Michael Moorcock - Elric 1 - Elric of Melnibone
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Elric of Melnibone by Michael Moorcock
Book One of the Elric Saga
Contents
BOOK ONE
1 A Melancholy King: A Court Strives to Honour Him
2 An Upstart Prince: He Confronts His Cousin
3 Riding Through the Morning: A Moment of Tranquility
4 Prisoners: Their Secrets Are Taken from Them
5 A Battle: The King Proves His War-Skill
6 Pursuit: A Deliberate Treachery
BOOK TWO
1 The Caverns of the Sea King
2 A New Emperor and an Emperor Renewed
3 A Tradition Justice
4 To Call the Chaos Lord
5 The Ship Which Sails Over Land and Sea
6 What the Earth God Desired
7 King Grome
8 The City and the Mirror
BOOK THREE
1 Through the Shade Gate
2 In the City of Ameeron
3 The Tunnel Under the Marsh
4 Two Black Swords
5 The Pale King's Mercy
Epilogue
BOOK ONE
On the island kingdom of Melnibone all the old rituals are still observed, though the
nation's power has waned for five hundred years, and now her way of life is maintained only by her
trade with the Young Kingdoms and the fact that the city of Imrryr has become the meeting place of
merchants. Are those rituals no longer useful; can the rituals be denied and doom avoided? One who
would rule in Emperor Elric's stead prefers to think not. He says that Elric will bring
destruction to Melnibone by his refusal to honour all the rituals (Elric honours many). And now
opens the tragedy which will close many years from now and precipitate the destruction of this
world.
1
A Melancholy King:
A Court Strives to Honour Him
IT IS THE colour of a bleached skull, his flesh; and the long hair which flows below his
shoulders is milk-white. From the tapering, beautiful head stare two slanting eyes, crimson and
moody, and from the loose sleeves of his yellow gown emerge two slender hands, also the colour of
bone, resting on each arm of a seat which has been carved from a single, massive ruby.
The crimson eyes are troubled and sometimes one hand will rise to finger the light helm
which sits upon the white locks: a helm made from some dark, greenish alloy and exquisitely
moulded into the likeness of a dragon about to take wing. And on the hand which absently caresses
the crown there is a ring in which is set a single rare Actorios stone whose core sometimes shifts
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sluggishly and reshapes itself, as if it were sentient smoke and as restless in its jewelled
prison as the young albino on his Ruby Throne.
He looks down the long flight of quartz steps to where his court disports itself, dancing
with such delicacy and whispering grace that it might be a court of ghosts. Mentally he debates
moral issues and in itself this activity divides him from the great majority of his subjects, for
these people are not human.
These are the people of Melnibone, the Dragon Isle, which ruled the world for ten thousand
years and has ceased to rule it for less than five hundred years. And they are cruel and clever
and to them 'morality' means little more than a proper respect for the traditions of a hundred
centuries.
To the young man, four hundred and twenty-eighth in direct line of descent from the first
Sorcerer Emperor of Melnibone, their assumptions seem not only arrogant but foolish; it is plain
that the Dragon Isle has lost most of her power and will soon be threatened, in another century or
two, by a direct conflict with the emerging human nations whom they call, somewhat patronisingly,
the Young Kingdoms. Already pirate fleets have made unsuccessful attacks on Imrryr the Beautiful,
the Dreaming City, capital of the Dragon Isle of Melnibone.
Yet even the emperor's closest friends refuse to discuss the prospect of Melnibone's fall.
They are not pleased when he mentions the idea, considering his remarks not only unthinkable, but
also a singular breach of good taste.
So, alone, the emperor broods. He mourns that his father, Sadric the Eighty-Sixth, did not
sire more children, for then a more suitable monarch might have been available to take his place
on the Ruby Throne. Sadric has been dead a year; whispering a glad welcome to that which came to
claim his soul. Through most of his life Sadric had never known another woman than his wife, for
the Empress had died bringing her sole thin-blooded issue into the world. But, with Melnibonean
emotions (oddly different from those of the human newcomers), Sadric had loved his wife and had
been unable to find pleasure in any other company, even that of the son who had killed her and who
was all that was left of her. By magic potions and the chanting of runes, by rare herbs had her
son been nurtured, his strength sustained artificially by every art known to the Sorcerer Kings of
Melnibone. And he had lived--still lives--thanks to sorcery alone, for he is naturally
lassitudinous and, without his drugs, would barely be able to raise his hand from his side through
most of a normal day.
If the young emperor has found any advantage in his lifelong weakness it must be in that,
perforce, he has read much. Before he was fifteen he had read every book in his father's library,
some more than once. His sorcerous powers, learned initially from Sadric, are now greater than any
possessed by his ancestors for many a generation. His knowledge of the world beyond the shores of
Melnibone is profound, though he has as yet had little direct experience of it. If he wishes he
could resurrect the Dragon Isle's former might and rule both his own land and the Young Kingdoms
as an invulnerable tyrant. But his reading has also taught him to question the uses to which power
is put, to question his motives, to question whether his own power should be used at all, in any
cause. His reading has led him to this 'morality', which, still, he barely understands. Thus, to
his subjects, he is an enigma and, to some, he is a threat, for he neither thinks nor acts in
accordance with their conception of how a true Melnibonean (and a Melnibonean emperor, at that)
should think and act. His cousin Yyrkoon, for instance, has been heard more than once to voice
strong doubts concerning the emperor's right to rule the people of Melnibone. 'This feeble scholar
will bring doom to us all,' he said one night to Dyvim Tvar, Lord of the Dragon Caves.
Dyvim Tvar is one of the emperor's few friends and he had duly reported the conversation,
but the youth had dismissed the remarks as 'only a trivial treason', whereas any of his ancestors
would have rewarded such sentiments with a very slow and exquisite public execution.
The emperor's attitude is further complicated by the fact that Yyrkoon, who is even now
making precious little secret of his feelings that he should be emperor, is the brother of
Cymoril, a girl whom the albino considers the closest of his friends, and who will one day become
his empress.
Down on the mosaic floor of the court Prince Yyrkoon can be seen in all his finest silks
and furs, his jewels and his brocades, dancing with a hundred women, all of whom are rumoured to
have been mistresses of his at one time or another. His dark features, at once handsome and
saturnine, are framed by long black hair, waved and oiled, and his expression, as ever, is
sardonic while his bearing is arrogant. The heavy brocade cloak swings this way and that, striking
other dancers with some force. He wears it almost as if it is armour or, perhaps, a weapon.
Amongst many of the courtiers there is more than a little respect for Prince Yyrkoon. Few resent
his arrogance and those who do keep silent, for Yyrkoon is known to be a considerable sorcerer
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himself. Also his behaviour is what the court expects and welcomes in a Melnibonean noble; it is
what they would welcome in their emperor.
The emperor knows this. He wishes he could please his court as it strives to honour him
with its dancing and its wit, but he cannot bring himself to take part in what he privately
considers a wearisome and irritating sequence of ritual posturings. In this he is, perhaps,
somewhat more arrogant than Yyrkoon who is, at least, a conventional boor.
From the galleries, the music grows louder and more complex as the slaves; specially
trained and surgically operated upon to sing but one perfect note each, are stimulated to more
passionate efforts. Even the young emperor is moved by the sinister harmony of their song which in
few ways resembles anything previously uttered by the human voice. Why should their pain produce
such marvellous beauty? he wonders. Or is all beauty created through pain? Is that the secret of
great art, both human and Melnibonean?
The Emperor Elric closes his eyes.
There is a stir in the hall below. The gates have opened and the dancing courtiers cease
their motion, drawing back and bowing low as soldiers enter. The soldiers are clad all in light
blue, their ornamental helms cast in fantastic shapes, their long, broad-bladed lances decorated
with jewelled ribbons. They surround a young woman whose blue dress matches their uniforms and
whose bare arms are encircled by five or six bracelets of diamonds, sapphires and gold. Strings of
diamonds and sapphires are wound into her hair. Unlike most of the women of the court, her face
has no designs painted upon the eyelids or cheekbones. Elric smiles. This is Cymoril. The soldiers
are her personal ceremonial guard who, according to tradition, must escort her into the court.
They ascend the steps leading to the Ruby Throne. Slowly Elric rises and stretches out his hands.
'Cymoril. I thought you had decided not to grace the court tonight?'
She returns his smile. 'My emperor, I found that I was in the mood for conversation, after
all.'
Elric is grateful. She knows that he is bored and she knows, too, that she is one of the
few people of Melnibone whose conversation interests him. If protocol allowed, he would offer her
the throne, but as it is she must sit on the topmost step at his feet.
'Please sit, sweet Cymoril.' He resumes his place upon the throne and leans forward as she
seats herself and looks into his eyes with a mixed expression of humour and tenderness. She speaks
softly as her guard withdraws to mingle at the sides of the steps with Elric's own guard. Her
voice can be heard only by Elric.
'Would you ride out to the wild region of the island with me tomorrow, my lord?'
'There are matters to which I must give my attention...' He is attracted by the idea. It
is weeks since he left the city and rode with her, their escort keeping a discreet distance away.
'Are they urgent?'
He shrugs. 'What matters are urgent in Melnibone? After ten thousand years, most problems
may be seen in a certain perspective.' His smile is almost a grin, rather like that of a young
scholar who plans to play truant from his tutor. 'Very well--early in the morning, we'll leave,
before the others are up.'
'The air beyond Imrryr will be clear and sharp. The sun will be warm for the season. The
sky will be blue and unclouded.'
Elric laughs. 'Such sorcery you must have worked!'
Cymoril lowers her eyes and traces a pattern on the marble of the dais. 'Well, perhaps a
little. I am not without friends among the weakest of the elementals...'
Elric stretches down to touch her fine, fair hair. 'Does Yyrkoon know?'
'No.'
Prince Yyrkoon has forbidden his sister to meddle in magical matters. Prince Yyrkoon's
friends are only among the darker of the supernatural beings and he knows that they are dangerous
to deal with; thus he assumes that all sorcerous dealings bear a similar element of danger.
Besides this, he hates to think that others possess the power that he possesses. Perhaps this is
what, in Elric, he hates most of all.
'Let us hope that all Melnibone needs fine weather for tomorrow,' says Elric. Cymoril
stares curiously at him. She is still a Melnibonean. It has not occurred to her that her sorcery
might prove unwelcome to some. Then she shrugs her lovely shoulders and touches her lord lightly
upon the hand.
'This "guilt",' she says. 'This searching of the conscience. Its purpose is beyond my
simple brain.'
'And mine, I must admit. It seems to have no practical function. Yet more than one of our
ancestors predicted a change in the nature of our earth. A spiritual as well as a physical change.
Perhaps I have glimmerings of this change when I think my stranger, un-Melnibonean, thoughts?'
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The music swells. The music fades. The courtiers dance on, though many eyes are upon Elric
and Cymoril as they talk at the top of the dais. There is speculation. When will Elric announce
Cymoril as his empress-to-be? Will Elric revive the custom that Sadric dismissed, of sacrificing
twelve brides and their bridegrooms to the Lords of Chaos in order to ensure a good marriage for
the rulers of Melnibone? It was obvious that Sadric's refusal to allow the custom to continue
brought misery upon him and death upon his wife; brought him a sickly son and threatened the very
continuity of the monarchy. Elric must revive the custom. Even Elric must fear a repetition of the
doom which visited his father. But some say that Elric will do nothing in accordance with
tradition and that he threatens not only his own life, but the existence of Melnibone itself and
all it stands for. And those who speak thus are often seen to be on good terms with Prince Yyrkoon
who dances on, seemingly unaware of their conversation or, indeed, unaware that his sister talks
quietly with the cousin who sits on the Ruby Throne; who sits on the edge of the seat, forgetful
of his dignity, who exhibits none of the ferocious and disdainful pride which has, in the past,
marked virtually every-other emperor of Melnibone; who chats animatedly, forgetful that the court
is supposed to be dancing for his entertainment.
And then suddenly Prince Yyrkoon freezes in midpirouette and raises his dark eyes to look
up at his emperor. In one corner of the hall, Dyvim Tvar's attention is attracted by Yyrkoon's
calculated and dramatic posture and the Lord of the Dragon Caves frowns. His hand falls to where
his sword would normally be, but no swords are worn at a court ball. Dyvim Tvar looks warily and
intently at Prince Yyrkoon as the tall nobleman begins to ascend the stairs to the Ruby Throne.
Many eyes follow the emperor's cousin and now hardly anyone dances, though the music grows wilder
as the masters of the music slaves goad their charges to even greater exertions.
Elric looks up to see Yyrkoon standing one step below that on which Cymoril sits. Yyrkoon
makes a bow which is subtly insulting.
'I present myself to my emperor,' he says.
2
An Upstart Prince:
He Confronts His Cousin
'AND HOW DO you enjoy the ball, cousin?' Elric asked, aware that Yyrkoon's melodramatic
presentation had been designed to catch him off-guard and, if possible, humiliate him. 'Is the
music to your taste?'
Yyrkoon lowered his eyes and let his lips form a secret little smile. 'Everything is to my
taste, my liege. But what of yourself?. Does something displease you? You do not join the dance.'
Elric raised one pale finger to his chin and stared at Yyrkoon's hidden eyes. 'I enjoy the
dance, cousin, nonetheless. Surely it is possible to take pleasure in the pleasure of others?'
Yyrkoon seemed genuinely astonished. His eyes opened fully and met Elric's. Elric felt a
slight shock and then turned his own gaze away, indicating the music galleries with a languid
hand. 'Or perhaps it is the pain of others which brings me pleasure. Fear not, for my sake,
cousin. I am pleased. I am pleased. You may dance on, assured that your emperor enjoys the ball.'
But Yyrkoon was not to be diverted from his object. 'Surely, if his subjects are not to go
away saddened and troubled that they have not pleased their ruler, the emperor should demonstrate
his enjoyment...?'
'I would remind you, cousin,' said Elric quietly, 'that the emperor has no duty to his
subjects at all, save to rule them. Their duty is to him. That is the tradition of Melnibone.'
Yyrkoon had not expected Elric to use such arguments against him, but he rallied with his
next retort. 'I agree, my lord. The emperor's duty is to rule his subjects. Perhaps that is why so
many of them do not, themselves, enjoy the ball as much as they might.'
'I do not follow you, cousin.'
Cymoril had risen and stood with her hands clenched on the step above her brother. She was
tense and anxious, worried by her brother's bantering tone, his disdainful bearing.
'Yyrkoon...' she said.
He acknowledged her presence. 'Sister. I see you share our emperor's reluctance to dance.'
'Yyrkoon,' she murmured, 'you are going too far. The emperor is tolerant, but...'
'Tolerant? Or is he careless? Is he careless of the traditions of our great race? Is he
contemptuous of that race's pride?'
Dyvim Tvar was now mounting the steps. It was plain that he, too, sensed that Yyrkoon had
chosen this moment to test Elric's power.
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Cymoril was aghast. She said urgently: 'Yyrkoon. If you would live...'
'I would not care to live if the soul of Melnibone perished. And the guardianship of our
nation's soul is the responsibility of the emperor. And what if we should have an emperor who
failed in that responsibility? An emperor who was weak? An emperor who cared nothing for the
greatness of the Dragon Isle and its folk?'
'A hypothetical question, cousin.' Elric had recovered his composure and his voice was an
icy drawl. 'For such an emperor has never sat upon the Ruby Throne and such an emperor never
shall.'
Dyvim Tvar came up, touching Yyrkoon on the shoulder. 'Prince, if you value your dignity
and your life...'
Elric raised his hand. 'There is no need for that, Dyvim Tvar. Prince Yyrkoon merely
entertains us with an intellectual debate. Fearing that I was bored by the music and the dance--
which I am not--he thought he would provide the subject for a stimulating discourse. I am certain
that we are most stimulated, Prince Yyrkoon.' Elric allowed a patronising warmth to colour his
last sentence.
Yyrkoon flushed with anger and bit his lip.
'But go on, dear cousin Yyrkoon,' Elric said. 'I am interested. Enlarge further on your
argument.'
Yyrkoon looked around him, as if for support. But all his supporters were on the floor of
the hall. Only Elric's friends, Dyvim Tvar and Cymoril, were nearby. Yet Yyrkoon knew that his
supporters were hearing every word and that he would lose face if he did not retaliate. Elric
could tell that Yyrkoon would have preferred to have retired from this confrontation and choose
another day and another ground on which to continue the battle, but that was not possible. Elric,
himself, had no wish to continue the foolish banter which was, no matter how disguised, a little
better than the quarrelling of two little girls over who should play with the slaves first. He
decided to make an end to it.
Yyrkoon began: 'Then let me suggest that an emperor who was physically weak might also be
weak in his will to rule as befitted...'
And Elric raised his hand. 'You have done enough, dear cousin. More than enough. You have
wearied yourself with this conversation when you would have preferred to dance. I am touched by
your concern. But now I, too, feel weariness steal upon me.' Elric signaled for his old servant
Tanglebones who stood on the far side of the throne dais, amongst the soldiers: 'Tanglebones! My
cloak.'
Elric stood up. 'I thank you again for your thoughtfulness, cousin.' He addressed the
court in general. 'I was entertained. Now I retire.'
Tanglebones brought the cloak of white fox fur and placed it around his master's
shoulders. Tangle-bones was very old and much taller than Elric, though his back was stooped and
all his limbs seemed knotted and twisted back on themselves, like the limbs of a strong, old tree.
Elric walked across the dais and through the door which opened onto a corridor which led
to his private apartments.
Yyrkoon was left fuming. He whirled round on the dais and opened his mouth as if to
address the watching courtiers. Some, who did not support him, were smiling quite openly. Yyrkoon
clenched his fists at his sides and glowered. He glared at Dyvim Tvar and opened his thin lips to
speak. Dyvim Tvar coolly returned the glare, daring Yyrkoon to say more.
Then Yyrkoon flung back his head so that the locks of his hair, all curled and oiled,
swayed against his back. And Yyrkoon laughed.
The harsh sound filled the hall. The music stopped. The laughter continued.
Yyrkoon stepped up so that he stood on the dais. He dragged his heavy cloak round him so
that it engulfed his body.
Cymoril came forward. 'Yyrkoon, please do not...' He pushed her back with a motion of his
shoulder.
Yyrkoon walked stiffly towards the Ruby Throne. It became plain that he was about to seat
himself in it and thus perform one of the most traitorous actions possible in the code of
Melnibone. Cymoril ran the few steps to him and pulled at his arm.
Yyrkoon's laughter grew. 'It is Yyrkoon they would wish to see on the Ruby Throne,' he
told his sister. She gasped and looked in horror at Dyvim Tvar whose face was grim and angry.
Dyvim Tvar signed to the guards and suddenly there were two ranks of armoured men between
Yyrkoon and the throne.
Yyrkoon glared back at the Lord of the Dragon Caves. 'You had best hope you perish with
your master,' he hissed.
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'This guard of honour will escort you from the hall,' Dyvim Tvar said evenly. 'We were all
stimulated by your conversation this evening, Prince Yyrkoon.'
Yyrkoon paused, looked about him, then relaxed. He shrugged. 'There's time enough. If
Elric will not abdicate, then he must be deposed.'
Cymoril's slender body was rigid. Her eyes blazed. She said to her brother:
'If you harm Elric in any way, I will slay you myself, Yyrkoon.'
He raised his tapering eyebrows and smiled. At that moment he seemed to hate his sister
even more than he hated his cousin. 'Your loyalty to that creature has ensured your own doom,
Cymoril. I would rather you died than that you should give birth to any progeny of his. I will not
have the blood of our house diluted, tainted--even touched--by his blood. Look to your own life,
sister, before you threaten mine.'
And he stormed down the steps, pushing through those who came up to congratulate him. He
knew that he had lost and the murmurs of his sycophants only irritated him further.
The great doors of the hall crashed together and closed. Yyrkoon was gone from the hall.
Dyvim Tvar raised both his arms. 'Dance on, courtiers. Pleasure yourselves with all that
the hall provides. It is what will please the emperor most.'
But it was plain there would be little more dancing done tonight. Courtiers were already
deep in conversation as, excitedly, they debated the events.
Dyvim Tvar turned to Cymoril. 'Elric refuses to understand the danger, Princess Cymoril.
Yyrkoon's ambition could bring disaster to all of us.'
'Including Yyrkoon.' Cymoril sighed.
'Aye, including Yyrkoon. But how can we avoid this, Cymoril, if Elric will not give orders
for your brother's arrest?'
'He believes that such as Yyrkoon should be allowed to say what they please. It is part of
his philosophy. I can barely understand it, but it seems integral to his whole belief. If he
destroys Yyrkoon, he destroys the basis on which his logic works. That at any rate, Dragon Master,
is what he has tried to explain to me.'
Dyvim Tvar sighed and he frowned. Though unable to understand Elric, he was afraid that he
could sometimes sympathise with Yyrkoon's viewpoint. At least Yyrkoon's motives and arguments were
relatively straightforward. He knew Elric's character too well, however, to believe that Elric
acted from weakness or lassitude. The paradox was that Elric tolerated Yyrkoon's treachery because
he was strong, because he had the power to destroy Yyrkoon whenever he cared. And Yyrkoon's own
character was such that he must constantly be testing that strength of Elric's, for he knew
instinctively that if Elric did weaken and order him slain, then he would have won. It was a
complicated situation and Dyvim Tvar dearly wished that he was not embroiled in it. But his
loyalty to the royal line of Melnibone was strong and his personal loyalty to Elric was great. He
considered the idea of having Yyrkoon secretly assassinated, but he knew that such a plan would
almost certainly come to nothing. Yyrkoon was a sorcerer of immense power and doubtless would be
forewarned of any attempt on his life.
'Princess Cymoril,' said Dyvim Tvar, 'I can only pray that your brother swallows so much
of his rage that it eventually poisons him.'
'I will join you in that prayer, Lord of the Dragon Caves.'
Together, they left the hall.
3
Riding Through the Morning:
A Moment of Tranquillity
THE LIGHT OF the early morning touched the tall towers of Imrryr and made them
scintillate. Each tower was of a different hue; there were a thousand soft colours. There were
rose pinks and pollen yellows, there were purples and pale greens, mauves and browns and oranges,
hazy blues, whites and powdery golds, all lovely in the sunlight. Two riders left the Dreaming
City behind them and rode away from the walls, over the green turf towards a pine forest where,
among the shadowy trunks, a little of the night seemed to remain. Squirrels were stirring and
foxes crept homeward; birds were singing and forest flowers opened their petals and filled the air
with delicate scent. A few insects wandered sluggishly aloft. The contrast between life in the
nearby city and this lazy rusticity was very great and seemed to mirror some of the contrasts
existing in the mind of at least one of the riders who now dismounted and led his horse, walking
knee-deep through a mass of blue flowers. The other rider, a girl, brought her own horse to a halt
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but did not dismount. Instead, she leaned casually on her: high Melnibonean pommel and smiled at
the man, her lover.
'Elric? Would you stop so near to Imrryr?'
He smiled back at her, over his shoulder. 'For the moment. Our flight was hasty. I would
collect my thoughts before we ride on.'
'How did you sleep last night?'
'Well enough, Cymoril, though I must have dreamed without knowing it, for there were--
there were little intimations in my head when I awoke. But then, the meeting with Yyrkoon was not
pleasant...'
'Do you think he plots to use sorcery against you?'
Elric shrugged. 'I would know if he brought a large sorcery against me. And he knows my
power, I doubt if he would dare employ wizardry.'
'He has reason to believe you might not use your power. He has worried at your personality
for so long--is there not a danger he will begin to worry at your skills? Testing your sorcery as
he has tested your patience?'
Elric frowned. 'Yes, I suppose there is that danger. But not yet, I should have thought.'
'He will not be happy until you are destroyed, Elric.'
'Or is destroyed himself, Cymoril.' Elric stooped and picked one of the flowers. He
smiled. 'Your brother is inclined to absolutes, is he not? How the weak hate weakness.'
Cymoril took his meaning. She dismounted and came towards him. Her thin gown matched,
almost perfectly, the colour of the flowers through which she moved. He handed her the flower and
she accepted it, touching its petals with her perfect lips. 'And how the strong hate strength, my
love. Yyrkoon is my kin and yet I give you this advice--use your strength against him.'
'I could not slay him. I have not the right.' Elric's face fell into familiar, brooding
lines.
"You could exile him.'
'Is not exile the same as death to a Melnibonean?'
'You, yourself, have talked of travelling in the lands of the Young Kingdoms.'
Elric laughed somewhat bitterly. 'But perhaps I am not a true Melnibonean. Yyrkoon has
said as much--and others echo his thoughts.'
'He hates you because you are contemplative. Your father was contemplative and no one
denied that he was a fitting emperor.'
'My father chose not to put the results of his contemplation into his personal actions. He
ruled as an emperor should. Yyrkoon, I must admit, would also rule as an emperor should. He, too,
has the opportunity to make Melnibone great again. If he were emperor, he would embark on a
campaign of conquest to restore our trade to its former volume, to extend our power across the
earth. And that is what the majority of our folk would wish. Is it my right to deny that wish?'
'It is your right to do what you think, for you are the emperor. All who are loyal to you
think as I do.'
'Perhaps their loyalty is misguided. Perhaps Yyrkoon is right and I will betray that
loyalty, bring doom to the Dragon Isle?' His moody, crimson eyes looked directly into hers.
'Perhaps I should have died as I left my mother's womb. Then Yyrkoon would have become emperor.
Has Fate been thwarted?'
'Fate is never thwarted. What has happened has happened because Fate willed it thus--if,
indeed, there is such a thing as Fate and if men's actions are not merely a response to other
men's actions.'
Elric drew a deep breath and offered her an expression tinged with irony. 'Your logic
leads you close to heresy, Cymoril, if we are to believe the traditions of Melnibone. Perhaps it
would be better if you forgot your friendship with me.'
She laughed. 'You begin to sound like my brother. Are you testing my love for you, my
lord?'
He began to remount his horse. 'No, Cymoril, but I would advise you to test your love
yourself, for I sense there is tragedy implicit in our love.'
As she swung herself back into her saddle she smiled and shook her head. 'You see doom in
all things, Can you not accept the good gifts granted you? They are few enough, my lord.'
'Aye. I'll agree with that.'
They turned in their saddles, hearing hoofbeats behind them. Some distance away they saw a
company of yellow-clad horsemen riding about in confusion. It was their guard, which they had left
behind, wishing to ride alone.
'Come!' cried Elric. 'Through the woods and over yonder hill and they'll never find us!'
They spurred their steeds through the sun-speared wood and up the steep sides of the hill
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beyond, racing down the other side and away across a plain where noidel bushes grew, their lush,
poison fruit glimmering a purplish blue, a night-colour which even the light of day could not
disperse. There were many such peculiar berries and herbs on Melnibone and it was to some of them
that Elric owed his life. Others were used for sorcerous potions and had been sown generations
before by Elric's ancestors. Now few Melniboneans left Imrryr even to collect these harvests. Only
slaves visited the greater part of the island, seeking the roots and the shrubs which made men
dream monstrous and magnificent dreams, for it was in their dreams that the nobles of Melnibone
found most of their pleasures; they had ever been a moody, inward-looking race and it was for this
quality that Imrryr had come to be named the Dreaming City. There, even the meanest slaves chewed
berries to bring them oblivion and thus were easily controlled, for they came to depend on their
dreams. Only Elric himself refused such drugs, perhaps because he required so many others simply
to ensure his remaining alive.
The yellow-clad guards were lost behind them and once across the plain where the noidel
bushes grew they slowed their flight and came at length to cliffs and then the sea.
The sea shone brightly and languidly washed the white beaches below the cliffs. Seabirds
wheeled in the clear sky and their cries were distant, serving only to emphasise the sense of
peace which both Elric and Cymoril now had. In silence the lovers guided their horses down steep
paths to the shore and there they tethered the steeds and began to walk across the sand, their
hair--his white, hers jet black--waving in the wind which blew from the east.
They found a great, dry cave which caught the sounds the sea made and replied in a
whispering echo. They removed their silken garments and made love tenderly in the shadows of the
cave. They lay in each other's arms as the day warmed and the wind dropped. Then they went to
bathe in the waters, filling the empty sky with their laughter.
When they were dry and were dressing themselves they noticed a darkening of the horizon
and Elric said: 'We shall be wet again before we return to Imrryr. No matter how fast we ride, the
storm will catch us.'
'Perhaps we should remain in the cave until it is past?' she suggested, coming close and
holding her soft body against him.
'No,' he said. 'I must return soon, for there are potions in Imrryr I must take if my body
is to retain its strength. An hour or two longer and I shall begin to weaken. You have seen me
weak before, Cymoril.'
She stroked his face and her eyes were sympathetic. 'Aye. I've seen you weak before,
Elric. Come, let's find the horses.'
By the time they reached the horses the sky was grey overhead and full of boiling
blackness not far away in the east. They heard the grumble of thunder and the crash of lightning.
The sea was threshing as if infected by the sky's hysteria. The horses snorted and pawed at the
sand, anxious to return. Even as Elric and Cymoril climbed into their saddles large spots of rain
began to fall on their heads and spread over their cloaks.
Then, suddenly, they were riding at full tilt back to Imrryr while the lightning flashed
around them and the thunder roared like a furious giant, like some great old Lord of Chaos
attempting to break through, unbidden, into the Realm of Earth.
Cymoril glanced at Elric's pale face, illuminated for a moment by a flash of sky-fire, and
she felt a chill come upon her then and the chill had nothing to do with the wind or the rain, for
it seemed to her in that second that the gentle scholar she loved had been transformed by the
elements into a hell-driven demon, into a monster with barely a semblance of humanity. His crimson
eyes had flared from the whiteness of his skull like the very flames of the Higher Hell; his hair
had been whipped upward so that it had become the crest of a sinister warhelm and, by a trick of
the stormlight, his mouth had seemed twisted in a mixture of rage and agony.
And suddenly Cymoril knew.
She knew, profoundly, that their morning's ride was the last moment of peace the two of
them would ever experience again. The storm was a sign from the gods themselves--a warning of
storms to come.
She looked again at her lover. Elric was laughing. He had turned his face upward so that
the warm rain fell upon it, so that the water splashed into his open mouth. The laughter was the
easy, unsophisticated laughter of a happy child.
Cymoril tried to laugh back, but then she had to turn her face away so that he should not
see it. For Cymoril had begun to weep.
She was weeping still when Imrryr came in sight a black and grotesque silhouette against a
line of brightness which was the as yet untainted western horizon.
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4
Prisoners:
Their Secrets Are Taken from Them
THE MEN IN yellow armour saw Elric and Cymoril as the two approached the smallest of the
eastern gates.
'They have found us at last,' smiled Elric through the rain, 'but somewhat belatedly, eh,
Cymoril?'
Cymoril, still embattled with her sense of doom, merely nodded and tried to smile in
reply.
Elric took this as an expression of disappointment, nothing more, and called to his
guards: 'Ho, men! Soon we shall all be dry again!'
But the captain of the guard rode up urgently, crying: 'My lord emperor is needed at
Monshanjik
Tower where spies are held.'
'Spies?'
'Aye, my lord.' The man's face was pale. Water cascaded from his helm and darkened his
thin cloak. His horse was hard to control and kept sidestepping through pools of water, which had
gathered wherever the road was in disrepair. 'Caught in the maze this morning. Southern
barbarians, by their chequered dress. We are holding them until the emperor himself can question
them.'
Elric waved his hand. 'Then lead on, captain. Let's see the brave fools who dare
Melnibone's sea-maze.'
The Tower of Monshanjik had been named for the wizard-architect who had designed the sea-
maze millennia before. The maze was the only means of reaching the great harbour of Imrryr and its
secrets had been carefully guarded, for it was their greatest protection against sudden attack.
The maze was complicated and pilots had to be specially trained to steer ships through it. Before
the maze had been built, the harbour had been a kind of 'inland lagoon, fed by the sea which swept
in through a system of natural caverns in the towering cliff which rose between lagoon and ocean.
There were five separate routes through the sea-maze and any individual pilot knew but one. In the
outer wall of the cliff there were five entrances. Here Young Kingdom ships waited until a pilot
came aboard. Then one of the gates to one of the entrances would be lifted, all aboard the ship
would be blindfolded and sent below save for the oar-master and the steersman who would also be
masked in heavy steel helms so that they could see nothing, do nothing but obey the complicated
instructions of the pilot. And if a Young Kingdom ship should fail to obey any of those
instructions and should crush itself against the rock walls, well Melnibone did not mourn for it
and any survivors from the crew would be taken as slaves. All who sought to trade with the
Dreaming City understood the risks, but scores of merchants came every month to dare the dangers
of the maze and trade their own poor goods for the splendid riches of Melnibone.
The Tower of Monshanjik stood overlooking the harbour and the massive mole which jutted
out into the middle of the lagoon. It was a sea-green tower and was squat compared with most of
those in Imrryr, though still a beautiful and tapering construction, with wide windows so that the
whole of the harbour could be seen from it. From Monshanjik Tower most of the business of the
harbour was done and in its lower cellars were kept any prisoners who had broken any of the myriad
rules governing the functioning of the harbour. Leaving Cymoril to return to the palace with a
guard, Elric entered the tower, riding through the great archway at the base, scattering not a few
merchants who were waiting for permission to begin their bartering, for the whole of the ground
floor was full of sailors, merchants and Melnibonean officials engaged in the business of trade,
though it was not here that the actual wares were displayed. The great echoing babble of a
thousand voices engaged in a thousand separate aspects of bargaining slowly stilled as Elric and
his guard rode arrogantly through to another dark arch at the far end of the hall. This arch
opened onto a ramp which sloped and curved down into the bowels of the tower.
Down this ramp clattered the horsemen, passing slaves, servants and officials who stepped
hastily aside, bowing low as they recognised the emperor. Great brands illuminated the tunnel,
guttering and smoking and casting distorted shadows onto the smooth, obsidian walls. A chill was
in the air now, and a dampness, for water washed about the outer walls below the quays of Imrryr.
And still the emperor rode on and still the ramp struck lower through the glassy rock. And then a
wave of heat rose to meet them and shifting light could be seen ahead and they passed into a
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chamber that was full of smoke and the scent of fear. From the low ceiling hung chains and from
eight of the chains, swinging by their feet, hung four people. Their clothes had been torn from
them, but their bodies were clothed in blood from tiny wounds, precise but severe, made by the
artist who stood, scalpel in hand, surveying his handiwork.
The artist was tail and very thin, almost like a skeleton in his stained, white garments.
His lips were thin, his eyes were slits, his fingers were thin, his hair was thin and the scalpel
he held was thin, too, almost invisible save when it flashed in the light from the fire which
erupted from a pit on the far side of the cavern. The artist was named Doctor Jest and the art he
practised was a performing art rather than a creative one (though he could argue otherwise with
some conviction): the art of drawing secrets from those who kept them. Doctor Jest was the Chief
Interrogator of Melnibone. He turned sinuously as Elric entered, the scalpel held between the thin
thumb and the thin forefinger of his fight hand; he stood poised and expectant, almost like a
dancer, and then bowed from the waist.
'My sweet emperor!' His voice was thin. It rushed from his thin throat as if bent on
escape and one was inclined to wonder if one had heard the words at all, so quickly had they come
and gone.
'Doctor. Are these the southlanders caught this morning?'
'Indeed they are, my lord.' Another sinuous bow. 'For your pleasure.'
Coldly Elric inspected the prisoners. He felt no sympathy for them. They were spies. Their
actions had led them to this pass. They had known what would happen to them if caught. But one of
them was a boy and another a woman, it appeared, though they writhed so in their chains it was
quite difficult to tell at first. It seemed a shame. Then the woman snapped what remained of her
teeth at him and hissed: 'Demon!' And Elric stepped back, saying:
'Have they informed you of what they were doing in our maze, doctor?'
'They still tantalise me with hints. They have a fine sense of drama. I appreciate that.
They are here, I would say, to map a route through the maze which a force of raiders might then
follow: But they have so far withheld the details. That is the game. We ail understand how it must
be played.'
'And when will they tell you, Doctor Jest?'
'Oh, very soon, my lord.'
'It would be best to know if we are to expect attackers. The sooner we know, the less time
we shall lose dealing with the attack when it comes. Do you not agree, doctor?'
'I do, my lord.'
'Very well.' Elric was irritated by this break in his day. It had spoiled the pleasure of
the ride, it had brought him face to face with his duties too quickly.
Doctor Jest returned to his charges and, reaching out with his free hand, expertly seized
the genitals of one of the male prisoners. The scalpel flashed. There was a groan. Doctor Jest
tossed something onto the fire. Elric sat in the chair prepared for him. He was bored rather than
disgusted by the rituals attendant upon the gathering of information and the discordant screams,
the clash of the chains, the thin whisperings of Doctor Jest, all served to ruin the feeling of
well-being he had retained even as he reached the chamber. But it was one of his kingly duties to
attend such rituals and attend this one he must until the information was presented to him and he
could congratulate his Chief Interrogator and issue orders as to the means of dealing with any
attack and even when that was over he must confer with admirals and with generals, probably
through the rest of the night, choosing between arguments, deciding on the deposition of men and
ships. With a poorly disguised yawn he leaned back and watched as Doctor Jest ran fingers and
scalpel, tongue, tongs and pincers over the bodies. He was soon thinking' of other matters:
philosophical problems which he had still failed to resolve.
It was not that Elric was inhumane; it was that he was, still, a Melnibonean. He had been
used to such sights since childhood. He could not have saved the prisoners, even if he had
desired, without going against every tradition of the Dragon Isle. And in this case it was a
simple matter of a threat being met by the best methods available. He had become used to shutting
off those feelings which conflicted with his duties as emperor. If there had been any point in
freeing the four who danced now at Doctor Jest's pleasure he would have freed them, but there was
no point and the four would have been astonished if they had received any other treatment than
this. Where moral decisions were concerned Elric was, by and large, practical. He would make his
decision in the context of what action he could take. In this case, he could take no action. Such
a reaction had become second nature to him. His desire was not to reform Melnibone but to reform
himself, not to initiate action but to know the best way of responding to the actions of others.
Here, the decision was easy to make. A spy was an aggressor. One defended oneself against
aggressors in the best possible way. The methods employed by Doctor Jest were the best methods.
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