The Eternal Champion

by Michael Moorcock

  “I wonder,” I said.

  There were minor details of the plan to discuss and, while the victorious warriors continued to pleasure themselves on Eldren spoils, we talked of these matters until they were completely settled.

  It was a good plan.

  It would work if the Eldren reacted as we expected. And we were sure that they would.

  We agreed that King Rigenos and I would return with the fleet, leaving Katorn to command the army at Paphanaal. Roldero also elected to return with us. The bulk of the warriors would remain behind. We had to hope that the Eldren did not have another fleet in the vicinity, for we would be sailing back with just the minimum crews and would be hard-pressed to defend ourselves if attacked at sea.

  But there were risks to all the different possibilities and we had to decide which actions the Eldren were most likely to take and act accordingly.

  The next few days were spent in preparation for the voyage back and soon we were ready to sail.

  * * *

  We sailed out of Paphanaal on a dawn tide, our ships moving sluggishly through the water, for they groaned with captured Eldren treasure.

  Begrudgingly the king had agreed to give Ermizhad decent quarters next to mine. His attitude towards me seemed to have changed since the first drunken night in Paphanaal. He was reserved, almost embarrassed by my presence. Doubtless he remembered vaguely that he had made some sort of fool of himself. Perhaps he resented my refusal to celebrate our victory; perhaps the glory that I had won for him made him jealous, though the gods knew I wanted nothing of that tainted glory.

  Or perhaps he sensed my own disgust with the war I had agreed to fight for him and was nervous that I might suddenly refuse to be the champion he felt he so desperately needed?

  I had no opportunity to discuss this with him and Count Roldero could offer no explanation save to say, in the king’s favour, that the slaughter might have wearied Rigenos just as it had wearied me.

  I was not sure of this, for Rigenos seemed to hate the Eldren even more than before, as was made evident by his treatment of Ermizhad.

  Ermizhad still refused to speak. She hardly ate and she rarely left her cabin. But one evening, as I strolled on deck, I saw her standing at the rail and staring down into the sea as if she contemplated hurling herself into its depths.

  I increased my pace so that I should be near if she did attempt to throw herself overboard. She half-turned as I approached and then looked away again.

  At this point the king emerged on the poop deck and called down to me.

  “I see you’ve taken pains to make sure the wind’s behind you when you get near to the Eldren bitch, Lord Erekosë.”

  I stopped and looked up. At first, I hardly understood the reference. I glanced at Ermizhad, who pretended not to have heard the king’s insult. I, too, pretended I had not understood the significance of the remark and gave a slight, polite bow.

  Then, deliberately, I walked past Ermizhad and paused near the rail, staring out to sea.

  “Perhaps you have no sense of smell, Lord Erekosë,” the king called. Again I ignored the remark.

  “It seems a pity that we must tolerate vermin on our ship when we took such pains to scrub our decks free of their tainted blood,” the king went on.

  At last, furious, I turned around, but he had left the poop deck. I looked at Ermizhad. She continued to stare into the dark waters as they were pierced by our oars. She seemed almost mesmerised by the rhythm. I wondered if she really had not heard the insults.

  There were several more occasions of that kind on board the flagship Iolinda as we sailed for Noonos. Whenever King Rigenos got the opportunity, he would speak of Ermizhad in her presence as if she were not there; speak disdainfully of her and his disgust for all her kind.

  Increasingly, I found it harder to control my anger, but control it I did, and Ermizhad, for her part, showed no sign that she was offended by the king’s crude references to her and her race.

  I saw less of Ermizhad than I wished but, in spite of the king’s warnings, came to like her. She was certainly the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her beauty was different from the cool beauty of Iolinda, my betrothed.

  What is love? Even now, now that the whole pattern of my particular destiny seems to have been fulfilled, I do not know. Oh, yes, I still loved Iolinda, but I think that, while I did not know it, I was falling in love with Ermizhad, too.

  I refused to believe the stories told about her and esteemed her, though, at that time, I had no thought of letting this affect my attitude towards her. That attitude had to be of a gaoler for his prisoner—an important prisoner, at that. A prisoner who could help decide the war against the Eldren in our favour.

  I did pause, once or twice, to wonder about the logic of keeping her as a hostage. If, as King Rigenos insisted, the Eldren were cold-hearted and unhuman, then why should Arjavh care that his sister would be murdered by us?

  Ermizhad, if she were the creature King Rigenos believed her to be, showed no signs of her evil. Rather, she seemed to me to exhibit a singular nobility of soul that was in excellent contrast to the king’s rude banter.

  And then I wondered if the king realised the affection I felt for Ermizhad and was afraid that the union between his daughter and his immortal champion was threatened.

  But I remained loyal to Iolinda. It did not occur to me to question that we should not be married on my return, as we had agreed.

  There must be countless forms of love. Which is the form which conquers the rest? I cannot define it. I shall not try.

  Ermizhad’s beauty had the fascination of being an unhuman beauty, but close enough to my own race’s ideal to attract me.

  She had the long, pointed Eldren face that John Daker might have tried to describe as “elfin” and failed to do justice to its nobility. She had the slanting eyes that seemed blind in their strange milkiness, the slightly pointed ears, the high angular cheekbones and a slender body that was almost boyish. All the Eldren women were slender like this, small-breasted and narrow-waisted. Her red lips were fairly wide, curving naturally upwards so that she always seemed to be on the point of smiling when her face was in repose.

  For the first two weeks of our voyage, she continued to refuse to speak, although I showed her elaborate courtesy. I saw that she had everything for her comfort and she thanked me through her guards, that was all. But one day I stood outside the set of cabins where she, the king and myself had our apartments, leaning over the rail and looking at a grey sea and an overcast sky, and I saw her approach me.

  “Greetings, Sir Champion,” she said half-mockingly as she came out of her cabin.

  I was surprised.

  “Greetings, Lady Ermizhad,” said I. She was dressed in a cloak of midnight blue flung around a simple smock of pale blue wool.

  “A day of omens, I think,” she said, looking at the gloomy sky which boiled darkly now above us, full of heavy greys and dusty yellows.

  “Why think you?” I enquired.

  She laughed. It was lovely to hear—crystal and gold-strung harps. It was the music of heaven, not of hell. “Forgive me,” she said. “I sought to disturb you—but I see you are not so prone to suggestion as others of your race.”

  I grinned. “You are very complimentary, my lady. I find their superstitions a trifle tedious, I must admit. As are their insults.”

  “One is not troubled by those,” she said. “They are sad little insults, really.”

  “You are very charitable.”

  “We Eldren are a charitable race, I think.”

  “I have heard otherwise.”

  “I suppose you have.”

  “I have bruises that prove otherwise!” I smiled. “Your warriors did not seem particularly charitable in the sea-fight beyond Paphanaal.”

  She bowed her head. “And yours were not charitable when they came to Paphanaal. Is it true? Am I the only survivor?”

  I licked my lips. They were suddenly dry. “I believe so,” I sai
d quietly.

  “Then I am lucky,” she said, her voice rising a little.

  There was, of course, no reply I could make.

  We stood there in silence, looking at the sea.

  Later she said quietly: “So you are Erekosë. You are not like the rest of your race. In fact, you do not seem wholly of that race.”

  “Aha,” I replied. “Now I know you are my enemy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My enemies—the Lord Katorn in particular—suspect my Humanity.”

  “And are you human?”

  “I am nothing else. I am sure of that. I have the uncertainties of any ordinary mortal. I am as confused as the rest, though my problems are, perhaps, different. How I came here, I do not know. They say I am a great hero reborn, come to aid them against your people. They brought me here by means of an incantation. But then it sometimes seems to me, in dreams, at night, that I have been many heroes.”

  “And all of them human?”

  “I am not sure. I do not think my basic character has altered in any of those incarnations. I have no special wisdom, no special powers, so far as I know. Would you not think that an Immortal would have gathered a great store of wisdom?”

  She nodded slightly. “I would think so, my lord.”

  “I am not even sure where I am,” I continued. “I do not know if I came here from the far future or from the far past.”

  “The terms mean little to the Eldren,” she said. “But some of us believe that past and future are the same—that Time moves in a circle, so that the past is the future and the future is the past.”

  “An interesting theory,” I said. “But a rather simple one, is it not?”

  “I think I would agree with you,” she murmured. “Time is a subtle thing. Even our wisest philosophers do not fully understand its nature. The Eldren do not think very much about Time—we do not have to, normally. Of course, we have our histories. But history is not Time. History is merely a record of certain events.”

  “I understand you,” I said.

  Now she came and stood by the ship’s rail, one hand resting lightly upon it.

  * * *

  At that moment I felt the affection that I suppose a father might have for a daughter, a father who delights in his offspring’s assured innocence. She could not have been, I felt, much more than nineteen. Yet her voice had a confidence that comes with knowledge of the world, her carriage was proud, also confident. I realised then that Count Roldero might well have spoken the truth. How, indeed, could you gauge the age of an Immortal?

  “I thought at first,” I said, “that I came from your future. But now I am not sure. Perhaps I come from your past—that this world is, in relation to what I call the ‘twentieth century’, in the far future.”

  “This world is very ancient,” she agreed.

  “Is there a record of a time when only human beings occupied Earth?”

  “We have no such records,” she smiled. “There is an echo of a myth, the thread of a legend, which says that there was a time when only the Eldren occupied Earth. My brother has studied this. I believe he knows more.”

  I shivered. I did not know why, but my vitals seemed to chill within me. I could not, easily, continue the conversation, though I wanted to.

  She appeared not to have noticed my discomfort.

  At last I said: “A day of omens, madam. I hope to talk with you again soon.” I bowed and returned to my cabin.

  16

  CONFRONTATION WITH THE KING

  THAT NIGHT I slept without my usual precaution of a jug of wine to send me into deeper slumber. I did it deliberately, though with trepidation.

  “EREKOSË…”

  I heard the voice calling as it had called once before to John Daker. But this time it was not the voice of King Rigenos.

  “Erekosë…”

  This voice was more musical.

  I saw green, swaying forests and great, green hills and glades and castles and delicate beasts whose names I did not know.

  “Erekosë? My name is not Erekosë,” I said. “It is Prince Corum. Prince Corum—Prince Corum Jhaelen Irsei in the Scarlet Robe—and I seek my people. O, where are my people? Why is there no cessation to this quest?”

  I rode a horse. The horse was mantled in yellow velvet and hung about with panniers, two spears, a plain round shield, a bow and a quiver holding arrows. I wore a conical silver helm and a double weight of chainmail, the lower layer of brass and the upper of silver. And I bore a long, strong sword that was not the sword Kanajana.

  “Erekosë.”

  “I am not Erekosë.”

  “Erekosë!”

  “I am John Daker!”

  “Erekosë!”

  “I am Jerry Cornelius.”

  “Erekosë!”

  “I am Konrad Arflane.”

  “Erekosë!”

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “We want your help!”

  “You have my help!”

  “Erekosë!”

  “I am Karl Glogauer!”

  “Erekosë!”

  “I seek lost Tanelorn.”

  The names did not matter. I knew it now. Only the fact mattered. The fact that I was a creature incapable of dying. A creature eternal. Doomed to have many shapes, to be called many names, but to be for ever battling.

  And perhaps I had been wrong. Perhaps I was not truly human, but only assumed the characteristics of a human being if I were caught in a human body.

  It seemed to me that I howled in misery then. What was I? What was I, if I were not a man?

  The voice was still calling, but I refused to heed it. How I wished I had not heeded it before, as I lay in my comfortable bed, in the comfortable identity of John Daker.

  * * *

  I awoke and I was sweating. I had found out nothing more about myself and the mystery of my origin. It seemed I had only succeeded in confusing myself further.

  It was still night, but I dared not fall asleep again.

  I peered through the darkness. I looked at the curtains pulled across the windows, the white coverlet of the bed, my wife beside me.

  I began to scream.

  * * *

  “EREKOSË—EREKOSË—EREKOSË.”

  “I am John Daker!” I screamed. “Look—I am John Daker!”

  “EREKOSË.”

  “I know nothing of this name, Erekosë. My name is Elric, Prince of Melniboné. Elric Kinslayer. I am known by many names.”

  Many names—many names—many names…

  How was it possible to possess dozens of identities all at the same time? To move from period to period at random? To move away from Earth itself, out to where the cold stars glared?

  “I seek Tanelorn and peace. Oh, where lies Tanelorn?”

  There was a rushing noise and then I plunged through dark, airless places, down, down, down. And there was nothing in the universe but drifting gas. No gravity, no colour, no air, no intelligence save my own—and perhaps, somewhere, one other.

  Again I screamed.

  And I refused to let myself know further.

  * * *

  Whatever the doom upon me, I thought next morning, I would never understand it. And it was probably for the best.

  I went on deck and there was Ermizhad, standing in the same place at the rail, as if she had not moved all night. The sky had cleared somewhat and sunlight pushed thick beams through the clouds, the rays slanting down on the choppy sea so that the world was half-dark, half-light.

  A moody day.

  We stood for a while in silence, leaning out over the rail, watching the surf slide by, watching the oars smash into the waters in monotonous rhythm.

  Again, she was the first to speak.

  “What do they plan to do with me?” she asked quietly.

  “You will be a hostage against the eventuality of your brother, Prince Arjavh, ever attacking Necranal,” I told her. It was only half the truth. There were other ways of using her against he
r brother, but there was no point in detailing them. “You will be safe—King Rigenos will not be able to bargain if you are harmed.”

  She sighed.

  “Why did not you and the other Eldren women flee when our fleets put in to Paphanaal?” I asked. This had puzzled me for some time.

  “The Eldren do not flee,” she said. “They do not flee from cities that they build themselves.”

  “They fled to the Mountains of Sorrow some centuries ago,” I pointed out.

  “No.” She shook her head. “They were driven there. That is the difference.”

  “That is a difference,” I agreed.

  “Who speaks of difference?” A new, harsher voice broke in. It was King Rigenos. He had come silently out of his cabin and stood behind us, feet apart on the swaying deck. He did not acknowledge Ermizhad but stared directly at me. He did not look well.

  “Greetings, sire,” I said. “We were discussing the meaning of words.”

  “You’ve become uncommon friendly with the Eldren bitch!” he sneered. What was it about this man who had shown himself kind and brave in many ways that, when the Eldren were concerned, he became an uncouth barbarian?

  “Sire,” I said, for I could no longer be polite. “Sire, you speak of one who, though our enemy, is of noble blood.”

  Again he sneered. “Noble blood! The vile stuff which flows in their polluted veins cannot be termed thus! Beware, Erekosë! I realise that you are not altogether versed in our ways or our knowledge, that your memory is hazy—but remember that the Eldren wanton has a tongue of liquid gold which can beguile you to your doom and ours. Pay no heed to her!”

  It was the most direct and most portentous speech he had made thus far.

  “Sire,” I said.

  “She’ll weave such a spell that you’ll be a fawning dog at her mercy and no good to any of us. I tell you, Erekosë, beware. Gods! I’ve half a mind to give her to the rowers and let them have their way with her before she’s thrown over the side!”

  “You placed her under my protection, my lord king,” I said angrily. “And I am sworn to protect her against all dangers!”

  “Fool! I have warned you. I do not want to lose your friendship, Erekosë—and more, I do not want to lose our war champion. If she shows further signs of enchanting you, I shall slay her. None shall stop me!”