The Sleeping Sorceress (25 page)

“It is not our ship to give, King Grome,” said Elric.

Grome’s tone of petulance increased. “I want my ship,” he said slowly. “I want the thing. It is mine.”

“Of what use is it to you, King Grome?”

“Use? It is mine.”

Grome stamped and the land rippled.

Elric said desperately: “It is your brother’s ship, King Grome. It is King Straasha’s ship. He gave you part of his domain and you allowed him to keep the ship. That was the bargain.”

“I know nothing of a bargain. The ship is mine.”

“You know that if you take the ship then King Straasha will have to take back the land he gave you.”

“I want my ship.” The huge figure shifted its position and bits of earth fell from it, landing with distinctly heard thuds on the ground below and on the deck of the ship.

“Then you must kill us to obtain it,” Elric said.

“Kill? Grome does not kill mortals. He kills nothing. Grome builds. Grome brings to life.”

“You have already killed three of our company,” Elric pointed out. “Three are dead, King Grome, because you made the land-storm.”

Grome’s great brows drew together and he scratched his great head, causing an immense rustling noise to sound. “Grome does not kill,” he said again.

“King Grome has killed,” said Elric reasonably. “Three lives lost.”

Grome grunted. “But I want my ship.”

“The ship is lent to us by your brother. We cannot give it to you. Besides, we sail in it for a purpose—a noble purpose, I think. We . . .”

“I know nothing of ‘purposes’—and care nothing for you. I want my ship. My brother should not have lent it to you. I had almost forgotten it. But now that I remember it, I want it.”

“Will you not accept something else in place of the ship, King Grome?” said Dyvim Tvar suddenly. “Some other gift.”

Grome shook his monstrous head. “How could a mortal give me something? It is mortals who take from me all the time. They steal my bones and my blood and my flesh. Could you give me back all that your kind has taken?”

“Is there not one thing?” Elric said.

Grome closed his eyes.

“Precious metals? Jewels?” suggested Dyvim Tvar. “We have many such in Melniboné.”

“I have plenty,” said King Grome.

Elric shrugged in despair. “How can we bargain with a god, Dyvim Tvar?” He gave a bitter smile. “What can the Lord of the Soil desire? More sun, more rain? These are not ours to give.”

“I am a rough sort of god,” said Grome, “if indeed god I am. But I did not mean to kill your comrades. I have an idea. Give me the bodies of the slain. Bury them in my earth.”

Elric’s heart leapt. “That is all you wish of us?”

“It would seem much to me.”

“And for that you will let us sail on?”

“On water, aye,” growled Grome. “But I do not see why I should allow you to sail over my land. It is too much to expect of me. You can go to yonder river, but from now this ship will only possess the properties bestowed upon it by my brother Straasha. No longer shall it cross my domain.”

“But, King Grome, we need this ship. We are upon urgent business. We need to sail to the city yonder.” Elric pointed in the direction of Dhoz-Kam.

“You may go to the river, but after that the ship will sail only on water. Now give me what I ask.”

Elric called down to the bosun who, for the first time, seemed amazed by what he was witnessing. “Bring up the bodies of the three dead men.”

The bodies were brought up from below. Grome stretched out one of his great, earthy hands and picked them up.

“I thank you,” he growled. “Farewell.”

And slowly Grome began to descend into the ground, his whole huge frame becoming, atom by atom, absorbed with the earth until he was gone.

And then the ship was moving again, slowly towards the river, on the last short voyage it would ever make upon the land.

“And thus our plans are thwarted,” said Elric.

Dyvim Tvar looked miserably towards the shining river. “Aye. So much for that scheme. I hesitate to suggest this to you, Elric, but I fear we must resort to sorcery again if we are to stand any chance of achieving our goal.”

Elric sighed.

“I fear we must,” he said.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

The City and the Mirror

Prince Yyrkoon was pleased. His plans went well. He peered through the high fence which enclosed the flat roof of his house (three storeys high and the finest in Dhoz-Kam); he looked out towards the harbour at his splendid, captured fleet. Every ship which had come to Dhoz-Kam and which had not flown the standard of a powerful nation had been easily taken after its crew had looked upon the great mirror which squatted on its pillars above the city. Demons had built those pillars and Prince Yyrkoon had paid them for their work with the souls of all those in Oin and Yu who had resisted him. Now there was one last ambition to fulfill and then he and his new followers would be on their way to Melniboné . . .

He turned and spoke to his sister. Cymoril lay on a wooden bench, staring unseeingly at the sky, clad in the filthy tatters of the dress she had been wearing when Yyrkoon abducted her from her tower.

“See our fleet, Cymoril! While the golden barges are scattered we shall sail unhampered into Imrryr and declare the city ours. Elric cannot defend himself against us now. He fell so easily into my trap. He is a fool! And you were a fool to give him your affection!”

Cymoril made no response. Through all the months she had been away, Yyrkoon had drugged her food and drink and produced in her a lassitude which rivaled Elric’s undrugged condition. Yyrkoon’s own experiments with his sorcerous powers had turned him gaunt, wild-eyed and somewhat mangy; he ceased to take any pains with his physical appearance. But Cymoril had a wasted, haunted look to her, for all that beauty remained. It was as if Dhoz-Kam’s rundown seediness had infected them both in different ways.

“Fear not for your own future, however, my sister,” Yyrkoon continued. He chuckled. “You shall still be empress and sit beside the emperor on his Ruby Throne. Only I shall be emperor and Elric shall die for many days and the manner of his death will be more inventive than anything he thought to do to me.”

Cymoril’s voice was hollow and distant. She did not turn her head when she spoke. “You are insane, Yyrkoon.”

“Insane? Come now, sister, is that a word that a true Melnibonéan should use? We Melnibonéans judge nothing sane or insane. What a man is—he is. What he does—he does. Perhaps you have stayed too long in the Young Kingdoms and its judgments are becoming yours. But that shall soon be righted. We shall return to the Dragon Isle in triumph and you will forget all this, just as if you yourself had looked into the Mirror of Memory.” He darted a nervous glance upwards, as if he half-expected the mirror to be turned on him.

Cymoril closed her eyes. Her breathing was heavy and very slow; she was bearing this nightmare with fortitude, certain that Elric must eventually rescue her from it. That hope was all that had stopped her from destroying herself. If the hope went altogether, then she would bring about her own death and be done with Yyrkoon and all his horrors.

“Did I tell you that last night I was successful? I raised demons, Cymoril. Such powerful, dark demons. I learned from them all that was left for me to learn. And I opened the Shade Gate at last. Soon I shall pass through it and there I shall find what I seek. I shall become the most powerful mortal on earth. Did I tell you all this, Cymoril?”

He had, in fact, repeated himself several times that morning, but Cymoril had paid no more attention to him then than she did now. She felt so tired. She tried to sleep. She said slowly, as if to remind herself of something: “I hate you, Yyrkoon.”

“Ah, but you shall love me soon, Cymoril. Soon.”

“Elric will come . . .”

“Elric! Ha! He sits twiddling his thumbs in his tower, waiting for news that will never come—save when I bring it to him!”

“Elric will come,” she said.

Yyrkoon snarled. A brute-faced Oinish girl brought him his morning wine. Yyrkoon seized the cup and sipped the stuff. Then he spat it at the girl who, trembling, ducked away. Yyrkoon took the jug and emptied it onto the white dust of the roof. “This is Elric’s thin blood. This is how it will flow away!”

But again Cymoril was not listening. She was trying to remember her albino lover and the few sweet days they had spent together since they were children.

Yyrkoon hurled the empty jug at the girl’s head, but she was adept at dodging him. As she dodged, she murmured her standard response to all his attacks and insults. “Thank you, Demon Lord,” she said. “Thank you, Demon Lord.”

Yyrkoon laughed. “Aye. Demon Lord. Your folk are right to call me that, for I rule more demons than I rule men. My power increases every day!”

The Oinish girl hurried away to fetch more wine, for she knew he would be calling for it in a moment. Yyrkoon crossed the roof to stare through the slats in the fence at the proof of his power, but as he looked upon his ships he heard sounds of confusion from the other side of the roof. Could the Yurits and the Oinish be fighting amongst themselves? Where were their Imrryrian centurions? Where was Captain Valharik?

He almost ran across the roof, passing Cymoril who appeared to be sleeping, and peered down into the streets.

“Fire?” he murmured. “Fire?”

It was true that the streets appeared to be on fire. And yet it was not an ordinary fire. Balls of fire seemed to drift about, igniting rush-thatched roofs, doors, anything which would easily burn—as an invading army might put a village to the torch.

Yyrkoon scowled, thinking at first that he had been careless and some spell of his had turned against him, but then he looked over the burning houses at the river and he saw a strange ship sailing there, a ship of great grace and beauty, that somehow seemed more a creation of nature than of man—and he knew they were under attack. But who would attack Dhoz-Kam? There was no loot worth the effort. It could not be Imrryrians . . .

It could not be Elric.

“It must not be Elric,” he growled. “The mirror. It must be turned upon the invaders.”

“And upon yourself, brother?” Cymoril had risen unsteadily and leaned against a table. She was smiling. “You were too confident, Yyrkoon. Elric comes.”

“Elric! Nonsense! Merely a few barbarian raiders from the interior. Once they are in the centre of the city, we shall be able to use the Mirror of Memory upon them.” He ran to the trapdoor which led down into his house. “Captain Valharik! Valharik where are you?”

Valharik appeared in the room below. He was sweating. There was a blade in his gloved hand, though he did not seem to have been in any fighting as yet.

“Make the mirror ready, Valharik. Turn it upon the attackers.”

“But, my lord, we might . . .”

“Hurry! Do as I say. We’ll soon have these barbarians added to our own strength—along with their ships.”

“Barbarians, my lord? Can barbarians command the fire elementals? These things we fight are flame spirits. They cannot be slain any more than fire itself can be slain.”

“Fire can be slain by water,” Prince Yyrkoon reminded his lieutenant. “By water, Captain Valharik. Have you forgotten?”

“But, Prince Yyrkoon, we have tried to quench the spirits with water—and the water will not move from our buckets. Some powerful sorcerer commands the invaders. He has the aid of the spirits of fire
and
water.”

“You are mad, Captain Valharik,” said Yyrkoon firmly. “Mad. Prepare the mirror and let us have no more of these stupidities.”

Valharik wetted his dry lips. “Aye, my lord.” He bowed his head and went to do his master’s bidding.

Again Yyrkoon went to the fence and looked through. There were men in the streets now, fighting his own warriors, but smoke obscured his view, he could not make out the identities of any of the invaders. “Enjoy your petty victory,” Yyrkoon chuckled, “for soon the mirror will take away your minds and you will become my slaves.”

“It is Elric,” said Cymoril quietly. She smiled. “Elric comes to take vengeance on you, brother.”

Yyrkoon sniggered. “Think you? Think you? Well, should that be the case, he’ll find me gone, for I still have a means of evading him—and he’ll find you in a condition which will not please him (though it will cause him considerable anguish). But it is not Elric. It is some crude shaman from the steppes to the east of here. He will soon be in my power.”

Cymoril, too, was peering through the fence.

“Elric,” she said. “I can see his helm.”

“What?” Yyrkoon pushed her aside. There, in the streets, Imrryrian fought Imrryrian, there was no longer any doubt of that. Yyrkoon’s men—Imrryrian, Oinish and Yurit—were being pushed back. And at the head of the attacking Imrryrians could be seen a black dragon helm such as only one Melnibonéan wore. It was Elric’s helm. And Elric’s sword, that had once belonged to Earl Aubec of Malador, rose and fell and was bright with blood which glistened in the morning sunshine.

For a moment Yyrkoon was overwhelmed with despair. He groaned. “Elric. Elric. Elric. Ah, how we continue to underestimate each other! What curse is on us?”

Cymoril had flung back her head and her face had come to life again. “I said he would come, brother!”

Yyrkoon whirled on her. “Aye—he has come—and the mirror will rob him of his brain and he will turn into my slave, believing anything I care to put in his skull. This is even sweeter than I planned, sister. Ha!” He looked up and then flung his arms across his eyes as he realized what he had done. “Quickly—below—into the house—the mirror begins to turn.” There came a great creaking of gears and pulleys and chains as the terrible Mirror of Memory began to focus on the streets below. “It will be only a little while before Elric has added himself and his men to my strength. What a splendid irony!” Yyrkoon hurried his sister down the steps leading from the roof and he closed the trapdoor behind him. “Elric himself will help in the attack on Imrryr. He will destroy his own kind. He will oust himself from the Ruby Throne!”

“Do you not think that Elric has anticipated the threat of the Mirror of Memory, brother?” Cymoril said with relish.

“Anticipate it, aye—but resist it he cannot. He must see to fight. He must either be cut down or open his eyes. No man with eyes can be safe from the power of the mirror.” He glanced around the crudely furnished room. “Where is Valharik? Where is the cur?”

Valharik came running in. “The mirror is being turned, my lord, but it will affect our own men, too. I fear . . .”

“Then cease to fear. What if our own men are drawn under its influence? We can soon feed what they need to know back into their brains—at the same time as we feed our defeated foes. You are too nervous, Captain Valharik.”

“But Elric leads them . . .”

“And Elric’s eyes
are
eyes—though they look like crimson stones. He will fare no better than his men.”

In the streets around Prince Yyrkoon’s house Elric, Dyvim Tvar and their Imrryrians pushed on, forcing back their demoralized opponents. The attackers had lost barely a man, whereas many Oinish and Yurits lay dead in the streets, beside a few of their renegade Imrryrian commanders. The flame elementals, whom Elric had summoned with some effort, were beginning to disperse, for it cost them dear to spend so much time entirely within Elric’s plane, but the necessary advantage had been gained and there was now little question of who would win as a hundred or more houses blazed throughout the city, igniting others and requiring attention from the defenders lest the whole squalid place burn down about their ears. In the harbour, too, ships were burning.

Dyvim Tvar was the first to notice the mirror beginning to swing into focus on the streets. He pointed a warning finger, then turned, blowing on his war-horn and ordering forward the troops who, up to now, had played no part in the fighting. “Now you must lead us!” he cried, and he lowered his helm over his face. The eye-holes of the helm had been blocked so that he could not see through.

Slowly Elric lowered his own helm until he was in darkness. The sound of fighting continued however, as the veterans who had sailed with them from Melniboné set to work in their place and the other troops fell back. The leading Imrryrians had not blocked their eye-holes.

Elric prayed that the scheme would work.

Yyrkoon, peeking cautiously through a chink in a heavy curtain, said querulously: “Valharik? They fight on. Why is that? Is not the mirror focused?”

“It should be, my lord.”

“Then, see for yourself, the Imrryrians continue to forge through our defenders—and our men are beginning to come under the influence of the mirror. What is wrong, Valharik? What is wrong?”

Valharik drew air between his teeth and there was a certain admiration in his expression as he looked upon the fighting Imrryrians.

“They are blind,” he said. “They fight by sound and touch and smell. They are blind, my lord emperor—and they lead Elric and his men whose helms are so designed they can see nothing.”

“Blind?” Yyrkoon spoke almost pathetically, refusing to understand. “Blind?”

“Aye. Blind warriors—men wounded in earlier wars, but good fighters nonetheless. That is how Elric defeats our mirror, my lord.”

“Agh! No! No!” Yyrkoon beat heavily on his captain’s back and the man shrank away. “Elric is not cunning. He is not cunning. Some powerful demon gives him these ideas.”