The Eternal Champion

by Michael Moorcock

  Katorn shrugged. “They would wipe us out,” he said. “Is that not enough to know?”

  “No,” I said. “You must have taken prisoners. What do the prisoners tell you?” I spread my hands. “How have the Eldren leaders justified their war against Humanity?”

  King Rigenos smiled patronizingly. “You have forgotten a great deal, Erekosë, if you have forgotten the Eldren. They are not human. They are clever. They are cold and they have smooth, deceitful tongues with which they would lull a man into a false sense of tranquility before tearing his heart from his body with their bare fangs. They are brave, though, I’ll give them that. Under torture they die, refusing to tell us their true plans. They are cunning. They try to make us believe their talk of peace, of mutual trust and mutual help, hoping that we will drop our defences long enough so that they may turn and destroy us, or get us to look them full in the face so that they can work the evil eye upon us. Do not be naïve, Erekosë. Do not attempt to deal with an Eldren as you would deal with a human being, for if you did so, you would be doomed. They have no souls, as we understand souls. They have no love, save a cold loyalty to their cause and to their master Azmobaana. Realise this, Erekosë—the Eldren are demons. They are fiends to whom Azmobaana in his dreadful blasphemy has granted something like a human form. But you must not be blinded by the form. That which is inside an Eldren is not human—it is everything, in fact, that is unhuman.”

  Katorn’s face twisted.

  “You cannot trust an Eldren wolf. They are treacherous, immoral and evil. We shall not be safe until their whole race is destroyed. Utterly destroyed—so that not a fragment of their flesh, not a droplet of their blood, not a splinter of their bone, not a strand of their hair is left to taint the Earth. And I speak literally, Erekosë, for whilst one finger-clipping of an Eldren survives upon our world, then there is the chance that Azmobaana can recreate his servants and attack us again. That demon brood must be burned to the finest ash—every man, every female and every youngling. Burned—then cast to the winds, the clean winds. That is our mission, Erekosë, the mission of Humanity. And we have the Good One’s blessing for that mission.”

  Then I heard another voice, a sweeter voice, and I glanced towards the door. It was Iolinda.

  “You must lead us to victory, Erekosë,” she said candidly. “What Katorn says is true—no matter how fiercely he declaims it. The facts are as he tells you. You must lead us to victory.”

  I looked again into her eyes. I drew a deep breath and my face felt hard and cold.

  “I will lead you,” I said.

  4

  IOLINDA

  THE NEXT MORNING I awoke to the sounds of the slaves preparing my breakfast. Or was it the slaves? Was it not my wife moving about the room, getting ready to wake up the boy as she did every morning?

  I opened my eyes expecting to see her.

  I did not see her. Nor did I see my room in my apartment where I had lived as John Daker.

  Nor did I see slaves.

  Instead, I saw Iolinda. She was smiling down at me as she prepared the breakfast with her own hands.

  I felt guilty for a moment, as if I had betrayed my wife in some obscure way. Then I realised that there was nothing I could be ashamed of. I was the victim of Fate—of forces which I could not hope to understand. I was not John Daker. I was Erekosë. I realised that it would be the best for me if I were to insist on that.

  A man divided between two identities is a sick man. I resolved to forget John Daker as soon as possible. Since I was Erekosë now, I should concentrate on being Erekosë only. In that I was a fatalist.

  Iolinda brought a bowl of fruit towards me. “Would you eat, Lord Erekosë?”

  I selected a strange, soft fruit with a reddish yellow skin. She handed me a small knife. I tried to peel it, but since the fruit was new to me, I was not sure how to begin. She gently took it from me and began to peel it for me, sitting on the edge of my low bed and concentrating rather excessively, in my opinion, on the fruit she held.

  At last the fruit was peeled and she quartered it and placed it on a plate and handed the plate to me, still avoiding my direct gaze, but smiling a little mysteriously as she looked about her. I picked up a piece of the fruit and bit it. It was sharp and sweet at the same time and very refreshing.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It is good. I have never had this fruit before.”

  “Have you not?” She was genuinely surprised. “But the ecrex is the commonest fruit in Necralala.”

  “You forget I am a stranger to Necralala,” I pointed out.

  She put her head on one side and looked at me with a slight frown. She pushed back the flimsy blue cloth that covered her golden hair and made a great play of arranging her matching blue gown. She really did seem to be puzzled. “A stranger…” she murmured.

  “A stranger,” I agreed.

  “But—” she paused— “but you are the great hero of Humanity, Lord Erekosë. You knew Necranal as it was in its greatest glory—when you ruled here as the Champion. You knew Earth in ancient times, when you set it free from the chains the Eldren had bound around it. You know more of this world than I do, Erekosë.”

  I shrugged. “I admit that much of it is familiar—and growing increasingly familiar. But until yesterday my name was John Daker and I lived in a city very different from Necranal and my occupation was not that of warrior or, indeed, anything like it. I do not deny that I am Erekosë—the name is familiar and I am comfortable with it. But I do not know who Erekosë was, any more than do you. He was a great hero of ancient times who, before he died, swore that he would return to decide the issue between Eldren and Humanity if he were needed. He was placed in a rather gloomy tomb on a hillside along with his sword, which only he could wield.”

  “The sword Kanajana,” murmured Iolinda.

  “It has a name, then?”

  “Aye—Kanajana. It—it is more than a name, I believe. It is some sort of mystic description—a description of its exact nature—of the powers it contains.”

  “And is there any legend that explains why only I can bear that blade?” I asked her.

  “There are several,” she said.

  “Which do you prefer?” I smiled.

  Then, for the first time that morning, she looked directly at me and her voice lowered and she said: “I prefer the one that says that you are the chosen son of the Good One, the Great One—that your sword is a sword of the gods and that you can handle it because you are a god—an Immortal.”

  I laughed. “You do not believe that?”

  She dropped her gaze. “If you tell me that it is not true, then I must believe you,” she said. “Of course.”

  “I admit that I feel extremely healthy,” I told her. “But that is a long way from feeling as a god must feel! Besides, I think I would know if I were a god. I would know other gods. I would dwell in some plane where the gods dwell. I would count goddesses amongst my friends.” I stopped. She seemed disturbed.

  I reached out and touched her and said softly: “But then perhaps you are right. Perhaps I am a god—for I am certainly privileged to know a goddess.”

  She shrugged off my hand. “You are making mock of me, my lord.”

  “No. I swear it.”

  She got up. “I must appear foolish to such a great lord as yourself. I apologise for wasting your time with my chatter.”

  “You have not wasted my time,” I said. “You have helped me, in fact.”

  Her lips parted. “Helped you?”

  “Yes. You have filled in part of my somewhat peculiar background. I still do not remember my past as Erekosë, but at least I know as much about that past as anyone here. Which is not a disadvantage!”

  “Perhaps your centuries-long sleep has washed your mind free of memory,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” I agreed. “Or perhaps there have been so many other memories during that sleep—new experiences, other lives.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it
seems to me that I have been more people than just John Daker and Erekosë. Other names spring to mind—strange names in unfamiliar tongues. I have a vague—and perhaps stupid—notion that while I slept as Erekosë, my spirit took on other shapes and names. Some in the future, some in the past, some—elsewhere…” I could not explain, but added lamely: “Perhaps that spirit cannot sleep, but must for ever be active.” I stopped. I was getting deep into the realms of metaphysics—and I had never possessed any great predilection for metaphysics. I considered myself a pragmatist, in fact. Such notions as reincarnation I had always scoffed at—still scoffed at, really, in spite of the evidence, such as it was.

  But Iolinda pressed me to continue what I considered to be pointless speculation. “Go on,” she said. “Please continue, Lord Erekosë.”

  If only to keep the beautiful girl beside me for a short while longer, I did as she asked.

  “Well,” I said, “while you and your father were attempting to bring me here, I thought I remembered other lives than this one as Erekosë or the other one, as John Daker. I remembered, very dimly, other civilizations—though I could not tell you whether they existed in the past or in the future. In fact, the idea of past and future seems meaningless to me now. I have no idea, for instance, whether this civilization lies in the ‘future’ that I know as John Daker or in the ‘past’. It is here. I am here. Perhaps there is only ever ‘the present’? There are certain things that I will have to do. That is all I can say.”

  “But these other incarnations,” she said. “What do you know of them?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing. I am attempting to describe a dim feeling, not an exact impression. A few names which I have now forgotten. A few images which have almost completely faded away as dreams fade. And perhaps that is all they ever were—just dreams. Perhaps my life as John Daker, which in its turn is beginning to fade in my memory, was merely that, a dream. Certainly I know nothing of any supernatural agencies of whom your father and Katorn have spoken. I know of no ‘Azmobaana’, no Good and Great One, no demons or, indeed, angels. I know only that I am a man and that I exist.”

  Her face was grave. “That is true. You are a man. You exist. I saw you materialise.”

  “But from where did I come?”

  “From the Other Regions,” she said. “From the place where all great warriors go when they die, and where their women go to join them, to live in eternal happiness.”

  Again I smiled, but then smothered the smile for I did not wish to offend her beliefs. “I remember no such place,” I said. “I remember only strife. If I have been away from here, it was not in some land of eternal happiness—it was in many lands, lands of eternal warfare.”

  Suddenly I felt depressed and weary. “Eternal warfare,” I repeated and I sighed.

  Her look became sympathetic. “Do you think that this is your fate—to war for ever against the enemies of Humanity?”

  I frowned. “Not quite, for I seem to remember times when I was not human as you would understand the word. If I have a spirit, as I said, that inhabits many forms, then there have been times when it has inhabited forms that were—different.” I rejected the thought. It was too difficult to grasp, too frightening to tolerate.

  It disturbed Iolinda. She rose and darted a look of incomprehension at me. “Not—not as an…”

  I smiled. “An Eldren? I do not know. But I do not think so, for the name is not familiar to me in that respect.”

  She was relieved. “It is so hard to trust…” she said sadly.

  “To trust what? Words?”

  “To trust anything,” she said. “I once thought I understood the world. Perhaps I was too young. Now I understand nothing. I do not know whether I shall even be alive next year.”

  “I think that may be described as a common fear to all we mortals,” I said gently.

  “‘We mortals’?” Her smile was without humour. “You are not mortal, Erekosë!”

  I had not up to now considered it. After all, I had been summoned into existence in thin air! I laughed. “We shall soon know whether I am or not,” I said, “when we have joined battle with the Eldren!”

  A little moan escaped her lips then. “Oh!” she cried. “Do not consider it!” She moved towards the door. “You are immortal, Erekosë! You are invulnerable! You are—eternal! You are the only thing of which I can be sure, the only person I can trust! Do not joke so! Do not joke so, I beg you!”

  I was astonished at this outburst. I would have risen from the bed to hold her and comfort her, but I was naked. Admittedly she had seen me naked once before, when I had originally materialised in Erekosë’s tomb, but I did not know enough of the customs of these people to guess whether it would shock her or not.

  “Forgive me, Iolinda,” I said. “I did not realise…”

  What had I not realised? The extent of the poor girl’s insecurity? Or something deeper than that?

  “Do not go,” I begged.

  She stopped by the door and turned, and there were tears in her huge, wide eyes. “You are eternal, Erekosë. You are immortal. You can never die!”

  I could not reply.

  For all I knew I would be dead in the first encounter with the Eldren.

  Suddenly I became aware of the responsibility I had tacitly agreed to assume—a responsibility not just to this beautiful woman but to the whole human race. I swallowed hard and fell back on my pillows as Iolinda rushed from the room.

  Could I possibly bear such a burden?

  Did I wish to bear such a burden?

  I did not. I had no great faith in my own powers and there was no reason to believe that those powers were any more potent than, say, Katorn’s. Katorn was, after all, far more experienced in warfare than I. He had a right to be resentful of me. I had taken over his rôle, robbed him of his power and of a responsibility which he had been prepared to shoulder—and I was unproven. Suddenly I saw Katorn’s point of view and sympathised with it.

  What right had I to lead Humanity in a war that could decide its very existence?

  None.

  And then another thought came to me—a more self-pitying thought.

  What right had Humanity to expect so much of me?

  They had, let us say, awakened me from a slumber which I had earned, leading the quiet, decent life of John Daker. And now they were imposing their will upon me, demanding that I give back to them the self-confidence and—yes—self-righteousness that they were losing.

  I lay there in the bed and for a while I hated King Rigenos, Katorn and the rest of the human race—including the fair Iolinda, who had been the one to bring this question to my mind.

  Erekosë the Champion, Defender of Humanity, Greatest of Warriors, lay wretched and snivelling in his bed and felt very sorry for himself indeed.

  5

  KATORN

  I AROSE AT last and dressed myself in a simple tunic, having been washed and shaved—much to my embarrassment—by my slaves. I went by myself into the weapons rooms and there took down my sword from where it hung in its scabbard on a peg.

  I unsheathed the blade and again a sort of exultation filled me. Immediately I forgot my qualms and scruples and laughed as the sword whistled around my head and my muscles flexed with the weight of it.

  I feinted with the sword and it seemed that it was part of my very body, that it was another limb whose presence I had been unaware of until now. I thrust it out at full reach, pulled it back, swung it down. It filled me with joy to wield it!

  It made me into something greater than I had ever felt I was before. It made me into a man. A warrior. A champion.

  And yet, as John Daker, I had handled swords perhaps twice in my life—and handled them most clumsily, according to those friends of mine who had considered themselves experts.

  At last I reluctantly sheathed the sword as I saw a slave hovering some distance away. I remembered that only I, Erekosë, could hold the sword and live.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “The Lord
Katorn, master. He would speak with you.”

  I put my sword back on its peg. “Bid him enter,” I told the slave.

  Katorn came in rapidly. He appeared to have been waiting some time and was in no better a mood than when I had first encountered him. His boots, which seemed to be shod with metal, clattered on the flagstones of the weapons room.

  “Good morning to you, Lord Erekosë,” he said.

  I bowed. “Good morning, Lord Katorn. I apologise if you were made to wait. I was trying out that sword.”

  “The sword Kanajana.” Katorn looked at it speculatively.

  “The sword Kanajana,” I said. “Would you have some refreshment, Lord Katorn?” I was making a great effort to please him, not only because it would not do to have so experienced a warrior as an enemy when plans of battle were being prepared, but because I had, as I said, come to sympathise with his situation.

  But Katorn refused to be mollified. “I broke my fast at dawn,” he said. “I have come to discuss more pressing matters than eating, Lord Erekosë.”

  “And what are those?” Manfully I restrained my own temper.

  “Matters of war, Lord Erekosë. What else?”

  “Indeed. And what specific matters would you wish to discuss with me, Lord Katorn?”

  “It seems to me that we should attack the Eldren before they come against us.”

  “Attack being the best form of defence, eh?”

  He looked surprised at this. He had plainly not heard the phrase before. “Eloquently put, my lord. One would think you an Eldren yourself, with such a way with words.” He was deliberately trying my temper. But I swallowed the insinuation.

  “So,” I said, “we attack them. Where?”

  “That is what we shall have to discuss with all those concerned in planning this war. But it seems there is one obvious point.”

  “And that is?”

  He wheeled and strode into another chamber, returning with a map which he spread on a bench. It was a map of Mernadin, the third continent, the one entirely controlled by the Eldren. With his dagger he stabbed at a spot I had seen indicated the night before.