The Mammoth Book of Extreme Fantasy

by Mike Ashley

  “Ha!” said the albino. “I have heard such words before. You would lure me into some worse trap than this. Tell me, where is Duke Arioch? He, at least, I owe some allegiance to.”

  “We have no-one of that name,” apologised Mistress Christia. She enquired of Gaf who knew everyone. “No time-traveller?”

  “None,” Gaf studied Elric’s eyes and made a small adjustment to his own. He sat back, satisfied.

  Elric shuddered and turned away mumbling.

  “You are very welcome here,” said Werther. “I cannot tell you how glad I am to meet one as essentially morbid and self-pitying as myself”

  Elric did not seem flattered.

  “What can we do to make you feel at home?” asked Mistress Christia. She had changed her hair to a rather glossy blue in the hope, perhaps, that Elric would find it more attractive. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Need? Aye. Peace of mind. Knowledge of my true destiny. A quiet place where I can be with Cymoril, whom I love.”

  “What does this Cymoril look like?” Mistress Christia became just a trifle overeager.

  “She is the most beautiful creature in the universe,” said Elric.

  “It isn’t very much to go on,” said Mistress Christia. “If you could imagine a picture, perhaps? There are devices in the old cities which could visualize your thoughts. We could go there. I should be happy to fill in for her, as it were…”

  “What? You offer me a simulacrum? Do you not think I should detect such witchery at once? Ah, this is loathsome! Slay me, if you will, or continue the torment. I’ll listen no longer!”

  They were floating now, between high cliffs. On a ledge far below a group of time-travellers pointed up at them. One waved desperately.

  “You’ve offended him, Mistress Christia,” said Werther pettishly. “You don’t understand how sensitive he is.”

  “Yes I do.” She was aggrieved. “I was only being sympathetic.”

  “Sympathy!” Elric rubbed at his long, somewhat pointed jaw. “Ha! What do I want with sympathy?”

  “I never heard anyone who wanted it more.” Mistress Christia was kind. “You’re like a little boy, really, aren’t you?”

  “Compared to the ancient Lords of Chaos, I am a child, aye. But my blood is old and cold, the blood of decaying Melniboné, as well you know.” And with a huge sigh the albino seated himself at the far end of the car and rested his head on his fist. “Well? What is your pleasure, my Lords and Ladies of Hell?”

  “It is your pleasure we are anxious to achieve,” Werther told him. “Is there anything at all we can do? Some environment we can manufacture? What are you used to?”

  “Used to? I am used to the crack of leathery dragon wings in the sweet, sharp air of the early dawn. I am used to the sound of red battle, the drumming of hoofs on bloody earth, the screams of the dying, the yells of the victorious. I am used to warring against demons and monsters, sorcerers and ghouls. I have sailed on magic ships and fought hand to hand with reptilian savages. I have encountered the Jade Man himself. I have fought side by side with the elementals, who are my allies. I have battled black evil…”

  “Well,” said Werther, “that’s something to go on, at any rate. I’m sure we can…”

  “Lord Elric won’t be staying,” began Una Persson politely. “You see – these fluctuations in the megaflow – not to mention his own destiny… He should not be here, at all, Werther.”

  “Nonsense!” Werther flung a black velvet arm about the stiff shoulders of his new friend. “It is evident that our destinies are one. Lord Elric is as grief-haunted as myself!”

  “How can you know what it is to be haunted by grief?” murmured the albino. His face was half-buried in Werther’s generous sleeve.

  Mrs Persson controlled herself. She rose from Werther’s air car and made for her own. “Well,” she said, “I must be off. I hope to see you later, everybody.”

  They sang out their farewells.

  Una Persson turned her beetle westward, towards Castle Canaria, the home of her old friend Lord Jagged.

  She needed help and advice.

  VI

  IN WHICH ELRIC OF MELNIBONÉ RESISTS THE TEMPTATIONS

  OF THE CHAOS LORDS

  Elric reflected on the subtle way in which laughing Lords of Chaos had captured him. Apparently, he was merely a guest and quite free to wander where he would in their realm. Actually, he was in their power as much as if they had chained him, for he could not flee this flying dragon and they had already demonstrated their enormous magical gifts in subtle ways, primarily with their shape-changing. Only the one who called himself Werther de Goethe (plainly a leader in the hierarchy of Chaos) still had the face and clothing he had worn when first encountered.

  It was evident that this realm obeyed no natural laws, that it was mutable according to the whims of its powerful inhabitants. They could destroy him with a breath and had, subtly enough, given him evidence of that fact. How could he possibly escape such danger? By calling upon the Lords of Law for aid? But he owed them no loyalty and they, doubtless, regarded him as their enemy. But if he were to transfer his allegiance to Law…

  These thoughts and more continued to engage him, while his captors chatted easily in the ancient High Speech of Melniboné, itself a version of the very language of Chaos. It was one of the other ways in which they revealed themselves for what they were. He fingered his runesword, wondering if it would be possible to slay such a lord and steal his energy, giving himself enough power for a little while to hurl himself back to his own sphere…

  The one called Lord Werther was leaning over the side of the beast-vessel. “Oh, come and see, Elric. Look!”

  Reluctantly, the albino moved to where Werther peered and pointed.

  The entire landscape was filled with a monstrous battle. Creatures of all kinds and all combinations tore at one another with huge teeth and claws. Shapeless things slithered and hopped; giants, naked but for helmets and greaves, slashed at these beasts with great broadswords and axes, but were borne down. Flame and black smoke drifted everywhere. There was a smell. The stink of blood?

  “What do you miss most?” asked the female. She pressed a soft body against him. He pretended not to be aware of it. He knew what magic flesh could hide on a she-witch.

  “I miss peace,” said Elric almost to himself, “and I miss war. For in battle I find a kind of peace…”

  “Very good!” Bishop Castle applauded. “You are beginning to learn our ways. You will soon become one of our best conversationalists.”

  Elric touched the hilt of Stormbringer, hoping to feel it grow warm and vibrant under his hand, but it was still, impotent in the Realm of Chaos. He uttered a heavy sigh.

  “You are an adventurer, then, in your own world?” said the Duke of Queens. He was bluff. He had changed his beard to an ordinary sort of black and was wearing a scarlet costume; quilted doublet and tight-fitting hose, with a blue and white ruff, an elaborately feathered hat on his head. “I, too, am something of a vagabond. As far, of course, as it is possible to be here. A buccaneer, of sorts. That is, my actions are in the main bolder than those of my fellows. More spectacular. Vulgar. Like yourself, sir. I admire your costume.”

  Elric knew that this Duke of Hell was referring to the fact that he affected the costume of the southern barbarian, that he did not wear the more restrained colours and more cleverly wrought silks and metals of his own folk. He gave tit for tat at this time. He bowed.

  “Thank you, sir. Your own clothes rival mine.”

  “Do you think so?” The hell-lord pretended pleasure. If Elric had not known better, the creature would seem to be swelling with pride.

  “Look!” cried Werther again. “Look, Lord Elric – we are attacked.”

  Elric whirled.

  From below were rising oddly wrought vessels – something like ships, but with huge round wheels at their sides, like the wheels of water-clocks he had seen once in Pikarayd. Coloured smoke issued from chimneys mo
unted on their decks which swarmed with huge birds dressed in human clothing. The birds had multicoloured plumage, curved beaks, and they held swords in their claws, while on their heads were strangely shaped black hats on which were blazed skulls with crossed bones beneath.

  “Heave to!” squawked the birds. “Or we’ll put a shot across your bowels!”

  “What can they be?” cried Bishop Castle.

  “Parrots,” said Werther de Goethe soberly. “Otherwise known as the hawks of the sea. And they mean us no good.”

  Mistress Christia blinked.

  “Don’t you mean pirates, dear?”

  Elric took a firm grip on his sword. Some of the words the Chaos Lords used were absolutely meaningless to him. But whether the attacking creatures were of their own conception, or whether they were true enemies of his captors, Elric prepared to do bloody battle. His spirits improved. At least here was something substantial to fight.

  VII

  IN WHICH MRS PERSSON BECOMES ANXIOUS ABOUT THE FUTURE OF THE UNIVERSE

  Lord Jagged of Canaria was nowhere to be found. His huge castle, of gold and yellow spires, an embellished replica of Kings Cross station, was populated entirely by his quaint robots, whom Jagged found at once more mysterious and more trustworthy than android or human servants, for they could answer only according to a limited programme.

  Una suspected that Jagged was, himself, upon some mission, for he, too, was a member of the Guild of Temporal Adventurers. But she needed aid. Somehow she had to return Elric to his own dimension without creating further disruptions in the fabric of time and space. The Conjunction was not due yet and, if things got any worse, might never come. So many plans depended on the Conjunction of the Million Spheres that she could not risk its failure. But she could not reveal too much either to Elric or his hosts. As a Guild member she was sworn to the utmost and indeed necessary secrecy. Even here at the End of Time there were certain laws which could be disobeyed only at enormous risk. Words alone were dangerous when they described ideas concerning the nature of time.

  She racked her brains. She considered seeking out Jherek Carnelian, but then remembered that he had scarcely begun to understand his own destiny. Besides, there were certain similarities between Jherek and Elric which she could only sense at present. It would be best to go cautiously there.

  She decided that she had no choice. She must return to the Time Centre and see if they could detect Lord Jagged for her.

  She brought the necessary coordinates together in her mind and concentrated. For a moment all memories, all sense of identity left her.

  Sergeant Alvarez was beside himself. His screens were no longer completely without form. Instead, peculiar shapes could be seen in the arrangements of lines. Una thought she saw faces, beasts, landscapes. That had never occurred before. The instruments, at least, had remained sane, even as they recorded insanity.

  “It’s getting worse,” said Alvarez. “You’ve hardly any Time left. What there is, I’ve managed to borrow for you. Did you contact the rogue?”

  She nodded. “Yes. But getting him to return… I want you to find Jagged.”

  “Jagged? Are you sure?”

  “It’s our only chance, I think.”

  Alvarez sighed and bent a tense back over his controls.

  VIII

  IN WHICH ELRIC AND WERTHER FIGHT SIDE BY SIDE AGAINST ALMOST OVERWHELMING ODDS

  Somewhere, it seemed to Elric, as he parried and thrust at the attacking bird-monsters, rich and rousing music played. It must be a delusion, brought on by battle-madness. Blood and feathers covered the carriage. He saw the one called Christia carried off screaming. Bishop Castle had disappeared. Gaf had gone. Only the three of them, shoulder to shoulder, continued to fight.

  What was disconcerting to Elric was that Werther and the Duke of Queens bore swords absolutely identical to Stormbringer. Perhaps they were the legendary Brothers of the Black Sword, said to reside in Chaos?

  He was forced to admit to himself that he experienced a sense of comradeship with these two, who were braver than most in defending themselves against such dreadful, unlikely monsters – perhaps some creation of their own which had turned against them.

  Having captured the Lady Christia, the birds began to return to their own craft.

  “We must rescue her!” cried Werther as the flying ships began to retreat. “Quickly! In pursuit!”

  “Should we not seek reinforcements?” asked Elric, further impressed by the courage of this Chaos Lord.

  “No time!” cried the Duke of Queens. “After them!”

  Werther shouted to his vessel. “Follow those ships!”

  The vessel did not move.

  “It has an enchantment on it,” said Werther. “We are stranded! Ah, and I loved her so much!”

  Elric became suspicious again. Werther had shown no signs, previously, of any affection for the female.

  “You loved her?”

  “From a distance,” Werther explained. “Duke of Queens, what can we do? Those parrots will ransom her savagely and mishandle her objects of virtue!”

  “Dastardly poltroons!” roared the huge duke.

  Elric could make little sense of this exchange. It dawned on him, then, that he could still hear the rousing music. He looked below. On some sort of dais in the middle of the bizarre landscape a large group of musicians was assembled. They played on, apparently oblivious of what happened above. This was truly a world dominated by Chaos.

  Their ship began slowly to fall towards the band. It lurched. Elric gasped and clung to the side as they struck yielding ground and bumped to a halt.

  The Duke of Queens, apparently elated, was already scrambling overboard. “There! We can follow on those mounts.”

  Tethered near the dais was a herd of creatures bearing some slight resemblance to horses but in a variety of dazzling, metallic colours, with horns and bony ridges on their backs. Saddles and bridles of alien workmanship showed that they were domestic beasts, doubtless belonging to the musicians.

  “They will want some payment from us, surely,” said Elric, as they hurried towards the horses.

  “Ah, true!” Werther reached into a purse at his belt and drew forth a handful of jewels. Casually he flung them towards the musicians and climbed into the saddle of the nearest beast. Elric and the Duke of Queens followed his example. Then Werther, with a whoop, was off in the direction in which the bird-monsters had gone.

  The landscape of this world of Chaos changed rapidly as they rode. They galloped through forests of crystalline trees, over fields of glowing flowers, leapt rivers the colour of blood and the consistency of mercury, and their tireless mounts maintained a headlong pace which never faltered. Through clouds of boiling gas which wept, through rain, through snow, through intolerable heat, through shallow lakes in which oddly fashioned fish wriggled and gasped, until at last a range of mountains came in sight.

  “There!” panted Werther, pointing with his own runesword. “Their lair. Oh, the fiends! How can we climb such smooth cliffs?”

  It was true that the base of the cliffs rose some hundred feet before they became suddenly ragged, like the rotting teeth of the beggars of Nadsokor. They were of dusky, purple obsidian and so smooth as to reflect the faces of the three adventurers who stared at them in despair.

  It was Elric who saw the steps put into the side of the cliff.

  “These will take us up some of the way, at least.”

  “It could be a trap,” said the Duke of Queens. He, too, seemed to be relishing the opportunity to take action. Although a Lord of Chaos there was something about him that made Elric respond to a fellow spirit.

  “Let them trap us,” said Elric laconically. “We have our swords.”

  With a wild laugh, Werther de Goethe was the first to swing himself from his saddle and run towards the steps, leaping up them almost as if he had the power of flight. Elric and the Duke of Queens followed more slowly.

  Their feet slipping in the narrow spaces not me
ant for mortals to climb, ever aware of the dizzying drop on their left, the three came at last to the top of the cliff and stood clinging to sharp crags, staring across a plain at a crazy castle rising into the clouds before them.

  “Their stronghold,” said Werther.

  “What are these creatures?” Elric asked. “Why do they attack you? Why do they capture the Lady Christia?”

  “They nurse an abiding hatred for us,” explained the Duke of Queens, and looked expectantly at Werther, who added:

  “This was their world before it became ours.”

  “And before it became theirs,” said the Duke of Queens, “it was the world of the Yargtroon.”

  “The Yargtroon?” Elric frowned.

  “They dispossessed the bodiless vampire goat-folk of Kia,” explained Werther. “Who, in turn, destroyed – or thought they destroyed – the Grash-Tu-Xem, a race of Old Ones older than any Old Ones except the Elder Old Ones of Ancient Thriss.”

  “Older even than Chaos?” asked Elric.

  “Oh, far older,” said Werther.

  “It’s almost completely collapsed, it’s so old,” added the Duke of Queens.

  Elric was baffled. “Thriss?”

  “Chaos,” said the Duke.

  Elric let a thin smile play about his lips. “You still mock me, my lord. The power of Chaos is the greatest there is, only equalled by the power of Law.”

  “Oh, certainly,” agreed the Duke of Queens.

  Elric became suspicious again. “Do you play with me, my lord?”

  “Well, naturally, we try to please our guests…”

  Werther interrupted. “Yonder doomy edifice holds the one I love. Somewhere within its walls she is incarcerated, while ghouls taunt at her and devils threaten.”

  “The bird-monsters…?” began Elric.

  “Chimerae,” said the Duke of Queens. “You saw only one of the shapes they assume.”

  Elric understood this. “Aha!”

  “But how can we enter it?” Werther spoke almost to himself.