elric.

"Chimerae," said the Duke of Queens. "You saw
only one of the shapes they assume."

Elric understood this. "Aha!"

"But how can we enter it?" Werther spoke almost
to himself.

"We must wait until nightfall," said Elric, "and
enter under the cover of darkness."

"Nightfall?" Werther brightened.

Suddenly they were in utter darkness.

Somewhere the Duke of Queens lost his footing
and fell with a muffled curse.

9. In Which Mrs. Persson At Last Makes Contact With
Her Old Friend

THEY STOOD together beneath the striped awning of
the tent while a short distance away armoured men,
mounted on armoured horses, jousted, were injured
or died. The two members wore appropriate cos-

tumes for the period. Lord Jagged looked handsome
in his surcoat and mail, but Una Persson merely
looked uncomfortable in her wimple and kirtle.

"I can't leave just now," he was saying. "I am
laying the foundations for a very important develop-
ment."

"Which will come to nothing unless Elric is re-
turned," she said.

A knight with a broken lance thundered past,
covering them in dust.

"Well played Sir Holger!" called Lord Jagged. "An
ancestor of mine, you know," he told her.

"You will not be able to recognise the world of the
End of Time when you return, if this is allowed to
continue," she said.

"It's always difficult, isn't it?" But he was listening
to her now.

"These disruptions could as easily affect us and
leave us stranded," she added. "We would lose any
freedom we have gained."

He bit into a pomegranate and offered it to her.
"You can only get these in this area. Did you know?
Impossible to find in England. In the thirteenth cen-
tury, at any rate. The idea of freedom is such a
nebulous one, isn't it? Most of the time when angry
people are speaking of 'freedom' what they are actu-
ally asking for is much simpler—respect. Do those in
authority or those with power ever really respect
those who do not have power?" He paused. "Or do
they mean 'power' and not 'freedom.' Or are they
the same . . .?"

"Really, Jagged, this is no time for self-indulgence."

He looked about him. "There's little else to do in
the Middle East in the thirteenth century, I assure
you, except eat pomegranates and philosophise . . ."

"You must come back to the End of Time."

He wiped his handsome chin. "Your urgency," he
said, "worries me, Una. These matters should be
handled with delicacy—slowly ..."

"The entire fabric will collapse unless he is re-
turned to his own dimension. He is an important
factor in the whole plan."

"Well, yes, I understand that."

"He is, in one sense at least, your protege."

"I know. But not my responsibility."

"You must help," she said.

There was a loud bang and a crash.

A splinter flew into Mrs. Persson's eye.

"Oh, zounds!" she said.

10. In Which The Castle Is Assaulted And The Plot
Thickened

A MOON had appeared above the spires of the castle
which seemed to Elric to have changed its shape
since he had first seen it. He meant to ask his com-
panions for an explanation, but at present they were
all sworn to silence as they crept nearer. From within
the castle burst light, emanating from guttering brands
stuck into brackets on the walls. There was laughter,
noise of feasting. Hidden behind a rock they peered
through one large window and inspected the scene
within.

The entire hall was full of men wearing identical
costumes. They had black skull caps, loose white
blouses and trousers, black shoes. Their eyebrows
were black in dead white faces, even paler than
Elric's and they had bright red lips.

"Aha," whispered Werther, "the parrots are cele-
brating their victory. Soon they will be too drunk to
know what is happening to them."

"Parrots?" said Elric. "What is that word?"

"Pierrots, he means," said the Duke of Queens.
"Don't you, Werther?" There were evidently certain
words which did not translate easily into the High
Speech of Melnibone.

"Sshh," said the Last Romantic, "they will capture
us and torture us to death if they detect our presence."

They worked their way around the castle. It was
guarded at intervals by gigantic warriors whom Elric
at first mistook for statues, save that, when he looked
closely, he could see them breathing very slowly.
They were unarmed, but their fists and feet were
disproportionately large and could crush any intruder
they detected.

"They are sluggish, by the look of them," said
Elric. "If we are quick, we can run beneath them and
enter the castle before they realise it. Let me try first.
If I succeed, you follow."

Werther clapped his new comrade on the back.
"Very well."

Elric waited until the nearest guard halted and
spread his huge feet apart, then he dashed forward,
settling like an insect between the giant's legs and
flinging himself through a dimly lit window. He
found himself in some sort of storeroom. He had not
been seen, though the guard cocked his ear for half
a moment before resuming his pace.

Elric looked cautiously out and signalled to his
companions. The Duke of Queens waited for the
guard to stop again, then he, too, made for the
window and joined Elric. He was panting and grin-
ning. "This is wonderful," he said.

Elric admired his spirit. There was no doubt that
the guard could crush any of them to a pulp, even
if (as still nagged at his brain) this was all some sort
of complicated illusion.

Another dash, and Werther was with them.

Cautiously, Elric opened the door of the store-
room. They looked onto a deserted landing. They
crossed the landing and looked over a balustrade.
They had expected to see another hall, but instead
there was a miniature lake on which floated the
most beautiful miniature ship, all mother-of-pearl,
brass and ebony, with golden sails and silver masts.
Surrounding this ship were mermaids and mermen
bearing trays of exotic food (reminding Elric how
hungry he still was) which they fed to the ship's
only passenger, Mistress Christia.

"She is under an enchantment," said Elric. "They
beguile her with illusions so that she will not wish to
come with us even if we do rescue her. Do you
know no counter-spells?"

Werther thought for a moment. Then he shook his
head.

"You must be very minor Lords of Chaos," said
Elric, biting his lower lip.

From the lake, Mistress Christia giggled and drew
one of the mermaids towards her. "Come here, my
pretty piscine!"

"Mistress Christia!" hissed Werther de Goethe.

"Oh!" The captive widened her eyes (which were
now both large and blue). "At last!"

"You wish to be rescued?" said Elric.

"Rescued? Only by you, most alluring of albinoes!"

Elric hardened his features. "I am not the one who
loves you, madam."

"What? I am loved? By whom? By you, Duke of
Queens?"

"Sshh," said Elric. "The demons will hear us."

"Oh, of course," said Mistress Christia gravely,
and fell silent for a second. "I'll get rid of all this,
shall I?"

And she touched one of her rings.

Ship, lake and merfolk were gone. She lay on
silken cushions, attended by monkeys.

"Sorcery!" said Elric. "If she has such power, then
why—?"

"It is limited," explained Werther. "Merely to such
tricks."

"Quite," said Mistress Christia.

Elric glared at them. "You surround me with illu-
sions. You make me think I am aiding you, when
really ..."

"No, no!" cried Werther. "I assure you, Lord Elric,
you have our greatest respect—well, mine at least—we
are only attempting to—"

There was a roar from the gallery above. Rank
upon rank of grinning demons looked down upon
them. They were armed to the teeth.

"Hurry!" The Duke of Queens leapt to the cush-
ions and seized Mistress Christia, flinging her over
his shoulder. "We can never defeat so many!"

The demons were already rushing down the circu-
lar staircase. Elric, still not certain whether his new
friends deceived him or not, made a decision. He
called to the Duke of Queens. "Get her from the
castle. We'll keep them from you for a few mo-
ments, at least." He could not help himself. He
behaved impulsively.

The Duke of Queens, sword in one hand, Mistress
Christia over the other shoulder, ran into a narrow
passage. Elric and Werther stood together as the
demons rushed down on them. Blade met blade.
There was an unbearable shrilling of steel mingled
with the cacklings and shrieks of the demons as they
gnashed their teeth and rolled their eyes and slashed
at the pair with swords, knives and axes. But worst

of all was the smell. The dreadful smell of burning
flesh which filled the air and threatened to choke
Elric. It came from the demons. The smell of Hell.
He did his best to cover his nostrils as he fought,
certain that the smell must overwhelm him before
the swords. Above him was a set of metal rungs
fixed into the stones, leading high into a kind of a
chimney. As a pause came he pointed upward to
Werther, who understood him. For a moment they
managed to drive the demons back. Werther jumped
onto Elric's shoulders (again displaying a strange
lightness) and reached down to haul the albino after
him.

While the demons wailed and cackled below, they
began to climb the chimney.

They climbed for nearly fifty feet before they found
themselves in a small, round room whose windows
looked out over the purple crags and, beyond them,
to a scene of bleak rocky pavements pitted with
holes, like some vast unlikely cheese.

And there, rolling over this relatively flat land-
scape, in full daylight (for the sun had risen) was the
Duke of Queens in a carriage of brass and wood,
studded with jewels, and drawn by two bovine crea-
tures which looked to Elric as if they might be the
fabulous oxen of mythology who had drawn the
warchariot of his ancestors to do battle with the
emerging nations of mankind.

Mistress Christia was beside the Duke of Queens.
They seemed to be waiting for Elric and Werther.

"It's impossible," said the albino. "We could not
get out of this tower, let alone those crags. I wonder
how they managed to move so quickly and so far.
And where did the chariot itself come from?"

"Stolen, no doubt, from the demons," said Werther.

"See, there are wings here." He indicated a heap of
feathers in the corner of the room. "We can use
those."

"What wizardry is this?" said Elric. "Man cannot
fly on bird wings."

''With the appropriate spell he can," said Werther.
"I am not that well versed in the magic arts, of
course, but let me see ..." He picked up one set of
wings. They were soft and glinted with subtle, rain-
bow colours. He placed them on Elric's back, mur-
muring his spell:

Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove,

To carry me to the one 1 love . . .

"There!" He was very pleased with himself. Elric
moved his shoulders and his wings began to flap.
"Excellent! Off you go, Elric. I'll join you in a
moment."

Elric hesitated, then saw the head of the first de-
mon emerging from the hole in the floor. He jumped
to the window ledge and leapt into space. The wings
sustained him. Against all logic he flew smoothly
towards the waiting chariot and behind him, came
Werther de Goethe. At the windows of the tower
the demons crowded, shaking fists and weapons as
their prey escaped them.

Elric landed rather awkwardly beside the chariot
and was helped aboard by the Duke of Queens.
Werther joined them, dropping expertly amongst
them. He removed the wings from the albino's back
and nodded to the Duke of Queens who yelled at
the oxen, cracking his whip as they began to move.

Mistress Christia flung her arms about Elric's neck.
"What courage! What resourcefulness!" she breathed.
"Without you, I should now be ruined!"

Elric sheathed Stormbringer. "We all three worked

together for your rescue, madam." Gently he re-
moved her arms. Courteously he bowed and leaned
against the far side of the chariot as it bumped and
hurtled over the peculiar rocky surface.

"Swifter! Swifter!" called the Duke of Queens cast-
ing urgent looks backward. "We are followed!"

From the disappearing tower there now poured a
host of flying, gibbering things. Once again the crea-
tures had changed shape and had assumed the form
of striped, winged cats, all glaring eyes, fangs and
extended claws.

The rock became viscous, clogging the wheels of
the chariot, as they reached what appeared to be a
silvery road, flowing between the high trees of an
alien forest already touched by a weird twilight.

The first of the flying cats caught up with them,
slashing.

Elric drew Stormbringer and cut back. The beast
roared in pain, blood streaming from its severed leg,
its wings flapping in Elric's face as it hovered and
attempted to snap at the sword.

The chariot rolled faster, through the forest to
green fields touched by the moon. The days were
short, it seemed, in this part of Chaos. A path
stretched skyward. The Duke of Queens drove the
chariot straight up it, heading for the moon itself.

The moon grew larger and larger and still the
demons pursued them, but they could not fly as fast
as the chariot which went so swiftly that sorcery
must surely speed it. Now they could only be heard
in the darkness behind and the silver moon was
huge.

"There!" called Werther. "There is safety!"

On they raced until the moon was reached, the

oxen leaping in their traces, galloping over the gleam-
ing surface to where a white palace awaited them.

"Sanctuary," said the Duke of Queens. And he
laughed a wild, full laugh of sheer joy.

The palace was like ivory, carved and wrought by
a million hands, every inch covered with delicate
designs.

Elric wondered. "Where is this place?" he asked.
"Does it lie outside the Realm of Chaos?"

Werther seemed non-plussed. "You mean our
world?"

"Aye."

"It is still part of our world," said the Duke of
Queens.

"Is the palace to your liking?" asked Werther.

"It is lovely."

"A trifle pale for my own taste," said the Last
Romantic. "It was Mistress Christia's idea."

"You built this?" the albino turned to the woman.
"When?"

"Just now." She seemed surprised.

Elric nodded. "Aha. It is within the power of
Chaos to create whatever whims it pleases."

The chariot crossed a white drawbridge and en-
tered a white courtyard. In it grew white flowers.
They dismounted and entered a huge hall, white as
bone, in which red lights glowed. Again Elric began
to suspect mockery, but the faces of the Chaos lords
showed only pleasure. He realised that he was dizzy
with hunger and weariness, as he had been ever
since he had been flung into this terrible world where
no shape was constant, no idea permanent.

"Are you hungry?" asked Mistress Christia.

He nodded. And suddenly the room was filled by
a long table on which all kinds of food were heaped—

and everything, meats and fruits and vegetables,
was white.

Elric moved to take the seat she indicated and he
put some of the food on a silver plate and he touched
it to his lips and he tasted it. It was delicious. Forget-
ting suspicion, he began to eat heartily, trying not to
consider the colourless quality of the meal. Werther
and the Duke of Queens also took some food, but it
seemed they ate only from politeness. Werther
glanced up at the faraway roof. "What a wonderful
tomb this would make," he said. "Your imagination
improves, Mistress Christia."

"Is this your domain?" asked Elric. "The moon?"

"Oh, no," she said. "It was all made for the
occasion."

"Occasion?"

"For your adventure," she said. Then she fell silent.

Elric became grave. "Those demons? They were
not your enemies. They belong to you!"

"Belong?" said Mistress Christia. She shook her
head.

Elric frowned and pushed back his plate. "I am,
however, most certainly your captive." He stood up
and paced the white floor. "Will you not return me
to my own plane?"

"You would come back almost immediately," said
Werther de Goethe. "It is called the Morphail Effect.
And if you did not come here, you would yet remain
in your own future. It is in the nature of Time."

"This is nonsense," said Elric. "I have left my own
realm before and returned—though admittedly mem-
ory becomes weak, as with dreams poorly recalled."

"No man can go back in Time," said the Duke of
Queens. "Ask Brannart Morphail."

"He, too, is a Lord of Chaos?"

"If you like. He is a colleague."

"Could he not return me to my realm? He sounds
a clever being."

"He could not and he would not," said Mistress
Christia. "Haven't you enjoyed your experiences here
so far?"

"Enjoyed?" Elric was astonished. "Madam, I think
. . . Well, what has happened this day is not what
we mortals would call 'enjoyment'!"

"But you seemed to be enjoying yourself," said the
Duke of Queens in some disappointment. "Didn't
he, Werther?"

"You were much more cheerful through the whole
episode," agreed the Last Romantic. "Particularly
when you were fighting the demons."

"As with many time-travellers who suffer from
anxieties," said Mistress Christia, "you appeared to
relax when you had something immediate to capture
your attention ..."

Elric refused to listen. This was clever Chaos talk,
meant to deceive him and take his mind from his
chief concern.

"If I was any help to you," he began, "I am, of
course ..."

"He isn't very grateful," Mistress Christia pouted.

Elric felt madness creeping nearer again. He calmed
himself.

"I thank you for the food, madam. Now, I would
sleep."

"Sleep?" she was disconcerted. "Oh! Of course.
Yes. A bedroom?"

"If you have such a thing."

"As many as you like." She moved a stone on one
of her rings. The walls seemed to draw back to show
bedchamber after bedchamber, in all manner of styles,

with beds of every shape and fashion. Elric con-
trolled his temper. He bowed, thanked her, said
goodnight to the two lords and made for the nearest
bed.

As he closed the door behind him, he thought he
heard Werther de Goethe say: "We must try to think
of a better entertainment for him when he wakes up."

11. In Which Mrs. Persson Witnesses The First Sign Of
The Megaflow's Disintegration

IN CASTLE CANARIA Lord Jagged unrolled his antique
charts. He had had them drawn for him by a baffled
astrologer in 1590. They were one of his many affec-
tations. At the moment, however, they were of con-
siderably greater use than Alvarez's electronics.

While he used a wrist computer to check his fig-
ures, Una Persson looked out of the window of
Castle Canaria and wondered who had invented this
particular landscape. A green and orange sun cast
sickening light over the herds of grazing beasts who
resembled, from this distance at any rate, nothing so
much as gigantic human hands. In the middle of the
scene was raised some kind of building in the shape
of a vast helmet, vaguely Greek in conception. Beyond
that was a low, grey moon. She turned away.

"I must admit," said Lord Jagged, "that I had not
understood the extent ..."

"Exactly," she said.

"You must forgive me. A certain amount of
amnesia—euphoria, perhaps?—always comes over
one in these very remote periods."

"Quite."

He looked up from the charts. "We've a few hours
at most."

Her smile was thin, her nod barely perceptible.

While she made the most of having told him so,
Lord Jagged frowned, turned a power ring and pro-
duced an already lit pipe which he placed thought-
fully in his mouth, taking it out again almost immedi-
ately. "That wasn't Dunhill Standard Medium." He
laid the pipe aside.

There came a loud buzzing noise from the win-
dow. The scene outside was disintegrating as if melt-
ing on glass. An eerie golden light spread everywhere,
flooding from an apex of deeper gold, as if forming a
funnel.

"That's a rupture," said Lord Jagged. His voice
was tense. He put his arm about her shoulders.
"I've never seen anything of the size before."

Rushing towards them along the funnel of light
there came an entire city of turrets and towers and
minarets in a wide variety of pastel colours. It was
set into a saucer-shaped base which was almost cer-
tainly several miles in circumference.

For a moment the city seemed to retreat. The
golden light faded. The city remained, some dis-
tance away, swaying a little as if on a gentle tide, a
couple of thousand feet above the ground, the grey
moon below it.

"That's what I call megaflow distortion," said Una
Persson in that inappropriately facetious tone adopted
by those who are deeply frightened.

"I recognise the period." Jagged drew a telescope
from his robes. "Second Candlemaker's Empire,
mainly based in Arcturus. This is a village by their
standards. After all, Earth was merely a rural park
during that time." He retreated into academe, his
own response to fear.

Una craned her head. "Isn't that some sort of

vehicle heading towards the city. From the moon—
good heavens, they've spotted it already. Are they
going to try to put the whole thing into a menagerie?"

Jagged had the advantage of the telescope. "I think
not." He handed her the instrument.

Through it she saw a scarlet and black chariot
borne by what seemed to be some form of flying
fairground horses. In the chariot, armed to the teeth
with lances, bows, spears, swords, axes, morningstars,
maces and almost every other barbaric hand-weapon,
clad in quasi-mythological armour, were Werther de
Goethe, the Duke of Queens and Elric of Melnibone.

"They're attacking it!" she said faintly. "What will
happen when the two groups intersect?"

"Three groups," he pointed out. "Untangling that
in a few hours is going to be even harder."

"And if we fail?"

He shrugged. "We might just as well give our-
selves up to the biggest chronoquake the universe
has ever experienced."

"You're exaggerating," she said.

"Why not? Everyone else is."

12. The Attack On The Citadel Of The Skies

"MELNIBONE! MELNIBONE"! cried the albino as the char-
iot circled over the spires and turrets of the city.
They saw startled faces below. Strange engines were
being dragged through the narrow streets.

"Surrender!" Elric demanded.

"I do not think they can understand us," said the
Duke of Queens. "What a find, eh? A whole city
from the past!"

Werther had been reluctant to embark on an ad-
venture not of his own creation, but Elric, realising

that here at last was a chance of escape, had been
anxious to begin. The Duke of Queens had, in an
instant, aided the albino by producing costumes,
weapons, transport. Within minutes of the city's ap-
pearance, they had been on their way.

Exactly why Elric wished to attack the city, Werther
could not make out, unless it was some test of the
Melnibonean's to see if his companions were true
allies or merely pretending to have befriended him.
Werther was learning a great deal from Elric, much
more than he had ever learned from Mongrove,
whose ideas of angst were only marginally less no-
tional than Werther's own.

A broad, flat blue ray beamed from the city. It
singed one wheel of the chariot.

"Ha! They make sorcerous weapons," said Elric.
"Well, my friends. Let us see you counter with your
own power."

Werther obediently imitated the blue ray and sent
it back from his fingers, slicing the tops off several
towers. The Duke of Queens typically let loose a
different coloured ray from each of his extended ten
fingers and bored a hole all the way through the
bottom of the city so that fields could be seen below.
He was pleased with the effect.

"This is the power of the Gods of Chaos!" cried
Elric, a familiar elation filling him as the blood of old
Melnibone was fired. "Surrender!"

"Why do you want them to surrender?" asked the
Duke of Queens in some disappointment.

"Their city evidently has the power to fly through
the dimensions. If I became its lord I can force it to
return to my own plane," said Elric reasonably.

"The Morphail Effect . . ." began Werther, but

realised he was spoiling the spirit of the game.
"Sorry."

The blue ray came again, but puttered out and
faded before it reached them.

"Their power is gone!" cried Elric. "Your sorcery
defeats them, my lords. Let us land and demand
they honour us as their new rulers."

With a sigh, Werther ordered the chariot to set
down in the largest square. Here they waited until a
few of the citizens began to arrive, cautious and
angry, but evidently in no mood to give any further
resistance.

Elric addressed them. "It was necessary to attack
and conquer you, for I must return to my own Realm,
there to fulfill my great destiny. If you will take me
to Melnibone, I will demand nothing further from
you."

"One of us really ought to take a translation pill"
said Werther. "These people probably have no idea
where they are."

A meaningless babble came from the citizens. Elric
frowned. "They understand not the High Speech,"
he said. "I will try the Common Tongue." He spoke
in a language neither Werther, the Duke of Queens
nor the citizens of this settlement could understand.

He began to show signs of frustration. He drew
his sword Stormbringer. "By the Black Sword, know
that I am Elric, last of the royal line of Melnibone!
You must obey me. Is there none here who under-
stands the High Speech?"

Then, from the crowd, stepped a being far taller
than the others. He was dressed in robes of dark
blue and deepest scarlet and his face was haughty,
beautiful and full of evil.

"I speak the High Tongue," he said.

Werther and the Duke of Queens were non-plussed.
This was no one they recognised.

Elric gestured. "You are the ruler of the city?"

"Call me that, if you will."

"Your name?"

"I am known by many names. And you know me,
Elric of Melnibone, for I am your lord and your
friend."

"Ah," said Elric lowering his sword, "this is the
greatest deception of them all. I am a fool."

"Merely a mortal," said the newcomer, his voice
soft, amused and full of a subtle arrogance. "Are
these the renegades who helped you?"

"Renegades?" said Werther. "Who are you, sir?"

"You should know me, rogue lords. You aid a
mortal and defy your brothers of Chaos."

"Eh?" said the Duke of Queens. "I haven't got a
brother."

The stranger ignored him. "Demigods who thought
that by helping this mortal they could threaten the
power of the Greater Ones."

"So you did aid me against your own," said Elric.
"Oh, my friends!"

"And they shall be punished!"

Werther began: "We regret any damage to your
city. After all, you were not invited ..."

The Duke of Queens was laughing. "Who are
you? What disguise is this?"

"Know me for your master." The eyes of the
stranger glowed with myriad fires. "Know me for
Arioch, Duke of Hell!"

"Arioch!" Elric became filled with a strange joy.
"Arioch! I called upon thee and was not answered!"

"I was not in this Realm," said the Duke of Hell.

"I was forced to be absent. And while I was gone,
fools thought to displace me."

"I really cannot follow all this," said the Duke of
Queens. He set aside his mace. "I must confess I
become a trifle bored, sir. If you will excuse me."

"You will not escape me." Arioch lifted a languid
hand and the Duke of Queens was frozen to the
ground, unable to move anything save his eyes.

"You are interfering, sir, with a perfectly—"
Werther too was struck dumb and paralysed.

But Elric refused to quail. "Lord Arioch, I have
given you blood and souls. You owe me . . ."

"I owe you nothing, Elric of Melnibone. Nothing I
do not choose to owe. You are my slave ..."

"No," said Elric. "I serve you. There are old bonds.
But you cannot control me, Lord Arioch, for I have a
power within me which you fear. It is the power of
my very mortality."

The Duke of Hell shrugged. "You will remain in
the Realm of Chaos forever. Your mortality will avail
you little here."

"You need me in my own Realm, to be your
agent. That, too, I know, Lord Arioch."

The handsome head lowered a fraction as if Arioch
considered this. The beautiful lips smiled. "Aye, Elric.
It is true that I need you to do my work. For the
moment it is impossible for the Lords of Chaos to
interfere directly in the world of mortals, for we
should threaten our own existence. The rate of en-
tropy would increase beyond even our control. The
day has not yet come when Law and Chaos must
decide the issue once and for all. But it will come
soon enough for you, Elric."

"And my sword will be at your service, Lord
Arioch."

"Will it, Elric?"

Elric was surprised by this doubting tone. He had
always served Chaos, as his ancestors had. "Why
should I turn against you? Law has no attractions for
one such as Elric of Melnibone."

The Duke of Hell was silent.

"And there is the bargain," added Elric. "Return
me to my own Realm, Lord Arioch, so that I might
keep it."

Arioch sighed. "I am reluctant."

"I demand it," bravely said the albino.

"Oho!" Arioch was amused. "Well, mortal, I'll
reward your courage and I'll punish your insolence.
The reward will be that you are returned from whence
you came, before you called on Chaos in your battle
with that pathetic wizard. The punishment is that
you will recall every incident that occurred since
then—but only in your dreams. You will be haunted
by the puzzle for the rest of your life—and you will
never for a moment be able to express what mysti-
fies you."

Elric smiled. "I am already haunted by a curse of that kind, my lord."

"Be that as it may, I have made my decision."

"I accept it," said the albino, and he sheathed his
sword, Stormbringer.

"Then come with me," said Arioch, Duke of Hell.
And he drifted forward, took Elric by the arm, and
lifted them both high into the sky, floating over
distorted scenes, half-formed dream-worlds, the
whims of the Lords of Chaos, until they came to a
gigantic rock shaped like a skull. And through one
of the eye-sockets Lord Arioch bore Elric of Melni-
bone. And down strange corridors that whispered
and displayed all manner of treasures. And up into a

landscape, a desert in which grew many strange
plants, while overhead could be seen a land of snow
and mountains, equally alien. And from his robes
Arioch, Duke of Hell produced a wand and he bade
Elric to take hold of the wand, which was hot to the
touch and glittered, and he placed his own slender
hand at the other end, and he murmured words
which Elric could not understand and together they
began to fade from the landscape, into the dark-
ness of limbo where many eyes accused them, to
an island in a grey and storm-tossed sea; an island
littered with destruction and with the dead.

Then Arioch, Duke of Hell, laughed a little and
vanished, leaving the Prince of Melnibone sprawled
amongst corpses and ruins while heavy rain beat
down upon him.

And in the scabbard at Elric's side, Stormbringer
stirred and murmured once more.

13. In Which There Is A Small Celebration At The End
Of Time

WERTHER DE GOETHE and the Duke of Queens blinked
their eyes and found that they could move their
heads. They stood in a large, pleasant room full of
charts and ancient instruments. Mistress Christia was
there, too.

Una Persson was smiling as she watched golden
light fade from the sky. The city had disappeared,
hardly any the worse for its experience. She had
managed to save the two friends without a great
deal of fuss, for the citizens had still been bewil-
dered by what had happened to them. Because of
the megaflow distortion, the Morphail Effect would
not manifest itself. They would never understand
where they had been or what had actually happened.

"Who on earth was that fellow who turned up?"
asked the Duke of Queens. "Some friend of yours,
Mrs. Persson? He's certainly no sportsman."

"Oh, I wouldn't agree. You could call him the
ultimate sportsman," she said. "I am acquainted with
him, as a matter of fact."

"It's not Jagged in disguise is it?" said Mistress
Christia who did not really know what had gone on.
"This is Jagged's castle—but where is Jagged?"

"You are aware how mysterious he is," Una an-
swered. "I happened to be here when I saw that
Werther and the Duke were in trouble in the city
and was able to be of help."

Werther scowled (a very good copy of Elric's own
scowl). "Well, it isn't good enough."

"It was a jolly adventure while it lasted, you must
admit," said the Duke of Queens.

"It wasn't meant to be jolly," said Werther."It
was meant to be significant."

Lord Jagged entered the room. He wore his famil-
iar yellow robes. "How pleasant," he said. "When
did all of you arrive?"

"I have been here for some time," Mrs. Pers-
son explained, "but Werther and the Duke of
Queens ..."

"Just got here," explained the duke. "I hope we're
not intruding. Only we had a slight mishap and Mrs.
Persson was good enough ..."

"Always delighted," said the insincere lord. "Would
you care to see my new—?"

"I'm on my way home," said the Duke of Queens.
"I just stopped by. Mrs. Persson will explain."

"I, too," said Werther suspiciously, "am on my
way back."

"Very well. Goodbye."

Werther summoned an aircar, a restrained figure
of death, in rags with a sickle, who picked the
three up in his hand and bore them towards a bleak
horizon.

It was only days later, when he went to visit
Mongrove to tell him of his adventures and solicit
his friend's advice, that Werther realised he was still
speaking High Melnibonean. Some nagging thought
remained with him for a long while after that. It
concerned Lord Jagged, but he could not quite work
out what was involved.

After this incident there were no further disrup-
tions at the End of Time until the beginning of the
story concerning Jherek Carnelian and Miss Amelia
Underwood.

14. In Which Elric of Melnibone Recovers From a Variety
of Enchantments and Becomes Determined to Return
to the Dreaming City

ELRIC WAS awakened by the rain on his face. Wearily
he peered around him. To left and right there were
only the dismembered corpses of the dead, the Krettii
and the Filkharian sailors destroyed during his battle
with the halfbrute who had somehow gained so
much sorcerous power. He shook his milk-white
hair and he raised crimson eyes to the grey, boiling
sky.

It seemed that Arioch had aided him, after all. The
sorcerer was destroyed and he, Elric, remained alive.
He recalled the sweet, bantering tones of his patron
demon. Familiar tones, yet he could not remember
what the words had been.

He dragged himself over the dead and waded

through the shallows towards the Filkharian ship
which still had some of its crew. They were, by now,
anxious to head out into open sea again rather than
face any more terrors on Sorcerer's Isle.

He was determined to see Cymoril, whom he loved,
to regain his throne from Yyrkoon, his cousin . . .

15. In Which A Brief Reunion Takes Place At the Time
Centre

WITH THE manuscript of Colonel Pyat's rather dan-
gerous volume of memoirs safely back in her brief-
case, Una Persson decided it was the right moment
to check into the Time Centre. Alvarez should be on
duty again and his instruments should be registering
any minor imbalances resulting from the episode
concerning the gloomy albino.

Alvarez was not alone. Lord Jagged was there, in
a disreputable Norfolk jacket and smoking a battered
briar. He had evidently been holidaying in Victorian
England. He was pleased to see her.

Alvarez ran his gear through all functions. "Sweet
and neat," he said. "It hasn't been as good since
I don't know when. We've you to thank for that,
Mrs. P."

She was modest.

"Certainly not. Jagged was the one. Your disguise
was wonderful, Jagged. How did you manage to
imitate that character so thoroughly? It convinced
Elric. He really thought you were whatever it was—a
Chaos Duke?"

Jagged waved a modest hand.

"I mean," said Una, "it's almost as if you were this
fellow 'Arioch' ..."

But Lord Jagged only puffed on his pipe and smiled
a secret and superior smile.

The Last Enchantment

THROUGH THE blue and hazy night ran a shuddering
man. He clutched terror to him, his bloated eyes full
of blood. First behind him and then seemingly ahead
of him came the hungry chuckles, the high whis-
pered words.

"Here toothsome. Here sweetmeat."

He swerved in another direction, moaning. Like a
huge husk he was, like a hollow ornament of thin
bone, with his great, rolling head swaying on his
shoulders resembling a captive balloon, the wet cav-
ern of his wide mouth fully open and gasping, the
yellow spikes of teeth clashing in his head.

Awkwardly he ran, sometimes scuttling like a
wounded spider, something lurching, mooing to him-
self through the tall and ancient forest, his feet sink-
ing into the carpet of wet, pungent bracken and
rotting roots. He held in his hand, that long, white,
metal-coloured claw, a glowing black talisman, held
it out and cried:

"Oh Teshwan—aid me, Teshwan. Aid me ..."

In the sluggish brew that was the contents of his
rolling skull a few words swam to the surface and

seemed to lie there, moving with the tide of his
mind. And the voice which spoke them was sar-
donic: "How can Teshwan aid thee, little mortal?"

But this relic of disoriented flesh could not form a
coherent thought; could not answer save to scream
its fear. So Teshwan took his presence away and it
was left to the horseman to find the horror-crazed
man.

Elric of Melnibone heard the voice and recognized
the name. He sensed other, more ominous, deni-
zens lurking about him in the forest.

Moodily he curled his hands about the reins of his
mount and jerked its head, guiding it in the direc-
tion of the screams. He only casually considered
aiding the man and he rode his horse toward him
more from curiosity than anything. Elric was un-
troubled by the terrors that the forest held, regard-
ing them as another, more normal man might regard
the omnipresent song of birds and the rustle of small
rodents in the undergrowth.

Great tremblings shuddered through Slorg's ruined
body and he still heard the sharp whisperings. Were
they carried on the air or were they slithering about
in his jellied brain?

He gasped as he turned and saw the white-faced
horseman riding like a grim, handsome god into the
moon-glazed glade.

The horseman's long, sharply delineated skull was
leperwhite, as if stripped of flesh, and his slightly
slanting eyes gleamed crimson. He wore a jerkin of
black velvet caught at the throat by a thin silver
chain. His britches, too, were of black cloth, and his
leather boots were high and shining. Over his shoul-

ders was a high-collared cape of scarlet and a heavy
longsword slapped at his side as he pulled his steed
to a standstill. His long, flowing hair was as white as
his face. The horseman was an albino.

The shock of confronting this new and more tangi-
ble figure jerked Slorg back into half-sanity and bro-
ken words sidled from his lips.

"Who are you? Aid me! I beg you, aid me!"

Elric laughed lightly. "Now why should I, my friend?
Tell me that."

"I have been—been profaned—I am Slorg. I was
once a man—but those . . ."He rocked his body and
flung his rolling head backwards, the curved lids
falling down to cover his bulging eyes. "I have been
profaned ..."

Elric leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle
and said lazily: "This is none of my business, Master
Slorg."

The great head darted forward, the eyes snapped
open and Slorg's long lips writhed over his teeth like
a camel's. "Address not me by a mundane title! I am
Siletah Slorg—Siletah of Oberlorn—rightfully—right-
fully."

The title was unknown to Elric.

"My apologies, O Siletah," he mocked, "for now I
observe a man of rank."

"A man no longer," whispered Slorg and began to
sob. "Help me."

"Are you, then, in danger?"

"Aye, danger—my kinsmen have set the Hungry
Whisperers upon me, do you not hear them?"

And Elric cocked his head to listen. Yes, he heard
sibilant voices now. "Where are you, morsel?"

"Oh, help me, help me," begged Slorg and lurched

toward Elric. The albino drew himself up and pulled
his horse back.

"No closer," he warned. "I am Elric of Melnibone."

Slorg's tattered face squeezed itself into a frown.
"Ah, the name and the face," he mumbled to him-
self, "the face and the name. Elric of Melnibone.
Outcast!"

"Indeed," smiled Elric, "but no more than you, it
seems. Now I must bid you farewell and suggest, by
way of friendly advice, that you compose yourself
soon. It is better to die with dignity, Siletah Slorg,"

"I have powers, outcast of Melnibone—I have pow-
ers, still! Help me and I will tell you secrets—such
secrets!"

Elric waved a disdainful hand. A moonbeam caught
for an instant the flash of the rare actorios ring
which reposed on his finger. "If you know me, you
should also know that I'm no merchant to bargain. I
ask nothing and give nothing. Farewell!"

"I warn you, Elric—I have one power left. I can
send you screaming from this place—into another. It
is the power which Teshwan gives all his servants—it
is the one he never takes back!"

"Why not send your hungry friends into this other
place?"

"They are not human. But if you leave me, I shall
lay my last enchantment upon you."

Elric sighed. "Your last, perhaps, but not the last
or the first to be laid upon me. Now I must go and
search for a quieter place than this where I can sleep
undisturbed."

He turned his horse and his back on the shaking
remnant of a man and rode away.

He heard Slorg calling again as he entered another

part of the forest, untainted by the Siletah or those
he had termed the Hungry Whisperers.

"Teshwan—return! Return to do me one last
service—a deed of vengeance—a part of our bargain,
Teshwan!"

A short time later Elric heard a thin, wailing scream
come flowing out of the night behind him and then
the whole forest seemed alive with horrible laughter.
Satiated, triumphant, chuckling.

His mood altered by his encounter, Elric rode through
night, not caring to sleep, and came out of the forest
in the morning, glad of the sight of the green pla-
teau stretching ahead of him.

"Well," he mused, "Teshwan disdained to aid
Slorg and it seems there is no enchantment on me. I
am half regretful. Now Slorg resides in the bellies of
those he feared and his soul's at home in Hell."

Then the plateau changed quite suddenly to grey
rock.

Swiftly Elric wheeled his horse. The plateau and
the forest was behind him. He spurred his mount
quickly forward and the plateau and forest faded
away to leave a vast and lonely expanse of flat, grey
stone. Above him the sun had disappeared and the
sky was bright and white and cold.

"Now," said Elric grimly into silence, "it seems I
was wrong in my assumption."

The plateau—its atmosphere—reminded him of an-
other environment in which he had once found him-
self. Then he remembered clearly a time years before
when he and two companions had sought an an-
cient volume called the Dead God's Book. Their quest-
ing had led them to a cavern guarded at its entrance

by the symbol of the Lords of Chaos. In that cavern
they had discovered an underground sea which had
had unnatural qualities. There was the same sense
of a sardonically amused presence here as there had
been in the Caverns of Chaos.

Teshwan was a Lord of Chaos.

Hastily Elric pulled his runesword Stormbringer
from its thick scabbard.

The sword was dead.

Normally the blade, forged by unhuman smiths
for Elric's royal ancestors, was alive with sentience—
throbbing with the life force it had stolen from a
hundred men and women whom Elric had slain.
Once before it had been like this—in the Caverns of
Chaos long ago.

Elric tightened his lips, then shrugged as he re-
placed the sword in its scabbard.

"In a world completely dominated by the Forces
of Chaos," he said, "I cannot rely on the powers
which normally aid me in my sorcery. Thank Arioch
I have a good supply of drugs about me, or I would
indeed be doomed."

In earlier times Elric had relied on his soul-stealing
runesword to give him the energy which, as an
albino, he lacked intrinsically, but recently he had
rediscovered a cleaner way of counteracting his defi-
ciency, by taking herbs he had discovered in the
Forest of Troos where many unlikely things grew,
both flora and fauna.

"By my father's plague-infested bones," he swore.
"I must find a way off this granite plain and discover
who, if anyone, rules in this world. I have heard of
the powers invested in Teshwan's worshippers—and
I seem to remember a hint of why the Lords of
Chaos confer such peculiar talents upon them."

He shuddered.

He began to sing a ululating hate-song of old
Melnibone. Elric's ancestors had been clever haters.
And on he rode beneath the sunless sky.

He could not tell how much time had passed be-
fore he saw the figure standing out strongly against
the featureless horizon.

Now on the flat waste of stone there were two
points at which the monotony was broken.

Elric—white, black and scarlet on a grey gelding.

The morose man, black hair lying like a coat of
lacquer on his rounded skull, dressed in green, a
silver sword dangling in his right hand.

Elric approached the man who raised his eyes to
regard the albino.

"This is a lonely place," said the stranger, sucking
at his fleshy cheeks, and he stared at the ground
again.

"True," replied Elric halting his horse. "Is this
your world or were you sent here, also?"

"Oh, it's my world," said the man, without look-
ing up. "Where are you bound?"

"For nowhere, seeking something. Where do you
journey?"

"I—oh, I go to Kaneloon for the Rites, of course."

"All things, it is said, are possible in the World of
Chaos," Elric murmured, "and yet this place seems
unusually barren."

The man looked up suddenly, and jerking his lips
into a smile, laughed sharply.

"The Rites will alter that, stranger. Did you not
know that this is the Time of The Change, when the
Lords of Chaos rest before re-forming the world into
a fresh variety of patterns?"

"I did not know that," said Elric. "I have come
here only recently."

"You wish to stay?"

"No."

"The Lords of Chaos are fickle. If you wished to
stay they might not let you. Now that you are re-
solved to leave, they might keep you here. Farewell.
You will find me therein!" He lifted his sword and
pointed. A great palace of greenstone appeared at
once. The man vanished.

"This, at least, will save me from boredom," Elric
said philosophically, and rode towards the palace.

The many-pinnacled building towered above him,
its highest points hazy and seeming to possess many
forms, shifting as if blown by a wind. At the great
arch of the entrance a huge giant, semi-transparent,
with a red, scintillating skin, blocked his way. Over
the archway, as if hanging in the air above the giant's
proud head, was the Symbol of Chaos, a circle which
produced many arrows pointing in all directions.

"Who visits the Palace of Kaneloon at the Time of
the Change?" enquired the giant in a voice like lim-
bo's music.

"Your masters, I gather, know me—for they aided
their servant Slorg in sending me hither. But tell
them it is Elric of Melnibone, nonetheless—Elric,
destroyer of dreaming Imrryr, kinslayer and outcast.
They will know me."

The giant appeared to shrink, to solidify and then
to drift in a red mist, pouring like sentient smoke
away from the portal and into the palace. And where
he had been a portcullis manifested itself to guard
the palace in the giant's absence.

Elric waited patiently until at length the portcullis
vanished and the giant reformed himself.

"My masters order me to inform you that you may
enter but that, having once come to the Palace of
Kaneloon, you may never leave save under certain
conditions."

"Those conditions?"

"Of these they will tell you if you enter. Are you
reckless—or will you stand pondering?"

"I'll avail myself of their generosity," smiled Elric
and spurred his nervous horse forward.

As he entered the courtyard, it appeared that the
area within the palace was greater than that outside
it. Not troubling to seek any mundane explanation
for this phenomenon in a world dominated by the
Lords of Chaos, Elric instead dismounted from his
horse and walked for nearly a quarter of a mile until
he reached the entrance of the main building. He
climbed the steps swiftly and found himself in a vast
hall which had walls of shifting flame.

In the glow from the fiery walls, there sat at a
table at the far end of the hall nine men—or at least,
men or not, they had assumed the form of men.
Different in facial characteristics, they all had the
same sardonic air. In the centre of these nine was
the one who had first addressed Elric. He leaned
forward and spoke words carefully from his red lips.

"Greetings to you, mortal," he said. "You are the
first for some time to sit with the Lords of Chaos at
the Time of the Change. Behold—there are others
who have had the privilege."

A rent appeared in the wall of flame to disclose
some thirty frozen human figures, some men and
some women. They were petrified in positions of
many kinds, but all had madness and terror in their
eyes—and they were still alive, Elric knew.

He lifted his head.

"I would not be so impertinent, my lords, as to set
myself beside you all insofar as powers are con-
cerned, but you know that I am Elric of Melnibone
and that my race is old; my deficient blood is the
royal blood of the Kings of the Dreaming City. I
have little pity or sentiment of any kind within me,
for sentiment, whether love or hate, has served me
badly in the past. I do not know what you require of
me, and I thank you for your hospitality nonethe-
less, but I believe that I can conduct myself better in
most ways than can any other mortal."

"Let us hope so, Elric of Melnibone, for we would
not wish you to fail, know that. Besides, you are not
fully mortal as humans understand the word. Now,
know you that I be Teshwan, and these need not be
named and may be addressed singly or collectively
by the name of Lords of Chaos."

Elric bowed politely. "Lord Teshwan—my Lords
of Chaos."

They returned his bow by slightly inclining their
heads and broadening a trifle their sardonic, crooked
smiles.

"Come," said Teshwan briskly, "sit here beside
me and I will inform you of what we expect. You are
more favoured than others have been, Elric, and, in
truth, I welcomed the opportunity given me by my
vengeful servant Slorg before he died."

Elric climbed upon the dais and seated himself in
the chair which appeared beside Teshwan. About
him the walls of flame soared and tumbled, mum-
bled and roared. Sometimes shadow engulfed them,
sometimes they were bathed in light. For a while
they all sat in silence, pondering.

At last Teshwan spoke.

"Now," he said decisively. "Here's the situation

in which we have decided to place you. You may
leave only if you can create something which it has
never occurred to us to create."

"But you, surely, are the Masters of Creation?"
said Elric in puzzlement. "How may I do this?"

"Your first statement is not strictly true and in
qualifying it I can give you a hint of the answer to
your question. We of Chaos cannot make anything
new—we may only experiment with combinations of
that already created. Do you understand?"

"I do," said Elric.

"Only the Greatest Power, of which we know
little more than do humans, can create fresh concep-
tions. The Greatest Power holds both Law and Chaos
in perpetual balance, making us war only so that the
scale will not be tilted too far to one side. We wish
not for power—only for variety. Thus every time we
weary of our domain and let our old creations fade
and conceive new ones. If you can bring a fresh
element to our domain, we shall free you. We create
jokes and paradoxes. Conceive a better joke and a
better paradox for our entertainment and you may
leave here."

"Surely you expect the impossible from me?"

"You alone may assess the truth of your question.
Now, we begin."

And Elric sat and watched, pondering his problem,
as the great Lords of Chaos began their mighty
experiments.

The walls of fire slowly flickered and faded and
again he saw the vast and barren plain of flat stone.
Then the air darkened and a sighing wind began to
moan over the plain. In the sky clouds blossomed in

myriad shapes, alien, dark, unfamiliar, blacks and
smoky orange, at the same time familiar . . .

The rock heaved like lava, became liquid, rearing
upwards and as it reared it became giants, moun-
tains, ancient beasts, monsters, gryphons, basilisks,
chimerae, unicorns. Forests bloomed, their growths
huge and exotic, elephants flew and great birds
crushed boiling mountains beneath their feet. Fin-
gers of brilliant colour climbed the sky, criss-crossing
and blending. A flight of wildly singing lions fell
from the firmament towards the forest and soared
upwards again, their music lonely.

As the forest melted to become an ocean, a vast
army of wizened homunculae came tramping from
its depths dragging boats behind them. For a short
while they marched over the seething waters and
then, with precision, began, in ordered style, to climb
into the flaring sky. When they had all left the ocean
behind them, they righted their boats, set their sails,
laughed and screamed and shouted, waved their
arms, climbed into the boats and with fantastic speed
streamed towards the horizon.

All creation tumbled and poured, malleable in the
Domain of Chaos. All was gusto, craze and roaring
terror, love, hate and music mingled.

The sky shook with multi-coloured mirth, blos-
soming white shot through with veins of blue and
purple and black, searing red, splattered with spread-
ing flowers of yellow, smeared, smeared, smeared
with ghoulish green. Across this seething backdrop
sped bizarre shapes.

The Lords of Chaos shouted and sang their weird
creation and Elric, shouting also, thought the frozen
statues he had seen were weeping and laughing.

A grotesque combination of man and tree sent

roots streaming towards the earth to tug mountains
from the caverns it exposed and set them, peak first,
like inverted pyramids, into the ground. Upon the
flat surfaces dancers appeared in bright rags which
fluttered and flared around them. They were warped,
unhuman, pale as dead beauty, grinning fixedly and
then Elric saw the strings attached to their limbs and
the silently laughing puppet-master bearlike and gi-
gantic, controlling them. From another direction sped
a small, blind figure bearing a scythe that was a
hundred times bigger than the bearer. With a sweep,
he cut the strings and, with that action, the whole
faded to be replaced by a gushing brilliance of green
and orange flame which formed itself into streamers
of zigzagging disorder.

All this went on around them. The Lords of Chaos
smiled to themselves now, as they created, but Elric
frowned, watched with wonder and no little plea-
sure, but puzzled how he might emulate such feats.

For long hours the pageant of Chaos continued as
the Lords took the elements of Elric's world and
shook them about, turned them inside out, stood
them on end, made startling, strange, beautiful, un-
holy combinations until they were satisfied with the
constant movement of the scene about them, the
perpetual shifting and changing. They had set a
pattern that was no pattern, which would last until
they became bored with their domain again and
brought about another Time of the Change.

Then their heads turned and all regarded Elric
expectantly.

Teshwan said a trifle wearily. "There—you have
seen what we can do."

"You are artists, indeed," said Elric, "and I am so

amazed by what I have witnessed that I need a little
time to think. Will you grant it me?"

"A little time—a little time only—we want to see
what you prepare for us while the excitement is still
upon us."

And Elric placed his white albino's head upon his
fist and thought deeply.

Many ideas occurred to him, only to be discarded,
but at length he straightened his back and said:
"Give me the power to create and I will create."

So Teshwan said smilingly. "You have the power—
use it well. A joke and a paradox is all we require."

"The reward for failure?"

"To be forever conscious."

At this, Elric shivered and put his mind to concen-
trating, searching his memory until a manlike figure
formed before him. Then he placed features on its
head and clothes on its body until there stood before
Elric and the Lords of Chaos a perfect replica—of
Elric.

Puzzledly, Teshwan said: "This is splendid imper-
tinence, I grant you—but this is nothing new—you
already sit there beside us."

"Indeed," replied Elric, "but look in the man's
mind."

They frowned and did as he asked. Then, smiling,
they nodded. "The paradox is good," said Teshwan,
"and we see your point. We have, for an eternity,
created the effect. You, in your pride and innocence,
have created the cause. In that man's mind was all
that could ever exist."

"You have noted the paradox?" asked Elric, anx-
ious that the correct interpretation had been divulged.

"Of course. For though the mind contains the
variety beloved of we of Chaos, it contains the order

that those barren Lords of Law would foist on the
world. Truly, young mortal, you have created every-
thing with a stroke. And thank you, also, for the
joke."

"The joke?"

"Why truly— the best joke is but a simple state-
ment of truth. Farewell. Remember, friend mortal,
that the Lords of Chaos are grateful to you."

And with that, the whole domain faded away and
Elric stood on the grassy plain. In the distance he
observed the city of Bakshaan which had been his
original destination, and nearby was his horse to
take him there.

He mounted, flapped the reins, and, as the grey
gelding broke into a trot, he said to himself: "A joke
indeed, but it is a pity that men do not laugh at it
more often."

Reluctantly, he headed for the city.

The Secret Life of Elric of Melnibone

SOME YEARS ago, when I was about eighteen, I wrote
a novel called The Golden Barge. This was an allegori-
cal fantasy about a little man completely without
self-knowledge and with little of any other kind,
going down a seemingly endless river, following a
great Golden Barge which he felt, if he caught it
would contain all truth, all secrets, all solutions to
his problems. On the journey he met various groups
of people, had a love affair, and so on. Yet every
action he took in order to reach the Golden Barge
seemed to keep him farther away from it. The river
represented Time, the barge was what mankind is
always seeking outside itself (when it can be found
inside itself), etc., etc. The novel had a sad ending,
as such novels do. Also, as was clear when I'd fin-
ished it, my handling of many of the scenes was
clumsy and immature. So I scrapped it and decided
that in future my allegories would be intrinsic within
a conventional narrative—that the best symbols were
the symbols found in familiar objects. Like swords
for instance.

Up until I was twenty or so, I had a keen interest
in fantasy fiction, particularly Sword-and-Sorcery sto-
ries of the kind written by Robert E. Howard, Clark
Ashton Smith and the like, but this interest began to

wane as I became more interested in less directly
sensational forms of literature, just as earlier my
interest in Edgar Rice Burroughs' tales had waned. I
could still enjoy one or two Sword-and-Sorcery tales,
particularly Poul Anderson's The Broken Sword and
Fritz Leiber's Grey Mouser stories. A bit before this
casting off of old loyalties, I had been in touch with
Sprague De Camp and Hans Santessen of fantastic
Universe about doing a new series of Conan tales.

I think it was in the autumn of 1960, when I was
working for Sexton Blake Library and reading SF for
Suspense (the short-lived companion to Argosy) that I
bumped into a colleague at Fleetway Publications,
Andy Vincent, who was an old friend of Harry Har-
rison's (who had also freelanced for Fleetway for
some time). Andy told me he was meeting Harry
and Ted Carnell in the Fleetway foyer and suggested
I went along. As I remember, that was where I first
met Harry. Previously, I'd sold a couple of stories to
Ted, one in collaboration with Barry Bayley, and had
had more bounced than bought. Later on in a pub,
Ted and I were talking about Robert E. Howard and
Ted said he'd been thinking of running some Conan-
type stuff in Science Fantasy. I told him of the fantas-
tic Universe idea which had fallen through when
Fantastic Universe folded, and said I still had the stuff
I'd done and would he like to see it. He said he
would. A couple of days later I sent him the first
chapter and outline of a Conan story. To tell you the
truth, writing in Howard's style had its limitations,
as did his hero as far as I was concerned, and I
wasn't looking forward to producing another 10,000
words of the story if Ted liked it.

Ted liked it—or at least he liked the writing, but
there had been a misunderstanding. He hadn't

wanted Conan—he had wanted something on the
same lines.

This suited me much better. I decided that I would
think up a hero as different as possible from the
usual run of S-and-S heroes, and use the narrative as
a vehicle for my own "serious' ideas. Many of these
ideas, I realise how, were somewhat romantic and
coloured by a long drawn-out and, to me, at the
time, tragic love affair which hadn't quite finished its
course and which was confusing and darkening my
outlook. I was writing floods of hack work for
Fleetway and was getting sometimes £70 or £80 a
week which was going on drink mainly, and, as
I remember, involved rather a lot of broken glass
of one description or another. I do remember,
with great pride, my main achievement of the
winter of 1960 or 1961, which was to smash en-
tirely an unbreakable plate-glass door in a well-known
restaurant near Piccadilly. And the management
apologised . . .

I mention this, to give a picture of my mood at the
time of Elric's creation. If you've read the early Elric
stories in particular, you'll see that Elric's outlook
was rather similar to mine. My point is, that Elric
was me (the me of 1960-1, anyway) and the mingled
qualities of betrayer and betrayed, the bewilderment
about life in general, the search for some solution to
it all, the expression of this bewilderment in terms of
violence, cynicism and the need for revenge, were
all characteristic of mine. So when I got the chance
to write The Dreaming City, I was identifying very
closely with my hero-villain. I thought myself some-
thing of an outcast (another romantic notion largely
unsubstantiated now that I look back) and emphasised
Elric's physical differences accordingly:

His bizarre dress was tasteless and gaudy, and
did not match his sensitive face and long-
fingered, almost delicate hands, yet he flaunted
it since it emphasised that he did not belong in
any company—that he was an outsider and an
outcast. But, in reality, he had little need to
wear such outlandish gear—for . . . (he) was a
pure albino who drew his power from a secret
and terrible source.

(Stealer of Souls, page 13)

The story was packed with personal symbols (as
are all the stories bar a couple). The "secret and
terrible source" was the sword Stormbringer, which
symbolised my own and others tendency to rely on
mental and physical crutches rather than cure the
weakness at source. To go further, Elric, for me,
symbolised the ambivalence of mankind in general,
with its love-hates, its mean-generosity, its confident-
bewilderment act. Elric is a thief who believes himself
robbed, a lover who hates love. In short, he cannot
be sure of the truth of anything, not even of his own
emotions or ambitions. This is made much clearer in
a story containing even more direct allegory, the
second in the series, While the Gods Laugh. Unfortu-
nately, Ted left out the verse from which the title
was taken:

I, while the gods laugh, the world's vortex am;
Maelstrom of passions in that hidden sea,
Whose waves of all-time lap the coasts of me,
And in small compass the dark waters cram.

Mervyn Peake (Shapes and Sounds)

This, I think, gave more meaning to both title and
story which involved a long quest after the Dead

God's Book—a mythical work alleged to contain all
the knowledge of the universe, in which Elric feels,
he will at last find the true meaning of life. He
expresses this need in a somewhat rhetorical way.
When the wingless woman Shaarilla asks him why
he wants the book he replies:

"I desire, if you like, to know one of (mis-
printed as or in magazine version) two things.
Does an ultimate God exist or not? Does Law or
Chaos govern our lives? Man needs a God, so
the philosophers tell us. Have they made one—
or did one make them?" etc., etc.

Here, as in other passages, the bewilderment is
expressed in metaphysical terms, for at that time,
due mainly to my education I was very involved
with mysticism. Also, the metaphysical terms suited
the description of a Sword-and-Sorcery hero and his
magical, low-technology world.

It may seem odd that I use such phrases as "at that
time" and so on, as if I'm referring to the remote
past, but in many ways, being a trifle more mature,
perhaps, happily married with a better sense of di-
rection, etc., all this does seem to have taken place in
the remote past.

The Dead God's Book is eventually located in a
vast underground world which I had intended as a
womb-symbol, and after a philosophical conversa-
tion with the book's keeper, Elric discovers it. This
passage is, to me now, rather overwritten, but, for
better or worse:

It was a huge book—the Dead God's Book, its
covers encrusted with alien gems from which

the light sprang. It gleamed, it throbbed with
light and brilliant colour.

"At last," Elric breathed. "At last—the truth!"
He stumbled forward like a man made stupid
with drink, his pale hands reaching for the
thing he sought with such savage bitterness.
His hands touched the pulsating cover of the
Book and, trembling, turned it back . . . With a
crash, the cover fell to the floor, sending the
bright gems skipping and dancing over the pav-
ing stone. Beneath Elric's . . . hands lay nothing
but a pile of yellowish dust.

The Dead God's Book and the Golden Barge are
one and the same. They have no real existence, save
in the wishful imagination of mankind. There is, the
story says, no Holy Grail which will transform a
man overnight from bewildered ignorance to com-
plete knowledge—the answer already is within him,
if he cares to train himself to find it. A rather over-
emphasised fact, throughout history, but one gener-
ally ignored all the same.

The Stealer of Souls, the third story, continues this
theme, but brought in rather different kinds of sym-
bols. Coupled with the Jungian symbols already in-
herent in any tale using direct mythic material, I
used Freudian symbols, too. This was a cynical at-
tempt and a rather vulgar attempt to make the series
popular. It appeared to work. The Stealer of Souls,
whatever else it may be, is one of the most porno-
graphic stories I have ever written. In Freudian terms
it is the description of, if you like, a night's love-
making.

Which brings me to another point. Although there
is comparatively little direct description of sexual

encounters in the stories and what there are are
largely romanticised, the whole Elric saga has, in its
choice of situations and symbols, very heavy sexual
undertones. This is true of most Sword-and-Sorcery
stories, but I have an idea that I may be the first
such author to understand his material to this ex-
tent, to know what he's using. If I hadn't been a bit
fed-up by the big response received by The Stealer of
Souls (magazine story, not the book) I could have
made even greater use of what I discovered.

Other critics have pointed out the close relation-
ship the horror story (and often the SF story for that
matter) has with the pornographic story, so there's
no need to go any deeper into it here.

The pornographic content of the Elric saga doesn't
interest me much, but I have hinted at the relation-
ship between sex and violence in several stories, and
indeed, there are a dozen syndromes to be found in
the stories, particularly if you bear in mind my own
involvement with sexual love, expression in violence,
etc., at the time the stories were first conceived.
Even my own interpretation of what I was doing is
open to interpretation, in this case!

The allegory goes through all ten stories (includ-
ing To Rescue Tanelorn which did not feature Elric) in
Science Fantasy, but it tends to change its emphasis as
my own ideas take better shape and my emotions
mature. When, in the last Elric story of all, the sword,
his crutch, Stormbringer turns and slays Elric it is
meant to represent, on one level, how mankind's
wish-fantasies can often bring about the destruction
of (till now at least) part of mankind. Hitler, for in-
stance, founded his whole so-called "political" creed
on a series of wish-fantasies (this is detailed in that
odd book Dawn of Magic, recently published here).

Again this is an old question, a bit trite from being
asked too often, maybe, but how much of what we
believe is true and how much is what we wish were
true. Hitler dreamed of his Thousand Year Reich,
Chamberlain said There Will Be No War. Both were
convinced—both ignored plain fact to a frightening
extent, just as many people (not just politicians whose
public statements are not always what they really
believe) ignore plain facts today. This is no new
discovery of mine. It is probably one of the oldest
discoveries in the world. But, in part, this is what
nearly all my published work points out. Working,
as I did once, as editor of a party journal (allegedly
an information magazine for party candidates) this
conviction was strengthened. The build-up of a fan-
tasy is an odd process and sometimes happens, to
digress a bit, like this.

The facts are gathered, related, a picture emerges.
The picture, though slightly coloured by the person-
alities of the fact-relaters, is fairly true. The picture is
given to the politician. If the politician is a man of
integrity he will not deliberately warp the facts, but
he will present them in a simplified version which
will be understood by the general public (he thinks).
This involves a selection, which can change a picture
out of all recognition, though the politician didn't
deliberately intend to warp the facts. The other kind
of politician almost automatically selects and warps
in order to prove a point he, or his party, is trying to
make. So the fantasy begins. Soon the real picture is
almost irrevocably lost.

Therefore this reliance on pseudo-knowledge which
seems to prove something we wish were true, is a
dangerous thing to do.

This is one of the main messages of the Elric

series, though there are several others on different
levels.

Don't think I'm asking you to go back over the
stories looking for these allegories and symbols. The
reason I abandoned The Golden Barge was because
among other things-it wasn't entertaining. The Elric
stories are meant to entertain as much as anything
else, but if anyone cares to look for substance beyond
the entertainment level, they might find it.

One of the main reasons, though, for taking this
angle when Alan (Dodd) asked me to write a piece
on Elric, was because I have been a little disap-
pointed at the first book being dismissed by some
professional critics (who evidently didn't bother to
read it closely, if at all) as an imitation of Conan.
When you put thought and feeling into a story—
thought and feeling which is yours—you don't much
care for being called an imitator or a plagiarist how-
ever good or bad the story. Probably the millionth
novel about a young advertising executive in love
with a deb and involved with a married woman has
just been published, yet the author won't be accused
of imitating anyone or plagiarising anyone. It is the
use to which one puts one's chosen material, not
that material, which matters.

SOJAN

THE
SWORDSMAN

1. Daughter of a Warrior King

A MYAT trotted peacefully across the broad, seem-
ingly never-ending plain which made up the land-
scape as far as it was possible to see. No sound
issued from the cloven hoofs, muffled by the moss-
like substance which clothed the ground in a mantle
of vivid colour—purple, green and yellow, with a
trace of crimson or violet here and there. Nothing
grew upon that plain. It was a wilderness, barren,
deserted—the greatest desert on the planet of Zylor.

A wandering warrior sat astride the myat's broad
back. At his steed's side hung a shield, a virtually
unknown accoutrement on Zylor, but the tribe to
which Sojan belonged had perfected it as a valuable
asset. The beast upon which he rode was a big,
sturdy animal. From both sides of its huge head
grew long sharp horns, curving outward. More like
a reptile than a mammal, its head tapered like a
snake's, its tail was thick and it, too, tapered.

Sojan was clothed in a bright blue jerkin reaching
to his knees, his legs were bare and tough boots of
myat hide were upon his feet, reaching to about two
inches from his knees. Over the jerkin was a leather

harness of simple design—two straps across his shoul-
ders, coming to the waist and attached to a broad
belt whereupon hung his weapons—a sword, a dirk,
long and sharp, and a holster containing his big,
round-butted air-pistol.

The mercenary's hair was long and held by a fillet
of leather. At the back of his big saddle were two
saddle-bags, a container of water and, rolled across
these, his crimson cloak.

The man himself was tall, broad-shouldered and
slim-waisted with smooth muscles rippling beneath
his jerkin. The perfect fighting-man, keen-eyed and
wary.

Suddenly Sojan caught a flash of marble to the
west and knew that he had sighted Vermlot, the
capital city of Hatnor, the greatest warrior nation of
a warrior world. A rich city, was Vermlot, rich in
fighting-men and weapons of war, rich in terms of
gold, rich in beauty and splendour.

As he neared the city walls a guard bade him halt
and state his business.

"I come in peace," he cried, "to offer my sword,
my loyalty and my life to his Imperial Highness, the
War Lord of Hatnor. I am a mercenary, my only
possessions are the clothes I wear, the weapons I
carry and the myat I ride. I have travelled half a
world to offer my services to your ruler!"

He was admitted to the city and made his way to
one of the many taverns situated within the protec-
tion of the mighty walls. His strange protective
weapon aroused much interest. A certain warrior
made mock of him and his shield.

"Oh!" he laughed. "What a brave mercenary! He
has travelled half a world—to give us his protection—
for with his great shield in front of him he will be

able to withstand all our enemies. Perhaps he cannot
fight without it. That's so, is it not, mercenary?"

Sojan halted, and gazed up at the man who was
leaning against a pillar on the balcony above.

Grimly, quietly, he spoke, but his tones were cold
and his words were acid.

"I do not like your attitude," he said. "And I like
your words less. Draw your sword—if you know
how to use it—and defend yourself! Perhaps you
will be hiding behind the shield before I have fin-
ished with you!"

The warrior stiffened and his face flushed: he put
one hand on the balcony rail and vaulted into the
street below, drawing his long "vilthor", a sabre-like
weapon, as he did so.

Sojan unslung his shield from the myat and drew
his own long blade. The warrior of the Palace struck
first, aiming a wicked slash at Sojan's legs with his
curved vilthor but the mercenary from Ilthoth jumped
high in the air and attacked the other with a weav-
ing arc of steel, driving him further and further
back. Then the man saw his chance and slashed at
an exposed limb of the mercenary's, but was too
slow. There was a dull thud as the sword hit and
rebounded from the shield, then he was made to
duck beneath a vicious slash from Sojan.

The Vermlotian slowly lost ground until with a
flick of his wrist Sojan disarmed his opponent. Then,
from a second-storey window a figure dropped, first
to the balcony of the first-storey and from there to
the ground. He removed his cloak and, with a smile
upon his lips, came forward with drawn sword.

"I fancy you will not disarm me so quickly."

This time Sojan was not so lucky for the new-
comer was as quick as the proverbial cobra. His

sword weaved an invisible circle around Sojan's guard
and the newcomer soon had him at his mercy. Be-
fore he knew it, the mercenary's sword flew from
his grasp and clattered to the earth, ten feet away.

"Yield?" questioned the victor.

"I yield," panted he. "You are a great fighter.
Who are you, sir?"

"Perhaps you have heard of me," smiled his late
adversary, "I am Nornos Kad, War Lord of the Im-
perial Empire of Hatnor!"

"Sir," said Sojan with a bow, "I, who came to
enlist in your service and offer my aid to you, begin
by fighting you. I crave your forgiveness."

Nornos Kad laughed. "Never mind, you did very
well against my warrior here. To best him is a test
indeed and I feel that I would do well to enlist your
services." He signed to a servant who was waiting
in a doorway. "Come, you will be my guest until I
have need of you. Here, Oumlat, take Sojan to one
of the best guest rooms and see that he is well
looked after."

For a week or so Sojan enjoyed the privileges of
the Royal Guest until one morning a messenger came
to say that Nornos Kad had asked for him.

"I summoned you, Sojan," Nornos Kad said, when
they were alone, "because you are to accompany me
on a journey. Our mission is to take Il-that, princess
of Sengol, back to her father's country. I desire to
bring Sengol into the Hatnorian alliance without
bloodshed if possible and the king would think well
of it if his daughter was personally escorted home by
the War Lord himself. You had better prepare your
weapons and be ready to move from your quarters
by dawn tomorrow."

Ten warships, heavily armed with Hatnorian air-

guns which worked on the simple principle of com-
pressed air, with a range of over half a mile, and the
Royal Airship, were ready to take to the air early the
next morning. They rose majestically, hovered for a
few moments, and then, with motors purring, the
great gas-bags veered off towards Sengol which lay
far to the north.

Within three or four hours they had crossed the
outermost boundary of Hatnor and her satellites and
were winging their way at a steady eighty miles an
hour over Veronlam, a country which owed no alle-
giance to Hatnor and which, although fearing the
mighty Empire, was constantly stirring up petty strife
between the minor Hatnorian nationals. They had
nearly reached the border of Veronlam when the
soft purr of motors was heard and a shell whistled
past them and exploded in their rear air container.

"Veronlam pirates!" yelled the fore-gunner.

Quickly the small fleet formed a protective barrier
about the Royal ship. One airship was hit a dozen
times in as many different places and hurtled down-
wards, flames roaring from the gas-bag and the crew
jumping overboard rather than die in the flames.

Nornos Kad realised at once that to fight against
so many would soon end in disaster for his fleet,
and he ordered them to turn about and flee back to
Hatnor. He decided to rely upon his speedier en-
gines to aid them rather than their powerful guns.

The Hatnorian fleet circled and fled. Nornos Kad
was the last to leave the battle and hastily turned
about to follow his ships. But alas, it was too late,
for three well-aimed shots in their main tank sent
them spiralling slowly to earth to land with a sicken-
ing crash amidst a tangle of red-hot girders and
flaming fabric. Being on the platform of the ship

Nornos Kad, Sojan and Il-that were flung clear of
the main wreckage, to lie stunned.

Sojan did not know how long it was he lay amidst
the wreckage of the Royal Airship, but when he
awoke it was dawn. He knew that none could have
escaped if they had been trapped in the wreckage
but nevertheless he spent a fruitless two hours search-
ing for his companions—all he found were two or
three charred corpses but none lived. Convinced
that his companions were dead he took the only
unbroken water bottle and set off in the direction of
Hatnor. Sojan's eye caught the gleam of white stone
far to the south of his position. With a sigh of relief
he began to walk quickly towards the gleam which
grew soon into a patch and from that into a city, its
walls towering fifty paces in places. Knowing that
he was still probably in Veronlam he knew that it
would be useless to try to gain admission on the
strength of his allegiance to Nornos Kad the War
Lord. Stripping himself of his Hatnorian Navy-Cloak
and also his Navy-type gauntlets he stood arrayed as
when he had first entered Hatnor, as a mercenary
swordsman.

He easily gained admittance to the city of Quentos
as mercenaries were always welcome to swell the
ranks of any army.

"By Mimuk, friend, you're the third to pass through
these gates this day," the guard said, as he was
allowed to enter the city.

"The third. That's strange is it not, guard?" re-
plied Sojan. "Three people in one day! Mimuk, you
must be joking!"

"I joke not, friend mercenary, strange as it seems
two others have preceded you and one of them was
a woman. Our warriors found them near the wreck

of an airship. Some say the ones we captured were
Nornos Kad himself and Il-that, daughter of Hugor
of Sengol. Two prizes indeed if it be the truth."

Sojan strode off in the direction indicated by the
friendly guard.

Arriving at the tavern he hired a room and or-
dered himself a meal. Finishing his repast, he was
horrified to find that the only money he had was
that of Hatnor. If he tried to pass this he knew that
the suspicions of the keeper of the tavern would be
instantly aroused. What should he do? He had
brought nothing with him to the tavern save his
sword, shield and poinard and the clothes he wore.
He reasoned that the only chance he stood was to
try and slip quietly out of the door before the propri-
etor spotted him and ordered him to pay his bill.

Just as he thought he had reached the safety of the
street a hand fell on his shoulder and the leering
face of the landlord was brought close to his.

"Going so soon, my lord? Methinks you would
like to stay and sample some more of our victuals
before you make your—er—hasty departure," he said
with ponderous sarcasm. "Now pay up or my men'll
make sure you pay for your meal—in blood!"

"You threaten me, by Mimuk!" cried Sojan, his
easily roused temper getting the better of him. "You
dare threaten me! Draw your weapon!"

"Hey, Tytho, Zatthum, Wanrim—come and save
me from this murdering bilker!" cried the keeper of
the tavern in terror.

Instantly three ruffians appeared in the narrow
doorway and, drawing their blades, rushed at Sojan,
causing him to release his grasp upon the unfortu-
nate man and turn to face this new danger.

Zatthum went down in the first minute with an

inch of steel marking its path through his heart. The
remaining two were not so easily defeated. Back and
forth across the narrow street the three fought, sparks
flying from their blades, the clang of their weapons
resounding upon the rooftops. Sojan was marked in
a dozen places, but his adversaries were bleeding in
as many as he was. With a quick thrust, a parry and
another thrust the mercenary succeeded in dispatch-
ing the second man. Now only Tytho was left. Sojan
allowed himself to be headed off and the man edged
him completely around so that they were now
retracing their path. With a mighty effort Sojan, who
was still tired after his narrow escape from the air-
ship, gathered his remaining strength together and
made a vicious lunge in Tytho's direction. He cried
out in pain when Sojan's blade found the muscles of
his left arm, but did not relax his grip upon his own
sword. Again Sojan was forced further back towards
the gaping crowd which had collected outside the
tavern. His shield saved him from the thrust de-
signed to end the fight but he knew he could not last
longer for he was rapidly tiring. Suddenly his foot
caught in the trappings of one of the dead men's
harnesses and he fell backwards across the corpse. A
grim smile graced Tytho's face as he raised his sword
to deliver the final thrust.

"Kill him, Tytho, kill him," the crowd roared in
frenzied bloodlust.

Sojan, entangled in the harness of the man he had
slain, tried to rise but was stopped from doing so by
a shove from Tytho's booted foot.

The hireling raised his sword again and the Crowd
leaned forward.

Suddenly there was a disturbance at one end of
the street and the crowd quickly began to disperse.

As it did so, Tytho saw the City Patrol, scourge of
the city thieves, was the cause of the crowd's disap-
pearance. Looking hurriedly about him for a way of
escape he found none; he dropped his sword and
began to run, foolishly, along the street.

The leader of the Patrol raised his pistol. There
was the slight hiss of escaping air and the running
hireling gave a short cry, threw up his arms, stum-
bled and dropped on the cobbles of the street.

"What's happening here?"

By this time Sojan had disentangled himself from
the harness of his late opponent and was standing,
legs a'sprawl, hand to head.

"You've saved my life, sir!" he gasped. "These
ruffians attacked me for my money. I succeeded in
killing two but unfortunately became tangled up with
this fellow." He indicated the body. "Tytho was
about to finish me when you arrived!"

The leader laughed. "You certainly accounted very
well for yourself," he said, "these three are among
the worst of the type with whom we have to con-
tend. Ruthless murderers, perfect swordsmen." Again
he laughed. "Or almost perfect. You did us a service
and I am grateful."

He surveyed Sojan's bloodstained and tattered
clothing.

"You're a stranger here are you not?" he enquired.
"A mercenary swordsman, perhaps?"

"Yes, I am named Sojan—they nickname me
'Shieldbearer' as I use this." Sojan pointed to his
shield.

"Well, Sojan Shieldbearer, how would you like to
bear a shield and wield a sword in the Patrol?"

Instantly Sojan saw his chance. If he could get a

post in the organised militia of the city, he might be
able to contact his prisoned friends.

"It has always been my ambition to serve in the
Veronlamite Guard," he lied, "but to become a mem-
ber of the great Patrol is a chance for which I had not
dared hope."

"Then come with us and we'll enlist you immedi-
ately. And," he added, "get you a decent jerkin and
harness."

Before he could become a full-fledged Patrolman,
Sojan had to undergo a course of basic training.
When this was finished, his duties were to Patrol,
with his men, a certain section of the city, and arrest
any thieves, footpads or similar wrongdoers. The
"justice" was rough indeed and was not appreciated
by the population. All the time he heard rumours
and from these rumours he gleaned that Nornos
Kad and Il-that were imprisoned somewhere in the
Prison of Zholun—a mighty towered building situ-
ated near the centre of the city. Sojan knew well that
the Patrol's duties included patrolling the prison and
acting as guards to "special" prisoners—and he was
hoping that he would be given this assignment soon.

Sure enough, one day his hopes were fulfilled and
he was assigned to guard a section of Zholun Prison.

With his eyes wide open, Sojan learned where the
two were imprisoned.

"One is in the East tower—the other in the West.
Nornos Kad lies in the East tower," a guard told
Sojan one night after Sojan had plied him with enough
ale to get him drunk.

Sojan had to work fast; there were rumours that
his friends were to die by the sword in two days'
time.

His first loyalty was to Nornos Kad. He contrived

to enter the East tower wherein Nornos Kad was
imprisoned. Stealthily he made his way to the metal-
studded door of the cell.

"Nornos Kad," he whispered.

He heard the rattle of chains and through the bars
of the door saw his chieftain's handsome face, drawn
and pale through lack of food and sleep.

"Sojan!" exclaimed the War Lord. "I thought you
died in the crash!"

"I am alive and here to save you if I can. I was
assigned to guard the West wing so it will be more
difficult—however I shall try and get the keys. Until
I return—have hope!"

And with that Sojan crept back along the gloomy
passage. On return he found that the Patrolman on
duty was talking to someone. He waited until the
man had left and then walked into the little room
which was being used to house guards.

"Hullo, Stontor," cried Sojan, "what's up?"

Stontor looked worried. "It's my wife, Sojan, she's
been taken ill and I can't leave my post."

Sojan saw his chance.

"Well, you go and help her," he said. "I'll stay
here until you get back. Don't worry."

"Thanks a lot, Sojan, you're a friend indeed. Here
are the keys—shouldn't think there'll be much doing
tonight." And with that he picked up his cloak and
ran down the long passage.

Hastily Sojan picked up the keys and ran back to
Nornos Kad's cell. Unlocking the door he helped
Nornos Kad from his chains.

"I was lucky—a coincidence—guard's wife ill—but
the main trouble will be getting out of the city," he
panted, as he unlocked the heavy padlocks.

Together they returned to the guards' room. Here

Sojan left Nornos Kad. Then he made his way back
to the West wing where it was a simple matter to get
the princess from her cell. Silently they returned to
Nornos Kad.

Keeping to the sidestreets and the shadows, the
three sped along towards the city gates.

Suddenly Nornos Kad hissed, "Stop! Stop, Sojan,
there may be an easier way." He pointed to a flat
area dotted with hangers and anchored airships.
"With one of those we would have a better chance
of escaping."

"But how?" enquired Sojan.

Again Nornos Kad pointed. "You see that small
ship nearest to us—the one anchored down by a
couple of ropes?" The ship of which he was speak-
ing was fifteen feet above them, held to the ground
by anchors attached to heavy ropes. "With luck we
could gain the ship and climb the ropes."

Stealthily they padded along the side of the field,
keeping well into the shadows all the time. A single
guard lolled on the ground. Sojan crept behind him
and reversing his pistol, knocked the man uncons-
cious.

With Sojan's and Nornos Kad's help, Il-that was
able to climb the rope and they boarded the ship. As
they clambered over the rail a light suddenly ap-
peared from one of the cabins and an armed man
appeared on deck. He was followed by three others.

"Mimuk!" he cried. "What have we here?"

There was no time for words and, handing Nornos
Kad his long dirk and Il-that his pistol, Sojan drew
his sword, and engaged the man and his compan-
ions. Nornos Kad was close behind him. Back and
forth across the narrow deck the six men fought,
and the four crewmen were no mean battlers. Nornos

Kad, weak from his sojourn in Zholun Prison, still
put up a good fight. Together they succeeded in
killing two of their opponents—but the other two
were better swordsmen. The clash of steel echoed
across the silent field. Sojan was blinded by the
sudden flash of a searchlight and taking advantage
of this, his opponent cut past his guard and made a
painful gash in his side. The pain was like fire and
Sojan could barely restrain himself from crying out.
He stumbled to the deck and with a cry of triumph
the crewman raised his sword. A sudden hiss and a
strangled gasp and he collapsed over Sojan. Turning
his head he saw Il-that with the pistol in her hand.

"Thanks," was all he could say as he struggled to
his feet and ran to help Nornos Kad.

While Nornos Kad threw the bodies overboard,
Sojan started the engines. Below them they heard
shouts of a Patrol and two searchlights were now
levelled on the swaying airship. Soon they heard
cries as the bodies of the crewmen were found.

With two sword strokes Nornos Kad cut the an-
choring ropes and the ship rose swiftly into the air.
There was a coughing roar and the propellers began
to turn. The searchlights followed them; all around
them shells whistled.

Suddenly, behind them, they saw that three
battlecruisers of the fastest and heaviest type had
risen to follow them.

"More speed, Sojan, more speed!" cried Nornos
Kad. "Make for Sengol, it's nearer."

With a glance at the compass, Sojan turned the
ship's nose towards the North. Nearer and nearer
came the battlecruisers, guns popping softly. Il-that,
a true daughter of a warrior king, climbed into the
gunner's rear-seat and aimed the guns of their own

ship at the pursuing cruisers. She pressed the trig-
gers and the twin muzzles of the gun gave a jerk, a
hiss, and there was an explosion. What all a gun-
ner's skill could not easily have accomplished, Il-that
had done with luck—brought down a cruiser in its
most vulnerable spot—the main gas-bag. Flames
roared from the fabric and the ship lost height. Faster
and faster it went as the earth pulled it downwards.
The engines roaring to the last it crashed with a flash
of orange and crimson flame. But the other two
ships had still to be accounted for and Il-that was
not so lucky this time.

For two hours the chase continued, neither gain-
ing and all the time the shells from the Veronlam
craft were getting closer and closer as the gunner
perfected his aim.

"They will catch us soon," cried Il-that, who still
sat in the rear-gunner's seat, "they seem to be draw-
ing closer!"

"Then we shall have to land and hope that we're
not still in Veronlam," yelled Nornos Kad above the
shrieking wind.

"It will be a long time for us to do so, sir," Sojan
told Nornos Kad, "we have no anchors, and to re-
lease the gas in the gas-bag would mean that while
we lost height we should also lose speed."

"Then there's only one thing we can do!" cried
the Emperor, "and that's this!" Raising his sword he
cut deep into the nearest gas-bag. He was thrown to
the deck as the contents rushed out and almost at
once the ship began to drop, dangerously fast. The
three stood by the side, ready to jump.

With a hard jolt the ship touched the ground,
bumped along it, and stopped. Over the side the
three companions went and ran over soft moss to

the sheltering shadows of some rocks as the Veron-
lamite searchlights began to stab into the darkness.

But it was easy to hide in the rocks and the caves
sheltered them when the Veronlams landed and made
a vain search for them.

In the morning it was an easy matter to walk to
the nearest Sengolian city and thence to the capital,
where the king gratefully took his daughter and
promised that Sengol would always be an ally to
Hatnor.

(Original draft c. 1955)

2. Mission to Asno

MOTORS PURRING, captains shouting orders, the rustle
of the canvas gun-covers being drawn back, gay
flags, flashing steel, flying cloaks of many hues; a
Hatnorian war-fleet rose rapidly into the sky.

On the deck of the flagship stood a tall, strong
figure—that of Sojan, nicknamed "Shieldbearer", sec-
ond in command to the great War Lord of Hatnor
himself—Nornos Kad.

At his side was a long broadsword, upon his back
his round shield; his right hand rested on the butt of
his heavy air-pistol—an incredibly powerful weapon.
Clad in a jerkin of sky-blue, a divided kilt of deep
crimson and boots of dark leather, over his shoulder
his leathern war-harness, he was the typical example
of a Zylorian mercenary, whose love of bright garb
was legendary.

The great war-fleet was destined for Asno—a coun-
try far to the north of Hatnor where the king, so the
spies told, was raising an army of mercenaries to
attack Yundrot—a colony of the Hatnorian Empire.

To stop a major war, Nornos Kad decided to send
a mighty fleet to crush the attack before it was started.

Having other business, he assigned Sojan to take his
place and instructed him to completely wipe out any
signs of an attack.

Only too pleased at the chance of battle, Sojan had
readily assented and was now on his way—the en-
tire fleet under his command.

Soon the fleet was winging its way over Asno—a
land of snow and ice, fierce beasts, great tracts of
uninhabited icefields—uninhabited, that is, by civilised
beings.

In another hour it would be over Boitil, the capital
city.

"Gunners, take your positions!" Sojan roared
through cupped hands and picking up a megaphone—
for there was no radio on Zylor—shouted the same
orders, which went from ship to ship until every
gunner was seated in his seat, guns loaded and
ready for firing.

"Drop two hundred feet!" Sojan roared again to
the steersman, and repeated these orders to the other
captains, who in turn shouted them to their own
steersmen.

"Prepare hand weapons and fasten down loose
fixtures, check gas-bag coverings, every man to posi-
tion!" Sojan shouted when the ships had all dropped
two hundred feet.

"Slow speed!" The ships slowed into "second-
speed."

In Zylorian naval terms there are five speeds:
"Speed No. 1" is fastest possible, "Speed No. 2" is a
fifth of this slower, and so on. When a commander
gives the order to slow when travelling at Speed No.
1, the ship automatically adjusts to Speed No. 2; if
going at No. 2 and told to slow, it changes to No. 3.

Now they were over the outskirts of the city, drop-

ping lower and lower until Sojan thought they would
touch the very towers of Boitil, scanning the squares
and flying-fields for signs of the army. Halfway over
the city a message was passed to Sojan that a great
army camp had been spotted—just on the outskirts
of the city. At the same time someone yelled for him
to look, and doing so he saw that a fleet almost as
large as his own was rising from flying-fields all over
the vast city.

"Prepare for battle!" he shouted.

As one, the safety catches of the guns were pushed
off.

"Shoot as you will!" Sojan ordered.

There was a muffled "pop" and the hiss of escap-
ing air as the explosive shells of the Hatnorian craft
were sent on their mission of destruction. Almost at
once the enemy retaliated.

Two Hatnorian ships, one only slightly damaged,
the other a mass of roaring yellow and blue flame,
dropped earthwards.

For twelve hours the great air-battle was fought,
developing into ship-to-ship duels as the opposing
sides became mixed. Bit by bit the battle moved
southwards until it was over the great ice wastes.

But expert handling of their craft, superior marks-
manship and a slightly superior weight of numbers
on the part of the Hatnorian fleet was slowly but
surely weakening the Asnogian fleet. Sojan, now
with a gun mounted on the officer's platform, was
taking an active part in the battle. His uncanny abil-
ity to hit almost whatever he aimed at was taking
great toll. Everywhere ships were hurtling earth-
wards, crashing in an inferno of flame, or merely
bouncing gently when a gas-bag was only slightly
punctured.

At last, one by one, the enemy began to flee. The
other ships, seeing their companions escape, disen-
gaged and followed them. The hired ships, manned
mainly by mercenaries, flew in every direction but
that of Asno, while the Asnogian craft turned and
headed for their home base. In this direction went
the Hatnorian fleet, re-forming to a close formation
and turning to No. 1 speed. If they overtook a ship it
was ruthlessly shot down; but half a dozen or so
were lucky and escaped them. In three hours they
were back over Asno and bombing the troop en-
campment with incendiaries until nothing remained
of the great camp but smouldering fabric and twisted
steel. Through the south gate of the city streamed
forth ragged bands of hired soldiers, bent on escap-
ing while they could. The planned attack on a
Hatnorian colony had not even begun. A just repri-
sal on Nornos Kad's part. A reprisal carried out in
full by Sojan. But his business was not finished and,
landing on part of an undamaged airfield, Sojan
ordered the frightened commanding officer to take
him to King Tremorn of Asno.

"I bring a message from my Emperor!" he cried
when he was in the vast chamber which housed the
king's court. All around him stood courtiers and
servants, worried and anxious to hear his terms.
Great pillars supported the roof and brilliant tapes-
tries hung from the ceiling. Murals on the walls
depicted scenes of battles, on land, water and in the
air.

"Speak your message," ordered the king. "What
are your terms? I admit that I am beaten! For the
present!" he added.

"For all time, sir, while a member of the Nornis

family sits on the throne of Hatnor!" Sojan replied.
"Now, do you wish to hear my terms?"

"Speak!"

"The first is that you acknowledge allegiance to
Hatnor and pay a tribute of five hundred young men
to train in our armies every tenth year. The second is
that you disband any army you still have, save for
policing your city. On signs of attack, you will notify
the Empire, who will come to your aid. As a mem-
ber of the Empire you will be subject to all laws and
trading terms of the Empire and in times of major
war shall enlist two-thirds of your fighting strength
in the armies of Hatnor and the remaining third if
called upon. You will not make war-ships or weap-
ons of war, save hand weapons, for your own use,
but all war-ships and arms shall be sent direct to the
capital. Do you recognise these terms?"

The king paused and, turning to his major domo,
whispered a few words to him. The man nodded.

"Yes, I recognise your terms," he sighed.

"Then sign your name and oath to this document
and seal it with your royal seal. Upon the breaking
of your word, the lapse shall be punished according
to the magnitude."

Sojan handed the paper to a courtier who carried
it to the king. The act of bowing to a king is un-
known upon the planet Zylor, instead the subject
places his right hand upon his heart to signify com-
plete allegiance.

So it was that Sojan achieved his purpose. But
more adventures were yet to come before he could
return to his palace at Hatnor.

3. Revolt in Hatnor

"SOJAN, SOJAN!" the call rang across the clear Zylorian
sky as a small scout-ship veered towards the larger
warship, the flagship of Sojan, second-in-command
to the War Lord of Hatnor—Nornos Kad.

"Who are you?" Sojan's lieutenant roared through
a megaphone.

"I bring urgent tidings from the court of Nornos
Kad—the land is in turmoil!"

"Come alongside," the man roared.

As the scout-ship drew alongside, an armed man
jumped from it and rushed up the ladder to the
platform whereon Sojan stood.

"Sojan! While the fleet has been at war, revolution
has swept through the land. Nornos Kad has been
deposed and a tyrant sits on the throne of Hatnor.
There is a price upon your head and upon the heads
of all whom you command.

"Flee now, Sojan, while you have the chance.
Trewin the Upstart controls the city and half the
Empire. The other half is in a state of unrest, unsure
whether to support one Emperor or another!"

"I cannot flee while my Emperor rots in chains—
tell me, who still cries 'Loyalty to the Nornis family'?"

"None openly, Sojan. A few are suspected, but

they are still powerful nobles and even Trewin dare
not arrest them without cause."

Sojan's face became grim and he clenched his hand
upon his sword hilt.

"Lun!" he cried. "Order the fleet to turn about and
adjust to Speed One!"

A look of surprise crossed his lieutenant's face.
"We're not running, Sojan?"

"Do as I say!"

"Turn about and adjust to Speed One!" Lun
shouted through his megaphone.

At once the great fleet turned gracefully about and
adjusted, speed by speed, until it was flying at maxi-
mum speed. There were puzzled looks in the eyes of
many of Sojan's captains, but they obeyed his order.

"Tell them to set a course for Poltoon," he ordered
Lun. Lun did so and soon every ship was heading
south—to the steaming jungles and burning deserts
of the Heat Lands.

"Why do we sail for Poltoon, Sojan?" asked Lun.

But Sojan's only reply was, "You will see," and he
resumed his earnest conversation with the messen-
ger who had brought him the news.

On the third day they were sailing at No. 1 speed
over a vast belt of jungle, seemingly impenetrable.
But Sojan's eyes, less atrophied by civilised living,
caught what he had been looking for—a patch of
green, lighter than the dark green which predomi-
nated.

"STOP!" he roared. "Stop and hover—no one is to
drop anchor."

The flying machines of the Zylorian nations are
usually very similar to our airships. The gondola is
supported by steel hawsers depending from the main
gas-bag. The propeller is adjustable and can be slung

either fore or aft of the ship—it is usually slung aft.
They are steered by two methods, a rudder aft plus
manipulation of the propeller. A normal sized war-
ship usually mounts five guns—two very powerful
ones fore and aft, a smaller one on the captain's
platform and two mounted in a platform on top of
the huge gas-bag. The gunners reach this platform
by means of ladders from the deck to the platform.
This position is extremely dangerous and if ever the
gas-bag is hit it is unlikely that a gas-bag gunner
could ever escape.

The ships stopped as ordered and while they
waited, Sojan had his ship drop downwards, nearer
and nearer to the little patch of green which became
a small clearing, just large enough to land one ship,
but for a fleet of over fifty ships to land here was
impossible. With a slight bump the ship dropped to
the ground and the anchor was thrown into the soft
grass. Sojan ordered that the gas-bags be deflated.
They could always be inflated again as every ship
carried a large supply of gas-cylinders.

Now the ship was only a third of the size and was
dragged into the undergrowth which was not at all
thick. Sojan told his crew of eight to get to work and
chip down all the small growth but to leave the huge
forest giants standing. This they did and very soon
the clearing widened and as it did so a new ship
dropped down until the fifty were all deflated and
covering a large area of ground under the trees. The
cabins made excellent living quarters so there was
no difficulty about housing the men. Rations were
also plentiful and a spring of fresh water was nearby.

"I know this part of the country well," Sojan told
his men that night, "the inhabitants are for the most
part friendly. While they are not civilised, they are

not savages and I believe that they will give us some
help. But now we sleep and tomorrow we shall 
rouse the tribes!"

Next morning, Sojan with a small party of his men
set off for the village of his barbarian friends.

The chief greeted him warmly and was interested
in Sojan's need for soldiers.

"You know me and my people, Soyin," he said,
using the nearest Poltoonian equivalent of Sojan's
name. "We all love to fight—and if there's a bit of
loot thrown in, who's to say 'no'?"

"Then I can depend on you?"

"By all means—I shall form a council immediately
and recruit as many of my fellow chiefs as possible.
Between us we should muster a few thousand fight-
ing men."

By Zylorian standards, where most nations are
comparatively small to Earth nations, a thousand
men is quite a large number.

"Then have them ready by the third day, my
friend," Sojan replied. "Blood will stain the usurp-
er's robes before the month is gone!"

4. The Hordes Attack

THE DAY of the invasion was drawing nearer and
Sojan began to work harder and harder in the train-
ing of his barbarian horde—the Poltoonians. Spies
brought word that there was more and more unrest
in the outlying provinces of Hatnor.

"The time is right to strike," Sojan told his cap-
tains and the wild chiefs. "We must invade now or
our cause will be lost and we will never again have
the opportunity to win Hatnor back from the usurper
and restore Nornos Kad to his rightful throne!"

His airships, camouflaged by the mighty trees of
the steaming Poltoonian jungle, were provisioned
and ready to do battle. His captains were word-
perfect in his plan of invasion. Everyone had his
orders and knew how to carry them out.

A day later a horde, consisting of thousands of
mounted barbarians led by Sojan himself, moved
towards the North—and Hatnor!

Two days later, the faster moving airships rose
into the air like a swarm of hornets armed with
stings a hundred times more powerful. As they passed
the horde, the ships slowed to minimum speed and

followed, flying low, just above them. In another
day they would arrive at the boundaries of Hatnor—
and blood would run in the gutters of all who op-
posed them.

Sojan was sure that very little blood would flow as
the army would be on his side. It was the criminal
population, egged on by an evil and power-mad
noble, who had risen and overthrown their Emperor
while the bulk of his army was crushing a rebellion
in an outer province.

There would always be unrest in any regime. Sojan
knew this, but there was no cause for the people to
grumble about their ruler. As always, the unrest had
been caused by a powerseeker intent on turning a
nation into a blood-bath for his own selfish ends.

Now the once happy people groaned beneath the
tyrant's yoke, no man, woman or child could count
themselves safe from his oppression.

Not only men made up the barbarian army, their
maidens rode beside them, armed with knife, sword,
shield and spear. In their left hands they carried
charm sticks to keep their men and themselves from
harm. Most of these girls were extremely beautiful
and the armour they wore did not detract from their
good looks in any way, rather it enhanced them.

At last they reached the outer boundaries of the
Empire and found little opposition here. It would be
later, when news of their invasion reached the city
of Hatnor, that the fighting would begin. Sojan was
finding it difficult to keep the barbarians in order;
they had decided that anyone could be slain as long
as they got their loot. But after a council meeting
with the chiefs he was sure that they would be
reliable for a time.

Two days later found them at the gates of Vermlot,
gates which were securely locked and guarded.

The barbarians were all for laying violent siege to
the place, but Sojan realised that they could hold out
for an eternity.

"You are forgetting our ships," he said, "we have
the whole of the Hatnorian airforce under our con-
trol. They will not last as long as they hope!"

His flagship sailed gracefully down for him and
then shot up again when he was aboard. Orders
were shouted from ship to ship and the fleet dipped
downwards towards the great city square. Aboard were
hundreds of soldiers, the most reliable of the barbar-
ian horde, and as soon as the ships reached the
ground, not without some opposition, they swarmed
from the ships and ran to engage the rather fright-
ened militia who barred their way.

Wild cries, strangely woven banners raised against
a background of flashing steel and muffled poppings
of the airpistols and rifles. It was impossible to use
the heavier artillery.

Into the square they poured and soon it was im-
possible to tell friend or foe as the fighting surged
back and forth, spreading outwards into the streets,
into the very houses themselves. Attacked from the
inside as well as at their walls, the tyrant's men were
uncertain whom to attack and while they wavered,
the barbarians took the opportunity to batter in one
of the minor gateways and clamber over the inner
wall.

The streets were slippery with blood, echoing with
the ring of steel and the cries of the wounded.

Sojan was in front, hewing and hacking with his
great blade, his long hair streaming behind him and
a grim smile upon his lips. "To the Palace, to the

Palace," he cried. "Take the Palace or our cause is
lost!"

And, like a tidal wave, the army surged over their
enemies in the direction of the great Palace. The
doors would not open to their thunderous knocking
so battering rams were brought in. As the main door
flew open, Sojan and his men drew back in horror.

There stood Nornos Kad, their ruler, worn and in
rags, a filthy stubble on his face. And surrounding
him, a body of Trewin's personal guard. Behind
them stood their leader.

"Come another step closer, Sojan, and I'll be forced
to kill your precious Emperor!" he called.

Sojan and his men were in a quandary, what were
they to do? It was checkmate, if not defeat, for them.

An idea sprang into Sojan's mind.

Aiming a pistol at Nornos Kad, he pulled the
trigger. The Emperor fell to the ground with a moan
and lay still.

"There, dog, I've done your dirty work for you!"
he laughed.

In a rage Trewin fired blindly at Sojan. The Swords-
man flung himself to the ground and the bullet whis-
tled by to catch one of his men in the shoulder.

Lifting his own pistol, Sojan fired twice. Trewin,
in the act of fleeing up the staircase, flung up his
arms and toppled down the great stairway, blood
trickling from his mouth. He landed with a thud at
the feet of his guards.

With a cry, Sojan, his sword glistening in the light
of the torches suspended around the wall, charged
for the astounded guards who, without thinking,
threw down their weapons and fled.

Nornos Kad picked himself up from the floor with
Sojan's help.

"A clever move, Sojan," he grinned, "but it took
some clever shooting, too."

He examined the hole which Sojan's bullet had
made in his coat.

"It was a minor risk, sir. If I had not taken it, the
city would even now be in the hands of Trewin."

"At the moment it seems to be in the hands of
your Poltoonian barbarians," laughed the War Lord.
"Let us go to the rescue of our fellow countrymen."

Peace had come once more to Hatnor.

5. The Purple Galley

To DESCRIBE the wonderful pageantry, the colours,
the races and the myriad weapons which flashed in
that great hall would be impossible. The gleaming
white stones of the hall, hung with vivid tapestries
of red, black, gold, yellow, orange, green and pur-
ple, almost reflected the equally scintillating colours
of the uniforms and dresses of the men and women
who stood before the throne of Nornos Kad.

But there was one uniform missing, one tall figure
which should have been there was not, one sword
did not flash in the great hall.

And the faces of the nobles were sad—for the
missing man was Nornos Rique, Prince of Hatnor—
the War Lord's son.

"My people," said Nornos Kad, softly and very
sadly, "my son has been missing for thirteen days
now and still no news of him or the Princess Asderma.
Has anyone anything to report—you, Sojan, have
you found any traces of my son?"

"No, sire, although I have searched the whole
nation. I can only conclude that your son is not in
the Hatnorian Empire!"

"Then we must find him, Sojan! Take the men
you require—and return with my son! If it is possi-
ble then you are the man to find him!"

The sun was just setting when a weary and travel-
stained rider guided his myat into the small collec-
tion of stone and wooden buildings which was the
border town of Erm. He had ridden for days, stop-
ping only to eat and gather a few hours' sleep when
he could no longer stay awake. His clothes were
good and were mainly made of durable hide. His
weapons nestled in well-oiled sheaths and scabbards,
his shield was covered with canvas. It was easy to
see that here was the typical soldier of fortune—a
Zylorian mercenary.

He dismounted at the small tavern and called
through the door which was ajar.

"Hey there! Is there a stable for my animal and a
bed for me?"

"Yes, my lord," came a woman's voice from the
tavern and a girl of about eighteen appeared in the
doorway. "Hey, Kerk!" she called. "Fetch a blanket
for this gentleman's myat and take him to the stables!"

"This way my lord," said the battle-scarred vet-
eran who came to do the woman's bidding. "What's
trade like?" he added with a grin as they neared the
wooden building which served as a stable for the
beasts of the whole village.

"Not too bad," the mercenary smiled. "As long as
men are men and their tempers are the same then
I'll never be out of a job. There was an uprising in
Hatnor some months ago. That was a good scrap if
ever there was one!"

"Aye, I heard about it from another gentleman
who came this way soon after it happened. Didn't

say much, though—most untalkative type if you ask
me! He wasn't a Hatnorian—nor a Northerner for
that matter, that was easy to see!"

"What do you mean?" The mercenary was obvi-
ously interested; more than casually so.

"He was a Shortani man, you can't mistake'em."

"Shortani's a big continent—did you hear him say
what country in Shortani?"

"Wait a minute. I believe he did say something."
The old man paused and tugged at his grizzled beard.
He frowned, thinking hard. "Yes, I've got it—it was
raining at the time. Like it does most of the time in
these parts," Kerk laughed—"Never seems to stop it
don't . . ."

"Yes," the mercenary was impatient, "but what
did he say?"

"What? Oh, yes. The country. Well, he said, when
he got here, that it was 'never like this in Uffjir!' Yes,
that was it."

"Uffjir, hmm, that's right on the farthest side of
Shortani. And even then he may not have been
returning there. It probably isn't anything but it seems
strange for an Uffjirian to travel so far from his tropi-
cal lands, especially in winter. What did he look like,
this man?"

"Oh! The usual type, you know. Small, a bit fat,
wore one of them fancy jewelled swords which snaps
as soon as you cross it with a good bit of Turani
steel. Why, I remember when I was a young'un—
that would have been a bit before your time. We
didn't have none of them newfangled flying ma-
chines in those days, I can tell you. We had to do
all our travelling by myat—or more likely on our
feet..."

"Yes!" The mercenary was almost crying with im-

patience by this time. "But can you describe the
Uffjirian?" '

"Well, he had a beard if that's any good. And it
was curled up a bit—looked as if he'd put oil on it.
Wore fancy clothes, too, no good for travelling but
expensive—yes, they were certainly expensive. He
was a nobleman by the look of him—hired a whole
crowd of the village men and they all went off to-
gether somewhere. They ain't back yet."

"Have you any idea where they went?"

"Only the direction. They went off in the opposite
direction to the one from which you came. Mounted,
too, and although they wouldn't admit it, every one
of them has a sword hidden in his blankets. They
can't fool me, I have to look after their myats!"

The myat had been rubbed down and was in his
stable by this time, attended by the two men, one an
aged veteran with over a hundred years of fighting
behind him and the other equally a veteran with not
much more than twenty years behind him. They
lived short lives on Zylor for most men died of a
sword thrust by the time they were seventy or eighty.
Their life span of 120 years was rarely reached.

That night, the mercenary sat in the corner of the
tavern, drinking and cleaning his heavy pistol. There
were two other visitors at the tavern. A young man
of seventeen years or so and his father. They were
friendly men and the mercenary and he found mu-
tual ground in that they were both veterans of the
Findian/Kintonian wars. The mercenary had fought
for the Findians and the man—Orfil—had fought on
the side of the Kintonians. But there was no bad
feeling between the men for at that time Orfil had
also been a mercenary. Now he was a merchant—
dealing in precious jewels—and he and his son were

travelling to Aborgmingi, a small group of islands in
the Shortani Sea. The mining of precious stones was
unknown there, he said, and he found it worth his
while to travel the distance over land and sea to sell
them as they obtained prices which were over five
times as much as those in Fria, his own country.

"Ride with us," he invited, "there is always a
greater amount of safety if there is a greater amount
of men and I would be glad of your company."

"I ride towards Shortani," said Sojan, "but whether
I shall for long depends on circumstances."

The merchant knew better than to ask what "cir-
cumstances" they were for privacy means life on
Zylor and those who ask too many needless ques-
tions are liable to find themselves in an alleyway
keeping close company with a knife!

The three men retired to their respective rooms
and the mercenary was glad to get some rest. Wea-
rily he sank on to the not-so-soft bed and lay down
to sleep.

In the morning he awoke at his accustomed hour
and attempted to rise. He could not, for his hands
were bound. He was strapped to the bed and the
only thing he could move was his head. Looking
down at him with a smile on his face was—Orfil the
merchant, and his son. Only his "son" had donned
her skirts again and was an extremely pretty girl!

"Well, my nosy soldier, you've put your nose into
one game too many this time!" laughed Orfil, who
seemed to be enjoying a great joke. The girl behind
him was not so amused. Her whole bearing was
tense and the hand that gripped the pistol at her
side gleamed white at the knuckles.

"Perhaps I should introduce myself," continued
the man. "my name is Orfil. I am the Captain of the

Spies Guild in Rhan. This lady prefers to. remain
unknown, although where you're going the gods
will know it anyway!"

"You're going to kill me then?"

"Yes."

"And am I permitted to enquire 'why'?"

"Certainly. I am afraid that I shall be forced to kill
you—though I regret it, sir, for I like you. You see,
you have been enquiring just a little too pointedly to
be harmless. I suspect that you are more than a
common mercenary—that perhaps you are in the
pay of Uffjir—and if this is so, then it will be more
of a pleasure to kill you!"

"I am no Uffjirian, you oaf! And I am not involved
in any intrigue. I seek my War Lord's son who
disappeared some time ago! Think not that I would
sink so low as you!"

The smile vanished from the Rhanian's face and
his right hand clenched on his long sword.

"Then I am sorry! You see Nornos Rique is in this
right up to his lance-tip!"

And with that, he raised his sword. The girl turned
away, and just as Orfil was about to deal the death
thrust, the door opened slowly and he saw the face
of the Uffjirian nobleman. Behind him were half a
dozen burly swordsmen.

"Yit take you, Parijh!" cried the spy and then to
the girl, "Quick, get behind me and open the win-
dow. I'll hold them back. There are myats awaiting!"

And with that he rushed upon the Uffjirian who,
for a moment was so taken aback that he could
hardly defend himself from the furious attack of
Orfil's sword.

"Quick men," he yelled, "seize him, kill him, don't
let him escape!" But the narrow doorway would not

permit more than one man to enter at a time and
Orfil easily pushed Parijh back and swung the heavy
bar into position as the door shut.

"No time to slay you now," he panted as he
clambered over the window ledge, "perhaps some
other time ..."

The girl had by this time scrambled from the win-
dow and was waiting with the myats. The soft thud
of their hooves was drowned by the yells of the man
from Uffjir and the surly answers of his companions.

Silence fell as the men gave chase to Orfil and the
girl. The mercenary still lay strapped to the bed. The
door was barred from the inside and he had begun
to think that he would soon starve to death when
someone knocked on the door.

"Get me out of here!" he yelled.

"Is there anything the matter, sir?"

This was too much even for a hardened warrior.
"Yes there is!" he roared. "And if you don't let me
out right now—I'll tear the place down with my bare
hands!" A rather vain boast considering his position.

Murmurs at the door and the retracing of steps
down the creaking staircase.

He waited expectantly, hearing occasional voices.
Then there were tramping feet on the stairway and
in a few moments the door fell inwards, closely
followed by two men with a battering log and be-
hind them old Kerk.

"I said there was something up!" he exclaimed
triumphantly.

It was a matter of minutes to untie the mercenary,
for him to gather up his accoutrements, to pay Kerk
and to find and saddle his myat. Then he was off,
down the long forest track, following the trail of
Orfil and his pursuers.

For three hours he followed a trail which was
easily found. Once or twice he thought he heard
movements in the forest but, although he kept his
hand ever ready on his sword, he was not attacked.

Then, just as he turned the bend in the trail, they
were there. The Uffjirian's men, lined across the
narrow path, swords drawn and pikes at the ready.

But the mercenary was trained to quick thinking
and at the same moment as his heels dug into his
myat's flanks, he drew sword, unhooked shield and
brought his lance to bear as he thundered down
upon his foes, his crimson cloak flying behind him
like a vampire's wings soaked in blood, and a blood-
curdling war-shout on his lips!

Taken aback, they wavered, but at the Uffjirian's
shouts behind them, pushed forward to meet the
charging lancer. Down went one with a brilliantly
tufted shaft protruding from his throat. The lance
was wrenched out of the mercenary's hands and his
steed reared and snorted, flailing with its cloven
hooves. His face was alight with battle-lust, he ducked
beneath the guard of another man and dealt him a
cut which put him down, shrieking and calling to
some unknown god in an agony of death. He whirled
his steed about, hoping to gain a little ground by
retreating, but it was too late, for he was surrounded
by a solid ring of pikes and blue steel. He caught
blow after blow on his shield and the flat of his
sword. One man lunged upwards with his heavy
pike and the myat snorted in pain before his deadly
hooves beat the man down.

Leaping from the wounded myat, the lone swords-
man found himself surrounded by four of Parijh's
men. He bled from a dozen superficial cuts and still
he fought with the skill and ferocity of a trained

crinja cat. Then there was a gap in their ranks and he
was through, rushing for a tethered myat twenty
yards away.

Howling like were-wolves, they followed him across
the glade and reached him just as he cut the tether-
ing rope of the myat with his sword and leaped into
the high saddle. They attempted to cut at his ani-
mal's legs but a swift arc of blue steel drove them
back. As he passed the body of the man whom he
had first slain, he stooped and wrenched the lance
from the corpse and then he was away, down the
long trail in the direction Orfil had taken. All his
would-be captors heard was a grim laugh which
echoed through the tall trees of the forest.

Turning in the saddle, the mercenary saw them
run to their mounts and Parijh come from behind,
scolding and cursing—for among other things, the
fine beast the mercenary had taken had belonged to
the Uffjirian!

And it soon proved its worth for he easily outdis-
tanced them and was again following Orfil's tracks—a
trail which was to lead to the weirdest adventure in
his whole career.

6. The Sea Wolves!

Two DAYS after his fight with the Uffjirian's men, the
mercenary rode into the port of Minifjar in the coun-
try of Barj.

There were several ships in the harbour. Mer-
chantmen mainly, but here and there rose the tall
prows of warships.

Although their airships are motor-powered, the
Zylorians have not found an engine capable of mov-
ing their ships, or for carrying them for very far and,
since steam-power also is unknown, they still rely
on sails and oars for motive power.

Most of the ships were equipped with both sails
and oars but two of them were built for sails only.
From every one of them, long barrels poked from
strategic ports, for it was only a suicidal madman
who would sail anything but the calm waters of the
Asnogi Channel and the Shortani Sea unarmed.

There was one ship, a galley, which stood out
from the others. Its tall prow triumphantly above the
rest and its sails and paintwork were predominantly
purple. Purple, like black on Earth, is the colour of

death on Zylor, so it attracted much attention from
the inhabitants of the small town.

The mercenary sought out the only presentable
inn and bought a meal and a bed for the night.

As he lugged his equipment wearily up the flight
of narrow stairs, he looked up and caught a glimpse
of a familiar face—that of Orfil of Rhan's girl com-
panion.

Evidently she had been watching him and the
warrior kept a wary hand on his sword and resolved
to make sure that his door was firmly barred that
night.

But soon after he had dumped his belongings on
the dirty bed, he heard the rattle of harness and,
from his small window, he saw the spy and the girl
leaving the walled entrance to the inn—they had
none of their possessions with them which told the
mercenary a great deal. They had gone for reinforce-
ments. He sat on the edge of the bed pondering
what he should do.

He had decided that it would be wiser to leave,
when there came the sound of myat's hooves and a
squad of Barjite Cavalry, fully armed with lances,
swords, long rifles and pistols, clad in uniforms of
blue, red and green with shining breastplates, hel-
mets and leg greaves of bright steel. They clattered
to a halt outside the inn.

"Thank Yit!" the mercenary murmured. For he
recognised the captain of the mounted men as an
old friend, who had fought beside him in an expedi-
tion Barj had made when bandits had been raiding
their caravans of merchandise.

"Red," he cried, opening the window. "Red, you
son of a crinja cat!"

Red, or as his men knew him, Captain Jeodvir,

Vollitt's son of Chathja, turned. Then, as he saw
who called him, a wide grin took the place of his
previously astonished expression and he passed a
hand through the shock of hair which gave him his
nickname.

"Sojan! What are you doing in this particular bit of
Hell?"

"And you? One of King Vixian's crack lancers
commanding a coast patrol!"

"The king doesn't like me any more, Sojan,"
laughed the warrior. "Not since I pressed for better
pay for the cavalry and nearly started a civil war at
the last council!"

It was Sojan's turn to laugh. "You couldn't plead
for better conditions for the underpaid infantry, I
suppose!"

"What? And have them get the idea that they're
up to cavalry standard!"

The rivalry between infantry and mounted divi-
sions in Barj was very real and at times became a
threat to the internal peace of that nation. The brawls
between the better trained cavalry (generally inherit-
ing the right to become an officer) and the recruited
infantry were cursed in every town from Erm to
Ishtam-Zhem, the capital. But Sojan was not con-
cerned with this, he had an ally now, no need to
run, he could stay and fight like a man.

"Looking for a fight, Red?" he said.

"Dying to be killed, why?" enquired Red, using
an expression which was currently popular among
fighting men.

"Because I have a feeling that we will be in one
soon!"

"Good, I'll tell my men to be prepared."

"Thanks, I'll need some help, I think."

"Unusual for you to admit that!"

"Shut up, I'm coming down."

In the courtyard of the inn, Sojan told Red what
he knew about Orfil and what had happened to him
since he left the court of Hatnor to search for his
ruler's son.

And as he finished, Orfil and a band of some
twenty mounted men in seamen's clothes, rode into
the courtyard. The captain's squad consisted of ten
men—so they were outnumbered almost two-to-one.
The seamen had no lances but the cavalry had left
their rifles, pistols and lances with their myats' sad-
dles and other equipment. Now they were armed
only with long sabres (or vilthors) and small battle-
axes.

It took Orfil less than a second to take stock of the
situation and with a curse, he bore down upon the
group, yelling a blasphemous battle-shout so full of
evil that it made Sojan's hair tingle. His men fol-
lowed him, hardened sea-wolves these, all of them
by rights fodder for the executioner's axe. Scarred,
wild-eyed men in exotic clothes of many hues and
nations. Black, green, white and red. From every
nation on Zylor, they bore weapons which were
equally varied—battle-axes, maces, pikes, hooked
swords and broadswords, vilthors and blades resem-
bling scimitars. All were there, and many so strange
that they defied simple description.

Sojan blocked Orfil's lance thrust with his own
long sword and unslung his shield from his back in
a hurry. But not soon enough, for Orfil's lance stabbed
again and flung the mercenary backward against a
wall. Luckily, the lance tip broke on Sojan's breast-
plate and Orfil swore to his dark gods as he wheeled
his steed about and attempted to cut at Sojan with

his broadsword. But now Sojan was up again, back
against the wall, shield up and blade screaming as
he cut past Orfil's guard.

But Orfil was swept away as the fight eddied back
and forth across the courtyard. There, a green man
of Poltoon went down with a lancer on top of him,
stabbing again and again. Near him a huge red man,
bearded, with one of his small horns broken and
splintered, staggered towards his tethered steed spit-
ting blood from a punctured lung—he never made
the myat. A lancer was crushed by sheer weight of
numbers as four howling, long-haired black men from
Shortani bore him down and almost tore him to
pieces. Everywhere was chaos and Sojan hardly knew
who it was he fought, there were so many of them.
Finally he singled out another red giant who whirled
a shrieking twin-bladed axe around his head and
laughed through his black beard all the time. He
bled from a flesh wound in his left arm and his face
streamed blood from a superficial sword cut, but he
never seemed to tire. Sojan caught a blow of the axe
on his shield which dented so much that it almost
broke his arm. Discarding it he skipped nimbly away
from the arc of blood-stained steel, ducked beneath
it and ripped upwards with a thrust that caught the
giant in the throat and threw him groaning to the
cobbles before Sojan lost sight of him as a fresh
wave of sea-spoilers pushed towards him.

The war-shout of his people was upon Sojan's lips
and it rose above the screams and curses of the men,
spurred Red and his men on to greater feats of
magnificent swordsmanship until the sailors were
driven back. Slowly, very slowly, they gave ground
and just as victory seemed in the hands of Sojan and

his allies, from the courtyard walls dropped scores
of well-armoured axemen.

It was impossible to defend themselves against
this sudden onslaught and the last thing Sojan heard
as an axe haft fell on his helmet and blackness fol-
lowed blinding light was:

"Take them alive. They will suffer more tonight!"

7. Sojan at Sea

SOJAN AWOKE with a piercing pain in his head which
quickly disappeared. Looking about him he found
that he was lying on a comfortable couch in a well
furnished room which seemed to have an indefin-
able "something" wrong with it.

Then he realised what it was. Every article of
furniture was clamped to the floor and the windows
were small square openings in the walls, just below
eye-level.

He was in a ship's cabin. Obviously one of the
ships in the harbour—that was why the men who
had attacked him had worn seafaring garb. Which
ship though? He didn't know. Doubtless he would
find out soon enough. Could it be the purple ship of
death which swayed at anchor in Minifjar harbour?
It was likely, this business was mysterious enough
for anything.

He walked over to the port hole and looked out.
No, the purple ship could be seen from there. Then
what ship was this?

He went back to the couch after trying the door
which he found locked as he had expected.

He waited an hour—a long hour—until the bar on
the door was lifted with a creak and the door swung
open.

To his surprise, he found himself staring into the
face of Parijh, the Ufffjirian who said:

"Welcome aboard the Sea Crinja my friend!"

But the man who stood behind Parijh caught the
adventurer's attention most of all. It was his War
Lord's son, Nornos Rique of Hatnor!

"Shiltain!" swore Sojan when he saw him.
"What—?"

"Explanation later, Sojan, we were lucky to rescue
you. Right now you're not very welcome. My fault, I
suppose, for giving no hint that I would be going—
but there was no time."

"But how did I get out of Orfil's hands?"

"It's a long story—too long to relate here. Mean-
while, we sail for the Sea of Demons!"

"What?"

"We're sailing dangerous waters Sojan, for we
play a dangerous game in which the whole planet is
at stake. Do you want to come on deck?"

"Thanks."

The three men climbed the long ladders to the
poopdeck. Nornos Rique shouted orders as sails were
set and men moved to their oars. All the men were
well built fighting men.

Sojan looked back to where the huge purple galley
swayed at anchor like a dead ship becalmed in the
terrible weed jungle of the Black Ocean. She gave no
signs of following and soon the sails were billowing,
oars creaked in unison and they were on the open
sea, bound for the mysterious Sea of Demons.

Like all ships, there was continual movement
aboard. Men scurrying up and down the rigging,

guns oiled and cleaned, the shouts of the mate giving
orders.

The ship comprised three decks. Two raised fore
and aft and a middle deck which was little more
than a raised platform over the oarsmen's pits on
port and starboard. In the centre of this deck there
was another slightly raised platform measuring about
thirty feet upon which was the single mast. At the
base of this mast a drummer sat—beating out a steady
rhythm which was followed by the oars who took
their timing from the drum.

On this platform, also, was the heavy artillery and
something which Sojan had never seen before—
harpoon guns, twelve of them, five a side and an-
other two fore and aft.

It was obvious that peaceful trading with the tribes
along the Shortani coast was not the object of this
particular voyage.

Suddenly, Sojan remembered his comrades.

"What happened to my friends?" he asked.

"They're all aboard the Purple Arrow, that cursed
ship of Death you saw in Minifjar harbour," an-
swered Rique. "You see, Sojan, we only had time to
free you before we were discovered. My men and I
swam across and boarded her silently last night. We
finally found you and, judging by your snores, you
were in a drugged sleep. There were four others
with you but they were so much dead weight that
we could only take you and secretly leave knives in
their shirts with which to aid themselves if they
have the chance. I'm sorry, Sojan, but it is too late to
go back for them now even if it were practical."

"You are right, of course, Rique," answered Sojan,
"but I would that I could help them!"

Now the tall Sea Crinja was in open waters, beyond

sight of land. Bound for the terrible Sea of Demons
where few ships ever sailed—and returned. And, in
the days they sailed towards their destination, Sojan
pieced together the ominous tale of the Old Ones
and how the Priests of Rhan sought to conquer Zylor
with their evil aid.

It seemed that word of the plot was brought to
Uffjir first. This country lies due North of Rhan on
the Shortani coast and is generally better informed
about the island of Mystery as it is sometimes called
than is the rest of Zylor.

The Uffjirian monarch, King Ashniophil, had feared
to make public the news as it would very likely force
the Rhanian priesthood into swifter action. Instead,
he had sent a messenger to enlist Nornos Rique's aid
as, if the worst ever happened, Hatnor was the most
powerful country on the whole planet. Nornos Rique,
naturally, had not thought it wise to notify his father
at once as he knew the other's aptitude to make
quick, but sometimes hasty decisions and this is
what Uffjir was trying to prevent.

Unfortunately, at the time of the messenger's com-
ing, the Princess Asderma had been with Rique and
had overheard everything. She threatened to betray
Nornos Rique to the Rhanians unless he paid her a
fabulous amount of money.

Knowing that even when she had the money, she
would be dangerous, Rique decided to go into hid-
ing. He had had to kidnap the girl and ride for Rhan
in an effort to come to terms with the rulers or, if
this failed, destroy or capture their leaders and their
strange unhuman allies.

After several detours, he finally reached Minifjar
but not before the Princess had escaped and fled to
Orfil who had promptly ridden for Minifjar himself

where a ship (one of the purple fleet of the Rhanian
Theocracy—or Priest Rulers) awaited him in case
just such an emergency as this should occur. The
mercenary's questions had aroused his interest when
he had overheard them at the inn and he had taken
Sojan prisoner. Only to be foiled by the Uffjirian
messenger who was acting as a rear-guard for Nornos
Rique. The rest Sojan knew.
Now it was a race to get to Rhan first.

8. The Sea of Demons

IT WAS a race to get to Rhan first. The Purple Arrow
would take the comparatively safe way there by sail-
ing down the coast of Poltoon until safer waters
were reached (namely the Poltoonian Ocean) and
back to Rhan via these waters.

The Crinja, however, would attempt to sail through
the Demon Sea, cutting off a considerable part of the
distance. They knew little of what they had to fight
against. The Arrow did not know of their plan and
was relying on the greater speed to catch the Crinja
and either destroy it or beat it to Rhan and have it
destroyed then. If the Crinja could reach Rhan first,
it would have several days start and the fate of the
world would be decided in those days. Why the
Arrow had not sailed earlier, they knew not, but
guessed that they were waiting for someone.

It was a day's sail until they would reach the
Demon Sea and in that time, Sojan got to know his
companions better.

Parijh, the Uffjirian, proved to be a humorous
man. Cheerful in the face of every danger they had
had to meet. When necessary, he was an excellent

swordsman, but preferred to keep out of what he
called 'unnecessary brawling'. This often gained him
a reputation of cowardliness but, as he said, it was
an asset rather than otherwise, for what better oppo-
nent is there than the one who underestimates you?

Sojan had to agree with this statement and a strong
feeling of comradeship and mutual respect grew be-
tween them as they sailed ever nearer to the Sea of
Demons.

Nornos Rique himself captained the Crinja. Rique
was a tall man with a face that, though not hand-
some, had a dependable and rock-hard ruggedness
and eyes of steel grey.

The mate was, as is usual on Zylorian naval craft,
either privateer or part of an authorised Navy, a
cavalry captain by the name of Andel of Riss who,
although inclined to make independent decisions
without consulting anyone first, was a good man in
any kind of fight, and worth four of any man in the
crew, who were all fine men and who admired him
and respected him as only seamen can respect a
man. They would also prove this in a fight with man
or the elements.

The custom of placing cavalry men as seconds-in-
command of ships is not as strange as it seems and
the custom evolved thus:

At one time in the not-so-ancient history of Zylor
a strong rivalry developed between seamen and
landsmen. It became so bad that if a war came, the
land forces could never rely on the naval forces—
and vice versa.

It was the idea of assigning landsmen to learn the
ways of the sea and naval officers to get to know the
cavalry and infantry that saved them from chaos,

and nowadays the two forces worked together in
perfect harmony.

Later, on the evening of the third day out of Minifjar
they were sailing a sea which was similar to any
other sea but which, according to the maps, was the
feared Sea of Demons.

"We'd better anchor here and sail on at daybreak,"
Nornos Rique decided, and he gave the order to
drop anchor. The anchor chain rattled down for sev-
eral seconds before stopping with a jarring clank.

"Water's too deep, sir! Anchor won't take!" yelled
Andel.

"Then we daren't drift. Ship oars and set sail on
your course."

"Yes, sir!"

Night fell forming an atmosphere of decay and
death which could almost be smelled or touched.
But apart from this, nothing happened save a faint
scraping from time to time along the side of the boat
which was attributed to some heavy sea-weed or a
piece of drift wood.

The twin suns rose and the green dawn came,
sending shadows and atmosphere scurrying over the
horizon. The sea was green and shone like dark jade
with some of jade's intangible mistiness.

Oars smashed into it, ploughing it in bright foam-
flecked furrows, and the monotonous beat of the
drum began.

Sojan and his comrades ate breakfast in an atmo-
sphere of gloom.

"It's this confounded sea!" suddenly roared Andel,
rising from his chair and crashing his fist into his
open palm. "Yit! By the time this voyage is over,
there'll be men's lives lost and most likely we'll all
be on the bottom!"

"Calm down, Andel, we'll come to any danger
when we get to it," Nornos Rique said.

Andel grunted sullenly and subsided.

Two depressed hours followed until:

"Yit take us!"

This oath was followed by a piercing scream which
tailed off into a choking gasp.

The four men rushed on deck. Most of the crew
were at the starboard rail, staring downward to where
a red foam flecked the white.

"Turn back, sir, you must turn back!" One hyster-
ical seaman rushed towards Nornos Rique screaming.

"Calm down, and tell me what happened!"

Fear was in the man's eyes. A terrible fear border-
ing on madness. He babbled out his tale.

"A—a thing,—sir—it crept up on Mitesh and—oh,
sir—it grabbed him by the throat and jumped over-
board!"

"Is that all?"

"It's enough, sir!" muttered another of the men.

"What did this 'thing' look like? Who saw it
clearly?"

"I did, sir."

It was the man who had commented a second
before.

"Well?"

"It was a kind of green and brown. Scaly. By Yit,
sir, it looked like a man might look if his mother had
been a fish!"

"You mean this animal was—human?"

"Not human, sir. But it had a man's body sure
enough. And his face was pointed, like, sir. And his
eyes—his eyes were green, like the rest of him, and
seemed to rot you when he stared at you!"

"All right. Thank you. Take this man below and
give him something to drink!"

"Yes sir. Do we turn back?"

"No! You all knew there was danger!"

"Danger, yes sir, but not from—from devils!"

"Get below—we sail on!"

Back in their cabin, Sojan spoke.

"I've heard old folktales, Rique, about occurrences
such as this one. Now I know why the ancients
called this the 'Sea of Demons'."

"Do you think they are—organised in any way?"

"I've never heard of them being anything but in
large numbers!"

"Perhaps this was a warning, then?"

"I think it might have been."

"We'd better set all guns in readiness. Those har-
poons will come in useful. I had them mounted in
case of meeting any of those large saurians that
inhabit the Poltoonian Ocean. But it looks as if they'll
be needed for a different 'game' now!"

The ship's oars began to creak again. But was the
beat of the drum less sure? Were the oars a heartbeat
slower? It seemed to the men standing on the
poopdeck that this was so.

Towards the middle of the day, the atmosphere of
death grew and suddenly from the sea on four sides
of the vessel the weird inhabitants of the Sea of
Demons rose and attempted to board them.

But this time they were ready and the guns sent
forth a steady stream of deadly missiles, driving the
shrieking horde back into the sea.

"They went quickly enough!" yelled Andel jubi-
lantly.

"Too quickly. They'll be more wary next time and
they'll be back at night for sure!"

And night did fall and with it strange sounds
which rose from the water and chilled the blood of
the men on board.

But this time the crew were prepared and their
searchlights stabbed the gloom, picking out the gro-
tesque figures of the sea-people.

The crew moved forward, their yells mingling with
the strange hissing cries of the sea-people. Sabres
flashed in the searchlight glare and the blood of
seamen and the man-like monsters mingled on the
deck, making it difficult to get a footing.

The ship was a contrast of glaring light and total
blackness. Men leaped from shadow into blinding
gleam or disappeared into murky darkness. Men's
breath was streaming in the cold night air. Men's
battle cries pierced the shadows where light failed.
And Sojan and his companions were in the thick of
it, their swords lashing this way and that at their
inhuman adversaries. Sojan's war-cry spurred on the
men and slowly, then swiftly, they pushed them
back and the body of the last monster to invade their
ship crashed over the rail to splash into the murky
waters below.

There was an audible sigh from the sweating men.

"We've pushed 'em back once, lads, and by Yit,
we'll push them back from here to Rhan if needs
be!" cried Sojan. With the thrill of victory still in
their hearts, their pulses tingling with conquest, the
men's voices rose in assent.

A brief count found two sailors suffering from
wounds where the talons of the sea-people had ripped
them, while three more men were missing, obvi-
ously dragged down by the sea-people.

"We should reach Rhan in a day," said Nornos
Rique.

"Or the bottom," broke in Andel gloomily.

But the monotonous day ahead was broken only
by the screaming of sea-birds as they passed the
outlying islands of The Immortal Theocracy of Rhan
as it was called. This "immortal theocracy" was little
more than Rhan itself and a group of four islands
inhabited mainly by primitive tribes, most of whom
dwelt in the interior, anyway, and had probably
never heard of Rhan.

As they neared Rhan, Sojan felt misgivings. Would
they succeed in carrying out their plan? Or would
their perilous journey be in vain.

It was with these odd questions in his mind that
he followed his friends down the gangplank and
down a series of narrow lanes to a private house
owned by a society known to those few holding
positions of trust in the Hatnorian Empire, as the
"Friends of Hatnor." These "friends" were generally
native Hatnorians carrying forged or, as in some
cases, real papers giving assumed names as well as
assumed nationalities.

Three long knocks and two short ones three times
repeated gained them admission.

As they walked along the narrow corridor to the
main living room they began to feel just a little more
secure, even though they were deep in the heart of
the enemy's city—Jhambeelo.

But as the door swung open and friendly light
flooded into the dark corridor they were taken aback!

"Hullo, Sojan," grinned Red. "I don't think I've
met your friends?"

"By Yit! Red, how did you get here before us?"
cried Sojan.

"Simple. I flew!"

"What? No airship could make the distance."

"You're quite right. I didn't come by airship. Banjar,
here, brought me!"

For the first time, the comrades noticed what ap-
peared to be a hunchbacked, rather tall, man with
piercing blue eyes and aquiline features. Dark-haired,
with a swarthy complexion.

"To snap the bow in half," said Red, using a term
common on Zylor which means roughly—"To cut a
long story short," "Jik, Wanwif, Selwoon and myself
succeeded in staving a rather large hole in the bot-
tom of the Purple Arrow. Naturally enough, it was
not long before we were beginning to regret this as
the water was rising steadily in the hold. Then, as
we were all good swimmers, I thought that the only
way to escape drowning would be to enlarge the
hole and get out that way. So in turns we widened
the hole and, with a great deal of difficulty, pulled
ourselves under the keel of the boat and up into the
open water. We lost Wanwif, I'm sorry to say. He
didn't make it. Well, after that we found that we
would have been better off drowning in the ship as
there was no sight of land. I learned afterwards that
we were in the Black Ocean and this didn't help as
the stories I've heard of the Black Ocean are any-
thing but cheerful. But believe it or not, after swim-
ming in a Westerly direction for an hour or so, we
were picked up by a little fishing vessel, oared only,
manned by some natives of Yoomik which is the
largest of the Rhanian group next to Rhan itself.

"The people looked after us but soon we got weary
of hanging around their village and decided that an
exploratory trip into the interior of the island would
be the only thing to break the monotony. We trekked
for several days until coming upon the village of
Banjar's people—the Ascri.

"The Ascri at one time were enslaved by the
Rhanian Priesthood and still bear a grievance against
them. It was Banjar, who, when he had heard that I
believed you were going to Rhan, suggested that he
fly me there. We landed at night and made our way
here. Banjar's people are advanced in many of the
crafts and sciences and they have an asset which
helps them tremendously. Show Sojan and his friends
your asset, Banjar!"

Banjar grinned and stood up. Unfolding a pair of
huge wings.

"My people, I believe, are descended from the
ancient winged mammals who used to live on Zylor.
Just an off-shoot of evolution, I suppose. But one
which has proved of great help to my people who
can travel great distances at great speeds and al-
though we are few in number, we can elude any
enemies by leaving the ground and escaping that
way. As my friend says, 'It is a great asset'!"

Formal introductions were made and food eaten
but when this was finished Sojan spoke to Red.

"Have you managed to find out anything which
might prove useful to us, Red?"

"I have indeed, my friend, I have found out some-
thing which, with your courage and skill and a great
deal of luck, will save the world from chaos!"

9. Prisoners in Stone

RED'S PLAN was simple enough. Members of the se-
cret society of the "Friends of Hatnor" had found an
ancient plan of the Great Temple which was both
chief place of worship and the centre of the Priest-
hood's rule in Rhan. There were three tunnels lead-
ing into it. Old sewers, long since disused. Two
were cul-de-sacs, having been walled up. But in the
last, the walling had been a hasty job and the bricks
used to seal it had collapsed. However, these tun-
nels were still guarded at the other end. Some said
by Palace Guards—but others said simply that they
were guarded by "something". Even if the foe was
human it would take an incredibly brave man to
venture the rotting tunnels.

"Why not an army?" asked Andel. "Surely a great
many men would be safer than one?"

"Safer, yes, but certainly not so secret. Every ac-
tion we make must not be detected by the Priest-
hood—otherwise we are lost. We can only make a
very wide guess at what power these Old Ones
wield and it is our aim to stop them using it—not

bring it down upon our heads—and the rest of the
world's heads, also."

"I see," said Parijh, "then let me be the one to go.
I offer not out of heroics—which are extremely bad
taste in any case—but I am more accustomed to
stealth than these sword-swinging barbarians with
me." He grinned.

"Ho! So that's what we are, are we?" roared Andel.
"I'll have you know ..."

But the comrades would never hear the rest of
Andel's forthcoming witticism for Red broke in: "Be
a bit quieter, Andel, or you'll have the whole of the
Rhanian Soldiery on our heads."

"Sorry," said Andel.

"No," continued Red, "I think Sojan should go.
He is better for the job than anyone else. He has
barbarian training, he is cat-footed, lynx-eyed and
can hear a sword sing in its scabbard a mile away. I
think he will succeed in getting through more than
any other man in our company!"

"Then it will be I, that's settled," said Sojan with
satisfaction. "When and where do I start?"

"You start now, and I will lead you to the en-
trance of the tunnel. I suggest that you take a rifle,
an axe, your shield and your long sword. Half-armour
would be advisable, also."

"Then I shall take your advice," Sojan laughed
and proceeded to don half-armour. This consisted of
greaves for his legs, and a breastplate and helmet.

Then he was ready and prepared to follow Red
down winding backstreets to a small turning near
the Great Temple. Here, Red lifted a rusted cover to
reveal an equally rusted ladder leading down into
darkness.

"Good luck!" was all he said as Sojan slipped

down into the gloom and sought about for hand-
and foot-holds on the ageworn rail. Then the lid was
replaced and Sojan found himself in utter darkness.

Down he fumbled, sometimes missing footing
where one of the metal bars had rusted away, once
nearly falling when his groping hand instead of clos-
ing on solid metal closed on damp air. But at last he
was on the uneven floor of the disused sewer, peer-
ing into the gloom. He followed the wall along for
what seemed an eon, stumbling over fallen bricks
and refuse. At last he sensed an obstruction ahead
and he unsheathed his sword and felt the reassuring
butt of his heavy pistol in his hand. On he went,
past the fallen wall until—suddenly—there was no
more tunnel. Or so it seemed. His right hand, which
had been groping along the wall touched nothing.
But after the first brief shock he grinned to himself.
This was the right hand turn of the tunnel. Soon he
would meet the Guardians.

And meet them he did for, with a soul-shaking
shriek, two of the mysterious guardians were upon
him. Huge reptilian things, red-eyed and red-mouthed
with teeth reaching a foot long and razor sharp.

Sojan, shocked by their sudden attack, took a step
backwards, hitched his rifle to his shoulder and fired
straight into the mouth of the foremost beast. It
shrieked again but still came on. Hastily he dropped
the rifle and replaced it with his heavy axe and long
sword. But before the beast reached him it had stum-
bled and fallen with crumpling forelegs, writhing in
a fit of agony which ended with one abrupt shudder
of death.

The other monster was checked for a moment,
sniffed the corpse of its companion and then voiced
another spine-chilling shriek which was half hiss and

half human cry. Sojan met it with sword lashing and
axe whining through the air about his head. Back
went the monster but it returned in an instant, clutch-
ing at Sojan with its claws which almost resembled
human hands—though hands with six inch steel tal-
ons on the ends of each finger. Sojan stumbled back-
wards, his axe cutting and hacking at the hideous
thing, his sword slashing into its throat again and
again until at last it was down in a death agony that
lasted minutes.

Pausing to wipe his weapons clean of blood and to
pick up his rifle, Sojan moved on down the tunnel,
feeling a little more cheerful now that he knew his
foe and had conquered it.

And, abruptly, he was at the end of the runnel
and a similar steel ladder, in better condition, lead-
ing upwards. Warily he clambered up. Rifle, axe and
shield strapped across his broad back and his sword
firmly clenched in his teeth.

There was a metal cover here, too, and he lifted it
cautiously to be blinded for a moment by the sudden
gleam. He had been so long in darkness and the
semi-darkness of the tunnel that he blinked hard for
several seconds until his eyes became accustomed to
the light.

Silently he eased his body through the narrow
hole and just as softly replaced the cover. He was in
a lighted corridor with torches on either side. The
corridor was short and had a door at each end.
Which door? He decided immediately to take the
door which led farthest away from the tunnel. At
least he would be a little deeper into the Temple and
nearer the Inner Room in the centre which housed
the Old Ones.

Gradually he pushed the door until it swung open.

He thanked the Gods of Light, Yit and Corrunj, that
they had not been locked.

Down another corridor he sped, cat-footed as ever,
wary hands on sword and rifle. His armour glinted
in the torchlight and his shadow loomed black and
huge on the wall.

Most of the priests would be at rest, he knew, but
it was equally certain that guards would be posted at
strategic points and absolute caution was necessary.
He had a rough plan of the Temple printed in his
mind but the maze of corridors which he was follow-
ing and which ran deeper and deeper into the heart
of the Temple were complicated and were probably
or more recent origin, for the map had been very old.

But cautious as he knew he must be he was cer-
tainly not slow. For every heartbeat counted. He had
to reach the chamber of the Old Ones somehow and
discover who—or what—they were and what their
motives were for allying themselves with the evil
Priesthood of Rhan.

The murmurs of voices. The laughs of men. The
clank of sword-scabbard against armour. At last, a
guarded entrance. Was he near the strange sanctu-
ary of the Old Ones?

The men's backs were to him. This was not the
time for heroics, for a cry would mean discovery;
and discovery he must avoid. He raised his rifle and
brought it down on the head of one guard while
with his other hand he chopped at the back of the
other man's neck. They both collapsed without a
murmur. Looking up and down the intersecting cor-
ridor to make sure he had not been seen, he grabbed
the two bodies by their loose clothing and pulled
them back into the shadows. No time to hide them.
And no time to hide himself. For the clank of steel-

shod feet resounded down the corridor. He hugged
the wall and prayed to his ancient gods that he
would not be discovered.

Sojan heard the steps come nearer and nearer,
and then, miraculously, fade away again. Risking
discovery, he peered round the wall and saw an-
other passageway. Down it strode two guards and
one of the infamous High Priests of Rhan, the rulers
of the place. Cat-footed as usual, he followed them.
This corridor was not very well lighted but, unlike
the others, it had doors set in the walls.

Sojan hoped that one of these would not open.

Suddenly the priest stopped.

"Wait here," Sojan heard him say. No time to
think, now, he must act. Into the nearest apartment
and pray to Yit that it was unoccupied.

Luck! The rooms were empty. These, Sojan could
see, were the apartments of the High Priests. No
monkish sparsity of furniture here—these rooms were
lavishly furnished and decorated. Grinning, Sojan
bounced down on to the bed and breathed a prayer
of relief. Then he was up again and taking in his
surroundings. On one wall hung several of the long
flowing robes which the High Priests wore.

One of the customs of these men was to go
veiled—to give them a little more security from the
assassin, Sojan guessed—and also to enable them to
slip from the Temple and mingle with the people
without fear of being recognised. This was one of
the reasons why the people of Rhan were so easily
kept in subjection by the evil priest-Rulers.

But there was a chance, though Sojan knew it was
a slim one, that he could don one of these robes and
enter the Inner Chamber and meet the mysterious
Old Ones face to face.

Quickly he slipped into the robe, stuffing all but
his sword and pistol under a nearby couch, and
hoping that they would not be discovered. His sword
and pistol were well hidden by the folds of the robe
and he could keep his armour on.

Out now, and down the passage, past the loung-
ing soldiers who sprang to attention and saluted him
with the usual Zylorian salute—clenched fists against
temples and a short bow from the waist.

Sojan acknowledged the salute by a curt nod of
his head. The veil hid his features entirely, and if he
was unmasked by some mishap—only the other High
Priests would know whether he was a fraud or not.
So, comparatively safe, Sojan moved along the corri-
dor towards the huge, metal-studded door which
was the portal to the Inner Chamber.

It was unlocked, and the guards on each side of it
stood away respectfully as Sojan opened it.

At first he could see nothing, the room was lit by
one torch which cast shadows everywhere. Then,
from one corner of the large chamber, a voice spoke.
It was a voice of infinite weariness, full of lost hope
and the knowledge of an eternity of despair.

"Why trouble us again, Priest, we have promised
to do your bidding? And we keep our word—if you
do not."

Sojan realised that instead of the evil forces he had
expected, here were prisoners; slaves rather than
allies of the Priesthood.

"I'm no priest," he said, "if I knew who you were
I might help you even!"

"Is this another trick, Priest," murmured the voice,
although this time there was a little hope in it.

"No trick. I'm a sworn enemy of the priesthood of
Rhan. I represent the rest of Zylor, who have no

wish to become enslaved by.the Rhanians. Yet rumour
has it that you are allied with them." He squinted
into the darkness. "Who are you—or what?"

"We are the old inhabitants of Zylor. We lived
here before ever the shining ships of humanity sprang
from distant planets in a desperate attempt to reach
another habitable planet. They thought that the end
of their world had come. As it happened their world
did not die, but it was too late then, they had taken
all their knowledge out into space with them, and in
the long journey from Galaxy to Galaxy much of
their knowledge perished, for the journey took cen-
turies to complete.

"By the time the new generations reached this
planet, their ancestors had died and Man had to
start again, almost from the beginning. These Men,
who called themselves "Lemurians" lived peacefully
with us for many hundreds of years and we helped
them as much as possible, for we are a very ancient
race and had more knowledge than ever the ances-
tors of the Lemurians, although of a different kind—
for while Man concentrated on improving his body,
we concentrated on improving our minds and could
control mighty elements with our wills. Eventually
the Men became frightened of us and sent us away
(there were only a few of us living in far-flung colo-
nies then; now we are even less)."

"But how did you become the slaves of these
priests?" asked Sojan. "What happened?"

"Although there were many men who feared us
and called us Things of Evil and similar names, there
were others who began to worship us for our pow-
ers, calling us gods and setting up altars and Tem-
ples to us.

"Just as some men are foolish, some of our num-

ber were foolish and began to think that perhaps
they were gods after all. They dwelt in the Temples
and had sacrifices made to them and took part in
meaningless rituals. The priests soon found their
weaknesses, however, and decided that they could
rule the people if they frightened them by telling
them of the wrath of the gods and so on. They
succeeded in capturing us and imprisoning us. I was
one of the foolish ones, our contemporaries have
long since left this planet in search of another, unin-
habited by Man, with whom they cannot live in
peace.

"You may have read in your history scrolls of the
mighty Theocracy which dominated the world at
one time. Rhan is now all that is left of the Theo-
cracy—a remnant of a great and terrible nation! The
people rose against their oppressors, country by coun-
try, until the evil Priesthood was driven back, further
and further, to seek refuge on this island, the origi-
nal capital of the old Imperial Theocracy. It was here
that the cult, based on worship of us, was spawned
and, if you can help us, it is here that it will die.
Otherwise a new Black Age shall cover the world in
a cloak of death!"

"But," cried Sojan, "if you do not wish them to
rule Man then why do you help them? Why do you
lend them your powers to destroy the great Nations
of Zylor?"

"They have promised us freedom, O, Man! Free-
dom after thousands of decades. Freedom after eons
of despair. We would follow our brothers, we would
travel the infinite lengths of Space and Time were
we once released. We would see Suns and Planets,
green things. Seas and Plains. For us these things
are worth more than life. We are of them more than

Man—for we, like the planets and the stars, and the
grass that grows for ever, are almost immortal. We
have no bodies, as Man knows bodies, no senses as
Man interprets senses—we are Minds. You can see
that the temptation is great! We were not strong-
willed to begin with, we were proud of Man's petty
ceremonies. Now that he offers us Light and Free-
dom again, we must accept. Unless there is another
way."

"There may be another way," Sojan said. "If you
will but tell me how you are imprisoned, perhaps I
can release you!"

"There are certain minerals, rare and almost un-
known, which have the properties that lead has com-
pared to radium. Radium cannot harm or pass
through lead. Similarly, although we can pass through
most minerals and life forms, we are imprisoned if
we enter a certain precious stone. We can enter it,
but by some strange trick of nature, our beings can-
not pass back through it. Thus we were enticed,
centuries ago, into these blocks of ermtri stone. The
only way in which we can escape is by someone
outside boring shafts into the blocks and thus cut-
ting channels through which we can pass. Do you
understand?"

Dimly Sojan understood, though his brain was
shaken by the effort of trying to imagine beings so
utterly alien to Man, yet in some ways akin to him.
He picked up the torch and cast its light towards the
centre of the hall. There on an altar, covered by a
crimson cloth, rested five large blocks of some dark,
cloudy blue substance. Like—like blue jade. It was a
stone that Sojan, who had travelled the whole of his
planet almost, had never seen—had never, what is
more, heard of—not even in legends.

"I understand," he said, "what tool will cut it?"

"Steel, sharp steel will bore into it. Have you
steel?"

"Yes. Will it hurt you?"

"No, it will leave no impression."

Wiping sweat from his forehead and hands, Sojan
moved towards the blocks. He drew his sword and
clambered up on to the altar. Placing the sharp point
of his blade on top of the first block, he turned it
round and round. Feeling it bite deeper and deeper
into the strange substance he became aware of a
strange tingling which seemed to flow up his sword
and into his body, he couldn't define it but it was
not unpleasant. Suddenly there was a dazzling burst
of green and orange brightness and something seemed
to flow from the hole that he had bored, flow out
and upwards, lighting the room. He heard no words,
but in his mind there was a great sense of joy—of
thanks. Then, one by one he saw the other blocks,
broken by the same strange power, open and the
green and orange brightness flow from them.

Then they took on a slightly more solid shape,
until Sojan could make out eyes and circular bodies.
These, then, were the Old Ones. Perhaps in a mil-
lion, million years, man too would have succeeded
in being able to form the atoms of his body into
whatever shape he desired. Perhaps, these beings
once were Men? That would explain the strange
kinship Sojan felt for them. A kinship which his
Lemurian ancestors felt also, before their witnessing
of such alien powers changed their finer feelings
into those of fear and hate.

"Before you leave," Sojan begged, "I crave one
request as a price for your release."

"Anything!"

"Then when I am out of this building and safely at
sea, destroy this place of evil so that the power of
the priests will be shattered for all time and such an
evil can never rise again!"

"Gladly we grant you this. We will wait here until
you are at sea. But tread carefully, we cannot help
you to escape."

Thanking them, Sojan turned about and left, sword
in hand. But in his exultation he had forgotten the
soldiers outside and they stared in amazement at the
sword in his hand and the sweat on his face. This
did not seem to them any High Priest.

Taking quick stock of the situation, Sojan spoke to
them.

"I—I had a little difficulty with one of the bolts on
the interior," he lied, "I had to use this sword to
loosen it . . ."

With a puzzled look, the men bowed and saluted,
but there was doubt in their eyes.

"A priest would not go unveiled for anything," he
heard one of them murmur as he entered the room
which he had left previously. "He doesn't seem a
priest to me! Here you, stop a minute!"

But Sojan had bolted the door and was hastily
donning his weapons again. The men began to bang
on the door and more men came to see what the
noise was about.

"That's no priest," he heard someone say, "The
High Priest Thoro is conducting the Ceremony of
Death in the Outer Temple! He won't be back for
hours!"

"Batter the door down you fools," came a voice
that was obviously that of one in authority, probably
a High Priest.

Anxiously, Sojan looked for another exit. There
was only a curtained window.

He parted the curtain, and looked outside. It was
still dark. He looked down. A courtyard scarcely ten
feet below. With luck, he thought, I can jump down
there and escape as best I can. He put a foot on the
ledge and swung himself over, dropping lightly to
the grass of the courtyard. In the centre of the court-
yard a fountain splashed quietly—a scene of peace
and solitude. But not for long. He saw a face at the
window he had so recently quit.

"He's down there," one of the soldiers shouted.

Sojan ducked into the nearest doorway, opposite
the room he had left. He ran down a short, dark
corridor and up a flight of steps. No sign of pursuit
yet. Panting heavily he ran in the direction he knew
an exit to be. It would be guarded now, he knew, for
the whole Temple was by this time alert. And so it
was. With his usual good luck, Sojan had succeeded
in making the exit unchallenged. But there would be
no such luck here, with five huge soldiers coming at
him.

Again he had no time for heroics. His pistol came
up and two of his would-be killers went down. The
other three were on him now and his sword cut a
gleaming arc about his head. His battle-axe shrieked
as if for blood as he carried the attack towards his
foes instead of they to him. Nonplussed for a sec-
ond, they fell back.

That falling back was for them death, for now
Sojan had some kind of advantage and he made full
use of it as he drove blow after blow, thrust after
thrust into the men.

Bleeding himself from several wounds, Sojan came
on, down went one man, then another. Now the last

warrior, fighting with desperation hacked and par-
ried, and sought an opening in Sojan's amazing
guard.

None came, the man sought an opening too often,
lunged forward—and almost pinioned himself on
Sojan's blade. Back he tried to leap, clumsily. A
perfect target for a whistling, battered axe to bury
itself in helmet and brain.

Leaving his axe where it had come to rest, Sojan
fled the Temple. His heart pounding, he finally
reached the house where his friends waited.

"Come," he cried, "I'm successful—but we must
make the ship immediately, all of us, else we all die.
I don't know what they intend to do."

His companions realised that there was no time
for an explanation and followed him wordlessly.

A frantic race for the docks. One brief skirmish
with a City Patrol and then they were on board. Up
anchor, out oars, castoff.

And as the ship sped from the harbour they looked
back.

There came a blinding flash and then a deep,
rolling roar as the great Temple erupted in a sudden
burst of flame. Then, as they peered back at the city,
there was blackness again. The Temple was not
burning—there was no Temple now to burn—it had
been dissolved.

As they watched, Sojan and his friends saw five
streaks of blue and orange flame rise skyward and
rocket upwards and outwards—towards the stars.

"What was that?" gasped Nornos Rique.

"The Old Ones," smiled Sojan. "I'll tell you a tale
which you may not believe. But it is a tale which has
taught me much—as well as giving me a valuable
history lesson!"

The voyage back was not a boring one for Sojan's
companions as they listened to his strange tale.

But what of the Purple Galley you ask, what of
Orfil and the Princess who betrayed Rique? That,
readers, is a story which is short and sad. They, too,
attempted to sail through the Sea of Demons in
pursuit of Sojan and his companions.

But they were not so lucky.

10. The Plain of Mystery

THE WIND tore at the rigging of the tiny air-cruiser as
it pushed bravely into the howling storm.

Four men clung to the deck rails whilst a fifth
strove to steer the tossing gondola.

"Keep her headed North!" yelled Nornos Rique to
Sojan.

"At this rate we'll be tossed on to Shortani unless
the wind shifts!" he yelled back.

Parijh the Uffjirian grimaced.

"I've been meaning to go home for some time!" he
called.

"You'll be home for your own funeral unless some-
one gives me a hand with this wheel!" cried Sojan.

Sojan, Nornos Rique, Parijh, Andel and Red, the
five men who had saved their planet of Zylor from
the evil priest-rulers of Rhan some months ago, were
returning to Hatnor after being the guests of honour
at several banquets held to celebrate their triumph.
Sojan, Rique, Andel and Red had been uncomfort-
able about the whole thing, only Parijh, always glad
of the limelight, had enjoyed himself thoroughly.

The storm had sprung up quickly and they were

now battling to keep the little dirigible into the wind
which drove them steadily southwards.

"Wouldn't it be better to land, Sojan?" Andel
shouted.

"It would be, my friend, if we knew where we
were. There's every likelihood of getting out of this
trouble into something worse."

Suddenly there was a loud snapping sound and
the wheel spun throwing Sojan off balance and on to
the deck.

"What was that?" yelled Parijh.

"Steering's gone! We can't attempt to repair it in
this weather. We'll just have to drift now!"

The five trooped down into the tiny cabin. Even
there it was not warm and they were all depressed
as they shivered in their cloaks and attempted to get
some sleep.

Morning came and the storm had not abated. It
lasted all through that day, the wind ripping into the
ship and sending it further and further South.

"There's never been a storm like this in my mem-
ory!" Nornos Rique said.

The others agreed.

"Further North," said Andel, "they're quite fre-
quent. Lasting for days, so they say."

"That's true," said Sojan.

By midnight of the next night the storm finished
and the sky cleared of the clinging cloud. The stars,
their constellations unfamiliar to Earth eyes, shone
brightly and Sojan took a quick bearing.

"We're over Shortani all right," he muttered. "Well
over. In fact, I believe we're near the interior of the
continent."

Beneath them the scene was one of peace rather
than that of death and mystery. Great plains, wa-

tered by winding rivers, lush forests, rearing moun-
tains, proud—like gods looking down upon men.
Here and there herds of strange animals could be
detected for the moons were very bright. They were
drinking and did not look up at the airship gliding
silently above them.

In the morning Sojan and Andel set to work on
repairing the broken steering-lines whilst the others
looked down at the peaceful-seeming country be-
neath them.

All the time they worked they drifted further and
further into the interior.

"If we drift much further Sojan, we won't have
enough fuel to get us out again. Remember, we only
had enough for a short journey!" Parijh called up to
him where he was working on the steering gear.

"Yit take us! I hadn't thought of that," cried Sojan.
"But there's nothing we can do until this steering is
fixed. Work as fast as possible Andel or we'll be
stranded here!"

But repairing the steering wires and readjusting
the rudder, especially sitting in the rigging with only
a flimsy safety line between you and oblivion, isn't
easy and it took Sojan and Andel several hours be-
fore the motors could be started up again.

"There's not enough fuel to make it back to
Hatnor," Sojan said. "But if we're lucky we'll make
a civilised country on the Shortani coast!"

Now there was nothing they could do but hope
and the men relaxed, watching the wonderful sce-
nery beneath them and speculating on what kind of
men, if any, lived there.

Red, who played a Zylorian instrument called a
rinfrit—a kind of eight-stringed guitar, sang them a

song, based on an old legend about these parts. The
first verse went something like this:

"There's many a tale that has been told
Of Phek the traveller, strong and bold!
But the strangest one I've ever heard—
Is when he caught a shifla bird."

"What's a shifla bird?" enquired Andel curiously.

"Oh, it's supposed to be as big as an airship and
looks like a great lizard."

His companions were amused at this story, and all
but Sojan, who was looking over towards the West,
laughed.

"Don't worry too much," said Sojan calmly, "but
is that anything like your shifla bird?"

And there, rising slowly from the forest, was the
largest animal any of the adventurers had ever seen.
Earth men would call it a dragon if they saw it. Its
great reptilian jaws were agape and its huge bat-
wings drove it along at incredible speed.

"It seems there was some truth in the legend,"
muttered Red, licking dry lips and automatically fin-
gering his pistol at his belt.

"There's always some truth in legends," said Sojan,
"however incredible."

The thing was almost upon them now, obviously
taking their cruiser for some kind of rival. It was as
big as their cruiser although its body was about half
the size whilst its wings made up the rest of its
bulk. It was a kind of blueish grey, its great mouth
a gash of crimson in its head whilst wicked eyes
gleamed from their sockets making it look like some
supernatural demon from the Zylorian "Halls of the
Dead"

"Drop, Sojan, drop!" cried Nornos Rique as the
men stood for a moment paralysed at this sight of
something which they attributed only to the story
scrolls of children.

Sojan whirled, rushed over to the controls and
pushed several levers which opened valves in their
gas-bag and caused the ship to lose height quickly.

The shifla swooped low overhead, barely missing
them and causing them to duck automatically. Sud-
denly there came a crashing of branches, the ripping
of fabric and the harsh snap of breaking wood. The
ship had crashed into the forest. The men had been
so busy trying to escape from the danger above
them that they had forgotten the forest beneath them.

Sojan lifted his arm to shield his face and flung
himself backwards as a branch speared through the
ship as if it were a fish and nearly speared him at the
same time. Eventually the noise stopped and, al-
though the ship was swaying dangerously and threat-
ening to fall apart any moment, sending the men to
destruction, Sojan and his friends found that they
had only bruises and scratches.

Sojan's barbarian instincts came to the rescue. Cat-
footed as ever he clambered out of the wreckage on
to the branch which had almost killed him.

"Quick," he yelled, "after me!"

His friends followed him quickly, Parijh panting
with the effort. They moved cautiously along the
branch and finally reached the trunk of the tree.
Down they clambered, easily now for the tree was
full of strong branches and it was only a drop of four
or five feet to the ground.

Sojan looked up to where the airship dangled, its
great gasbag deflated, the gondola smashed and torn.

"When that falls," he said, "we'd better be some

distance away for it's likely that the engine will
explode."

"There go our supplies and rifles and ammuni-
tion," said Nornos Rique quietly.

"We've got our lives—for the present at least,"
Sojan reminded him. "We'll have to head steadily
Northwards and hope that we don't strike a moun-
tain range. If we are lucky we can follow a river
across a plain. Several plains adjoin civilised or semi-
civilised territories don't they, Parijh?"

"One of them runs into my own country of Uffjir,
Sojan, but there's one chance in fifty of making it!"

"Then it looks as if we'll have to chance it, Parijh,"
Sojan replied slowly, looking over towards the East.
"But at least we shall be able to ride. There—see?"

They looked in the direction in which he was
pointing. About a mile away, a herd of myats grazed
placidly.

"Fan out—we should catch them easily if we
organise properly," Sojan called.

Slowly, so that they would not disturb the ani-
mals, Sojan and his friends closed in on the myats.
Once trapped they were easily caught for, unlike
most animals used as beasts of burden, myats were
bred originally for the sole purpose of carrying man.

Now that they were mounted, the friends made
good time in the direction in which they were headed.
Some days later Sojan caught sight of a strange gleam
in the distance—as if the sun was glancing off a highly
polished surface.

"Head in that direction," he called to his compan-
ions. "There seems to be a building of some kind
over there!"

And sure enough, it was a building. A great glis-
tening domed construction, rising hundreds of feet,

so it seemed, into the air. It was built of a similar
stone to marble—but what was it? And why was it
standing alone in such a savage wilderness and (this
troubled the companions more than anything) were
there men using it now?

"The only way to find out who or what is in there
is to go nearer," said Andel.

"You're right," agreed Sojan. "Let's go!"

They forced their steeds into a quick trot.

They dismounted silently and made their way cau-
tiously to the wide entrance of the place, which
seemed to be unguarded.

There were windows high above them, seeming to
be set in rooms situated at different levels in the
building. Part of the roof was flat but most of it rose
in a magnificent dome. Although there were no signs
of corrosion at all, the men got the impression that
the building was centuries old.

"There seem to be no stairs in the place," mused
Sojan, looking around him at the gleaming marble
halls which they had entered. To his left were two
sheets of shining metal, seemingly set into the walls
for no reason. To his right was an archway leading
into a room just as bare as the one in which they
now stood.

"Wonder what these are?" Red said, brushing his
hand across one of the metal sheets.

Instantly there was a faint hum and the sheet of
metal disappeared upwards, revealing a small—was
it a cupboard?

Red stepped warily into the alcove, sword in hand.
At once, the sheet of metal hummed downwards
behind him.

"By Yit. He's trapped!" cried Sojan.

He brushed his own hand across the metal, but

nothing happened. For several minutes he tried to
open the metal door but it seemed impossible. How
Red had done it, they could not tell.

Suddenly from the outside came a yell.

Rushing into the sunlight they looked up—and
there was Red, looking very cheerful, grinning down
on them—from a window of the tenth storey, the one
nearest the roof.

"How did you get up there?" called Nornos Rique.

"The 'cupboard' took me up! It's a kind of moving
box which lifts you up to any storey you wish.
Though I had to go all the way up. There were lots
of buttons to press, but I dare not press any of them.
After I'd got out, the doors closed again. I tried to
get back in but the doors at that end wouldn't move.
It looks as if I'm stuck here for life."

He didn't look as if he was particularly worried
about the prospect.

Comprehending, Sojan rushed back into the great
hall and again passed his hand over the metal "door."
It hummed upwards. He didn't step in immediately
but waited for his friends to join him.

"The ones who built this place must have been
wonderful engineers," remarked Sojan. "And by the
way, I recognised the language in which the direc-
tions for the operation of that thing were written—it's
old Kifinian!"

"What?" exclaimed Parijh. "You mean that the
ancestors of the Kifinians built this?"

"Obviously. Otherwise how do you explain the
language?"

"From what you learned at the Temple of Rhan,
Sojan," mused Nornos Rique, "the ancestors of the
entire planet, so far as human beings like ourselves
are concerned, came from another planet thousands

of years ago—perhaps this was built before the race
spread and degenerated. But what could it be?"

"I think I know," answered Sojan. "Notice how
the whole area around the building is entirely
treeless—a flat plain—a few shrubs, now, and other
vegetation, but for the most part flat. This place was
a landing field for airships of some kind. We have,
as you know, similar landing fields all over the civi-
lised parts of Zylor. This place was a control station
probably."

Suddenly Red who had been standing by the win-
dow called to his friends.

"Look, down there!" he yelled. "Savages, hundreds of
them!"

Below them swarmed a silent mass of strange near-
human creatures. They all carried spears and broad-
bladed swords. They were covered in short, matted
hair and had long tails curling behind them.

"We seem to have violated taboo ground, judging
by their actions," said Parijh who knew the people
better than the rest, for his race occasionally traded
with them. "They won't enter themselves, but they
will wait until we come out—as come out we must,
for food."

"The best thing we can do," said Andel, "is to
look around this place and see if there is any other
way out."

"Good idea," agreed Sojan, "if you see any more
of those metal plates, try to open them."

They split up and each explored a certain section
of the floor. Soon they heard Andel call from the
centre of the building. Rushing to the room from
which he had called they were astounded to see a
large, opened panel. This one revealed a kind of
bridge spanning a drop which must have gone right

down to the foundations of the building. The bridge
led to a huge, streamlined shell of gleaming metal
fitted with triangular fins.

They stepped on to the bridge and moved single
file across it until they reached a door. Scowling
faintly, Sojan deciphered the ancient hieroglyphics
on it.

"Here we are," he said, pressing a button. "To
Open." And open it did.

"It's obviously an airship of some kind," said Andel,
who was the most mechanically minded of the five.
"Probably a ship similar to the ones in which our
ancestors came to this planet."

"You mean an airship capable of travelling—
through space?" said Sojan.

"Perhaps," said Andel, "but also travelling from
continent to continent probably. If only we knew
how to operate it!"

They finally managed to find the control room of
the ship. All around them were tiers of dials and
instruments. Working quickly, now that the script
was becoming more familiar to him, Sojan deciphered
most of the captions on the instruments. Set on the
main control panel were levers marked, "Automatic,
Emergency, Poltoon, Automatic, Emergency, Jhar",
etc. The names were those of continents.

"We can't stay here all the time," said Sojan. "If
we stay we will starve to death, if we go outside we
die, we might as well risk it." So saying, and with-
out waiting for his friends' advice he pulled the
lever marked Poltoon and stood back.

There came a gentle hum as the door through
which they had entered closed. Another hum grew
steadily louder and the entire roof of the building
opened out letting in the sunlight. Then a hiss and a

rumble like thunder and Sojan and his companions
were thrown to the floor. Still the rumble increased
until blackness overcame them and they lost con-
sciousness.

Sojan was the first to recover. Looking through
the forward porthole he saw a sight which to him
was terrifying. The velvet blackness of outer space,
stars set like diamonds in its ebony beauty.

There was another rumble from the depths of the
ship. With animal tenacity he sought to cling to
consciousness. But it was no good. He collapsed
once more on the floor of the ship.

He awoke a second time to see a blue sky above
him and green vegetation beneath him. His friends
rose on shaky legs.

"We're not much better off, it seems," grinned
Sojan—cheerful now. "We're in the Poltoonian Wil-
derness. The nearest civilised land is Tigurn. See
over there are the remains of a port similar to the
one on the Shortani plain."

He pulled another lever. Immediately the port-
holes disappeared and they had the sensation of
moving downwards at great velocity. A high pitched
whine and they stopped. A panel slid open and a
small bridge moved outwards over a drop of some
five feet above the ground.

"There was probably a landing stage at this point,"
said Sojan with the air of an ancient professor deliv-
ering a lecture. "Anyway," he laughed, "we can
drop the last few feet."

When they reached the ground they stood back.

Then the faint purr of machinery and the doors
closed. Another sound, not quite so smooth—the
chug-chug of an airship motor. The companions
turned and saw several large airships of standard

pattern circling above them. They flew the banner of
Pelira, a country which had allegiance to Hatnor.
Flying low, the captain of the airship inspected them,
saw that they were not the strange monsters he had
expected and landed his craft lightly fifty feet away
from them. They ran towards it.

The look of astonishment on the captain's face
was ludicrous. He immediately recognised the com-
panions who, since their conquest of the priest-rulers
of Rhan had become national heroes.

"What—what— ?" was all he could get out at first.

"How're you fixed for fuel, friend?" laughed Sojan.

"We—we've got a full tank, sir, but how . . . ?"

"Then head for Hatnor," grinned the adventurer.
"We'll explain on the way."

11. The Sons of the Snake-God

"WHO SEEKS to set foot in Dhar-Im-Jak?"

A harsh voice rang across the harbour to the mer-
chantman Kintonian Trader, which ran at anchor there.

The captain cupped his hands into a megaphone
and roared back at the soldier.

"Sojan Shieldbearer, late of the court of Nornos
Kad in Hatnor, mercenary swordsman! Seeking
employment!"

"I've heard of him. Very well, we need good sword
arms in Dhar-Im-Jak, tell him he may land!"

Traani, captain of the Trader, called down to Sojan
who sat sprawled in his cabin.

"They say you can land, Sojan!"

"Right, I'll get my gear together."

Ten minutes later, a tall figure stepped on to the
deck of the ship. His long fair hair was held back
from his eyes by a fillet of metal, his dark blue eyes
had a strange, humorous glint in them. Over a jer-
kin of green silk was flung a heavy cloak of yellow,
his blue breeches were tucked into leather boots.
Upon his back was slung a long and powerful air
rifle, on his left arm he carried a round shield. From

a belt around his waist were hung a long vilthor and
a pistol holster. Sojan the Swordsman was looking
for work.

Later that day, in an inn near the city centre,
Sojan met the man to whom he had been directed
when he had told the authorities of the harbour
what kind of employment he was seeking.

"You're looking for employment in the ranks of
the regular military, I hear? What qualifications do
you have?" he said.

"I was commander of the Armies of Imperial Hatnor
for nearly a year. In that time I succeeded in stop-
ping a rising in Veronlam, a similar rising in Asno, I
organised the Poltoonian barbarians when Nornos
Kad was deposed and restored him to his throne. I
and four others were instrumental in utterly destroy-
ing the would-be conquerors of Zylor—the Rhanian
Theocracy. I have been involved in several minor
border wars, but of late things have quietened down
and I thought that I would try my luck somewhere
else. I heard of the impending war between the city
states of Dhar-Im-Jak and Forsh-Mai and decided
that I would like to take part."

"I have heard of you, Sojan. Your remark about
Rhan jogged my memory. I feel that you would be a
great asset to us. We need more professional sol-
diers of your calibre. As you know, both Dhar-Im-
Jak and Forsh-Mai have been on friendly terms for
hundreds of years, neither of us had any use for
regular armies. Then about a year ago this new reli-
gious cult took over the ruling of Forsh-Mai and
quickly formed an army of soldiers, spies, trouble-
makers and all kinds of undercover men. It was only
recently that our own spies brought us the news

that, as we suspected, Forsh-Mai was preparing to
march into Dhar-Im-Jak and take over our republic."

"Have you any idea when they intend to attack?"

"In two weeks time, no less, I'm sure."

"Then we must work fast. I would be grateful to
know what kind of command you intend giving
me?"

"I shall have to discuss that with my superiors. I
will naturally let you know as soon as possible."

Edek rose, downed the last of his drink and, with
a short nod, left the inn. Just as Sojan was rising,
there came a scream from the alley outside. Sword
out, he rushed for the door to see a girl struggling in
the grip of several burly fighting men. They were
obviously bent on kidnapping her and Sojan lost no
time in engaging the nearest hirelng. The man was
an expert swordsman, his thrusts were well timed
and it was all Sojan could do, at first, to parry them.
The man's companions were still holding the girl
who seemed to be making no attempt to get free.
The clash of steel was music to him and a grim
fighting smile appeared on his lips. Suddenly he felt
a hard blow on the back of his head and the lights
went out.

He regained consciousness in a small room, barred
on both door and windows. Standing over him were
two men; one held a water jug in his hand with
which he was dousing Sojan.

"So our hard-headed mercenary is at last awake; I
see!" The tone was gloating. The man's face did not
belie the impression his voice gave. His thick black
locks and beard were curled and oiled.

Upon his fingers were heavy rings, his nails were
tinted with gold. Sojan looked at him in disgust. The
bejewelled fop signalled to his companion to throw

some more water at Sojan. Instantly Sojan rose and
knocked the jug flying across the small cell.

"If your manners were as fine as the silks you
wear, my friend, I should take you for some sort of
man!"

The fop's face twisted for a moment and he half
raised his hand. Then he smiled and dropped the
hand to his side.

"We'll allow the wolf some time in which to cool
the heat of his temper as water seems to be no use,"
he murmured. "Come Yuckof, let us leave this
place—it smells!"

Sojan signalled to the guard who was locking the
door.

"What place is this, friend?"

"You're in the Castle of Yerjhi, swordsman, we
caught you nicely didn't we? That ruse in getting a
girl to pretend that she was being captured was Lord
Yerjhi's idea. He's a clever one. You'd be better off
to be a little more civil to him, he is thinking of
employing you."

Several hours later, Yerjhi returned with the same
escort.

"Now, Sojan," he smiled, "I can understand your
annoyance at being locked up in this place—but it
was the only way in which we could—um—convince
you of our sincerity when we offer you fifty thou-
sand derkas to take command of our armies and lead
them to glorious victory for the State of Forsh-Mai.
We, the Sons of the Snake, will conquer all. Every-
thing will be yours. What say you man, is that not a
fair proposition?"

"Aye, it's fair," Sojan's eyes narrowed. He de-
cided to bluff for a while. "Fifty thousand you say?"

"That and any spoils you can take for yourself
when we loot Dhar-Im-Jak!"

"But what's this 'Sons of the Snake' you mention?
Do I have to join some secret society to wield a
sword for fifty thousand derkas?"

"That is a necessary part of our offer, Sojan. We
are, after all, doing this for the glory of Rij, the
Snake, Lord of the World and the After World, Mas-
ter of Darkness, Ruler of the ..."

"Yes, yes, we'll forget that for a moment. What
does it involve?"

"First a meeting of all the major disciples, myself,
the General-in-Command (who will take orders from
you while the conquest is in progress), my major-
domo, the two priests who invent—hmm—who
spread the Truth of the Snake."

"But why this mumbo-jumbo—if you want to con-
quer your enemy, why not just do it? I can't under-
stand what you're trying to do."

"Then briefly I will explain. The two cities have
been at peace for hundreds of years. Men and women
from the states have intermingled with each other,
intermarried. Apart from the names and boundaries,
we are practically the same people. We need an
excuse, man, don't you see? We can't send a man to
march against his brother or even son unless he
thinks that there is something worth fighting for.
This, my dear Sojan, is a—hmm—Holy war. Quite
legitimate. We are—how shall I put it?—spreading
the Word of the Snake God with the Sword of Jus-
tice! Part of our indoctrination campaign, actually,
that last bit."

"Right! I'll join." Sojan had hit on a daring plan.
"When do I become an initiate?"

An hour later, Sojan stood in a darkened room. In

front of him was a long table and at it sat men dad
in robes decorated with serpents.

"Let the ceremony begin," he intoned.

Now was the time to act. They had given Sojan
back his sword along with his other equipment and
he now drew it. With the blade humming he downed
the two nearest men. Three left, three wary men and
led by one who had been described as the finest
swordsman in Shortani.

Luckily only two of the men were swordsmen—
the other was almost helpless. In the fore Yerjhi,
cowl flung back and his face a mask of hate.

"Trick me would you," he hissed. "We'll show
you what we do to dogs who try to turn on Yerjhi!"

Sojan felt a lancing pain go through him and he
felt the warm blood as it trickled down his left arm.
With renewed energy he launched himself at Yerjhi
who was taken off guard for a moment. Clean steel
pierced a tainted heart and the man toppled back-
wards with a short death-scream.

With the fake "Sons of the Snake God" exposed
for what they were, what amounted to civil war was
averted and the two cities resumed their friendly
relations. Once again Sojan had done a major service
for a cause in which he believed.

12. The Devil Hunters of Norj

THE LAST rays of Zylor's second sun were just wan-
ing when Sojan reined his myat and stared down
into the green valley below.

He glanced at the crude map before him.

"This must be the Valley of Norj. It seems to be
unexplored according to the map. Strange that no
one has ventured into it."

Strange it was; for, even in the dusk, Sojan could
see that the valley was lush and green. A river
wound through it and brightly plumed birds sang
from the branches of tall trees. A seeming paradise.

"It will make an excellent place to camp," thought
the mercenary as he guided his mount downwards.

Later that night, he made his camp in a small
natural clearing in the forest. His myat was tethered
nearby and his campfire glowed cheerily. The night
was warm and full of forest smells.

After eating his meal, Sojan climbed between his
blankets and was soon asleep.

It was just after midnight when the strange noises
awakened the warrior.

There they were again—a peculiar hissing screech

and the pounding of hooves; the cries of—men, and
the vicious cracks of whips.

Sojan raised himself on one elbow, hand reaching
for his sword. The myat stirred uneasily and swished
its great tail from side to side.

The noises drew nearer and then subsided as they
fell away towards the West of the valley.

Sojan did not sleep any more that night but kept a
watchful eye open. The rest of the night was un-
eventful and in the morning, Sojan cooked himself a
big meal which was meant to last him the day, for
he intended to investigate the noises he had heard
the night before.

Riding slowly, with eyes always scanning the
ground, Sojan soon found the tracks that the inhabi-
tants of the valley had made. There were two dis-
tinct sets of tracks. One similar to those of a myat
although with subtle differences, seemingly lighter.
The others were entirely unfamiliar. Three-toed tracks
like, and yet unlike, those of a bird—and considera-
bly larger. The beast that had made them as obvi-
ously a quadruped of some kind, but other than that
Sojan could not tell what kind of animal had made
them—there were fourlegged birds he could think
of—and none of these he had heard about were as
large as this.

There had been at least ten riders, and it seemed
that they had been chasing one or perhaps two of
these bird-beasts. Probably some kind of hunt,
thought Sojan, yet what kind of men were they who
hunted at the dead of night?

Sojan rode on, following the tracks in the hope
that he would find some clue to the mystery. He
came across a steep inclination, the tracks ended
here in a flurry of mud and—blood. Then the tracks

of the beasts the men had been riding continued,
and they had ridden for a short while parallel with
the bluff and then forced their animals to ride up it.

Sojan did the same, the beast slipped occasionally
and nearly slid back but eventually it reached the
top. From there Sojan saw a strange" scene.

A battle of some kind was going on between two
groups of men. Near a squat black-stoned tower,
five men, one mounted, were endeavouring to check
a horde of armoured warriors who rushed from the
tower. Beasts similar to Sojan's myat but hornless
and almost tailless stood waiting.

The mounted man held the tethering reins of the
other four animals while he cut at two of the armoured
men with a battleaxe held in his right hand.

Although the mounted man was clad in armour,
the other four were dressed only in jerkins of coloured
cloth and divided kilts of leather. They were unshod
and carried no sheaths for the weapons, mainly
swords, with which they defended themselves. It
seemed to Sojan that they were attempting to escape
from the armoured warriors, one of whom, dressed
more richly, and darker than the other, stood in the
rear and urged them on in a language which was
unfamiliar, yet strangely familiar, to Sojan's ears.

But there was no time to ponder over this now;
the men needed help and Sojan, in a more curious
than chivalrous mood, intended to aid them and
perhaps find some answer to the mystery.

His long spear was out, his shield up and he
forced the myat into a wild gallop down the hill,
screaming to his gods in a barbarian war-shout.

His savage thrust caught the first of the armoured
warriors in the throat and stayed there, the spear

jerking like a tufted reed in a storm. His sword
screamed from its scabbard as he pushed deeper
into the melee of cursing men.

Taking this chance of escape while the enemy
were still confused, the other men quickly mounted
their beasts. Sojan was still in the thick of it, sword
lashing everywhere and dealing death with every
stroke. One of the riders looked back, saw the mer-
cenary still engaged and spurred his own beast back
to where Sojan fought.

Grinning his thanks to Sojan he covered the mer-
cenary's retreat with his own slim blade then followed.

Howling, the warriors attempted to pursue on foot,
were brought back by their leader's frantic cries and
scrambled round the back of the building.

The armoured rider called to Sojan in the familiar,
yet unintelligible tongue, and pointed towards the
East. Sojan understood and turned his myat in that
direction. Behind them their pursuers were whip-
ping their steeds in an effort to overtake them.

Deep into the forest they rode, leaving their ene-
mies far.behind. For perhaps three hours they de-
toured until they reached the end of the valley where
a sheer cliff rose. Brushing aside some shrubbery,
the armoured man disclosed an opening in the base
of the cliff.

Ducking their heads, the six rode through, the last
man replacing the camouflage.

The passage ended in several connecting caves
and it was in one of these that they stabled their
mounts and continued on foot to the cave at the far
end. Here they slumped into chairs, grinning with
relief at their escape.

The leader, the man in armour began to speak to

Sojan who stood bewilderedly trying to understand
the language in which they questioned him. Vaguely
he began to realise what it was—it was his own
tongue, yet so altered as to be scarcely recognisable.
In an hour he could understand most of their speech
and in two he was telling them how he had come to
the Valley of Norj.

"But I am curious to find out who you are—and
why men hunt giant four-legged birds at midnight,"
he said. "Who were the men from whom you
escaped?"

"It is a long story to explain in a few words," said
Jarg, the leader, "but I will first attempt to tell you a
little of the political situation here, in Norj.

"There are two distinct races living here—men like
ourselves—and—another race whom I scarcely like
to define as 'men'. Ages ago our people reached this
valley after a long sea voyage and trek across Shortani.
we came to this valley and settled in it and it was
not for some time that we learned that another peo-
ple lived at the far end of the valley. A race of grim,
blackhaired and black-eyed men, who hunted at night
with steeltipped flails and who remained in their
castles during the day. They did not trouble us at
first and eventually we became used to the hunts,
even though they sometimes passed through our
fields and destroyed our crops. We were secure, we
thought, in the valley and there was no man curious
enough to venture too near the black-stoned castles
of the Cergii.

"But soon men and women—even children—of
our people began to disappear and the hunts be-
came more frequent for the Cergii had found a new
sport—a different quarry to the Devil-birds which

they breed and release at night to hunt with their
whips. It was then that the mangled bodies of our
tribesmen began to be found—lashed to death.

"They were capturing our people—and hunting
them! So it was that we declared war upon these
beasts, these whom we had never harmed nor at-
tempted to harm.

"Over the years traitors to our race went over to
the enemy and became their warriors—you saw some
of them today—our once great race dwindled—and
became fugitives, living in caves and—if captured—
the quarry of the Hunters of Norj. Still we carry on
warfare with them—but it is hit and run fighting at
best. The four you see here were captured recently
and it was more by luck than anything that I man-
aged to bribe a guard to release them. I came last
night with weapons and myats—you see that the
breed had changed as has our speech. Unfortunately
the timing was imperfect and the first sun arose
before we could make good our escape. We were
seen and would all be dead or captured had it not
been for you."

"There must be some way to defeat them!" cried
Sojan. "And if there is a way—I swear that I will
find it!"

Sojan and the fighting men of Norj, some sixty in
all, stood in the main cave, waiting for nightfall.

Plans of Sojan's attempt to overcome the Cergii,
who hunted men with steel-tipped flails, had been
discussed and Sojan and Jarg, the leader, had reached
a decision.

The Cergii were few, it seemed, about ten in num-
ber. They were immortal, or at least their life-spans

were incredibly long and the race had gradually dwin-
dled to ten evil sorcerer-warriors whose only plea-
sure was the midnight hunts.

At dusk, Sojan rose, went over the final plan with
his friends, and left, heading Eastwards towards the
castles of the Cergii—some twenty in all, mostly in
an advanced state of decay—only one which housed
the Cergii and their Norjian slaves and hirelings.

The tiny Zylorian moons gave scant light and Sojan
found it difficult picking his way through the rubble
of the ruined outbuildings.

There came a faint scuffling behind him; a sound
which only a barbarian's senses could have heard.

Sojan ignored it and carried on.

Even when the scuffling came nearer he ignored
it. The sudden blow on the back of his head was
impossible to ignore, however, and a blind sense of
survival set him wheeling round, hand groping for
his sword hilt before blackness, deeper than night
swam in front of his eyes and he lost consciousness.

He awoke in a damp-smelling cell, only lit by
torchlight which filtered through a tiny grille in the
wall. The cell was obviously on a corner for the large
barred door was not in the same wall as the grille.

Peering through this door was an unkempt war-
rior clad in dirty armour and holding a spear.

He glared short-sightedly at the mercenary with
half-mad eyes. His mouth gaped pen showing bad
teeth and he chuckled loudly.

"You're the next game for the Hunters of Cergii,"
he cackled. "Oh! What a feast the beasts will have
tonight."

Sojan ignored these words, turned over and at-
tempted to ease the pain in his aching head.

After many hours in which he attempted to get

some rest, Sojan was jabbed roughly awake by the
guard's spear butt.

"What is it now?" he enquired as he raised him-
self to his feet and dusted off the straw in which
he'd been sleeping.

"Heh, heh!" cackled the man. "It's almost mid-
night—time for one of our little hunts!"

Sojan became tense. He had a plan based on the
knowledge that if he was captured he would most
certainly be forced to partake in one of the hunts of
the Cergii—as the quarry.

"Very well," he said, trying to sound as fright-
ened as possible.

The courtyard was dark and gloomy, one moon
showing through a gap in the ruins. The strange
smell of an unknown animal came to Sojan's nostrils
and he gathered that these were the "hounds" of
the Cergii that Jarg had told him about.

He heard the stamping of the myats' hooves and
the jingle of harness and, as his eyes became accus-
tomed to the darkness, made out the vague outlines
of tall mounted men.

"Is the quarry ready?" called out a voice as dead
and cold as the ruins around them.

"Yes, Master, he is here!"

"Then tell him that he will be given quarter of an
hour's start—then we will be upon his scent!" the
voice went on.

The guards stood aside and Sojan was off—along
a route already planned nights ago. His plan was a
daring one and one which called for a great deal of
courage. He was acting as a human snare for the
Hunters.

Down a narrow forest trail he ran, the trees and
grasses rustling in the cold night breeze, the sound

of small animals calling to each other and the occa-
sional scream as a larger animal made its kill.

The air in his lungs seemed to force itself out as he
ran faster and faster. The time was getting short and
he had several more minutes yet until he could reach
the agreed spot.

Sounds—not the sounds of the forest, but more
ominous—began to reach his ears. The sounds of
cracking whips and thundering hooves as the Hunt-
ers and their silent hounds rode in pursuit.

Faster and faster he ran keeping his eyes open for
the landmark which would afford him comparative
safety.

At last it came into sight, just as the cracking of
whips and pounding hooves seemed to be on top of
him. Past the tall rock he ran, into a tiny gorge
flanked on each side by towering rock walls.

Up the side of the cliff he scrambled as the Hunt-
ers entered the gorge. Then:

"Now!" roared Sojan, and as he did so sixty death-
tipped arrows flew down and buried themselves in
the bodies of many of the Cergii.

Their curses and frantic screams were music to
Sojan and his friends as they fitted new arrows and
let fly at the sounds.

Sojan leapt down the rocks again, a long sword in
his right hand.

A shadowy rider loomed out of the darkness and
an evil face, white teeth flashing in a grin of triumph,
aimed a blow at Sojan with his own blade.

Sojan cut upwards, catching the rider in the leg.
He screamed and tumbled off his steed, putting it
between himself and Sojan.

He came upright, limping rapidly in the merce-

nary's direction. Sojan ducked another savage cut
and parried it. Down lunged his opponent's sword
attempting to wound Sojan's sword-arm. He again
parried the stroke and counterthrust towards the
man's chest.

Following up this move with a thrust to the heart,
the mercenary ended the evil hunter's life.

Most of the Cergii were now either dead or mor-
tally wounded and it did not take Sojan and his
friends long to finish off the job they had started.

"Now for their hirelings!" yelled Sojan, goading
his myat in the direction from which they had come;
his sword dripping red in the moonlight, his hair
tousled and a wildness in his eyes.

The sixty riders thundered down the narrow for-
est trail towards the castles of the dead Cergii, Sojan
at their head, voicing a battle-cry which had been
shouted at a dozen great victories for the men whom
Sojan had led.

Straight into the courtyard they swarmed, catch-
ing the soldiers entirely unawares.

Dismounting, they crashed open the doors of the
castle and poured in.

"Guard the doors!" yelled Sojan. "And all other
exits—we'll exterminate every traitor in the place!"

His first call was in the dungeons—for there he
knew he would find the man who had been his jailer
during the previous day.

The half-crazed warrior cringed when he saw Sojan
enter sword in hand. But one look at the tall merce-
nary told him that he could expect no mercy.

Drooling with fear he yanked his own sword from
its scabbard and swung a blow at Sojan which would
have cut him in two had it not been deflected by
Sojan's blade.

Coolly Sojan fought while his opponent became
more and more desperate.

Slowly the warrior was forced back as Sojan's re-
lentless sword drove him nearer and nearer the wall.

His madness gave him immense stamina and grad-
ually he began to fight with more skill.

"Heh, heh!" he cackled, "you will soon die man!
Think not that you escaped death when you escaped
the Cergii!"

Sojan smiled a grim smile and said nothing.

Suddenly the maddened warrior wrenched a spear
from the wall and hurled it at Sojan. It plunked
heavily into his left arm causing him to gasp with
pain.

Then his eyes hardened and the warrior read his
fate in them.

"You'll die for that," said Sojan calmly.

Almost immediately the warrior went down be-
fore a blurring network of steel and died with an
inch of steel in his throat.

Sojan returned to the main hall of the castle where
his friends were finishing off the rest of the Cergii's
warriors.

"Well," he laughed cheerfully, "I must be off!"

Jarg turned. He saw the wound inflicted by the
madman's spear.

"You can't ride in that state, Sojan!" he cried.

"Oh it will heal," Sojan smiled. "It is only a super-
ficial cut! But you have work to do, restoring your
farms now that the Cergii are vanquished. I should
like to stay—but this is an interesting continent with
lots to see. If I hurry I might be able to see it all
before I die!"

With that he strode from the room, mounted his

myat and cantered off, up the steep track which led
out of the valley of Norj.

"There goes a brave man!" murmured Jarg as he
watched him disappear over the hill-top.

JERRY CORNELIUS
AND CO.

New Worlds-
Jerry Cornelius

NEW WORLDS began as a magazine founded by SF
enthusiasts in the middle 1940s. A consortium pub-
lished the first few issues. This consortium consisted
of, among others, Bill Temple, Ted Carnell, Leslie
Flood, John Wyndham, Frank Arnold and Steve Fran-
ces. Later Maclarens took it over (though the com-
pany remained independent as Nova Publications
Ltd.), and published it for the best part of its career
with Ted Carnell as editor. Ted published the first
Ballard stories and the work of then-starting authors
like Brunner, Aldiss, Roberts, etc. In 1964 the circu-
lations of the magazines (Science Fantasy was also
edited by Ted) were very low and Maclarens decided
to fold the titles. David Warburton of Roberts and
Vinter Ltd., heard they were folding and decided to
buy them. Ted wanted to edit his new anthology
series, New Writings in SF, and so recommended me
as editor. Warburton wanted two editors (wisely),
one for each of the magazines. I chose New Worlds
and Kyril Bonfiglioli became editor of Science Fantasy.
My first issue, in a paperback-style format, but a
magazine in all other respects, appeared for May-

June 1964 (number 142). We ran as a bi-monthly for a
short time and then went monthly with issue 146.
Many people expected me to opt for the editorship
of Science Fantasy, since most of my work had pre-
viously appeared in that magazine, but in fact I was
interested in broadening the possibilities of the SF
idiom and New Worlds, being a much more open
title, seemed the best place to do it. My first editorial
stated pretty much the policy I have followed ever
since, though perhaps I'm a little more sophisticated
now. Also I was naive in thinking there were a lot of
authors who shared the sense of frustration which
Ballard and I had felt for some years. I tried to find
good young authors and follow what one might call
a policy of enlightened conservatism—publishing the
best of the old and the best of the new. There were a
lot of outcries when we started dealing with explicit
sex (never an important issue to us) and so on, also
when the first Ballard fragmented narratives began
to appear with The Atrocity Exhibition, also with the
rather astringent criticism of "Golden Age" masters
of SF, etc., but gradually readers began to realise
that there was value in the new stuff and it didn't
take long before they were criticising the newer stuff
in its own terms. We were crusading but we weren't
thinking in terms of tabu-breaking and so on, be-
cause the restrictions here had never been as marked
as they were in the US. We were seriously attempt-
ing to find new ways of dealing with new subject
matter and we always placed substance before style.
People have since confused our "revolution" with a
stylistic revolution, but our principal aim was con-
cerned with substance and structure—it had little to
do with what Judy Merril and Harlan Ellison, for
instance, later came to term the "new wave" in US

SF. We were specifically out to perpetuate, if you
like, the European moral tradition in literature. We
hardly "rejected" the US pulp tradition, because it
had never much influenced us anyway. Some of the
writers, indeed, were quite conservative in their tastes
and styles—Disch, for instance, who became closely
associated with the magazine (and still is). While
having no prejudice against it (and admiring much
of it) we had little in common with the aims appar-
ently represented in the work of the newer (or re-
generated) US writers like Ellison, Delany, Zelazny,.
Lafferty or Silverberg. We also, of course, published
most of those writers at some stage, and were pleased
to do' so, because we always strove for a broad
representation of the best work of its kind. I feel we
published some of the best work done by them—
Zelazny's For A Breath I Tarry (later reprinted, I think,
in Amazing) and several others: Ellison's Boy and His
Dog, Delany's Time Considered as a Helix, etc. But our
main raison d'etre became the publishing of what
some would call "experimental" work and when, in
1967, Roberts and Vinter suffered severe financial
set-backs (not over the SF magazines), Brian Aldiss
was responsible for suggesting to the Arts Council
(responsible for encouraging and maintaining the
arts; a government-financed agency) that they help
us. Thanks largely to the enthusiasm of Angus Wil-
son, then chairman of the Council, and letters from
various distinguished critics and academics (rallied
by Brian) we received an award which, while not
enough to support us in any way—save as a "little
magazine"—gave us the moral support we needed
and I became part-publisher, putting my own money
into the magazine and going to the large, "glossy"
format we then adopted. Unfortunately the two busi-

ness partners I had to begin with showed them-
selves over-cautious and pulled out so that the
magazine schedules were thrown into confusion. Dur-
ing 1967-8 we followed an erratic schedule culminat-
ing in the banning of two issues by the two major
British distributors and the banning of the magazine
in South Africa, New Zealand, Australia, etc. All of
these areas were fairly crucial to us and if it hadn't
been for advertising we should have had to fold.
Also the newspapers came out in our favour and the
ban was technically lifted. It was at this time that a
Question was asked in the House of Commons about
public money being spent on a "pornographic" mag-
azine and it seemed for a while that we would lose
the grant. This blew over and I became sole pub-
lisher of the magazine. Foolishly, I didn't form a
company to publish the magazine, so that I became
personally responsible for the debts. From 1968 to
19711 published New Worlds. In 1970 it emerged that
the distributors had been receiving large quantities
of New Worlds and had deliberately refrained from
distributing them without telling us because they
wanted to avoid any further newspaper publicity.
Effectively we lost the income on six months' issues
and I suddenly found myself owing over £3000,
which I didn't have. This was at a time when, thanks
particularly to Charles Platt who was editing the
magazine and running the business affairs, New Worlds
had become viable. I was forced to wind New Worlds
up, publishing a last "Subscription Only" issue (No.
201) in 1971, as an independent company. Tom Dardis
of Berkley expressed an interest in doing New Worlds
as a Quarterly and Anthony Cheetham was very
enthusiastic about doing it through Sphere in this
country, so I did four issues for Berkley who then

decided that sales didn't merit their continuing the
series. I decided, though the Sphere sales were on
the increase, to cut back to two issues a year for the
time being, since the Sphere advance alone wasn't
sufficient to cover what I wanted to do and we're
still partially financing the British editions through
subsidiary income derived, for instance, from my
editing fees for the Best of New Worlds series and so
on. And, of course, I'm still paying off the creditors
for the large size issues.

The daily routine? It varied, depending on who
was publishing the magazine or, for that matter,
who was editing it, since I didn't, of course, edit it
for the whole time. The early days were fairly quiet,
with just Lang Jones and myself doing the whole
thing from an office I had in Southwark. Later I
began to work from home, going into the publisher's
office about once a week, and later still Charles Platt
joined the staff as art editor and much improved the
appearance of the paperback size issues. That pe-
riod, too, was the only time I was actually getting
paid to do it! By and large I tend to set one or two
days aside for reading. Lang Jones is our best copy-
editor and he would tend to do that (and still does)
after I'd done the rough copy-editing. We never
change stories without consultation with the author
and the author's viewpoint is always respected. Where
we have changes to suggest we tend to Xerox the
manuscript, make the suggestions on the Xerox and
send them to the author for his or her comments. If
the author disagrees we'll discuss alternatives until
we're both satisfied. This extends even to titles. The
office always ran on democratic lines, with every
editor being encouraged to encourage authors who
suited his particular taste. This meant, of course,

that I'd sometimes publish stories I couldn't stand or
that I would include stories others didn't like, but
we reached a fairly satisfactory compromise ("I'll put
this story in I think is brilliant because you're put-
ting in that story you think is brilliant.") I don't be-
lieve there's such a thing as objective literary judge-
ment for someone running a magazine and it seemed
the best way of ensuring the representation of as
many different kinds of writing as possible. The
special "New Writers" issues we have done have
largely been the work of people like Jim Sallis, Gra-
ham Hall, Mike Harrison, Graham Charnock and
Charles Platt. Through most of the magazine's ca-
reer there was always something of a "commune"
feel about the day-to-day editing, with authors and
staff getting together to discuss specific stories or
general policy. The issues about which I am happi-
est, I suppose, are the first few of the 1967-8 large
size issues where my own policies found their strong-
est expression. To me, these were the best issues—
say from 173 to 176 where we got a good balance
between science and art features, artwork, good "con-
ventional" fiction and good "experimental" fiction.
Particular issues came after that which I particularly
liked but not as a "run." I enjoyed doing the special
201st issue (labelled our Special Good Taste Issue
and containing a distinctly Victorian feel!). The last
thing I can think of to say about the day-to-day
running of the magazine was that it filled the minds
of a fairly large group of us for a long time—i.e.
social life for many of us was centred around the
magazine. It dominated our days. A rather heady
and hectic love affair in which the magazine could
be seen from time to time as either an inspiring
mistress or a vampiric femme fatale. Certainly the

publishing problems dominated my days and nights
for several years.

I think we accomplished a fair amount. Without
doubt we altered the attitudes of many publishers
towards the newer ideas we were promoting. We
encouraged many authors to do their best and/or
most interesting work. Many authors, for instance,
claimed that without New Worlds they would have
given up writing or that they would have become
cynical about their writing or that they wouldn't
have put so much work into something. Aldiss,
Ballard, Disch, Sladek, Roberts and others have all
said, at different times, that New Worlds encouraged
them to do their best work. We were responsible for
interesting many critics, academics and journalists in
what might be called the SF renaissance. I think we
achieved an enormous amount. If what we were
trying to do has been misinterpreted in America this
has largely been because most people received their
impressions at second-hand through, say, the Judith
Merril Year's Best and England Swings anthologies.
Judy did a lot to publicise New Worlds and was a
good friend, but her interpretations were often some-
what at odds with our views! New Worlds became a
banner in Judy's own crusade—and Judy, after all,
started the ball rolling in the US. If the issues be-
came clouded in rhetoric about "new wave specula-
tive fiction" or "The New Thing', it wasn't much to
do with us. Harlan Ellison followed Judy with Dan-
gerous Visions and I think it's fair to claim that again,
if obliquely, New Worlds supplied the impetus. I think,
however, that battles are being fought in the States
which have been over in this country for some years—
everyone's settled down to doing their own thing.
There was never any danger of one idea superceding

another but it was necessary to make room for other
ideas and that, if nothing else, is what New Worlds
achieved. And our influence, if that isn't too pomp-
ous a phrase, extended well beyond the SF world in
this country, if nowhere else. We know many rock
musicians who've claimed that New Worlds gave them
the impetus they were looking for, for we know
artists, non-SF writers and poets who think the same.
A lot of our ideas—and, indeed, our contributors—
turned up in the pages of the "alternative" press.
We still meet readers of the large size New Worlds
who tell us it was the only magazine which gave
them any hope or spoke to them in a vocabulary
which made sense to them. And we have possibly
influenced the vocabulary (both in terms of ideas
and language) of SF-broadened its possibilities. Fail-
ures? We claimed too much for what we were doing
in the early days and are only now beginning to see
the results. We never licked the distribution problem—
until it was too late—and so never reached as many
readers as we might have done. We failed completely
to convince the majority of fans that we felt writers
like Heinlein were short-changing them with bad
writing and simple-minded notions. We failed to im-
prove the standard of writing in SF, which, in the
main, remains abominable. On the other hand we
offered an alternative to readers who couldn't face
that kind of writing and, of course, we still do.
We've certainly failed to convince the majority of US
publishers concerning the merits of typical New Worlds
fiction for they plainly prefer to publish the sensa-
tionalistic and poorly-conceived SF they have always
published—and their preference doesn't appear to
be dictated by commercial reasoning. We've failed,
perhaps, to produce a large market for the kind of

fiction we like best, but we have produced a large
enough one to make publishing that fiction a viable
proposition (which it wasn't even five years ago).
And, by and large, we've failed to get across to most
SF fans the seriousness of our intentions, the pur-
pose of our intentions. This again, perhaps, is be-
cause our particular point of view has been obscured
by interpreters. Certainly New Worlds' policy has lit-
tle to do with what most US fans would identify as
the "SF New Wave".

Which, I suppose, almost brings us to Jerry Cor-
nelius.

Jerry Cornelius began as a version of Elric of
Melnibone when, in late 1964, I was casting around
for a means of dealing with what I regarded as the
"hot" subject matter of my own time—stuff associ-
ated with scientific advance, social change, the my-
thology of the mid-twentieth century. Since Elric
was a "myth" character I decided to try to write his
first stories in twentieth-century terms. The Final
Programme was written, in first draft, in about ten
days in January 1965. It began as a kind of rewrite of
the first two Elric stories, The Dreaming City and
While the Gods Laugh. By doing this I found a style
and a form which most suited what I wanted to
write about. I was elated. I borrowed as much from
the Hammett school of thriller fiction as I borrowed
from SF and I think I found my own "voice" as a
writer. Influences included Ronald Firbank and, to a
minor extent, William Burroughs (two not dissimilar
figures in my estimation). I felt, at the time, that I
had at last found a way of marrying "serious" fiction
with "popular" fiction and I had always believed that
science fiction was the form which could most easily
act, as it were, as the ideal environment in which

this marriage could take place. (This, incidentally,
was the idea which was behind much of the New
Worlds policy). SF knew how to cope with much of
the subject matter and was a vital and popular form
but was largely unable to deal with the traditional
and sophisticated moral questions found in the best
fiction, largely because its accepted forms had de-
nied any attempt authors might make to incorporate
these questions—the form as it stood distorted and
simplified the problems. Just as Ballard found his
remedy in the form he used for Atrocity Exhibition
and the later stories published from 1965 onwards, I
felt I'd found my remedy in the form I used in The
Final Programme—by using a character who accepted
the moral questions without discussing them (the
dialogue tends to take for granted the reader's famil-
iarity with the questions and doesn't detail them—
doesn't spell them out) and by supplying the reader
with a straightforward dynamic narrative which he
could enjoy for its own sake. The plot, while being
unimportant, was supplied for those who required a
plot to keep them reading. Moreover, I prefer, in the
main, books with a straightforward plot, too, so I
was trying to produce something I'd enjoy reading. I
was very pleased with the book and thought that
everyone else would enjoy it, too, if only for its
ironies and sensations. A couple of British publish-
ers asked to see it and surprised me with their strong
reactions—I'd written the book to shock, they said,
and I wouldn't get anywhere like that. It hadn't
occurred to me that the book would do anything but
amuse (if nothing else). I despaired, became cynical,
put the book aside. A copy went out automatically
to my, then, agents, Scott Meredith. In 1967 the
book was bought, enthusiastically, by George Erns-

berger, then an editor at Avon. Parts of it had been
published in New Worlds in 1965 and 1966 as an
experiment in cutting up chunks and putting them
in a different order (a mistake, I now think). By this
time I had begun what was eventually published as
A Cure For Cancer. I had started the book using
another character's name and hadn't got very far
when I realised that this was effectively a sequel to
the Jerry Cornelius novel. I put what I'd written
aside and thought about it all, eventually conceiving
the notion of writing a tetralogy of books about
Jerry, each one expanding upon the various moral
questions raised in The Final Programme. I visited
New York in 1967 and told George Ernsberger about
my scheme and George, was, again, enthusiastic.
Eventually, in 1968, I had a contract from Avon for
the remaining three books. By this time The Final
Programme had been bought by Allison and Busby
who were equally enthusiastic and had also bought
Behold the Man in its novel version. They, too, were
pleased with the tetralogy idea and guaranteed to
publish them in England. It gave me the necessary
encouragement to carry on with A Cure For Cancer
which took, in all, some three years to write, appear-
ing first as a serial in New Worlds. In 1968, The Final
Programme was published, at the time when Jim
Sallis had come over to work on New Worlds. Jim
read the book and was very enthusiastic about it.
When Lang Jones was commissioned to edit the big
hardback anthology for Hutchinson, The New SF, he
asked me for a story and I decided that I would try
to write a Jerry Cornelius story (this was The Peking
Junction)—developing some of the techniques I was
beginning to feel happy with while working on A
Cure For Cancer. Jim Sallis asked me, then, if I had

any objection to his writing a Jerry Cornelius story
since, in his opinion, the JC stories were a form in
themselves. I had none, of course. He wrote Jeremiad,
which was published in New Worlds. Taking up part
of a theme I'd put into my second JC short, The Delhi
Division, he expanded from there and wrote an en-
tirely different story. Taking up part of his theme I
wrote it back into Delhi Division, which he'd so far
only seen in rough draft. The Delhi Division was the
first JC short to appear in New Worlds and was quickly
followed by Jeremiad. Once this had happened sev-
eral others who had enjoyed The Final Programme felt
that they'd like to do a story about Jerry, so shortly
afterwards there appeared stories by Brian Aldiss,
Norman Spinrad, a poem by Lang Jones, and other
stories by M. John Harrison, Maxim Jakubowski and
one other by me The Tank Trapeze. (Most of these
were eventually published in a book called The Na-
ture of the Catastrophe (Hutchinson, 1971). In the
meantime I had also begun a comic strip for It, then
the leading underground paper in Britain, with Mal
Dean, who had illustrated many of the JC stories.
The It strip sent up many of the current obsessions
of the underground—the mysticism, the political na-
ivete and so on. We began to alternate, with Mike
Harrison and Richard Glyn Jones taking up our
themes and us taking up their themes turn by turn.
The strip ran for about a year in It as The Adventures
of Jerry Cornelius, The English Assassin. Part of the
strip was also published in The Nature of the Catastrophe.
In our terms we found a cool way of dealing with
hot material. The essence of the stories is their irony,
their attempts to concentrate as much information as
possible into as small a space as possible, their ob-
session with contemporary imagery, their strong re-

liance on metaphorical imagery drawn from many
disparate sources—pop music, astronomy, physics,
cybernetics, etc. They are, ideally, deeply serious in
intention. Unfortunately many critics have missed
the serious points of the stories, even if they've
found the stuff entertaining. Sexual ambiguity, for
instance, is taken for granted in the JC stories—a fact
of life—but critics continue to see that element, among
others, as "daring". In this country, at any rate, the
stories receive their most intelligent responses from
that section of the public most at ease with what's
these days called the "alternative' society, was ear-
lier called "beat" and before that called "bohemian"
—i.e. people who by and large do take certain things
for granted which are regarded as shocking by the
average middle-class person. I'm not here suggest-
ing that this is good or bad, but it is a fact. Judy
Merril, for instance, regarded The Final Programme as
an "evil" book. Other people have expressed similar
reactions. I find them almost impossible to under-
stand. Perhaps people will get a better idea of the JC
novels when the whole tetralogy is complete. The
English Assassin will be out in England this year,
after three years in the writing. I don't know when
the last book, The Condition of Muzak, will appear—
probably in a couple of years, maybe three or four.
I'll just have to wait patiently until then. At present,
while having reservations about the first two books,
I'm very satisfied with Assassin—it's the first book of
mine I've been able to proof-read without wincing
all the way through. Presumably Holt Reinhardt,
who did Cure, will be doing Assassin in the States
sometime next year. I haven't had any information
either from Avon or from Holt, as yet. Maybe Final
Programme will get its points across better as a film.

The rights have been bought and the script written
and it's being produced by the company who did
Performance (which has something in common with
Final Programme). I heard Jagger turned down the JC
part as being too freaky and I don't know if the film
ever will be made, but it would be interesting to see
how the public reacted to it. I think the JC stories
have matured considerably since Final Programme—
becoming better written and more complex—and it
does disappoint me when people don't enjoy them or
find them obscure. I remember the delight I felt at
producing a book which I was sure everyone would
find at very least entertaining. I was puzzled when
some people reacted in a puzzled or even antagonis-
tic way. My own wavelengths changed somewhere
at some time. These days, for instance, I can't un-
derstand SF—I read the words and they no longer
mean anything to me, even when written by a writer
I used to enjoy. So I suppose I can appreciate how
people feel when they find a JC story they can't
focus on. It isn't incidentally, anything to do with
radical alterations in life-style on my part. It just
happened at some point. Ho hum.

(Letter to reader)

In Lighter Vein

A Note on the Jerry Cornelius Tetralogy

PART of my original intention with the Jerry Corne-
lius stories was to "liberate" the narrative; to leave it
open to the reader's interpretation as much as
possible—to involve the reader in such a way as to
bring his own imagination into play. The impulse
was probably a result of my interest in Brecht—an
interest I'd had since the mid-fifties.

Although the structure of the tetralogy is very
strict (some might think over-mechanical) the scope
for interpretation is hopefully much wider than of a
conventional novel. The underlying logic is also very
disciplined, particularly in the last three volumes.
It's my view that a work of fiction should contain
nothing which does not in some way contribute to
the overall scheme. The whimsicalities to be found
in all the books are, in fact, not random, not mere
conceits, but make internal references. That is to
say, while I strive for the effect of randomness on
one level, the effect is achieved by a tightly con-
trolled system of internal reference, puns, ironies,

logicjumps which no single reader may fairly be
expected to follow.

Thus, in a scene in Condition of Muzak (the end of
the section called "Outcast of the Islands"), there is a
short discussion about the Japanese invasion of Aus-
tralia and Jerry makes a reference to big egoes and
Hitler. Shakey Mo then asks if he was a character in
a children's comic and then immediately asks if Hit-
ler wasn't a police chief they'd met in Berlin. The
first reference is to Big Ego (a cartoon ostrich in The
Dandy or The Beano); the second reference is to an
earlier story of mine (a "key" story, in my view)
called The Pleasure Garden of Felippe Sagittarius (where
Hitler was a rather pathetic police chief in an imagi-
nary Berlin), leading to a reference to the fact that
the historical Adolf Hitler doesn't exist in this world.

All this happens in a couple of sentences or so and
should give the effect, among others, of time in a
state of flux, men in a state of introverted confusion,
close to fugue, and so on. But its internal logic is
straightforward: the two characters know exactly what
they are talking about. To "explain" all this, to
editorialise, would be to break the mood, break the
dramatic tensions, and ruin the effect I was trying to
achieve. The apparent obscurity should not confuse
the reader because the narrative should be moving
so rapidly that he shouldn't care if he doesn't under-
stand every reference. Similarly, if he was watching
a richly textured film, he would not expect to per-
ceive consciously every detail of every scene, dia-
logue, music, etc. They are maintained primarily by
a complicated series of prefiguring images which are
developed as the book progresses.

(Note to bibliography)

The Stone Thing

1975

A Tale of Strange Parts

Our OF the dark places; out of the howling mists; out
of the lands without sun; out of Ghonorea came tall
Catharz, with the moody sword Oakslayer in his
right hand, the cursed spear Bloodlicker in his left
hand, the evil bow Deathsinger on his back together
with his quiver of fearful rune-fletched arrows,
Heartseeker, Goregreedy, Soulsnatcher, Orphan-
maker, Eyeblinder, Sorrowsower, Beanslicer, and sev-
eral others.

Where his right eye should have been there was a
jewel of slumbering scarlet whose colour sometimes
shifted to smouldering blue, and in the place of his
left eye was a many-faceted crystal, which pulsed as
if possessed of independent life. Where Catharz had
once had a right hand, now a thing of iron, wood
and carved amethyst sat upon his stump; nine-
fingered, alien, cut by Catharz from the creature
who had sliced off his own hand. Catharz' left hand
was at first merely gauntleted, but when one looked
further it could be observed that the gauntlet was in

fact a many jointed limb of silver, gold and lapis
lazuli, but as Catharz rode by, those who saw him
pass remarked not on the murmuring sword in his
right hand, not on the whispering spear in his left
hand, not on the whining bow upon his back or the
grumbling arrows in the quiver; neither did they
remark on his right eye of slumbering scarlet, his left
eye of pulsing crystal, his nine-fingered right hand,
his shining metallic left hand; they saw only the
fearful foot of Cwlwwymwn which throbbed in the
stirrup at his mount's right flank.

The foot of the Aching God, Cwlwwymwn Root-
ripper, whose ambition upon the old and weary
Earth had been to make widows of all wives; Cwlw-
wymwn the Striker, whose awful feet had trampled
whole cities when men had first made cities; Cwlw-
wymwn of the Last Ones, Last of the Last Ones,
who had been driven back to his island domain on
the edge of the world, beyond the Western Ice, and
who now came limping after Catharz screaming out
for vengeance, demanding the return of his foot,
sliced from his leg by Oakslayer so that Catharz
might walk again and continue upon his doomladen
quest, bearing weapons which were not his protec-
tion but his burden, seeking consolation for the guilt
which ate at his soul since it was he who had been
responsible for the death of his younger brother,
Forax the Golden, for the death of his niece, Libia
Gentleknee, for the living death of his cousin, Wertigo
the Unbalanced, seeking the whereabouts of his lost
love, Cyphila the Fair, who had been stolen from
him by his arch-enemy, the wizard To'me'ko'op'r,
most powerful, most evil, most lustful of all the
great sorcerers of this magic-clouded world.

And there were no friends here to give aid to

Catharz Godfoot. He must go alone, with shudder-
ing terror before him and groaning guilt behind him,
and Cwlwwymwn, screaming, vengeful, limping
Cwlwwymwn, following always.

And Catharz rode on, rarely stopping, scarcely
ever dismounting, anxious to claim his own ven-
geance on the sorcerer, and the foot of Cwlwwymwn,
Last of the Last Ones, was heavy on him, as well it
might be for it was at least eighteen inches longer
.than his left foot and naked, for he had had to
abandon his boot when he had found that it did not
fit. Now Cwlwwymwn possessed the boot; it was
how he had known that Catharz was the mortal who
had stolen his green, seventeen-clawed limb, attach-
ing it by fearful sorcery to the flesh of his leg. Catharz'
left leg was not of flesh at all, but of lacquered cork,
made for him by the People of the World Beneath
the Reefs, when he had aided them in their great
fight against the Gods of the Lowest Sea.

The sun had stained the sky a livid crimson and
had sunk below the horizon before Catharz would
allow himself a brief rest and it was just before dark
that he came in sight of a small stone cottage, shel-
tered beneath terraces of glistening limestone, where
he hoped he might find food, for he was very hungry.

Knocking upon the door he called out:

"Greetings, I come in friendship, seeking hospital-
ity, for I am called Catharz the Melancholy, who
carries the curse of Cwlwwymwn Rootripper upon
him, who has many enemies and no friends, who
slew his brother, Forax the Golden, and caused the
death of Libia Gentleknee, famous for her beauty,
and who seeks his lost love Cyphila the Fair, pris-
oner of the wizard To'me'ko'op'r, and who has a
great and terrible doom upon him."

The door opened and a woman stood there. Her
hair was the silver of a spiderweb in the moonlight,
her eyes were the deep gold found at the centre of a
beehive, her skin had the pale, blushing beauty of
the tea-rose. "Welcome, stranger," said she. "Wel-
come to all that is left of the home of Lanoli, whose
father was once the mightiest in these parts."

And, upon beholding her, Catharz forgot Cyphila
the Fair, forgot that Cwlwwymwn Rootripper limped
after him still, forgot that he had slain his brother,
his niece, and betrayed his cousin, Wertigo the
Unbalanced.

"You are very beautiful, Lanoli," he said.

"Ah," said she, "that is what I have learned. But
beauty such as mine can only thrive if it is seen and
it has been so long since anyone came to these
lands."

"Let me help your beauty thrive," he said.

Food was forgotten, guilt was forgotten, fear was
forgotten as Catharz divested himself of his sword,
his spear, his bow and his arrows and walked slowly
into the cottage. His gait was a rolling one, for he
still bore the burden that was the foot of the Last of
the Last Ones, and it took him some little time to
pull it through the door, but at length he stood
inside and had closed the door behind him and had
taken her in his arms and had pressed his lips to
hers.

"Oh, Catharz," she breathed. "Catharz!"

It was not long until they stood naked before one
another. Her eyes travelled over his body and it was
plain that the eyes of scarlet and crystal were lovely
to her, that she admired his silver hand and his
nine-fingered hand, that even the great foot of
Cwlwwymwn was beautiful in her sight. But then

her eyes, shy until now, fell upon that which lay
between his legs, and those eyes widened a little,
and she blushed. Her lovely lips framed a question,
but he moved forward as swiftly as he could and
embraced her again.

"How?" she murmured. "How, Catharz?"

"It is a long tale and a bloody one," he whispered,
"of rivalry and revenge, but suffice to say that it
ended in my father, Xympwell the Cruel, taking a
terrible vengeance upon me. I fled from his court
into the wastes of Grxiwynn, raving mad, and it was
there that the tribesmen of Velox found me and took
me to the wise Man of Oorps in the mountains
beyond Katatonia. He nursed me and carved that for
me. It took him two years, and all through those two
years I remained raving, living off dust and dew and
roots, as he lived. The engravings had mystical sig-
nificance, the runes contain the sum of his great
wisdom, the tiny pictures show all that there is to
show of physical love. Is it not beautiful? More beau-
tiful than that which it has replaced?"

Her glance was modest; she nodded slowly.

"It is indeed, very beautiful," she agreed. And
then she looked up at him and he saw that tears
glistened in her eyes. "But did it have to be made of
Sandstone?"

"There is little else," he explained sadly, "in the
mountains beyond Katatonia."

(From The Outcast of Kitzoprenia
Volume 67 in The History of the
Purple Poignard)