The Sailor on the Seas of Fate

by Michael Moorcock

  And Carolak nodded, stepped forward, and struck straight for Saxif D'Aan's heart.

  The blade entered clean and Earl Saxif D'Aan should have died, but he did not. He crawled along the deck until he reached the base of the mast, and he rested his back against it, while the blood pumped from his wounded heart. And he smiled.

  “It appears,” he said faintly, “that I cannot die, so long have I sustained my life by sorcery. I am no longer a man.”

  He did not seem pleased by this thought, but Prince Carolak, stepping forward and leaning over him, reassured him. “You will die,” he promised, “soon.”

  “What will you do with her—with Gratyesha.”

  “Her name is Vassliss,” said Count Smiorgan insistently. “She is a merchant's daughter, from Jharkor.”

  “She must make up her own mind,” Carolak said, ignoring Smiorgan.

  Earl Saxif D'Aan turned glazed eyes on Elric. “I must thank you,” he said. “You brought me the one who could bring me peace, though I feared him.”

  “Is that why, I wonder, your sorcery was so weak against me,” Elric said. “Because you wished Carolak to come and release you from your guilt.”

  “Possibly, Elric. You are wiser in some matters, it seems, than am I.”

  “What of the Crimson Gate?” Smiorgan growled. “Can that be opened? Have you still the power, Earl Saxif D'Aan?”

  “I think so.” From the folds of his bloodstained garments of gold, the sorcerer produced a large crystal which shone with deep colours of a ruby. “This will not only lead you to the gate, it will enable you to pass through, only I must warn you...” Saxif D'Aan began to cough. “The ship—” he gasped, “the ship—like my body—has been sustained by means of sorcery—therefore...” His head slumped forward. He raised it with a huge effort and stared beyond them at the girl who still held the reins of the white stallion. “Farewell, Gratyesha, Princess of Fwem-Omeyo. I loved you.” The eyes remained fixed upon her, but they were dead eyes now.

  Carolak turned back to look at the girl. “How do you call yourself, Gratyesha?”

  “They call me Vassliss,” she told him. She smiled up into his youthful, battle-scarred face. “That is what they call me, Prince Carolak.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “I know now.”

  “Will you come with me, Gratyesha? Will you be my bride, at last, in the strange new lands I have found, beyond the world?”

  “I will come,” she said.

  He helped her up into the saddle of his white stallion and climbed so that he sat behind her. He bowed to Elric of Melnibone. “I thank you again, Sir Sorcerer, though I never thought to be helped by one of the royal blood of Melnibone.”

  Elric's expression was not without humour. “In Melnibone,” he said, “I'm told it's tainted blood.”

  “Tainted with mercy, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Prince Carolak saluted them. “I hope you find peace, Prince Elric, as I found it.”

  “I fear my peace will more resemble that which Saxif D'Aan found,” Elric said grimly. “Nonetheless, I thank you for your good words, Prince Carolak.”

  Then Carolak, laughing, had ridden his horse for the rail, leapt it, and vanished.

  There was a silence upon the ship. The remaining ruffians looked uncertainly one to the other. Elric addressed them:

  “Know you this—I have the key to the Crimson Gate—and only I have the knowledge to use it. Help me sail the ship, and you'll have freedom from this world! What say you?”

  “Give us your orders, Captain,” said a toothless individual, and he cackled with mirth. “It's the best offer we've had in a hundred years or more!”

  Chapter 7

  It was Smiorgan who first saw the Crimson Gate. He had the great red gem in his hand and pointed ahead.

  “There! There, Elric! Saxif D'Aan has not betrayed us!”

  The sea had begun to heave with huge, turbulent waves and, with the mainsail still tangled upon the deck, it was all that the crew could do to control the ship, but the chance of escape from the world of the blue sun made them work with every ounce of energy and, slowly, the golden battle-barge neared the towering crimson pillars.

  The pillars rose from the grey, roaring water, casting a peculiar light upon the crests of the waves. They appeared to have little substance, and yet stood firm against the battering of the tons of water lashing around them.

  “Let us hope they are wider apart than they look,” said Elric. “It would be a hard enough task steering through them in calm waters, let alone this kind of sea.”

  “I'd best take the wheel, I think,” said Count Smiorgan, handing Elric the gem, and he strode back up the tilting deck, climbing to the covered wheel-house and relieving the frightened man who stood there.

  There was nothing Elric could do but watch as Smiorgan turned the huge vessel into the waves, riding the tops as best he could, but sometimes descending with a rush which made Elric's heart rise to his mouth. All around them, then, the cliffs of water threatened, but the ship was taking another wave before the main force of water could crash onto her decks. For all this, Elric was quickly soaked through and, though sense told him he would be best below, he clung to the rail, watching as Smiorgan steered the ship with uncanny sureness towards the Crimson Gate.

  And then the deck was flooded with red light and Elric was half-blinded. Grey water flew everywhere; there came a dreadful scraping sound, then a snapping as oars broke against the pillars. The ship shuddered and began to turn, sideways to the wind, but Smiorgan forced her round and suddenly the quality of the light changed subtly, though the sea remained as turbulent as ever and Elric knew, deep within him, that overhead, beyond the heavy clouds, a yellow sun was burning again.

  But now there came a creaking and a crashing from within the bowels of the battle-barge. The smell of mould, which Elric noted earlier, became stronger, almost overpowering.

  Smiorgan came hurrying back, having handed over the wheel. His face was pale again. “She's breaking up, Elric,” he called out, over the noise of the wind and the waves. He staggered as a huge wall of water struck the ship and snatched away several planks from the deck. “She's falling apart, man!”

  “Saxif D'Aan tried to warn us of this!” Elric shouted back. “As he was kept alive by sorcery, so was his ship. She was old before he sailed her to that world. While there, the sorcery which sustained her remained strong—but on this plane it has no power at all. Look!” And he pulled at a piece of the rail, crumbling the rotten wood with his fingers. “We must find a length of timber which is still good.”

  At that moment a yard came crashing from the mast and struck the deck, bounced, then rolled towards them.

  Elric crawled up the sloping deck until he could grasp the spar and test it. “This one's still good. Use your belt or whatever else you can and tie yourself to it!”

  The wind wailed through the disintegrating rigging of the ship; the sea smashed at the sides, driving great holes below the waterline.

  The ruffians who had crewed her were in a state of complete panic, some trying to unship small boats which crumbled even as they swung them out, others lying flat against the rotted decks and praying to whatever gods they still worshipped.

  Elric strapped himself to the broken yard as firmly as he could and Smiorgan followed his example. The next wave to hit the ship full on lifted them with it, cleanly over what remained of the rail and into the chilling, shouting waters of that terrible sea.

  Elric kept his mouth tight shut against swallowing too much water and reflected on the irony of his situation. It seemed that, having escaped so much, he was to die a very ordinary death, by drowning.

  It was not long before his senses left him and he gave in to the swirling and somehow friendly waters of the ocean.

  He awoke, struggling.

  There were hands upon him. He strove to fight them off, but he was too weak. Someone laughed, a rough, good-humoured sound.

 
; The water no longer roared and crashed around him. The wind no longer howled. Instead there was a gentler movement. He heard waves lapping against timber. He was aboard another ship.

  He opened his eyes, blinking in warm, yellow sunlight. Red-cheeked Vilmirian sailors grinned down at him. “You're a lucky man—if man you be!” said one.

  “My friend?” Elric sought for Smiorgan.

  “He is in better shape than were you. He's down in Duke Avan's cabin now.”

  “Duke Avan?” Elric knew the name but, in his dazed condition, could remember nothing to help him place the man. “You saved us?”

  “Aye. We found you both drifting, tied to a broken yard carved with the strangest designs I've ever seen. A Melnibonean craft was she?”

  “Yes, but rather old.”

  They helped him to his feet. They had stripped him of his clothes and wrapped him in woollen blankets. The sun was already drying his hair. He was very weak. He said:

  “My sword?”

  “Duke Avan has it, below.”

  “Tell him to be careful of it.”

  “We're sure he will.”

  “This way,” said another. “The Duke awaits you.”

  Book Three

  Sailing To The Past

  Chapter 1

  Elric sat back in the comfortable, well-padded chair and accepted the wine cup handed him by his host. While Smiorgan ate his fill of the hot food provided for them Elric and Duke Avan appraised one another.

  Duke Avan was a man about forty, with a square, handsome face. He was dressed in a gilded silver breastplate, over which was arranged a white cloak. His breeches, tucked into black, knee-length boots, were of cream-coloured doeskin. On a small sea-table at his elbow rested his helmet, crested with scarlet feathers.

  “I am honoured, sir, to have you as my guest,” said Duke Avan. “I know you to be Elric of Melnibone. I have been seeking you for several months, ever since news came to me that you had left your homeland (and your power) behind and were wandering, as it were, incognito in the Young Kingdoms.”

  “You know much, sir.”

  “I, too, am a traveller by choice. I almost caught up with you in Pikarayd, but I gather there was some sort of trouble there. You left quickly and then I lost your trail altogether. I was about to give up looking for your aid when, by the greatest of good fortune, I found you floating in the water!” Duke Avan laughed.

  “You have the advantage of me,” said Elric smiling. “You raise many questions.”

  “He's Avan Astran of Old Hrolmar,” grunted Count Smiorgan from the other side of the huge ham-bone. “He's well known as an adventurer-explorer-trader. His reputation's the best. We can trust him, Elric.”

  “I recall the name now,” Elric told the Duke. “But why should you seek my aid?”

  The smell of the food from the table had at last impinged and Elric got up. “Would you mind if I ate something while you explained, Duke Avan?”

  “Eat your fill, Prince Elric. I am honoured to have you as a guest.”

  “You saved my life, sir. I have never had it saved so courteously!”

  Duke Avan smiled. “I have never before had the pleasure of, let us say, catching so courteous a fish. If I were a superstitious man, Prince Elric, I should guess that some other force threw us together in this way.”

  “I prefer to think of it as coincidence,” said the albino, beginning to eat. “Now, sir, tell me how I can aid you.”

  “I shall not hold you to any bargain, merely because 1 have been lucky enough to save your life,” said Duke Avan Astran, “please bear that in mind.”

  “I shall, sir.”

  Duke Avan stroked the feathers of his helmet. “I have explored most of the world, as Count Smiorgan rightly says. I have been to your own Melnibone and I have even ventured East, to Elwher and the Unknown Kingdoms. I have been to Myyrrhn, where the Winged Folk live. I have travelled as far as World's Edge and hope one day to go beyond. But I have never crossed the Boiling Sea and I know only a small stretch of coast along the Western continent—the continent that has no name. Have you been there, Elric, in your travels?”

  The albino shook his head. “I seek experience of other cultures, other civilizations—that is why I travel. There has been nothing, so far, to take me there. The conti­nent is largely uninhabited, and then, where it is inhabited, only by savages, is it not?”

  “So we are told.”

  “You have other intelligence?”

  “You know that there is some evidence,” said Duke Avan in a deliberate tone, “that your own ancestors came originally from that mainland?”

  “Evidence?” Elric pretended lack of interest. “A few legends, that is all.”

  “One of those legends speaks of a city older than dreaming Imrryr. A city that still exists in the deep jungles of the west.”

  Elric recalled his conversation with Earl Saxif D'Aan, and he smiled to himself. “You mean R'lin K'ren A'a?”

  “Aye. A strange name.” Duke Avan Astran leaned forward, his eyes alight with delighted curiosity. “You pronounce it more fluently than could I. You speak the secret tongue, the High Tongue, the Speech of Kings...”

  “Of course.”

  “You are forbidden to teach it to any but your own children, are you not?”

  “You appear conversant with the customs of Melnibone, Duke Avan,” Elric said, his lids falling so that they half-covered his eyes. He had leaned back in his seat as he bit into a piece of fresh bread with relish. “Do you know what the words mean?”

  “I have been told that they mean simply ‘Where the High Ones Meet’ in the ancient speech of Melnibone,” Duke Avan Astran told him.

  Elric inclined his head. “That is so. Doubtless only a small town, in reality. Where local chiefs gathered, perhaps once year, to discuss the price of grain.”

  “You believe that, Prince Elric?”

  Elric inspected a covered dish. He helped himself to veal in a rich, sweet sauce. “No,” he said.

  “You believe, then, that there was an ancient civilization even before your own, from which your own culture sprang? You believe that R'lin K'ren A'a is still there, somewhere in the jungles of the west?”

  Elric waited until he had swallowed. He shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “I believe that it does not exist at all.”

  “You are curious about your ancestors?”

  “Should I be?”

  “They were said to be different in character from those who founded Melnibone. Gentler...” Duke Avan Astran looked deep into Elric's face.

  Elric laughed. “You are an intelligent man, Duke Avan of Old Hrolmar. You are a perceptive man. Oh, and indeed you are a cunning man, sir!”

  Duke Avan grinned at the compliment. “And you know much more of the legends than you are admitting, if I am not mistaken.”

  “Possibly.” Elric sighed as the food warmed him. “We are known as a secretive people, we of Melnibone.”

  “Yet,” said Duke Avan, “you seem untypical. Who else would desert an empire to travel in lands where his very race was hated?”

  “An emperor rules better, Duke Avan Astran, if he has close knowledge of the world in which he rules.”

  “Melnibone rules the Young Kingdoms no longer.”

  “Her power is still great. But that, anyway, was not what I meant. I am of the opinion that the Young Kingdoms offer something which Melnibone has lost.”

  “Vitality?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Humanity!” grunted Count Smiorgan Baldhead. “That is what your race has lost, Prince Elric. I say nothing of you—but look at Earl Saxif D'Aan. How can one so wise be such a simpleton? He lost everything - pride, love, power—because he had no humanity. And what humanity he had—why, it destroyed him.”

  “Some say it will destroy me,” said Elric, “but perhaps ‘humanity’ is, indeed, what I seek to bring to Melnibone, Count Smiorgan.”

  “Then you will destroy your kingdom!” said Smiorgan
bluntly. “It is too late to save Melnibone.”

  “Perhaps I can help you find what you seek, Prince Elric,” said Duke Avan Astran quietly. “Perhaps there is time to save Melnibone, if you feel such a mighty nation is in danger.”

  “From within,” said Elric. “But I speak too freely.”

  “For a Melnibonean, that is true.”

  “How did you come to hear of this city?” Elric wished to know. “No other man I have met in the Young Kingdoms has heard of R'lin K'ren A'a.”

  “It is marked on a map I have.”

  Deliberately, Elric chewed his meat and swallowed it. “The map is doubtless a forgery.”

  “Perhaps. Do you recall anything else of the legend of R'lin K'ren A'a?”

  “There is the story of the Creature Doomed to Live.” Elric pushed the food aside and poured wine for himself. “The city is said to have received its name because the Lords of the Higher Worlds once met there to decide the rules of the Cosmic Struggle. They were overheard by the one inhabitant of the city who had not flown when they came. When they discovered him, they doomed him to remain alive forever, carrying the frightful knowledge in his head...”

  “I have heard this story, too. But the one that interests me is that the inhabitants of R'lin K'ren A'a never returned to their city. Instead they struck northwards and crossed the sea. Some reached an island we now call Sorcerer's Isle while the others went further—blown by a great storm—and came at length to a larger island inhabited by dragons whose venom caused all it touched to burn—to Melnibone, in fact.”

  “And you wish to test the truth of that story. Your interest is that of a scholar?”

  Duke Avan laughed. “Partly. But my main interest in R'lin K'ren A'a is more materialistic. For your ancestors left a great treasure behind them when they fled their city. Particularly they abandoned an image of Arioch, the Lord of Chaos—a monstrous image, carved in jade, whose eyes were two huge, identical gems of a kind unknown anywhere else in all the lands of the Earth. Jewels from another plane of existence. Jewels which could reveal all the secrets of the Higher Worlds, of the past and the future, of the myriad planes of the cosmos...”