Michael Moorcock - Elric 5 - The Bane of the Black Sword

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The Bane of the Black Sword
The fifth volume of the saga of Elric of Melnibone
by Michael Moorcock
BOOK ONE
The Stealer of Souls
In which Elric once again makes the ac-
quaintance of Queen Yishana of Jharkor
and Theleb K'aarna of Pan Tang and re-
ceives satisfaction at last.
ONE
In a city called Bakshaan, which was rich enough to
make all other cities of the North East seem poor, in a
tall-towered tavern one night, Elric, Lord of the smoking
ruins of Melnibone, smiled like a shark and dryly jested
with four powerful merchant princes whom, in a day or
so, he intended to pauperize.
Moonglum the Outlander, Elric's companion, viewed
the tall albino with admiration and concern. For Elric
to laugh and joke was rare—but that he should share his
good humour with men of the merchant stamp, that was
unprecedented. Moonglum congratulated himself that
he was Elric's friend and wondered upon the outcome of
the meeting. Elric had, as usual, elaborated little of his
plan to Moonglum.
"We need your particular qualities as swordsman and
sorcerer, Lord Elric, and will, of course, pay well for
them." Pilarmo, overdressed, intense and scrawny, was
main spokesman for the four.
"And how shall you pay, gentlemen?" inquired Elric
politely, still smiling.
Pilarmo's colleagues raised their eyebrows and even
their spokesman was slightly taken aback. He waved his
hand through the smoky air of the tavern-room which
was occupied only by the six men.
"In gold—in gems," answered Pilarmo.
"In chains," said Elric. "We free travellers need no
chains of that sort."
Moonglum bent forward out of the shadows where he
sat, his expression showing that he strongly disapproved
of Elric's statement.
Pilarmo and the other merchants were plainly aston-
ished, too. "Then how shall we pay you?"
"I will decide that later," Elric smiled. "But why talk
of such things until the time—what do you wish me to
do?"
Pilarmo coughed and exchanged glances with his
peers. They nodded. Pilarmo dropped his tone and
spoke slowly:
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"You are aware that trade is highly competitive in
this city, Lord Elric. Many merchants vie with one an-
other to secure the custom of the people. Bakshaan is a
rich city and its populace is comfortably off, in the
main."
"This is well known," Elric agreed; he was privately
likening the well-to-do citizens of Bakshaan to sheep and
himself to the wolf who would rob the fold. Because of
these thoughts, his scarlet eyes were full of a humour
which Moonglum knew to be malevolent and ironic
"There is one merchant in this city who controls more
warehouses and shops than any other," Pilarmo contin-
ued. "Because of the size and strength of his caravans,
he can afford to import greater quantities of goods into
Bakshaan and thus sell them for lower prices. He is vir-
tually a thief—he will ruin us with his unfair methods."
Pilarmo was genuinely hurt and aggrieved.
"You refer to Nikorn of Ilmar?" Moonglum spoke
from behind Elric.
Pilarmo nodded mutely.
Elric frowned. "This man heads his own caravans-
braves the dangers of the desert, forest and mountain.
He has earned his position."
"That is hardly the point," snapped fat Tormiel, be — ringed and powdered, his flesh a-quiver.
"No, of course not." Smooth-tongued Kelos patted his
colleague's arm consolingly. "But we all admire bravery,
I hope." His friends nodded. Silent Deinstaf, the last of
the four, also coughed and wagged his hairy head. He
put his unhealthy fingers on the jewelled hilt of an or-
nate but virtually useless poignard and squared his
shoulders. "But," Kelos went on, glancing at Deinstaf
with approval, "Nikorn takes no risks selling his goods
cheaply—he's killing us with his low prices."
"Nikorn is a thorn in our flesh," Pilarmo elaborated
unnecessarily.
"And you gentlemen require myself and my compan-
ion to remove this thorn," Elric stated.
"In a nutshell, yes." Pilarmo was sweating. He seemed
more than a trifle wary of the smiling albino. Legends
referring to Elric and his dreadful, doom-filled exploits
were many and elaborately detailed. It was only because
of their desperation that they had sought his help in this
matter. They needed one who could deal in the nigro-
mantic arts as well as wield a useful blade. Elric's arrival
in Bakshaan was potential salvation for them.
"We wish to destroy Nikorn's power," Pilarmo contin-
ued. "And if this means destroying Nikorn, then—" He
shrugged and half-smiled, watching Elric's face.
"Common assassins are easily employed, particularly
in Bakshaan," Elric pointed out softly.
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"Uh—true," Pilarmo agreed. "But Nikorn employs a
sorcerer—and a private army. The sorcerer protects him
and his palace by means of magic. And a guard of
desertmen serve to ensure that if magic fails, then
natural methods can be used for the purpose. Assassins
have attempted to eliminate the trader, but unfortu-
nately, they were not lucky."
Elric laughed. "How disappointing, my friends. Still,
assassins are the most dispensable members of the com-
munity—are they not? And their souls probably went to
placate some demon who would otherwise have plagued
more honest folk."
The merchants laughed half-heartedly and, at this,
Moonglum grinned, enjoying himself from his seat in
the shadows.
Elric poured wine for the other five. It was of a vin-
tage which the law in Bakshaan forbade the populace
from drinking. Too much drove the imbiber mad, yet
Elric had already quaffed great quantities and showed no
ill effects. He raised a cup of the yellow wine to his
lips and drained it, breathing deeply and with satisfac-
tion as the stuff entered his system. The others sipped
theirs cautiously. The merchants were already regretting
their haste in contacting the albino. They had a feeling
that not only were the legends true—but they did not do
justice to the strange-eyed man they wished to employ.
Elric poured more yellow wine into his goblet and his
hand trembled slightly and his dry tongue moved over
his lips quickly. His breathing increased as he allowed
the beverage to trickle down his throat. He had taken
more than enough to make other men into mewling idi-
ots, but those few signs were the only indication that the
wine had any effect upon him at all.
This was a wine for those who wished to dream of dif-
ferent and less tangible worlds. Elric drank it in the
hope that he would, for a night or so, cease to dream.
Now he asked: "And who is this mighty sorcerer, Mas-
ter Pilarmo?"
"His name is Theleb K'aarna," Pilarmo answered ner-
vously.
Elric's scarlet eyes narrowed. "The sorcerer of Pan
Tang?"
"Aye—he comes from that island."
Elric put his cup down upon the table and rose,
fingering his blade of black iron, the runesword
Stormbringer.
He said with conviction: "I will help you,
gentlemen." He had made up his mind not to rob them,
after all. A new and more important plan was forming
in his brain.
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"Theleb K'aarna," he thought. "So you have made
Bakshaan your bolt-hole, eh?"
Theleb K'aarna tittered. It was an obscene sound,
coming as it did from the throat of a sorcerer of no
mean skill. It did not fit with his sombre, black-bearded
countenance, his tall, scarlet-robed frame. It was not a
sound suited to one of his extreme wisdom.
Theleb K'aarna tittered and stared with dreamy eyes
at the woman who lolled on the couch beside him. He
whispered clumsy words of endearment into her ear and
she smiled indulgently, stroking his long, black hair as
she would stroke the coat of a dog.
"You're a fool, for all your learning, Theleb
K'aarna," she murmured, her hooded eyes staring be-
yond him at the bright green and orange tapestries
which decorated the stone walls of her bed-chamber. She
reflected lazily that a woman could not but help take ad-
vantage of any man who put himself so into her power.
"Yishana, you are a bitch," Theleb K'aarna breathed
foolishly, "and all the learning in the world cannot com-
bat love. I love you." He spoke simply, directly, not un-
derstanding the woman who lay beside him. He had
seen into the black bowels of hell and had returned
sane, he knew secrets which would turn any ordinary
man's mind into quivering, jumbled jelly. But in certain
arts he was as unversed as his youngest acolyte. The art
of love was one of those. "I love you," he repeated, and
wondered why she ignored him.
Yishana, Queen of Jharkor, pushed the sorcerer away
from her and rose abruptly, swinging bare, well-formed
legs off the divan. She was a handsome woman, with
hair as black as her soul; though her youth was fading,
she had a strange quality about her which both repelled
and attracted men. She wore her multi-coloured silks
well and they swirled about her as, with light grace, she
strode to the barred window of the chamber and stared
out into the dark and turbulent night. The sorcerer
watched her through narrow, puzzled eyes, disappointed
at this halt to their love-making.
"What's wrong?"
The Queen continued to stare out at the night. Great
banks of black cloud moved like predatory monsters,
swiftly across the wind-torn sky. The night was raucous
and angry about Bakshaan; full of ominous portent.
Theleb K'aarna repeated his question and again re-
ceived no answer. He stood up angrily, then, and joined
her at the window.
"Let us leave now, Yishana, before it is too late. If El-
ric learns of our presence in Bakshaan, we shall both
suffer." She did not reply, but her breasts heaved
beneath the flimsy fabric and her mouth tightened.
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The sorcerer growled, gripping her arm. "Forget your
renegade freebooter, Elric—you have me now, and I can
do much more for you than any sword-swinging medi-
cine-man from a broken and senile empire!"
Yishana laughed unpleasantly and turned on her
lover. "You are a fool, Theleb K'aarna, and you're
much less of a man than Elric. Three aching years have
passed since he deserted me, skulking off into the night
on your trail and leaving me to pine for him! But I still
remember his savage kisses and his wild love-making.
Gods! I wish he had an equal. Since he left, I've never
found one to match him—though many have tried and
proved better than you—until you came skulking back
and your spells drove them off or destroyed them." She
sneered, mocking and taunting him. "You've been too
long among your parchments to be much good to me!"
The sorcerer's face muscles tautened beneath his
tanned skin and he scowled. "Then why do you let me
remain? I could make you my slave with a potion—you
know that!"
"But you wouldn't—and are thus my slave, mighty
wizard. When Elric threatened to displace you in my af-
fections, you conjured that demon and Elric was forced
to fight it. He won you'll remember—but in his pride re-
fused to compromise. You fled into hiding and he went
in search of you—leaving me! That is what you did.
You're in love, Theleb K'aarna ..." she laughed in his
face. "And your love won't let you use your arts against
me—only my other lovers. I put up with you because
you are often useful, but if Elric were to return ..."
Theleb K'aarna turned away, pettishly picking at his
long black beard. Yishana said: "I half hate Elric, aye!
But that is better than half loving you!"
The sorcerer snarled: "Then why did you join me in
Bakshaan? Why did you leave your brother's son upon
your throne as regent and come here? I sent word and
you came—you must have some affection for me to do
that!"
Yishana laughed again. "I heard that a pale-faced sor-
cerer with crimson eyes and a howling runesword was
travelling in the North East. That is why I came, The-
leb K'aarna."
Theleb K'aarna's face twisted with anger as he bent
forward and gripped the woman's shoulder in his
taloned hand.
"You'll remember that this same pale-faced sorcerer
was responsible for your own brother's death," he spat.
"You lay with a man who was a slayer of his kin and
yours. He deserted the fleet, which he had led to pillage
his own land, when the Dragon Masters retaliated.
Dharmit, your brother, was aboard one of those ships
and he now lies scorched and rotting on the ocean bed."
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Yishana shook her head wearily. "You always mention
this and hope to shame me. Yes, I entertained one who
was virtually my brothers' murderer—but Elric had
ghastlier crimes on his conscience and I still loved him,
in spite or because of them. Your words do not have the
effect you require, Theleb K'aarna. Now leave me, I
wish to sleep alone."
The sorcerer's nails were still biting into Yishana's
cool flesh. He relaxed his grip. "I am sorry," he said, his
voice breaking. "Let me stay."
"Go," she said softly. And, tortured by his own
weakness, Theleb K'aarna, sorcerer of Pan Tang, left.
Elric of Melnibone was in Bakshaan—and Elric had
sworn several oaths of vengeance upon Theleb K'aarna
on several separate occasions—in Lormyr, Nadsokor and
Taueloru, as well as in Jharkor. In his heart, the black-
bearded sorcerer knew who would win any duel which
might take place.
TWO
The four merchants had left swathed in dark cloaks.
They had not deemed it wise for anyone to be aware of
their association with Elric. Now, Elric brooded over a
fresh cup of yellow wine. He knew that he would need
help of a particular and powerful kind, if he were going
to capture Nikorn's castle. It was virtually unstormable
and, with Theleb K'aarna's nigromantic protection, a
particularly potent sorcery would have to be used. He
knew that he was Theleb K'aarna's match and more
when it came to wizardry, but if all his energy were ex-
pended on fighting the other magician, he would have
none left to effect an entry past the crack guard of
desert warriors employed by the merchant prince.
He needed help. In the forests which lay to the south
of Bakshaan, he knew he would find men whose aid
would be useful. But would they help him? He discussed
the problem with Moonglum.
"I have heard that a band of my countrymen have re-
cently come north from Vilmir where they have pillaged
several large towns," he informed the Eastlander. "Since
the great battle of Imrryr four years ago, the men of
Melnibone have spread outwards from the Dragon Isle,
becoming mercenaries and freebooters. It was because of
me that Imrryr fell—and this they know, but if I offer
them rich loot, they might aid me."
Moonglum smiled wryly. "I would not count on it, El-
ric," he said. "Such an act as yours can hardly be forgot-
ten, if you'll forgive my frankness. Your countrymen are
now unwilling wanderers, citizens of a razed city—the
oldest and greatest the world has known. When Imrryr
the Beautiful fell, there must have been many who
wished great suffering upon you."
Elric emitted a short laugh. "Possibly," he agreed,
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"but these are my people and I know them. We Melni-
boneans are an old and sophisticated race—we rarely al-
low emotions to interfere with our general well-being."
Moonglum raised his eyebrows in an ironic grimace
and Elric interpreted the expression rightly. "I was an
exception for a short while," he said. "But now Cymoril
and my cousin lie in the ruins of Imrryr and my own
torment will avenge any ill I have done. I think my
countrymen will realise this."
Moonglum sighed. "I hope you are right, Elric. Who
leads this band?"
"An old friend," Elric answered. "He was Dragon
Master and led the attack upon the reaver ships after
they had looted Imrryr. His name is Dyvim Tvar, once
Lord of the Dragon Caves."
"And what of his beasts, where are they?"
"Asleep in the caves again. They can be roused only
rarely—they need years to recuperate while their venom
is re-distilled and their energy revitalised. If it were not
for this, the Dragon Masters would rule the world."
"Lucky for you that they don't," Moonglum comment-
ed.
Elric said slowly: "Who knows? With me to lead
them, they might yet. At least, we could carve a new em-
pire from this world, just as our forefathers did."
Moonglum said nothing. He thought, privately, that
the Young Kingdoms would not be so easily vanquished.
Melnibone and her people were ancient, cruel and
wise—but even their cruelty was tempered with the soft
disease which comes with age. They lacked the vitality
of the barbarian race who had been the ancestors of the
builders of Imrryr and her long-forgotten sister cities.
Vitality was often replaced by tolerance—the tolerance
of the aged, the ones who have known past glory but
whose day is done.
"In the morning," said Elric, "we will make contact
with Dyvim Tvar and hope that what he did to the
reaver fleet, coupled with the conscience-pangs which I
have personally suffered, will serve to give him a
properly objective attitude to my scheme.
"And now, sleep, I think," Moonglum said. "I need it,
anyway—and the wench who awaits me might be
growing impatient."
Elric shrugged. "As you will. I'll drink a little more
wine and seek my bed later."
The black clouds which had huddled over Bakshaan
on the previous night, were still there in the morning.
The sun rose behind them, but the inhabitants were
unaware of it. It rose unheralded, but in the fresh, rain-
splashed dawn, Elric and Moonglum rode the narrow
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streets of the city, heading for the south gate and the
forests beyond.
Elric had discarded his usual garb for a simple jerkin
of green-dyed leather which bore the insignia of the
royal line of Melnibone: a scarlet dragon, rampant on a
gold field. On his finger was the Ring of Kings, the
single rare Actorious stone set in a ring of rune-carved
silver. This was the ring that Elric's mighty forefathers
had worn; it was many centuries old. A short cloak
hung from his shoulders and his hose was also blue,
tucked into high black riding boots. At his side hung
Stormbringer.
A symbiosis existed between man and sword. The man
without the sword could become a cripple, lacking sight
and energy—the sword without the man could not drink
the blood and the souls it needed for its existence. They
rode together, sword and man, and none could tell
which was master.
Moonglum, more conscious of the inclement weather
than his friend, hugged a high-collared cloak around
him and cursed the elements occasionally.
It took them an hour's hard riding to reach the out-
skirts of the forest. As yet, in Bakshaan, there were only
rumours of the Imrryrian freebooters' coming. Once or
twice, a tall stranger had been seen in obscure taverns
near the southern wall, and this had been remarked
upon but the citizens of Bakshaan felt secure in their
wealth and power and had reasoned, with a certain
truth in their conviction, that Bakshaan could withstand
a raid far more ferocious than those raids which had
taken weaker Vilmirian towns. Elric had no idea why
his countrymen had driven northwards to Bakshaan.
Possibly they had come only to rest and turn their loot
into food supplies in the bazaars.
The smoke of several large campfires told Elric and
Moonglum where the Melniboneans, were entrenched.
With a slackening of pace, they guided their horses in
that direction while wet branches brushed their faces
and the scents of the forest, released by the life-bringing
rain, impinged sweetly upon their nostrils. It was with a
feeling akin to relaxation that Elric met the outguard
who suddenly appeared from the undergrowth to bar
their way along the forest trail.
The Imrryrian guard was swathed in furs and steel.
Beneath the visor of an intricately worked helmet he
peered at Elric with wary eyes. His vision was slightly
impaired by the visor and the rain which dripped from
it so that he did not immediately recognise Elric.
"Halt. What do you in these parts?"
Elric said impatiently, "Let me pass—it is Elric, your
lord and your Emperor."
The guard gasped and lowered the long-bladed spear
he carried. He pushed back his helmet and gazed at the
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man before him with a myriad of different emotions
passing across his face. Among these were amazement,
reverence and hate.
He bowed stiffly. "This is no place for you, my liege.
You renounced and betrayed your people five years ago
and while I acknowledge the blood of kings which flows
in your veins, I cannot obey you or do you the homage
which it would otherwise be your right to expect."
"Of course," said Elric proudly, sitting his horse
straight-backed. "But let your leader—my boyhood
friend Dyvim Tvar—be the judge of how to deal with
me. Take me to him at once and remember that my
companion has done you no ill, but treat him with re-
spect as befits the chosen friend of an Emperor of Melni-
bone."
The guard bowed again and took hold of the reins of
Elric's mount. He led the pair down the trail and into a
large clearing wherein were pitched the tents of the men
of Imrryr. Cooking fires flared in the centre of the great
circle of pavilions and the fine-featured warriors of
Melnibone sat talking softly around them. Even in the
light of the gloomy day, the fabrics of the tents were
bright and gay. The soft tones were wholly
Melnibonean in texture. Deep, smoky greens, azure,
ochre, gold, dark blue. The colours did not clash—they
blended. Elric felt sad nostalgia for the sundered, multi-
coloured towers of Imrryr the Beautiful.
As the two companions and their guide drew nearer,
men looked up in astonishment and a low muttering re-
placed the sounds of ordinary conversation.
"Please remain here," the guard said to Elric. "I will
inform Lord Dyvim Tvar of your coming." Elric nodded
his acquiescence and sat firmly in his saddle conscious of
the gaze of the gathered warriors. None approached him
and some, whom Elric had known personally in the old
days, were openly embarrassed. They were the ones who
did not stare but rather averted their eyes, tending to
the cooking fires or taking a sudden interest in the pol-
ish of their finely-wrought longswords and dirks. A few
growled angrily, but they were in a definite minority.
Most of the men were simply shocked—and also inquisi-
tive. Why had this man, their king and their betrayer,
come to their camp?
The largest pavilion, of gold and scarlet, had at its
peak a banner upon which was emblazoned a dormant
dragon, blue upon white. This was the tent of Dyvim
Tvar and from it the Dragon Master hurried, buckling
on his sword-belt, his intelligent eyes puzzled and wary.
Dyvim Tvar was a man a little older than Elric and
he bore the stamp of Melnibonean nobility. His mother
had been a princess, a cousin to Elric's own mother. His
cheek-bones were high and delicate, his eyes slightly
slanting while his skull was narrow, tapering at the jaw.
Like Elric, his ears were thin, near lobeless and coming
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almost to a point. His hands, the left one now folded
around the hilt of his sword, were long-fingered and,
like the rest of his skin, pale, though not nearly so pale
as the dead white of the albino's. He strode towards the
mounted Emperor of Melnibone and now his emotions
were controlled. When he was five feet away from Elric,
Dyvim Tvar bowed slowly, his head bent and his face
hidden. When he looked up again, his eyes met those of
Elric and remained fixed.
"Dyvim Tvar, Lord of the Dragon Caves, greets Elric,
Master of Melnibone, Exponent of her Secret Arts."
The Dragon Master spoke gravely the age-old ritual
greeting.
Elric was not as confident as he seemed as he replied:
"Elric, Master of Melnibone, greets his loyal subject and
demands that he give audience to Dyvim Tvar." It was
not fitting, by ancient Melnibonean standards, that the
king should request an audience with one of his subjects
and the Dragon Master understood this. He now said:
"I would be honoured if my liege would allow me to
accompany him to my pavilion."
Elric dismounted and led the way towards Dyvim
Tvar's pavilion. Moonglum also dismounted and made
to follow, but Elric waved him back. The two Imrryrian
noblemen entered the tent.
Inside, a small oil-lamp augmented the gloomy day-
light which filtered through the colourful fabric. The
tent was simply furnished, possessing only a soldier's
hard bed, a table and several carved wooden stools.
Dyvim Tvar bowed and silently indicated one of these
stools. Elric sat down.
For several moments, the two men said nothing. Nei-
ther allowed emotion to register on their controlled fea-
tures. They simply sat and stared at one another. Even-
tually Elric said:
"You know me for a betrayer, a thief, a murderer of
my own kin and a slayer of my countrymen, Dragon
Master."
Dyvim Tvar nodded. "With my liege's permission, I
will agree with him."
"We were never so formal in the old days, when
alone," Elric said. "Let us forget ritual and tradition—
Melnibone is broken and her sons are wanderers. We
meet, as we used to, as equals—only, now, this is wholly
true. We are equals. The Ruby Throne crashed in the
ashes of Imrryr and now no emperor may sit in state.
Dyvim Tvar sighed. "This is true, Elric—but why have
you come here? We were content to forget you. Even
while thoughts of vengeance were fresh, we made no
move to seek you out. Have you come to mock?"
"You know I would never do that, Dyvim Tvar.
file:///F|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Moorcock,%...%20The%20Bane%20of%20The%20Black%20Sword.txt (10 of 112) [1/19/03 6:33:54 PM]
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