Revenge of the Rose

by Michael Moorcock

  “It is not yours,” said Princess Tayaratuka. “It is what the Rose gave us when she first knew of our plight. It was hers to give us. And ours to return to her. The Eternal Rose.”

  “Well, madam, it is mine now. To bargain with as I choose,” said Gaynor with a hint of arrogant impatience, as if to a child who has not understood what has been explained.

  “You have no right to those treasures,” said Princess Mishiguya. “Give me back the briar rings, which are my part of our charge.”

  “But the briar rings are not your property,” said Gaynor, “as well you know, madam. All these treasures were loaned to you, so that you could go onto the paths between the realms and seek Elric.”

  “Then give them back to me,” said the Rose, stepping forward. “For they were, indeed, my treasures to loan or to bestow as I chose. They are the last treasures of my forgotten land. I brought them here, hoping to find peace from my tormented cravings. And then came Chaos and my hostesses’ need was greater than my own. But now they have the swords they sought. They did not have to bargain, after all, with Elric. There’s another sweet irony, prince. And we are here to reclaim those treasures. Give them up to us, Prince Gaynor, or we must take them by force.”

  “By force, madam?” Gaynor’s laughter grew louder at this, and coarser, too. “You have no force to use against me! To use against Mashabak! I cannot yet control him, perhaps. But I can release him! I can release him into your realm, madam, and have him gobble it up in an instant, and all of us with it. Aye, and it would delight me to do so, madam, almost as much as it delights me to control such power. For would it not be my decision which brought about the conquests of unbridled Chaos? This blackthorn wand will set him free—with one tiny tap of its tip.” And he revealed the thin, black branch that was bound with brass and elinfleur. “I repeat, madam, you have no force to use against me. While I remain here and my wand remains there, we are all of us safe as Arioch himself was safe when he made this cage …”

  And suddenly there came a squawling and a roiling and a braying from the sphere and Count Mashabak’s unlovely features were pressed there for a moment as he raved in response to his captor’s name, at his absolute loss of honour in becoming the prisoner of a mere demi-demon. So vast and angry was the life-force imprisoned there that Elric and his companions felt driven back by it; felt as if they might be snuffed into non-existence by the very sight of it.

  “And you, Prince Elric,” yelled Gaynor the Damned above the cacophony of his recklessly captured prize, “you, too, have come to trade, no doubt. What? Will you have this? The skin your fierce friend left behind?” And he brandished the grey wolf’s pelt that was all that remained of the tormented Northerner.

  But to Elric it was no trophy Gaynor held. The abandoned wolfskin meant that Esbern Snare had died a free mortal. “I echo all the sentiments expressed by my friends,” said Elric. “I do not trade with such as thee, Gaynor the Damned. There is no virtue left in thee.”

  “Vice alone, Prince Elric. Vice alone, I must admit. But such creative, imaginative vice, eh? You have yet to hear your choices. I want your swords, you see.”

  “They are our bond-blades,” said Princess Mishiguya. “They are ours by blood and by right. They are ours to conquer thee and drive thee from our realm. Never shalt thou take them, Gaynor the Damned!”

  “But I offer you those treasures you borrowed and lost, madam. I’ll speak plain. I want four swords such as the four you have between you. I have here six Objects of Power. I will trade them all for the swords! Is that not generous? Even foolish?”

  “You are insane, Gaynor,” said Princess Shanug’a. “The swords are our inheritance. They are our duty.”

  “But it’s your duty, madam, surely, to give back what you have borrowed? However, think upon that for a little. Now I am going to offer Elric his sweet old father’s soul!” And he laid caressing steel upon the rosewood.

  Angry at Arioch’s betrayal of his secret, Elric could scarcely speak. Gaynor knew the true value of the soulbox and what it meant to Sadric’s son!

  “Would you be united—or would you be free?” Gaynor asked him, savouring every syllable of this temptation; understanding exactly what he offered the albino.

  With a wordless oath, Elric lunged towards the altar but Gaynor motioned edgily with his wand and almost touched the ectoplasmic membrane where Count Mashabak roared and flexed his claws, his eyes seeming fierce enough to burn through those mystic walls and let him come rushing out, to devour, to warp, to make of this realm one screaming extrusion of tormented life.

  “Your father’s soul, Prince Elric, in return for that sword of yours. You know which you would rather have, surely? Come, Prince Elric, that’s not a decision you must brood upon. Take the bargain. It releases you. It will free you from all thy dooms, sweet prince …”

  And Elric felt the lure of it, the tempting prospect of being free for ever from his hellblade, from that unwanted symbiosis upon which he had grown to rely, of being free from the threat of his father’s soul eternally merging with his own, of being able to help his father reach his mother in the Forest of Souls, where neither Law, nor Chaos, nor the Cosmic Balance had dominion.

  “Your father’s soul, Elric, for you to set free. The ending of his suffering and your own. You do not need the sword to live. You did not need its power to find it, to brave those ordeals, and others. Let me have the sword, Elric. And I shall give you all these treasures …”

  “You want the sword so that you can control the demon with it,” said Elric. “Do you have a spell which will give you such power? Perhaps you do, Prince Gaynor. But the spell alone is not sufficient. You must be able to frighten Count Mashabak—”

  Again that raging din, that squawling and screeching and threatening …

  “—and you think you can do that with Stormbringer. But you would need more than Stormbringer, Prince Gaynor, to achieve such control!” And again Elric reflected on the wild audacity of Gaynor the Damned, who sought to tame a Lord of Hell to his own bidding!

  “True, sweet prince.” Prince Gaynor’s tone was softer again, and amused. “But happily I have more than your sword. The Rose knows of the spell I mean …”

  And the Rose lifted her head and she spat at him, which made him laugh all the more merrily. “Ah, how lovers learn to regret those little confidences …”

  Which brought a sudden understanding to Elric and a fresh sympathy for the woman, the last of her kind, and the particular nature of her moral burden.

  “Give me the blade, Prince Elric.” Gaynor stretched out the gauntleted left hand in which he held the soulbox. In his right hand, the blackthorn wand hovered near the ectoplasmic membrane. “There is nought to lose.”

  “I would only gain, I think,” said Elric, “if you were to let me go free with that thing.”

  “Of course. Who would be harmed?”

  But Elric knew the answer to the question. His companions would be harmed. This realm would be harmed. Many more would be harmed once Gaynor controlled Count Mashabak. He did not know exactly how the Prince of the Damned intended to use the weapon to control the Lord of Chaos, but it was clear there was such a means. Once, long ago, the Rose had confided her secret, her knowledge of such a powerful old sorcery.

  “Or would you join your sire for ever, Elric of Melniboné?” The tone from within the helm was cooler now, more evidently threatening. “I would even share my new power with you. Your sword shall be the stick I’ll use to goad Mashabak to my bidding …”

  Elric yearned to agree with Gaynor the Damned. If he had been a true Melnibonéan, even one like his father, he would have thought no more of the matter and given up the sword in return for the soulbox. But through whatever ties of character, blood and disposition they were, his loyalty was for his fellows and he would not consign one more human creature to the mercies of Chaos.

  And so he refused.

  Which brought a yell of rage from the ex-Prince of the Universal and he cried ou
t that Elric was a fool, that he might have saved something from these realms, but now they would be entirely devoured by angry Mashabak …

  … when there came a creaking and a groaning and a scattering of plaster and bits of stone, of candle-wax and falling flambeaux, as some ancient bilge-system, some trap-door in the hull, began to creak open from above and through the gap came a questioning croak.

  It was Khorghakh the toad. It was the navigating monster from the ship, pushing its way through. It sniffed and turned its head. It saw Charion. Whereupon it gave a grunt of satisfaction and began swiftly to clamber down the carved walls while Elric, taking advantage of Gaynor’s inattention, chopped suddenly across the makeshift altar and struck the wand from the prince’s hand, then thrust at him again, while Gaynor grabbed for his own sword and flung a blow at the albino’s head.

  But now Stormbringer sent up such a fearful keening, a sharp, specific utterance of rage, that there came a gasp of pain from within the helm—a helm that had not known pain for millennia. Gaynor brought up his sword to try to block the runeblade, but staggered.

  Then Elric drew back the point of his hellsword and drove it directly at that place in Gaynor’s armour which would have hidden his heart—and the Lord of the Damned howled with sudden agony as he was lifted upward, like a lobster on a spike, his arms and legs flailing, roaring his rage as Count Mashabak still roared his—suspended, helpless upon Stormbringer’s point—

  “Where is there a hell that could effect thy just punishment, Gaynor the Damned?” said Elric through clenching teeth.

  And the Rose said softly:

  “I know of such a place, Elric. You must summon your patron demon. Summon Arioch to this realm!”

  “Madam, you are mad!”

  “You must trust me here. Arioch’s power will be weak. It has not had time to build. But you must speak to him.”

  “What good can Arioch do us in this? Will you return his prisoner to him?”

  “Call him,” she said. “This is the way that it should be. You must call him, Elric. Only by doing that can any harmony be achieved again.”

  And so Elric, with his enemy Prince Gaynor squirming like a spider on a stick in front of him, called out the name of his patron Duke of Hell, a creature who had betrayed him, who had attempted to extinguish him for ever.

  “Arioch! Arioch! Come to thy servant, Lord Arioch. I beg thee.”

  Meanwhile the toad had reached the floor and was lumbering towards Charion, towards its lost love, and there was a kind of soft affection in its face as Mistress Phatt approached it, stroking its huge hands, patting its scales, while from above came a thin voice:

  “We were in time, it seems! The toad found this entrance for us.” And through the ruptured trapdoor came Ernest Wheldrake’s head, looking down at them with some concern. “I was afraid we should be late.”

  Charion Phatt was patting the toad’s enraptured head and laughing. “You did not tell us you had gone to bring extra help, my love!”

  “I thought it best to make no promises. But I bring further good news.” He looked at the route by which the toad had clambered, from carving to carving, to the floor and he shook his head. “I’ll rejoin you as soon as I can.” And he was gone.

  “Arioch!” cried Elric. “Come to me, my patron!” But he could not offer blood and souls today.

  “Arioch!”

  And there, in one corner of this makeshift hall, a dark, smoky thing curled and shook itself and grumbled and then it had become a handsome youth, wonderful in his grace, but still not quite substantial. And the smile had all the sweetness of the hive. “What is it, my pet, my savoury …?”

  The Rose said: “Here is your chance to bargain, now, Elric. What does this demon own that you would have from him?”

  Elric, his eyes moving from Gaynor to Arioch, saw his patron peering, almost as if he were purblind, at the leaping ectoplasmic sphere, at the writhing Gaynor.

  “Only his lease,” said Elric, “upon my father’s soul.”

  “Then ask him for it,” said the Rose. Her voice was vibrant with controlled urgency. “Ask him to give up his claim on that soul!”

  “He will not agree,” said Elric. Even with the sword’s mighty energy, he was beginning to tire.

  “Ask him for it,” she said.

  So Elric called over his shoulder. “My Lord Arioch. My patron Duke of Hell. Will you give up your claim on my father’s soul?”

  “I will not,” said Arioch, his voice sly and puzzled. “Why should I? He was mine, as thou art mine.”

  “We shall neither be thine, if Mashabak is freed,” said Elric. “And that you know, my patron.”

  “Give him to me,” said Arioch thinly, “give me my prisoner, who is mine by right, whom I ensnared with the power of my occult subtleties. Give me Mashabak, and I will give up my claim.”

  “Mashabak is not mine to give you, Lord Arioch,” said Elric, understanding at last. “But I will give thee Gaynor to make that exchange!”

  “No!” cried the Prince of the Damned. “I could not bear such ignominy!”

  Arioch was already smiling. “Oh, indeed, sweet immortal traitor, you shall bear it and much else besides. I know fresh torments that are presently inconceivable to you but which you will look back upon with nostalgia, as a time before your agony really began. I shall bestow upon thee all the tortures I had reserved for Mashabak—”

  Then the golden body had streaked towards the bellowing Gaynor, who begged Elric in the name of everything he held holy, not to give him up to the Duke of Hell.

  “You cannot be slain, Gaynor the Damned,” said the Rose, her face flushed with triumph, “but you can still be punished! Arioch will punish you and, as he punishes you, you will remember that you were brought to this by the Rose and that this is the revenge of the Rose upon you, for the doom you brought to our paradise!”

  Elric began to realize that not all had been coincidence, that much of what had happened was the result of some long-nurtured plan of the Rose to ensure that Gaynor would betray no others as he had betrayed her and her kin. That was why she had come back here. It was why she had loaned the sisters the treasures of her own lost land.

  “Go now, Gaynor!” She watched as the golden shadow embraced the writhing prince … seemed to absorb the whole armoured creature into itself, before flowing back again into its corner, and thence down whatever narrow tunnel through the multiverse Elric had created with his Summoning.

  “Go now, Prince Gaynor, to your unsleeping eternal consciousness, to all those horrors you had thought familiar …” She spoke with considerable satisfaction, while the face of Count Mashabak pressed for a moment against the membrane and the fangs clashed and drooled as he sought a glimpse of his rival, bearing back, with something close to gratitude, his small prize to his own dimension.

  “I have no claim now, Elric, to your father’s soul …”

  “But Mashabak?” said Elric as it dawned on him the responsibility they had brought upon themselves. “What shall we do with Mashabak?”

  The Rose smiled at him, a gentle smile that was full of wisdom. “There is something yet we have to do,” she said, and she turned to murmur to the three sisters, who took their swords—one of ivory, one of gold and one of granite—and with slow care placed a black briar ring upon the tip of each blade so that suddenly the swords were alive with glowing, flowery light—a calm energy—Nature’s energy balanced against the raging power of Chaos. Then they lifted these swords in unison beneath the heaving membrane of that cosmic prison, so that each tip stood lightly upon the skin.

  And Count Mashabak growled and threatened and spoke some words in a language known only to himself; made helpless by the very act of being captured, for he was a creature that had known almost limitless power and had no means of existing with the shock of its own enforced impotence. He knew not how to beg or bargain or even to coax, as Arioch coaxed, for his nature was more direct. He had reveled in the unchecked force of his power. He had grown
used to creating whatever he desired, of destroying whatever displeased him. He screamed at them to release him, he grumbled, he subsided, as the tips of the swords continued to support the ectoplasmic sphere. He was a crude, brutish sort of demigod and knew only how to threaten.

  The Rose smiled. It was as if she were achieving everything she had dreamed of over the years. “He will take some taming, that demon,” she said.

  If Elric had been disbelieving of Gaynor’s audacity, he was admiring of the Rose’s. “You knew all along how Mashabak could be controlled,” he said. “You manipulated events so that we should be here at the same time …” It was not an accusation, merely a statement of his understanding.

  “I took the events that existed,” said the Rose simply. “I did what I could in my weaving. But I was never certain, even as Gaynor bargained with you for your father’s soul, what the outcome would be. I still do not know, Elric. Watch!”

  She went to the table where Gaynor had placed his stolen treasures and she took the sweet-smelling rosewood box, advancing towards where the sisters held the sphere upon the tips of their swords, as delicately as if they balanced a soap-bubble, each woman concentrating upon her task while a strange, bubbling energy began to pulse along the blades. Down the ivory poured a smoky whiteness and down the granite a grey, curling substance; while the golden blade shook with light the colour of fresh-cut broom, all these colours spinning together and forming a kind of spiral which wound upwards again and back into the sphere.

  Led by the Rose, the sisters began a chant, harnessing streamers of multiversal life-force and brought them together in a shimmering net of pale cerise light which surrounded them as they worked.

  Then the Rose cried out to Elric. “Bring your sword now. Bring it quickly. It must be the conductor once more, of all this energy!” She opened the lid of the box.

  The albino moved forward, his body making strange ritualistic gestures whose meaning was unknown to him.