A Quest-Lover's Treasury of the Fantastic

by Margaret Weis

  Increasingly on his guard, he said evenly: “I have a little money.”

  “Then we'll take it, demon.” The Pan Tangian presented a dirty palm just below Elric's nose as he growled: “Give it over and be on your way.”

  Elric's smile was polite and fastidious, as if he had been told a poor joke.

  The Pan Tangian evidently thought the joke better than did Elric, for he laughed heartily and looked to his nearest fellows for approval.

  Coarse laughter infected the night and only the bald-headed, black-bearded man did not join in the jest, but took a step or two backward, while all the others pressed forward.

  The Pan Tangian's face was close to Elric's own; his breath was foul and Elric saw that his beard and hair were alive with lice, yet he kept his head, replying in the same equable tone:

  “Give me some decent food—a flask of water—some wine, if you have it—and I'll gladly give you the money I have.”

  The laughter rose and fell again as Elric continued:

  “But if you would take my money and leave me with naught—then I must defend myself. I have a good sword.”

  The Pan Tangian strove to imitate Elric's irony. “But you will note, Sir Demon, that we outnumber you. Considerably.”

  Softly the albino spoke: “I've noticed that fact, but I'm not disturbed by it,” and he had drawn the black blade even as he finished speaking, for they had come at him with a rush.

  And the Pan Tangian was the first to die, sliced through the side, his vertebrae sheered, and Stormbringer, having taken its first soul, began to sing.

  A Chalalite died next, leaping with stabbing javeline poised, on the point of the runesword, and Stormbringer murmured with pleasure.

  But it was not until it had sliced the head clean off a Filkharian pikemaster that the sword began to croon and come fully to life, black fire flickering up and down its length, its strange runes glowing.

  Now the warriors knew they battled sorcery and became more cautious, yet they scarcely paused in their attack, and Elric, thrusting and parrying, hacking and slicing, needed all of the fresh, dark energy the sword passed on to him.

  Lance, sword, ax, and dirk were blocked, wounds were given and received, but the dead had not yet outnumbered the living when Elric found himself with his back against the rock and nigh a dozen sharp weapons seeking his vitals.

  It was at this point, when Elric had become somewhat less than confident that he could best so many, that the bald-headed warrior, ax in one gloved hand, sword in the other, came swiftly into the firelight and set upon those of his fellows closest to him.

  “I thank you, sir!” Elric was able to shout, during the short respite this sudden turn produced. His morale improved, he resumed the attack.

  The Lormyrian was cloven from hip to pelvis as he dodged a feint; a Filkharian, who should have been dead four hundred years before, fell with the blood bubbling from lips and nostrils, and the corpses began to pile one upon the other. Still Stormbringer sang its sinister battlesong and still the runesword passed its power to its master so that with every death Elric found strength to slay more of the soldiers.

  Those who remained now began to express their regret for their hasty attack. Where oaths and threats had issued from their mouths, now came plaintive petitions for mercy and those who had laughed with such bold braggadocio now wept like young girls, but Elric, full of his old battle-joy, spared none.

  Meanwhile the man from the Purple Towns, unaided by sorcery, put ax and sword to good work and dealt with three more of his one-time comrades, exulting in his work as if he had nursed a taste for it for some time.

  “Yoi! But this is worthwhile slaughter!” cried the black-bearded one.

  And then that busy butchery was suddenly done and Elric realized that none were left save himself and his new ally who stood leaning on his ax, panting and grinning like a hound at the kill, replacing a steel skullcap upon his pate from where it had fallen during the fight, and wiping a bloody sleeve over the sweat glistening on his brow, and saying, in a deep, good-humored tone:

  “Well, now, it is we who are wealthy, of a sudden.”

  Elric sheathed Stormbringer still reluctant to return to its scabbard. “You desire their gold. Is that why you aided me?”

  The black-bearded soldier laughed. “I owed them a debt and had been biding my time, waiting to pay. These rascals are all that were left of a pirate crew which slew everyone aboard my own ship when we wandered into strange waters—they would have slain me had I not told them I wished to join them. Now I am revenged. Not that I am above taking the gold, since much of it belongs to me and my dead brothers. It will go to their wives and their children when I return to the Purple Towns.”

  “How did you convince them not to kill you, too?” Elric sought amongst the ruins of the fire for something to eat. He found some cheese and began to chew upon it.

  “They had no captain or navigator, it seemed. None are real sailors at all, but coast-huggers, based upon this island. They were stranded here, you see, and had taken to piracy as a last resort, but were too terrified to risk the open sea. Besides, after the fight, they had no ship. We had managed to sink that as we fought. We sailed mine to this shore, but provisions were already low and they had no stomach for setting sail without full holds, so I pretended that I knew this coast (may the Gods take my soul if I ever see it again after this business) and offered to lead them inland to a village they might loot. They had heard of no such village, but believed me when I said it lay in a hidden valley. That way I prolonged my life while I waited for the opportunity to be revenged upon them. It was a foolish hope, I know. Yet,” grinning, “as it happened, it was well founded, after all! Eh?”

  The black-bearded man glanced a little warily at Elric, uncertain of what the albino might say, hoping, however, for comradeship, though it was well known how haughty Melnibonéans were. Elric could tell that all these thoughts went through his new acquaintance's mind; he had seen many others make similar calculations. So he smiled openly and slapped the man on the shoulder.

  “You saved my life, also, my friend. We are both fortunate.”

  The man sighed in relief and slung his ax upon his back. “Aye—lucky's the word. But shall our luck hold, I wonder?”

  “You do not know the island at all?”

  “Nor the waters, either. How we came to them I'll never guess. Enchanted waters, though, without question. You've seen the color of the sun?”

  “I have.”

  “Well,” the seaman bent to remove a pendant from around the Pan Tangian's throat, “you'd know more about enchantments and sorceries than I. How came you here, Sir Melnibonéan?”

  “I know not. I fled from some who hunted me. I came to a shore and could flee no further. Then I dreamed a great deal. When next I awoke I was on the shore again, but of this island.”

  “Spirits of some sort—maybe friendly to you—took you to safety, away from your enemies.”

  “That's just possible,” Elric agreed, “for we have many allies amongst the elementals. I am called Elric and I am self-exiled from Melniboné. I travel because I believe I have something to learn from the folk of the Young Kingdoms. I have no power, save what you see…”

  The black-bearded man's eyes narrowed in appraisal as he pointed at himself with his thumb. “I'm Smiorgan Baldhead, once a sealord of the Purple Towns. I commanded a fleet of merchant-men. Perhaps I still do. I shall not know until I return—if I ever do return.”

  “Then let us pool our knowledge and our resources, Smiorgan Baldhead, and make plans to leave this island as soon as we can.”

  Elric walked back to where he saw traces of the abandoned game, trampled into the mud and the blood. From amongst the dice and the ivory slips, the silver and the bronze coins, he found the gold Melnibonéan wheel. He picked it up and held it in his outstretched palm. The wheel almost covered the whole palm. In the old days, it had been the currency of kings.

  “This was yours, friend?” he aske
d Smiorgan.

  Smiorgan Baldhead looked up from where he was still searching the Pan Tangian for his stolen possessions. He nodded.

  “Aye. Would you keep it as part of your share?”

  Elric shrugged. “I'd rather know from whence it came. Who gave it you?”

  “It was not stolen. It's Melnibonéan, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guessed it.”

  “From whom did you obtain it?”

  Smiorgan straightened up, having completed his search. He scratched at a slight wound on his forearm. “It was used to buy passage on our ship—before we were lost—before the raiders attacked us.”

  “Passage? By a Melnibonéan?”

  “Maybe,” said Smiorgan. He seemed reluctant to speculate.

  “Was he a warrior?”

  Smiorgan smiled in his beard. “No. It was a woman gave that to me.”

  “How came she to take passage?”

  Smiorgan began to pick up the rest of the money. “It's a long tale and, in part, a familiar one to most merchant sailors. We were seeking new markets for our goods and had equipped a good sized fleet, which I commanded, as the largest shareholder.” He seated himself casually upon the big corpse of the Chalalite and began to count the money. “Would you hear the tale or do I bore you already?”

  “I'd be glad to listen.”

  Reaching behind him, Smiorgan pulled a wine flask from the belt of the corpse and offered it to Elric who accepted it and drank sparingly of a wine which was unusually good.

  Smiorgan took the flask when Elric had finished. “That's part of our cargo,” he said. “We were proud of it. A good vintage, eh?”

  “Excellent. So you set off from the Purple Towns?”

  “Aye. Going east towards the Unknown Kingdoms. We sailed due east for a couple of weeks, sighting some of the bleakest coasts I have ever seen, and then we saw no land at all for another week. That was when we entered a stretch of water we came to call the Roaring Rocks—like the Serpent's Teeth off Shazar's coast, but much greater in expanse, and larger, too. Huge volcanic cliffs which rose from the sea on every side and around which the waters heaved and boiled and howled with a fierceness I've rarely experienced. Well, in short, the fleet was dispersed and at least four ships were lost on those rocks. At last we were able to escape those waters and found ourselves becalmed and alone. We searched for our sister ships for a while and then decided to give ourselves another week before turning for home, for we had no liking to go back into the Roaring Rocks again. Low on provisions, we sighted land at last—grassy cliffs and hospitable beaches and, inland, some signs of cultivation, so we knew we had found civilization again. We put into a small fishing port and satisfied the natives—who spoke no tongue used in the Young Kingdoms—that we were friendly. And that was when the woman approached us.”

  “The Melnibonéan woman?”

  “If Melnibonéan she was. She was a fine-looking woman, I'll say that. We were short of provisions, as I told you, and short of any means of purchasing them, for the fishermen desired little of what we had to trade. Having given up our original quest, we were content to head westward again.”

  “The woman?”

  “She wished to buy passage to the Young Kingdoms—and was content to go with us as far as Menii, our home port. For her passage she gave us two of those wheels. One was used to buy provisions in the town—Graghin, I think it was called—and after making repairs we set off again.”

  “You never reached the Purple Towns?”

  “There were more storms—strange storms. Our instruments were useless, our lodestones were of no help to us at all. We became even more completely lost than before. Some of my men argued that we had gone beyond our own world altogether. Some blamed the woman, saying she was a sorceress who had no intention of going to Menii. But I believed her. Night fell and seemed to last forever until we sailed into a calm dawn beneath a blue sun. My men were close to panic—and it takes much to make my men panic—when we sighted the island. As we headed for it those pirates attacked us in a ship which belonged to history—it should have been on the bottom of the ocean, not on the surface. I've seen pictures of such craft in murals on a temple wall in Tarkesh. In ramming us, she stove in half her port side and was sinking even when they swarmed aboard. They were desperate, savage men, Elric—half-starved and blood-hungry. We were weary after our voyage but fought well. During the fighting the woman disappeared, killed herself, maybe, when she saw the stamp of our conquerors. After a long fight only myself and one other, who died soon after, were left. That was when I became cunning and decided to wait for revenge.”

  “The woman had a name?”

  “None she would give. I have thought the matter over and suspect that, after all, we were used by her. Perhaps she did not seek Menii and the Young Kingdoms. Perhaps it was this world she sought, and, by sorcery, led us here.”

  “This world? You think it different to our own?”

  “If only because of the sun's strange color. Do you not think so, too? You, with your Melnibonéan knowledge of such things, must believe it?”

  “I have dreamed of such things,” Elric admitted, but he would say no more.

  “Most of the pirates thought as I—they were from all the ages of the Young Kingdoms. That much I discovered. Some were from the earliest years of the era, some from our own time—and some were from the future. Adventurers, most of them, who, at some stage in their lives, sought a legendary land of great riches which lay on the other side of an ancient gateway, rising from the middle of the ocean, but they found themselves trapped here, unable to sail back through this mysterious gate. Others had been involved in sea fights, thought themselves drowned and woken up on the shores of the island. Many, I suppose, had once had reasonable virtues, but there is little to support life on the island and they had become wolves, living off one another or any ship unfortunate enough to pass, inadvertently, through this gate of theirs.”

  Elric recalled part of his dream. “Did any call it the ‘Crimson Gate’?”

  “Several did, aye.”

  “And yet the theory is unlikely, if you'll forgive my skepticism,” Elric said. “As one who has passed through the Shade Gate to Ameeron…”

  “You know of other worlds, then?”

  “I've never heard of this one. And I am versed in such matters. That is why I doubt the reasoning. And yet, there was the dream…”

  “Dream?”

  “Oh, it was nothing. I am used to such dreams and give them no significance.”

  “The theory cannot seem surprising to a Melnibonéan, Elric!” Smiorgan grinned again. “It's I who should be skeptical, not you.”

  And Elric replied, half to himself: “Perhaps I fear the implications more.” He lifted his head and, with the shaft of a broken spear, began to poke at the fire. “Certain ancient sorcerers of Melniboné proposed that an infinite number of worlds coexist with our own. Indeed, my dreams, of late, have hinted as much!” He forced himself to smile. “But I cannot afford to believe such things. Thus, I reject them.”

  “Wait for the dawn,” said Smiorgan Baldhead. “The color of the sun shall prove the theory.”

  “Perhaps it will prove only that we both dream,” said Elric. The smell of death was strong in his nostrils. He pushed aside those corpses nearest to the fire and settled himself to sleep.

  Smiorgan Baldhead had begun to sing a strong yet lilting song in his own dialect, which Elric could scarcely follow.

  “Do you sing of your victory over your enemies?” the albino asked.

  Smiorgan paused for a moment, half amused. “No, Sir Elric, I sing to keep the shades at bay. After all, these fellows' ghosts must still be lurking nearby, in the dark, so little time has passed since they died.”

  “Fear not,” Elric told him. “Their souls are already eaten.”

  But Smiorgan sang on, and his voice was louder, his song more intense, than ever it had been before.

  Just before he fell asleep, E
lric thought he heard a horse whinny, and he meant to ask Smiorgan if any of the pirates had been mounted, but he fell asleep before he could do so.

  III

  RECALLING LITTLE OF HIS VOYAGE ON THE DARK SHIP, ELRIC WOULD never know how he came to reach the world in which he now found himself. In later years he would recall most of these experiences as dreams and, indeed, they seemed dreamlike even as they occurred.

  He slept uneasily, and, in the morning, the clouds were heavier, shining with that strange, leaden light, though the sun itself was obscured. Smiorgan Baldhead of the Purple Towns was pointing upwards, already on his feet, speaking with quiet triumph:

  “Will that evidence suffice to convince you, Elric of Melniboné?”

  “I am convinced of a quality about the light—possibly about this terrain—which makes the sun appear blue,” Elric replied. He glanced with distaste at the carnage around him. The corpses made a wretched sight and he was filled with a nebulous misery that was neither remorse nor pity.

  Smiorgan's sigh was sardonic. “Well, Sir Skeptic, we had best retrace my steps and seek my ship. What say you?”

  “I agree,” the albino told him.

  “How far had you marched from the coast when you found us?”

  Elric told him.

  Smiorgan smiled. “You arrived in the nick of time, then. I should have been most embarrassed by today if the sea had been reached and I could show my pirate friends no village! I shall not forget this favor you have done me, Elric. I am a Count of the Purple Towns and have much influence. If there is any service I can perform for you when we return, you must let me know.”

  “I thank you,” Elric said gravely. “But first we must discover a means of escape.”

  Smiorgan had gathered up a satchel of food, some water and some wine. Elric had no stomach to make his breakfast among the dead, so he slung the satchel over his shoulder. “I'm ready,” he said.

  Smiorgan was satisfied. “Come—we go this way.”