Michael Moorcock - Elric 7 - Elric at the End of Time

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Elric At The End of Time
Book 7 of Elric
by Michael Moorcock
version 1.0
CONTENTS
Introduction • 9
Elric • 13
Elric at the End of Time • 15
The Last Enchantment • 69
The Secret Life of Elric of Melnibone • 84
Sojan the Swordsman • 93
Jerry Cornelius and Co. • 199
New Worlds-Jerry Cornelius • 201
In Lighter Vein • 215
The Stone Thing • 217
Introduction
ELRIC AT THE END OF TIME was the last story I wrote
about the albino prince. In some ways it's an affec-
tionate commentary on the kind of fantasy hero with
whom I'm most closely identified and it's also based
on the remark made some years ago by M. John
Harrison that the people who inhabit my End of
Time stories might, from Elric's perspective, seem to
be the very Lords of Chaos themselves. The story
brings together elements from most of the series
which, by the mid-seventies, I was completing. It
was finished in 1977, originally for a book which Big
O intended to publish and which Rodney Matthews
would illustrate. Big O effectively folded before the
book could appear. The Rodney Matthews paintings
all exist, but only a few of them have been seen
(principally in Rodney's own 1983 Calendar) which
is a great pity, since they represent some of his best
and most ambitious work. The only previous ap-
pearance of the story was in Terri Windling's and
Mark Arnold's Elsewhere anthology, which came out
in the USA in 1981.
The Last Enchantment was meant to be the final
Elric story. It was written in 1962, only a short while
after the first had appeared in magazine form and
before I wrote what was to become Stormbringer. I
gave the story to Ted Carnell for his magazine Sci-
ence Fantasy but he didn't want a "last" Elric story.
He persuaded me to write some more novellas and
in his capacity as my agent sent The Last Enchantment
to America, where it was rejected. Some fifteen years
later Ted's successor, Les Flood, came across the
story and returned it to me. It eventually appeared
in Ariel magazine in the U.S. in 1978, illustrated by
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Tim Conrad. That was its only publication until now.
Like Elric at the End of Time it has never been pub-
lished in England and this is its first appearance in
book form.
The Sojan stories are my first fantasy tales to be
professionally published. They were begun in the
1950s for Tarzan Adventures, before I came to edit the
magazine. I was seventeen when they started to
appear and they were not published in book form
until Dave Britton and Mike Butterworth republished
them as Sojan, the first book they did as Savoy Edi-
tions. It was re-illustrated by Jim Cawthorn, the origi-
nal illustrator who has worked with me through my
whole career as a writer of fantastic fiction. This
book was primarily a compendium of my earliest
work, together with some of my writing about my
own fiction and I have included one or two other
pieces from Sojan here.
The Stone Thing was written in response to a re-
quest from Eric Bentcliffe, editor of the fanzine Triode,
which I used to write for in the fifties. It is one of
several parodies of my own work which I've done
over the years (some of which, it could be argued,
were not published as such) and it's one I'm par-
ticularly fond of. Triode specialised in humorous "fan
fiction"—stories written about actual personalities in
the SF field—and dates from the period in which
science fiction fans did not take themselves quite so
seriously as nowadays, and those who made religion
from an enthusiasm were generally mocked for it. I
hope the story itself will show some readers that I
am neither in touch with secret supernatural forces
nor the spokesman for an illuminating new mystical
knowledge. As a matter of fact I'm by nature ex-
traordinarily sceptical of the supernatural. I have
always conceived my fantastic stories simply as that—
fantastic stories, escapist entertainment which hopes
to give some pleasure to the reader. Any profundi-
ties in those romances are a tribute to the one who
discovers them rather than to me. For a long while
the exaggerated reaction of some readers to my fan-
tasies caused me to try to dismiss them altogether.
However, I should like to say that I denigrate nei-
ther the stories nor their readers, though I do prefer
my comedies to my melodramas and personally would
put a greater value on books such as Gloriana, The
Condition of Muzak, Byzantium Endures or The Brothel
in Rosenstrasse. I've always had a happy facility for
fantasy and I suppose it's common enough for some-
one to make less of something which comes easily to
them.
Some of the non-fiction pieces about Elric and Co.
which were in the original Sojan selection edited by
Dave Britton are still here, for whatever interest they
provide. I have Dave Britton and Mike Butterworth
to thank for many things, not least their willingness
to sift through long-forgotten piles of paper and find
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manuscripts and tear-sheets (The Golden Barge would
never have been published had it not been for their
retaining a copy of the manuscript which I had
thought permanently lost) and I should also like to
recognise, once again, Ted Carnell's encouragement
as the editor of my first Elric stories, Peter Ledeboer's
kindness as the publisher who originally commis-
sioned the title story as a vehicle for Rodney Mat-
thew's illustrations, the present publishers Alison
Peacock, Simon Scott and Nick Webb of NEL and
the encouragement, inspiration and friendship of
many people, amongst them Jim Cawthorn, Eric
Bentcliffe, Ron Bennett, Alan Dodd, Arthur Thom-
son and Ethel Lindsay who have known me since,
as an enthusiastic and, I'm sure, sometimes irritating
fifteen-year-old, I first began to write the Sojan stories.
Michael Moorcock,
Fulham Road
July 1983
ELRIC
Elric at the End of Time
1. In Which Mrs. Persson Detects An Above Average
Degree of Chaos In The Megaflow
RETURNING FROM China to London and the Spring of
1936, Una Persson found an unfamiliar quality of
pathos in most of the friends she had last seen, as
far as she recalled, during the Blitz on her way back
from 1970. Then they had been desperately hearty: it
was a comfort to understand that the condition was
not permanent. Here, at present, Pierrot ruled and
she felt she possessed a better grip on her power.
This was, she admitted with shame, her favourite
moral climate for it encouraged in her an enormously
gratifying sense of spiritual superiority: the advan-
tage of having been born, originally, into a later and
probably more sophisticated age. The 1960s. Some
women, she reflected, were forced to have children
in order to enjoy this pleasure.
But she was uneasy, so she reported to the local
Time Centre and the bearded, sullen features of Ser-
geant Alvarez who welcomed her in white, apologis-
ing for the fact that he had himself only just that
morning left the Lower Devonian and had not had
time to change.
"It's the megaflow, as you guessed," he told her,
operating toggles to reveal his crazy display sys-
tems. "We've lost control."
"We never really had it." She lit a Sherman's and
shook her long hair back over the headrest of the
swivel chair, opening her military overcoat and loos-
ening her webbing. "Is it worse than usual?"
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"Much." He sipped cold coffee from his battered
silver mug. "It cuts through every plane we can pick
up—a rogue current swerving through the dimen-
sions. Something of a twister."
"Jerry?"
"He's dormant. We checked. But it's like him,
certainly. Most probably another aspect."
"Oh, sod." Una straightened her shoulders.
"That's what I thought," said Alvarez. "Some-
one's going to have to do a spot of rubato." He
studied a screen. It was Greek to Una. For a moment
a pattern formed. Alvarez made a note. "Yes. It can
either be fixed at the nadir or the zenith. It's too late
to try anywhere in between. I think it's up to you,
Mrs. P."
She got to her feet. "Where's the zenith?"
"The End of Time."
"Well," she said, "that's something."
She opened her bag and made sure of her jar of
instant coffee. It was the one thing she couldn't get
at the End of Time.
"Sorry," said Alvarez, glad that the expert had
been there and that he could remain behind.
"It's just as well," she said. "This period's no
good for my moral well-being. I'll be off, then."
"Someone's got to." Alvarez failed to seem sym-
pathetic. "It's Chaos out there."
"You don't have to tell me."
She entered the make-shift chamber and was on
her way to the End of Time.
2. In Which The Eternal Champion Finds Himself at the
End of Time
ELRIC OF MELNIBONE shook a bone-white fist at the
greedy, glaring stars—the eyes of all those men whose
souls he had stolen to sustain his own enfeebled
body. He looked down. Though it seemed he stood
on something solid, there was only more blackness
falling away below him. It was as if he hung at the
centre of the universe. And here, too, were staring
points of yellow light. Was he to be judged?
His half-sentient runesword, Stormbringer, in its
scabbard on his left hip, murmured like a nervous
dog.
He had been on his way to Imrryr, to his home, to
reclaim his kingdom from his cousin Yyrkoon; sail-
ing from the Isle of the Purple Towns where he had
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guested with Count Smiorgan Baldhead. Magic winds
had caught the Filkharian trader as she crossed the
unnamed water between the Vilmirian peninsula and
the Isle of Melnibone She had been borne into the
Dragon Sea and thence to The Sorcerer's Isle, so-
called because that barren place had once been the
home of Cran Liret, the Thief of Spells, a wizard
infamous for his borrowings, who had, at length,
been dispatched by those he sought to rival. But
much residual magic had been left behind. Certain
spells had come into the keeping of the Krettii, a
tribe of near-brutes who had migrated to the island
from the region of The Silent Land less than fifty
years before. Their shaman, one Grrodd Ybene Eenr,
had made unthinking use of devices buried by the
dying sorcerer as the spells of his peers sucked life
and sanity from them. Elric had dealt with more
than one clever wizard, but never with so mindless a
power. His battle had been long and exhausting and
had required the sacrifice of most of the Filkharians
as well as the entire tribe of Krettii. His sorcery had
become increasingly desperate. Sprite fought sprite,
devil fell upon devil, in planes both physical and
astral, all around the region of The Sorcerer's Isle.
Eventually Elric had mounted a massive summoning
against the allies of Grrodd Ybene Eenr with the
result that the shaman had been at last overwhelmed
and his remains scattered in Limbo. But Elric, cap-
tured by his own monstrous magickings, had fol-
lowed his enemy and now he stood in the Void,
crying out into appalling silence, hearing his words
only in his skull:
"Arioch! Arioch! Aid me!"
But his patron Duke of Hell was absent. He could
not exist here. He could not, for once, even hear his
favourite protege.
"Arioch! Repay my loyalty! I have given you blood and
souls!"
He did not breathe. His heart had stopped. All his
movements were sluggish.
The eyes looked down at him. They looked up at
him. Were they glad? Did they rejoice in his terror?
"Arioch!"
He yearned for a reply. He would have wept, but
no tears would come. His body was cold; less than
dead, yet not alive. A fear was in him greater than
any fear he had known before.
"Oh, Arioch! Aid me!"
He forced his right hand towards the pulsing pom-
mel of Stormbringer which, alone, still possessed
energy. The hilt of the sword was warm to his touch
and, as slowly he folded his fingers around it, it
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seemed to swell in his fist and propel his arm up-
wards so that he did not draw the sword. Rather the
sword forced his limbs into motion. And now it
challenged the void, glowing with black fire, singing
its high, gleeful battlesong.
"Our destinies are intertwined, Stormbringer," said
Elric. "Bring us from this place, or those destinies
shall never be fulfilled."
Stormbringer swung like the needle of a compass
and Elric's unfeeling arm was wrenched round to go
with it. In eight directions the sword swung, as if to
the eight points of Chaos. It was questing—like a
hound sniffing a trail. Then a yell sounded from
within the strange metal of the blade; a distant cry of
delight, it seemed to Elric. The sound one would
hear if one stood above a valley listening to children
playing far below.
Elric knew that Stormbringer had sensed a plane
they might reach. Not necessarily their own, but one
which would accept them. And, as a drowning mari-
ner must yearn for the most inhospitable rock rather
than no rock at all, Elric yearned for that plane.
"Stormbringer. Take us there."
The sword hesitated. It moaned. It was suspicious.
"Take us there!" whispered the albino to his rune-
sword.
The sword struck back and forth, up and down, as
if it battled invisible enemies. Elric scarcely kept his
grip on it. It seemed that Stormbringer was fright-
ened of the world it had detected and sought to
drive it back but the act of seeking had in itself set
them both in motion. Already Elric could feel him-
self being drawn through the darkness, towards some-
thing he could see very dimly beyond the myriad
eyes, as dawn reveals clouds undetected in the night
sky.
Elric thought he saw the shapes of crags, pointed
and crazy. He thought he saw water, flat and ice-
blue. The stars faded and there was snow beneath
his feet, mountains all around him, a huge, blazing
sun overhead—and above that another landscape, a
desert, as a magic mirror might reflect the contrasting
character of he who peered into it—a desert, quite as
real as the snowy peaks in which he crouched, sword
in hand, waiting for one of these landscapes to fade
so that he might establish, to a degree, his bearings.
Evidently the two planes had intersected.
But the landscape overhead did not fade. He could
look up and see sand, mountains, vegetation, a sky
which met his own sky at a point half-way along the
curve of the huge sun—and blended with it. He
looked about him. Snowy peaks in all directions.
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Above—desert everywhere. He felt dizzy, found that
he was staring downward, reaching to cup some of
the snow in his hand. It was ordinary snow, though
it seemed reluctant to melt in contact with his flesh.
"This is a world of Chaos," he muttered. "It obeys
no natural laws." His voice seemed loud, amplified
by the peaks, perhaps. "That is why you did not
want to come here. This is the world of powerful
rivals."
Stormbringer was silent, as if all its energy were
spent. But Elric did not sheath the blade. He began
to trudge through the snow toward what seemed to
be an abyss. Every so often he glanced upward, but
the desert overhead had not faded, sun and sky
remained the same. He wondered if he walked around
the surface of a miniature world. That if he contin-
ued to go forward he might eventually reach the
point where the two landscapes met. He wondered
if this were not some punishment wished upon him
by his untrustworthy allies of Chaos. Perhaps he
must choose between death in the snow or death in
the desert. He reached the edge of the abyss and
looked down.
The walls of the abyss fell for all of five feet before
reaching a floor of gold and silver squares which
stretched for perhaps another seven feet before they
reached the far wall, where the landscape continued—
snow and crags—uninterrupted.
"This is undoubtedly where Chaos rules," said
the Prince of Melnibone. He studied the smooth,
chequered floor. It reflected parts of the snowy ter-
rain and the desert world above it. It reflected the
crimson-eyed albino who peered down at it, his fea-
tures drawn in bewilderment and tiredness.
"I am at their mercy," said Elric. "They play with
me. But I shall resist them, even as they destroy
me." And some of his wild, careless spirit came back
to him as he prepared to lower himself onto the
chequered floor and cross to the opposite bank.
He was half-way over when he heard a grunting
sound in the distance and a beast appeared, its paws
slithering uncertainly on the smooth surface, its seven
savage eyes glaring in all directions as if it sought
the instigator of its terrible indignity.
And, at last, all seven eyes focused on Elric and
the beast opened a mouth in which row upon row of
thin, vicious teeth were arranged, and uttered a growl
of unmistakable resentment.
Elric raised his sword. "Back, creature of Chaos.
You threaten the Prince of Melnibone."
The beast was already propelling itself towards
him. Elric flung his body to one side, aiming a blow
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with the sword as he did so, succeeding only in
making a thin incision in the monster's heavily mus-
cled hind leg. It shrieked and began to turn.
"Back."
Elric's voice was the brave, thin squeak of a lem-
ming attacked by a hawk. He drove at the thing's
snout with Stormbringer. The sword was heavy. It
had spent all its energy and there was no more to
give. Elric wondered why he, himself, did not weaken.
Possibly the laws of nature were entirely abolished
in the Realm of Chaos. He struck and drew blood.
The beast paused, more in astonishment than fear.
Then it opened its jaws, pushed its back legs against
the snowy bank, and shot towards the albino who
tried to dodge it, lost his footing, and fell, sprawling
backwards, on the gold and silver surface.
3. In Which Una Persson Discovers An Unexpected Snag
THE GIGANTIC beetle, rainbow carapace glittering,
turned as if into the wind, which blew from the
distant mountains, its thick, flashing wings beating
rapidly as it bore its single passenger over the queer
landscape.
On its back Mrs. Persson checked the instruments
on her wrist. Ever since Man had begun to travel in
time it had become necessary for the League to de-
velop techniques to compensate for the fluctuations
and disruptions in the spacetime continua; perpetu-
ally monitoring the chronoflow and megaflow. She
pursed her lips. She had picked up the signal. She
made the semi-sentient beetle swing a degree or two
SSE and head directly for the mountains. She was in
some sort of enclosed (but vast) environment. These
mountains, as well as everything surrounding them,
lay in the territory most utilised by the gloomy,
natural-born Werther de Goethe, poet and romantic,
solitary seeker after truth in a world no longer differ-
entiating between the degrees of reality. He would
not remember her, she knew, because, as far as
Werther was concerned, they had not met yet. He
had not even, if Una were correct, experienced his
adventure with Mistress Christia, the Everlasting Con-
cubine. A story on which she had dined out more
than once, in duller eras.
The mountains drew closer. From here it was pos-
sible to see the entire arrangement (a creation of
Werther's very much in character): a desert land-
scape, a central sun, and, inverted above it, winter
mountains. Werther strove to make statements, like
so many naive artists before him, by presenting sim-
ple contrasts: The World is Bleak/The World is
Cold/Barren Am I As I Grow Old/Tomorrow I Die,
Entombed in Cold/For Silver My Poor Soul Was Sold—
she remembered he was perhaps the worst poet she
had encountered in an eternity of meetings with bad
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poets. He had taught himself to read and write in
old, old English so that he might carve those words
on one of his many abandoned tombs (half his time
was spent in composing obituaries for himself). Like
so many others he seemed to equate self-pity with
artistic inspiration. In an earlier age he might have
discovered his public and become quite rich (self-
pity passing for passion in the popular understand-
ing). Sometimes she regretted the passing of Whel-
drake, so long ago, so far away, in a universe bearing
scarcely any resemblances to those in which she
normally operated.
She brought her wavering mind back to the prob-
lem. The beetle dipped and circled over the desert,
but there was no sight of her quarry.
She was about to abandon the search when she
heard a faint roaring overhead and she looked up to
see another characteristic motif of Werther's—a gold
and silver chessboard on which, upside down, a
monstrous dog-like creature was bearing down on a
tiny white-haired man dressed in the most abomina-
ble taste Una had seen for some time.
She directed the aircar upwards and then, revers-
ing the machine as she entered the opposing grav-
ity, downwards to where the barbarically costumed
swordsman was about to be eaten by the beast.
"Shoo!" cried Una commandingly.
The beast raised a befuddled head.
"Shoo."
It licked lips and returned its seven-eyed gaze to
the albino, who was now on his knees, using his
large sword to steady himself as he climbed to his
feet.
The jaws opened wider and wider. The pale man
prepared, shakily, to defend himself.
Una directed the aircar at the beast's unkempt
head. The great beetle connected with a loud crack.
The monster's eyes widened in dismay. It yelped. It
sat on its haunches and began to slide away, its
claws making an unpleasant noise on the gold and
silver tiles.
Una landed the aircar and gestured for the stranger
to enter. She noticed with distaste that he was a
somewhat unhealthy looking albino with gaunt fea-
tures, exaggeratedly large and slanting eyes, ears
that were virtually pointed, and glaring, half-mad
red pupils.
And yet, undoubtedly, it was her quarry and there
was nothing for it but to be polite.
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"Do, please, get in," she said. "I am here to res-
cue you."
"Shaarmraaam torjistoo quellahm vyeeanr," said the
stranger in an accent that seemed to Una to be vaguely
Scottish.
"Damn," she said, "that's all we need." She had
been anxious to approach the albino in private, be-
fore one of the denizens of the End of Time could
arrive and select him for a menagerie, but now she
regretted that Werther or perhaps Lord Jagged were
not here, for she realised that she needed one of
their translation pills, those tiny tablets which could
"engineer" the brain to understand a new language.
By a fluke—or perhaps because of her presence here
so often—the people at the End of Time currently
spoke formal early twentieth-century English.
The albino—who wore a kind of tartan divided
kilt, knee-length boots, a blue and white jerkin, a
green cloak and a silver breastplate, with a variety of
leather belts and metal buckles here and there upon
his person—was vehemently refusing her offer of a
lift. He raised the sword before him as he backed
away, slipped once, reached the bank, scrambled
through snow and disappeared behind a rock.
Mrs. Persson sighed and put the car into motion
again.
4. In Which The Prince of Melnibone Encounters Further
Terrors
XIOMBARG HERSELF, thought Elric as he slid beneath
the snows into the cave. Well, he would have no
dealings with the Queen of Chaos; not until he was
forced to do so.
The cave was large. In the thin light from the gap
above his head he could not see far. He wondered
whether to return to the surface or risk going deeper
into the cave. There was always the hope that he
would find another way out. He was attempting to
recall some rune that would aid him, but all he knew
depended either upon the aid of elementals who did
not exist on this plane, or upon the Lords of Chaos
themselves—and they were unlikely to come to his
assistance in their own Realm. He was marooned
here: the single mouse in a world of cats.
Almost unconsciously he found himself moving
downwards, realising that the cave had become a
tunnel. He was feeling hungry but, apart from the
monster and the woman in the magical carriage, had
seen no sign of life. Even the cavern did not seem
entirely natural.
It widened; there was phosphorescent light. He
realised that the walls were of transparent crystal
and, behind the walls, were all manner of artefacts.
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：133 页 大小：304.49KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-15

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