The Sword & Sorcery Anthology

by David G. Hartwell

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

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

  “Let us find out.”

  “Will you take Stormbringer?”

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

  “Aye—but I think you’ll need her in this business.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I’ll take her.”

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

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

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

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

  Elric and Moonglum mounted their plainly equipped horses and, garbed like common mercenaries, bade urgent farewell to the Councilors of Karlaak.

  Zarozinia kissed Elric’s pale hand.

  “I realize the need for this,” she said, her eyes full of tears, “but take care, my love.”

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

  “The White Gods be with you.”

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

  “I’ll not forget,” she said, “though I worry lest you succumb again to your old black ways.”

  “Fear for the moment—I’ll worry about my own fate later.”

  “Then farewell, my lord, and be lucky.”

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

  2

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

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

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

  “How much further lies the camp of Terarn Gashtek, Moonglum?” Elric’s words were breathless, for both men had ridden for a day without halt.

  “Not much further, Elric. We should be—look!”

  Moonglum pointed ahead. About ten riders came swiftly towards them. “Desert barbarians—the Flame Bringer’s men. Prepare for a fight—they won’t waste time parleying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The man nodded hastily and clambered back on his horse.

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

  “I am called Elric of Melniboné—dost thou know the name?”

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

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

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

  Fairly soon, the low-lying smoke of many campfires could be observed and at length they saw the sprawling camp of the barbarian warlord’s mighty army.

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

  Moonglum said in the Western tongue: “That must be Terarn Gashtek’s dwelling. See, he has covered its half-cured hides with a score of Eastern battle-flags.” His face grew grimmer as he noted the torn standard of Eshmir, the lion-flag of Okara and the blood-soaked pennants of sorrowing Chang Shai.

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

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

  “Young kingdoms are resilient,” remarked Moonglum, “but it is when they are old that they fall—and it is often Terarn Gashtek’s kind that tear them down.”

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

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

&nb
sp; “With Dyvim Slorm’s aid—we shall stop him. Let us hope Karlaak’s messenger finds my kinsman soon.”

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

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

  A slurred voice snarled: “Bring them in.”

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

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

  “Who are these?”

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

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

  Terarn Gashtek seated himself upon the bench once more.

  “So, you slew ten of my blood-letters, did you, and came here to boast to me about it? What’s the explanation?”

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

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

  “The West,” Elric said, “we are free traveling warriors, hiring our swords to those who’ll pay or promise us good booty.”

  “Are all Western warriors as skillful as you?” Terarn Gashtek could not hide his sudden realisation that he might have underestimated the men he hoped to conquer.

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

  “What of sorcery—is there much strong magic here?”

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

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

  “Now, why did you come here? I could have you tortured for days for what you did, slaying ten of my best outriders.”

  “We recognised the chance of enriching ourselves by aiding you, Lord Flame Bringer,” said Elric. “We could show you the richest towns, lead you to ill-defended cities that would take little time to fall. Will you enlist us?”

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

  “Thanks,” said Elric. “I’ll look forward to tonight.”

  They left the tent and wandered through the haphazard collection of tents and cooking fires, wagons and animals. There seemed little food, but wine was in abundance and the taut, hungry stomachs of the barbarians were placated with that.

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

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

  “We’re richer already,” grinned Elric with feigned delight.

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

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

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

  “They are invincible as they are,” said Moonglum. “Even without Drinij Bara’s sorcery to tumble down the walls of cities, no single nation could withstand them and, with the Western nations squabbling among themselves, they could never unite in time. Civilisation itself is threatened. Let us pray for inspiration—your dark gods are at least sophisticated, Elric, and we must hope that they’ll resent the barbarian’s intrusion as much as we do.”

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

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

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

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

  Room was made on one of the benches and they accepted wine which they drank sparingly.

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

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

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

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

  “I’m no petty conjuror. You cannot ask this of one of the greatest sorcerers in the world!”

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

  “I’m no mumbling shaman—I need no such trappings.”

  Suddenly the sorcerer saw Elric. The albino felt the man’s powerful mind tentatively probing his own. He had been recognised as a fellow sorcerer. Would Drinij Bara betray him?

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

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

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

  “What’s this?”

  A map showing great land areas and seas seemed to unroll beneath the horse’s hoofs. “The Western lands,” cried Drinij Bara. “I make a prophecy.”

  “What is it?”

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

  “Thus will the mighty Flame Bringer rend the bountiful nations of the West,” shouted Drinij Bara.

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

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

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

  As Drinij Bara was dragged away, he glanced questioningly at Elric but said nothing.

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

  They reached the small hut and saw that a warrior stood guard at the entrance. Moonglum produced a skin of wine and, pretending drunkenness, staggered towards the man. Elric stayed where he was.

  “What do you want, Outlander?” growled the guard.

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

  “How should I know?”

  “True—how should you? Have some wine—it’s good—from Terarn Gashtek’s own supply.”

  The man extended a hand. “Let’s have it.”

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

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

  Moonglum backed away. The warrior followed.

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

  “You—what do you want?”

  “We’ve come to aid you, Drinij Bara.”

  “Aid me? But why? You’re no friend of mine. What would you gain? You risk too much.”

  “As a fellow sorcerer, I thought I’d help you,” Elric said.

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

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

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