Moonglum’s curved blade had disemboweled the remaining beast and the little man was busily tossing the dead thing over the side. He turned, grinning triumphantly, to Elric.
“A good fight,” he said.
Elric shook his head. “We must cross this sea speedily,” he replied, “else we’re lost—finished. My power is gone.”
“How? Why?”
“I know not—unless the forces of Entropy rule more strongly here. Make haste—there is no time for speculation.”
Moonglum’s eyes were disturbed. He could do nothing but act as Elric said.
Elric was trembling in his weakness, holding the billowing sail with draining strength. Shaarilla moved to help him, her thin hands close to his, her deep-set eyes bright with sympathy.
“What were those things?” Moonglum gasped, his teeth naked and white beneath his back-drawn lips, his breath coming short.
“Clakars,” Shaarilla replied. “They are the primeval ancestors of my people, older in origin than recorded time. My people are thought the oldest inhabitants of this planet.”
“Whoever seeks to stop us in this quest of yours had best find some— original means.” Moonglum grinned. “The old methods don’t work.” But the other two did not smile, for Elric was half-fainting and the woman was concerned only with his plight. Moonglum shrugged, staring ahead.
When he spoke again, sometime later, his voice was excited. “We’re nearing land!”
Land it was, and they were traveling fast towards it. Too fast. Elric heaved himself upright and spoke heavily and with difficulty. “Drop the sail!” Moonglum obeyed him. The boat sped on, struck another stretch of silver beach and ground up it, the prow ploughing a dark scar through the glinting shingle. It stopped suddenly, tilting violently to one side so that the three were tumbled against the boat’s rail.
Shaarilla and Moonglum pulled themselves upright and dragged the limp and nerveless albino on to the beach. Carrying him between them, they struggled up the beach until the crystalline shingle gave way to thick, fluffy moss, padding their footfalls. They laid the albino down and stared at him worriedly, uncertain of their next actions.
Elric strained to rise, but was unable to do so. “Give me time,” he gasped. “I won’t die—but already my eyesight is fading. I can only hope that the blade’s power will return on dry land.”
With a mighty effort, he pulled Stormbringer from its scabbard and he smiled in relief as the evil runesword moaned faintly and then, slowly, its song increased in power as black flame flickered along its length. Already the power was flowing into Elric’s body, giving him renewed vitality. But even as strength returned, Elric’s crimson eyes flared with terrible misery.
“Without this black blade,” he groaned, “I am nothing, as you see. But what is it making of me? Am I to be bound to it for ever?”
The others did not answer him and they were both moved by an emotion they could not define—an emotion blended of fear, hate and pity—linked with something else...
Eventually, Elric rose, trembling, and silently led them up the mossy hillside towards a more natural light which filtered from above. They could see that it came from a wide chimney, leading apparently to the upper air. By means of the light, they could soon make out a dark, irregular shape which towered in the shadow of the gap.
As they neared the shape, they saw that it was a castle of black stone—a sprawling pile covered with dark green crawling lichen which curled over its ancient bulk with an almost sentient protectiveness. Towers appeared to spring at random from it and it covered a vast area. There seemed to be no windows in any part of it and the only orifice was a rearing doorway blocked by thick bars of a metal which glowed with dull redness, but without heat. Above this gate, in flaring amber, was the sign of the Lords of Entropy, representing eight arrows radiating from a central hub in all directions. It appeared to hang in the air without touching the black, lichen-covered stone.
“I think our quest ends here,” Elric said grimly. “Here, or nowhere.”
“Before I go further, Elric, I’d like to know what it is you seek,” Moonglum murmured. “I think I’ve earned the right.”
“A book,” Elric said carelessly. “The Dead Gods’ Book. It lies within those castle walls—of that I’m certain. We have reached the end of our journey.”
Moonglum shrugged. “I might not have asked,” he smiled, “for all your words mean to me. I hope that I will be allowed some small share of whatever treasure it represents.”
Elric grinned, in spite of the coldness which gripped his bowels, but he did not answer Moonglum.
“We need to enter the castle, first,” he said instead.
As if the gates had heard him, the metal bars flared to a pale green and then their glow faded back to red and finally dulled into non-existence. The entrance was unbarred and their way apparently clear.
“I like not that,” growled Moonglum. “Too easy. A trap awaits us— are we to spring it at the pleasure of whoever dwells within the castle confines?”
“What else can we do?” Elric spoke quietly.
“Go back—or forward. Avoid the castle—do not tempt He who guards the Book!” Shaarilla was gripping the albino’s right arm, her whole face moving with fear, her eyes pleading. “Forget the Book, Elric!”
“Now?” Elric laughed humourlessly. “Now—after this journey? No, Shaarilla, not when the truth is so close. Better to die than never to have tried to secure the wisdom in the Book when it lies so near.”
Shaarilla’s clutching fingers relaxed their grip and her shoulders slumped in hopelessness. “We cannot do battle with the minions of Entropy...”
“Perhaps we will not have to.” Elric did not believe his own words but his mouth was twisted with some dark emotion, intense and terrible. Moonglum glanced at Shaarilla.
“Shaarilla is right,” he said with conviction. “You’ll find nothing but bitterness, possibly death, inside those castle walls. Let us, instead, climb yonder steps and attempt to reach the surface.” He pointed to some twisting steps which led towards the yawning rent in the cavern roof.
Elric shook his head. “No. You go if you like.”
Moonglum grimaced in perplexity. “You’re a stubborn one, friend Elric. Well, if it’s all or nothing—then I’m with you. But personally, I have always preferred compromise.”
Elric began to walk slowly forward towards the dark entrance of the bleak and towering castle.
In a wide, shadowy courtyard a tall figure, wreathed in scarlet fire, stood awaiting them.
Elric marched on, passing the gateway. Moonglum and Shaarilla nervously followed.
Gusty laughter roared from the mouth of the giant and the scarlet fire fluttered about him. He was naked and unarmed, but the power which flowed from him almost forced the three back. His skin was scaly and of smoky purple colouring. His massive body was alive with rippling muscle as he rested lightly on the balls of his feet. His skull was long, slanting sharply backwards at the forehead and his eyes were like slivers of blue steel, showing no pupil. His whole body shook with mighty, malicious joy.
“Greetings to you, Lord Elric of Melniboné—I congratulate you for your remarkable tenacity!”
“Who are you?” Elric growled, his hand on his sword.
“My name is Orunlu the Keeper and this is a stronghold of the Lords of Entropy.” The giant smiled cynically. “You need not finger your puny blade so nervously, for you should know that I cannot harm you now. I gained power to remain in your realm only by making a vow.”
Elric’s voice betrayed his mounting excitement. “You cannot stop us?”
“I do not dare to—since my oblique efforts have failed. But your foolish endeavours perplex me somewhat, I’ll admit. The Book is of importance to us—but what can it mean to you? I have guarded it for three hundred centuries and have never been curious enough to seek to discover why my Masters place so much importance upon it—why they bothered to rescue it on its sunward course and incar
cerate it on this boring ball of earth populated by the capering, briefly lived clowns called Men.
“I seek in it the Truth,” Elric said guardedly.
“There is no Truth but that of Eternal struggle,” the scarlet-flamed giant said with conviction.
“What rules above the forces of Law and Chaos?” Elric asked. “What controls your destinies as it controls mine?”
The giant frowned.
“That question, I cannot answer. I do not know. There is only the Balance.”
“Then perhaps the Book will tell us who holds it.” Elric said purposely. “Let me pass—tell me where it lies.”
The giant moved back, smiling ironically. “It lies in a small chamber in the central tower. I have sworn never to venture there, otherwise I might even lead the way. Go if you like—my duty is over.”
Elric, Moonglum and Shaarilla stepped towards the entrance of the castle, but before they entered, the giant spoke warningly from behind them.
“I have been told that the knowledge contained in the Book could swing the balance on the side of the forces of Law. This disturbs me—but, it appears, there is another possibility which disturbs me even more.”
“What is that?” Elric said.
“It could create such a tremendous impact on the multiverse that complete entropy would result. My Masters do not desire that—for it could mean the destruction of all matter in the end. We exist only to fight—not to win, but to preserve the eternal struggle.”
“I care not,” Elric told him. “I have little to lose, Orunlu the Keeper.”
“Then go.” The giant strode across the courtyard into blackness.
Inside the tower, light of a pale quality illuminated winding steps leading upwards. Elric began to climb them in silence, moved by his own doom-filled purpose. Hesitantly, Moonglum and Shaarilla followed in his path, their faces set in hopeless acceptance.
On and upward the steps mounted, twisting tortuously towards their goal, until at last they came to the chamber, full of blinding light, manycoloured and scintillating, which did not penetrate outwards at all but remained confined to the room which housed it.
Blinking, shielding his red eyes with his arm, Elric pressed forward and, through slitted pupils, saw the source of the light lying on a small stone dais in the centre of the room.
Equally troubled by the bright light, Shaarilla and Moonglum followed him into the room and stood in awe at what they saw.
It was a huge book—the Dead Gods’ 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 had sought with such savage bitterness. His hands touched the pulsating cover of the Book and, trembling, turned it back.
“Now, I shall learn,” he said, half-gloatingly.
With a crash, the cover fell to the floor, sending the bright gems skipping and dancing over the paving stones.
Beneath Elric’s twitching hands lay nothing but a pile of yellowish dust.
“No!” His scream was anguished, unbelieving. “No!” Tears flowed down his contorted face as he ran his hands through the fine dust. With a groan which racked his whole being, he fell forward, his face hitting the disintegrated parchment. Time had destroyed the Book—untouched, possibly forgotten, for three hundred centuries. Even the wise and powerful gods who had created it had perished—and now its knowledge followed them into oblivion.
They stood on the slopes of the high mountain, staring down into the green valleys below them. The sun shone and the sky was clear and blue. Behind them lay the gaping hole which led into the stronghold of the Lords of Entropy.
Elric looked with sad eyes across the world and his head was lowered beneath a weight of weariness and dark despair. He had not spoken since his companions had dragged him sobbing from the chamber of the Book. Now he raised his pale face and spoke in a voice tinged with self-mockery, sharp with bitterness—a lonely voice: the calling of hungry seabirds circling cold skies above bleak shores.
“Now,” he said, “I will live my life without ever knowing why I live it—whether it has purpose or not. Perhaps the Book could have told me. But would I have believed it, even then? I am the eternal skeptic—never sure that my actions are my own, never certain that an ultimate entity is not guiding me.
“I envy those who know. All I can do now is to continue my quest and hope, without hope, that before my span is ended, the truth will be presented to me.”
Shaarilla took his limp hands in hers and her eyes were wet.
“Elric—let me comfort you.”
The albino sneered bitterly. “Would that we’d never met, Shaarilla of the Dancing Mist. For a while, you gave me hope—I had thought to be at last at peace with myself. But, because of you, I am left more hopeless than before. There is no salvation in this world—only malevolent doom. Goodbye.”
He took his hands away from her grasp and set off down the mountainside.
Moonglum darted a glance at Shaarilla and then at Elric. He took something from his purse and put it in the girl’s hand.
“Good luck,” he said, and then he was running after Elric until he caught him up.
Still striding, Elric turned at Moonglum’s approach and despite his brooding misery said: “What is it, friend Moonglum? Why do you follow me?”
“I’ve followed you thus far, Master Elric, and I see no reason to stop,” grinned the little man. “Besides, unlike yourself, I’m a materialist. We’ll need to eat, you know.”
Elric frowned, feeling a warmth growing within him. “What do you mean, Moonglum?”
Moonglum chuckled. “I take advantage of situations of any kind, where I may,” he answered. He reached into his purse and displayed something on his outstretched hand which shone with a dazzling brilliancy. It was one of the jewels from the cover of the Book. “There are more in my purse,” he said, “And each one worth a fortune.” He took Elric’s arm.
“Come Elric—what new lands shall we visit so that we may change these baubles into wine and pleasant company?”
Behind them, standing stock still on the hillside, Shaarilla stared miserably after them until they were no longer visible. The jewel Moonglum had given her dropped from her fingers and fell, bouncing and bright, until it was lost amongst the heather. Then she turned—and the dark mouth of the cavern yawned before her.
Mother of All Russiya
Melanie Rawn
Melanie Rawn received a B.A. in history from Scripps College and worked as a teacher and editor before becoming a full-time writer. Her work includes the Dragon Prince and Dragon Star trilogies, as well as the Exiles and Spellbinder series. Her latest novel, Touchstone, is the first in a new fantasy series. She lives in Flagstaff, Arizona.
Kyiv, 946
She paced the stones, her feet separated from the chill by sable-lined slippers. She was cold despite them, cold from her toes to her crown. Perhaps it was the vengeance of the fire, that she had not joined her husband in its embrace. Long ago, he had decided that he wished to be immolated in the manner of their ancestors. The Christ-folk had gawked and fled, horrified by what they saw as desecration to the body, but when Yvor’s corpse was at last returned to her by the treacherous vassals who had killed him, she had done as he had asked. Better, yes, to send a soul instantly unto the gods, rather than bury the flesh in the ground for the worms to feed upon.
She could think of many Drevlianian souls she would see denied the flames and devoured by worms. They were the souls of murderers who had taken a father from his son, a prince from his people.
A husband from his wife...no, for that she cared not at all.
As she passed through the stone corridors, she was vaguely aware of the slaves and warriors and druzhina, her personal attendants, all bowing to her, their Grand Princess. So empty, the obeisances; meant for the
woman others had made of her. Daughter of one Grand Prince, wife— widow now—of another, mother of yet a third. A boy of five, she thought, her frozen fingers twisting around each other as she walked unseeingly through her dead husband’s stronghold on her way to she knew not where.
A boy of five. She had been twice his age when her father died and Yvor took dead Helgi’s golden earring and golden daughter for his own. They had the jewels now, her husband’s killers: two huge white lumps of pearl and a clot of blood-crimson ruby, the earring handed down since her people had come from the Dane-land to rule over the fractious Rus. The pearls: Tears of Freya. The ruby: a drop of Woden’s Blood. These sanctified the Grand Princes of Kyiv. The Drevlianians had sent back Yvor’s body but kept his symbol of power. Soon they would have more than the symbol. Those who had killed her husband would choose who would next wear the Tears and the Blood. It would not be her son.
Or perhaps it would be a son of her body—though certainly not the little boy now playing safely in his chamber. She was no longer young, but she was not yet too old for bearing. And suddenly through the frozen numbness of her fear there came fire’s heat. She would sink her father’s dagger into her own heart before any of the assassins took her to his bed to seed her body with a Grand Prince of Kyiv. Her son, her Sviatoslav, was the Grand Prince.
But they had the jewels. They would soon have her. Unless—
Grand Princess Olga swore loudly and violently, in words that would have made her father roar with laughter.
“Ah, I perceive you have awakened,” murmured a soft, oddly cadenced voice.
Awakened, most certainly; she looked around and found she was in her own chambers, with no idea how she had arrived there. A fire blazed in the hearth, thick carpets softened her steps on the stone floor, and patterned woolen weavings flung bright colors across the walls. She strode to the bed and flung her sable cloak upon it, casting a sideways glance at the strange little man who had spoken from the shadows.
Epic: Legends of Fantasy Page 36