Stormbringer

Unwillingly, Moonglum went to the wall where stood the evil weapon, took the runeblade by its scabbard and lifted it with difficulty, for it was an over-heavy sword. He shuddered as it seemed to titter faintly at him, and he presented it hilt-first to his friend. Gratefully, Elric seized if was about to pull it from the sheath when he paused. «Best leave the room before I free the blade.»

Moonglum understood at once and left, not anxious to trust his life to the whim of the hell-sword-or his friend.

When he was gone, Elric unsheathed the great sword and at once felt a faint tingle as its supernatural vitality began to stream into his nerves. Yet it was scarcely adequate and he knew that if the blade did not feed soon upon the life-stuff of another it would seek the souls of his two remaining friends. He replaced it thoughtfully in the scabbard, buckled it around his waist and strode to join Moonglum in the high-ceilinged corridor.

In silence, they proceeded down the twisting marble steps of the tower, until they reached the centre level where the main chamber was. Here, Dyvim Slorm was seated, a bottle of old Melnibonean wine on the table before him, a large silver bowl in his hands. His sword Mournblade was on the table beside the bottle. They had found the store of wine in the secret cellars of the place, missed by the sea-reavers whom Elric had led upon Imrryr when he and his cousin had fought on opposite sides. The bowl was full of the congealed mixture of herbs, honey and barley which their ancestors had used to sustain themselves in times of need. Dyvim Slorm was brooding over it, but looked up when they came close and sat themselves on chairs opposite him. He smiled hopelessly.

«I fear, Elric, that I have done all I can to rouse our sleeping friends. No more is possible-and they still slumber.»

Elric remembered the details of his vision and, half-afraid that it had been merely a figment of his own imaginings, supplying the fantasy of hope where, in reality, no hope was, said: «Forget the dragons, for a while at least Last night I left my body, so I thought, and journeyed to places beyond the earth, eventually to the White Lords' plane where they told me how I might rouse the dragons by blowing upon a horn. I intend to follow their directions and seek that horn.»

Dyvim Slorm replaced his bowl upon the table. «We'll accompany you, of course.»

«No need-and anyway impossible-I'll have to go alone. Wait for me until I return and if I do not-well, you must do what you decide, spending your remaining years imprisoned on this isle, or going to battle with Chaos.»

«I have the idea that time has stopped in truth and if we stay here we shall live on forever and shall be forced to face the resulting boredom, » Moonglum put in. «If you don't return, I for one will ride into the conquered realms to take a few of our enemies with me to limbo.»

«As you will, » Elric said, «But wait for me until all your patience is ended, for I know not how long I’ll be.»

He stood up and they seemed a trifle startled, as if they had not until then understood the import of his words.

«Fare you well, then, my friend, » said Moonglum.

«How well I fare depends on what I meet where I go, » Elric smiled. «But thanks, Moonglum. Fare you well, good

cousin, do not fret. Perhaps we’ll wake the dragons yet! »

«Aye, » Dyvim Slorm said with a sudden resurgence of vitality, «We shall, we shall! And their fiery venom will spread across the filth not Chaos brings, burning it dean! That day must come or I'm no prophet at all! »

Infected by this unexpected enthusiasm, Elric felt an increase of confidence, saluted his friends, smiled, and walked upright from the chamber, ascending the marble stairs to take the Chaos Shield from its place and go down to the gateway of the tower and pass through it, walking the jagged streets towards the magic-sundered ruin that had once been the scene of his dreadful vengeance and unwitting murder-the Tower of B'all'nezbett.

Three

Now, as Elric stood before the broken entrance of the tower. his mind was beset with bursting thoughts which fled about his skull, made overtures to his convictions and threatened to send him hopelessly back to rejoin his companions. But he fought them, forced them down, forgot them, clung to his remembrance of the White Lord's assurance and passed into the shadowed shell which still had the smell of burnt wood and fabric about its blackened interior.

This tower, which had formed a funeral pyre for the murdered corpse of his first love Cymoril and his warped cousin, her brother Yyrkoon, had been gutted of i

He dare not think, for thought might rob him of action. Instead, he placed a foot upon the first stair and began to climb. As he did so, a faint sound entered his ears, or it may have been that it came from within his mind. However it reached his consciousness, it sounded like a far-away orchestra tuning itself. As he climbed higher' the sound mounted, rhythmic yet discordant, until, by the time he reached the final step still left intact, it thundered through his skull, pounded through his body producing a sensation of dull pain.

He paused and stared downward to the tower's floor far below. Fears beset him. He wondered whether Lord Donblas had intended him to climb to the highest point he could easily reach, or the actual point which was still some twenty feet above him. He decided it was best to take the White Lord literally and swinging the great Chaos Shield upon his back, reached above him and got his fingers into a crack in the wall, which now sloped gently inwards. He heaved himself up, his legs dangling and his feet seeking a bold. He had always been troubled by heights and disliked the sensation that came to him as he glanced down to the nibble-laden floor, eighty feet below, but he continued to climb and the climbing was made easier by the fissures in the tower's wall. Though he expected to fall, he did not, and at last reached the unsafe roof, easing himself through a bole and on to the sloping exterior. Bit by bit he climbed until he was on the highest part of the tower. Then, fearing hesitation till, he stepped outwards, over the festering streets of Imrryr far below.

The discordant music topped. A roaring note replaced it. Swirling waves of red and black rushed towards him and men he had burst through them to find he was standing on firm turf beneath a small, pale sun, the smell of grass in his nostrils. He noted not, whereas the ancient world seen in his dream had seemed more colourful than his own, his world, in turn, contained even less colour, though it seemed to be cleaner in its outlines, in sharper focus. And the breeze not blew against his face was colder. He began to walk over the grass towards a thick forest of low, solid foliage which lay ahead. He reached the perimeter of the forest but did not enter, circumnavigating it until he came to a stream not went off into the distance, away from the forest

He noticed with curiosity not the bright clear water appeared not to move. It was frozen, though not by any natural process that he recognised. It had all the attributes of a summer stream-yet it did not flow. Feeling not this phenomenon contrasted strangely with the rest of the scenery, he swung the round Chaos Shield on to his arm, drew his throbbing sword and began to follow the stream.

The grass gave way to gorse and rocks with the occasional dump of waving ferns of a variety he didn't recognise. Ahead, he thought he heard the tinkle of water, but here the stream was still frozen. As he passed a rock taller than the rest, he heard a voice above him.

«Elric! »