The Weird of the White Wolf

by Michael Moorcock

  Malador knew that he was doomed. Force and fighting skill were not enough against the golem's in­sensate strength. At the golem's next blow he swung aside, but was caught by one of its spike-fingers which ripped through his armour and drew blood, though at that moment he felt no pain.

  He scrambled up, shaking away the grip and frag­ments of wood which remained of the shield, grasp­ing his sword firmly.

  “The soulless demon has no weak spot,” he thought, “and since it has no true intelligence, it can­not be appealed to. What would a golem fear?”

  The answer was simple. The golem would only fear something as strong or stronger than itself.

  He must use cunning.

  He ran for the upturned table with the golem after him, leaped over the table and wheeled as the golem stumbled but did not, as he'd hoped, fall. How­ever, the golem was slowed by its encounter, and Au­bec took advantage of this to rush for the door through which the golem had entered. It opened. He was in a twisting corridor, darkly shadowed, not unlike the labyrinth he had first found in Kaneloon. The door closed, but he could find nothing to bar it with. He ran up the corridor as the golem tore the door open and came lumbering swiftly after him.

  The corridor writhed about in all directions, and, though he could not always see the golem, he could hear it and had the sickening fear that he would turn a corner at some stage and run straight into it. He did not—but he came to a door and, upon open­ing it and passing through it, found himself again in the hall of Castle Kaneloon.

  He almost welcomed this familiar sight as he heard the golem, its metal parts screeching, continue to come after him. He needed another shield, but the part of the hall in which he now found himself had no wall-shields—only a large, round mirror of bright, clear-polished metal. It would be too heavy to be much use, but he seized it, tugging it from its hook. It fell with a clang and he hauled it up, dragging it with him as he stumbled away from the go­lem which had emerged into the room once more.

  Using the chains by which the mirror had hung, he gripped it before him and, as the golem's speed increased and the monster rushed upon him, he raised this makeshift shield.

  The golem shrieked.

  Malador was astounded. The monster stopped dead and cowered away from the mirror. Malador pushed it towards the golem and the thing turned its back and fled, with a metallic howl, through the door it had entered by.

  Relieved and puzzled, Malador sat down on the floor and studied the mirror. There was certainly nothing magical about it, though its quality was good. He grinned and said aloud:

  “The creature is afraid of something. It is afraid of itself!”

  He threw back his head and laughed loudly in his relief. Then he frowned. “Now to find the sorcerers who created him and take vengeance on them!” He pushed himself to his feet, twisted the chains of the mirror more securely about his arm and went to an­other door, concerned lest the golem complete its cir­cuit of the maze and return through the door. This door would not budge, so he lifted his sword and hacked at the latch for a few moments until it gave. He strode into a well-lit passage with what appeared to be another room at its far end—the door open.

  A musky scent came to his nostrils as he progressed along the passage—the scent that reminded him of Eloarde and the comforts of Klant.

  When he reached the circular chamber, he saw that it was a bedroom—a woman's bedroom full of the perfume he had smelled in the passage. He con­trolled the direction his mind took, thought of loyalty and Klant, and went to another door which led off from the room. He lugged it open and discovered a stone staircase winding upward. This he mounted, passing windows that seemed glazed with emerald or ruby, beyond which shadow-shapes flickered so that he knew he was on the side of the castle overlooking Chaos.

  The staircase seemed to lead up into a tower, and when he finally reached the small door at its top he was feeling out of breath and paused before enter­ing. Then he pushed the door open and went in.

  A huge window was set in one wall, a window of clear glass through which he could see the ominous stuff of Chaos leaping.. A woman stood by this win­dow as if awaiting him.

  “You are indeed a champion, Earl Aubec,” said she with a smile that might have been ironic.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “No sorcery gave it me, Earl of Malador—you shouted it loudly enough when you first saw the hall in its true shape.”

  “Was not that, then, sorcery,” he said ungraciously, “the labyrinth, the demons—even the valley? Was not the golem made by sorcery? Is not this whole cursed castle of a sorcerous nature?”

  She shrugged. “Call it so if you'd rather not have the truth. Sorcery, in your mind at least, is a crude thing which only hints at the true powers existing in the universe.”

  He did not reply, being somewhat impatient of such statements. He had learned, by observing the philosophers of Klant, that mysterious words often disguised commonplace things and ideas. Instead, he looked at her sulkily and over-frankly.

  She was fair, with green-blue eyes and a light com­plexion. Her long robe was of a similar colour to her eyes. She was, in a secret sort of way, very beautiful and, like all the denizens of Kaneloon he'd encoun­tered, a trifle familiar.

  “You recognise Kaneloon?” she asked.

  He dismissed her question. “Enough of this—take me to the masters of this place!”

  “There is none but me, Myshella the Dark Lady—and I am the mistress.”

  He was disappointed. “Was it just to meet you that I came through such perils?”

  “It was—and greater perils even than you think, Earl Aubec. Those were but the monsters of your own imagination!”

  “Taunt me not, lady.”

  She laughed. “I speak in good faith. The castle creates its defences out of your own mind. It is a rare man who can face and defeat his own imagination. Such a one has not found me here for two hundred years. All since have perished by fear—until now.”

  She smiled at him. It was a warm smile.

  “And what is the prize for so great a feat?” he said gruffly.

  She laughed again and gestured towards the win­dow which looked out upon the edge of the world and Chaos beyond. “Out there nothing exists as yet. If you venture into it, you will be confronted again by creatures of your hidden fancy, for there is noth­ing else to behold.”

  She gazed at him admiringly and he coughed in his embarrassment. “Once in a while,” she said, “there comes a man to Kaneloon who can withstand such an ordeal. Then may the frontiers of the world be ex­tended, for when a man stands against Chaos it must recede and new lands spring into being!”

  “So that is the fate you have in mind for me, sor­ceress!”

  She glanced at him almost demurely. Her beauty seemed to increase as he looked at her. He clutched at the hilt of his sword, gripping it tight as she moved gracefully towards him and touched him, as if by accident. “There is a reward for your courage.” She looked into his eyes and said no more of the reward, for it was clear what she offered. “And after—do my bidding and go against Chaos.”

  “Lady, know you not that ritual demands of Klant's Champion that he be the queen's faithful consort? I would not betray my word and trust!” He gave a hollow laugh. “I came here to remove a men­ace to my queen's kingdom—not to be your lover and lackey!”

  “There is no menace here.”

  “That seems true ...”

  She stepped back as if appraising him anew. For her this was unprecedented—never before had her offer been refused. She rather liked this solid man who also combined courage and imagination in his character. It was incredible, she thought, how in a few centuries such traditions could grow up—tradi­tions which could bind a man to a woman he proba­bly did not even love. She looked at him as he stood there, his body rigid, his manner nervous.

  “Forget Klant,” she said, “think of the power you might have—the power of true creation!”

  “Lady,
I claim this castle for Klant. That is what I came to do and that is what I do now. If I leave here alive, I shall be judged the conqueror and you must comply.”

  She hardly heard him. She was thinking of various plans to convince him that her cause was superior to his. Perhaps she could still seduce him? Or use some drug to bewitch him? No, he was too strong for ei­ther, she must think of some other stratagem.

  She felt her breasts heaving involuntarily as she looked at him. She would have preferred to have seduced him. It had always been as much her reward as the heroes who had earlier won over the dangers of Kaneloon. And then, she thought, she knew what to say.

  “Think, Earl Aubec,” she whispered. “Think—new lands for your queen's Empire!”

  He frowned.

  “Why not extend the Empire's boundaries farther?” she continued. “Why not make new territories?”

  She watched him anxiously as he took off his helm and scratched his heavy, bald head. “You have made a point at last,” he said dubiously.

  “Think of the honours you would receive in Klant if you succeeded in winning not merely Kaneloon—but that which lies beyond!”

  Now he rubbed is chin. “Aye,” he said, “Aye ...” His great brows frowned deeply.

  “New plains, new mountains, new seas—new popu­lations, even—whole cities full of people fresh-sprung and yet with the memory of generations of ancestors behind them! All this can be done by you, Earl of Malador—for Queen Eloarde and Lormyr!”

  He smiled faintly, his imagination fired at last. “Aye! If I can defeat such dangers here—then I can do the same out there! It will be the greatest adven­ture in history! My name will become a legend—Malador, Master of Chaos!”

  She gave him a tender look, though she had half-cheated him.

  He swung his sword up on to his shoulder. “I'll try this, lady.”

  She and he stood together at the window, watching the Chaos-stuff whispering and rolling for eternity before them. To her it had never been wholly famil­iar, for it changed all the time. Now its tossing col­ours were predominantly red and black. Tendrils of mauve and orange spiralled out of this and writhed away.

  Weird shapes flitted about in it, their outlines never clear, never quite recognisable.

  He said to her: “The Lords of Chaos rule this ter­ritory. What will they have to say?”

  “They can say nothing, do little. Even they have to obey the Law of the Cosmic Balance which ordains that if man can stand against Chaos, then it shall be his to order and make Lawful. Thus the Earth grows, slowly.”

  “How do I enter it?”

  She took the opportunity to grasp his heavily muscled arm and point through the window. “See there—a causeway leads down from this tower to the cliff.” She glanced at him sharply. “Do you see it?”

  “Ah—yes—I had not, but now I do. Yes, a cause­way.”

  Standing behind him, she smiled a little to herself. “I will remove the barrier,” she said.

  He straightened his helm on his head. “For Klant and Eloarde and only those do I embark upon this adventure.”

  She moved towards the wall and raised the win­dow. He did not look at her as he strode down the causeway into the multicoloured mist.

  As she watched him disappear, she smiled to her­self. How easy it was to beguile the strongest man by pretending to go his way! He might add lands to his Empire, but he might find their populations un­willing to accept Eloarde as their Empress. In fact, if Aubec did his work well, then he would be creating more of a threat to Klant than ever Kaneloon had been.

  Yet she admired him, she was attracted to him, perhaps, because he was not so accessible, a little more than she had been to that earlier hero who had claimed Aubec's own land from Chaos barely two hundred years before. Oh, he had been a man! But he, like most before him, had needed no other per­suasion than the promise of her body.

  Earl Aubec's weakness had lain in his strength, she thought. By now he had vanished into the heaving mists.

  She felt a trifle sad that this time the execution of the task given her by the Lords of Law had not brought her the usual pleasure.

  Yes perhaps, she thought, she felt a more subtle pleasure in his steadfastness and the means she had used to convince him.

  For centuries had the Lords of Law entrusted her with Kaneloon and its secrets. But the progress was slow, for there were few heroes who could survive Kaneloon's dangers—few who could defeat self-created perils.

  Yet, she decided with a slight smile on her lips, the task had its various rewards. She moved into an­other chamber to prepare for the transition of the castle to the new edge of the world.

  Thus were the seeds sewn of the Age of the Young Kingdoms, the Age of Men, which was to produce the downfall of Melnibone.

  Book One

  The Dreaming City

  Which tells how Elric came back to Imrryr, what he did there, and how, at last, his weird fell upon him ...

  Chapter One

  “What's the hour?” The black-bearded man wrenched off his gilded helmet and flung it from him, careless of where it fell. He drew off his leathern gauntlets and moved closer to the roaring fire, letting the heat soak into his frozen bones.

  “Midnight is long past,” growled one of the other armoured men who gathered around the blaze. “Are you still sure he'll come?”

  “It's said that he's a man of his word, if that com­forts you.”

  It was a tall, pale-faced youth who spoke. His thin lips formed the words and spat them out mali­ciously. He grinned a wolf-grin and stared the new arrival in the eyes, mocking him.

  The newcomer turned away with a shrug. “That's so—for all your irony, Yaris. He'll come.” He spoke as a man does when he wishes to reassure himself.

  There were six men, now, around the fire. The sixth was Smiorgan—Count Smiorgan Baldhead of the Purple Towns. He was a short, stocky man of fifty years with a scarred face partially covered with a thick, black growth of hair. His eyes smouldered morosely and his lumpy fingers plucked nervously at his rich-hiked longsword. His pate was hairless, giv­ing him his name, and over his ornate, gilded ar­mour hung a loose woollen cloak, dyed purple.

  Smiorgan said thickly, “He has no love for his cousin. He has become bitter. Yyrkoon sits on the Ruby Throne in his place and has proclaimed him an outlaw and a traitor. Elric needs us if he would take his throne and his bride back. We can trust him.”

  “You're full of trust tonight, Count,” Yaris smiled thinly, “a rare thing to find in these troubled times. I say this—” He paused and took a long breath, staring at his comrades, summing them up. His gaze flicked from lean-faced Dharmit of Jharkor to Fadan of Lor­myr who pursed his podgy lips and looked into the fire.

  “Speak up, Yaris,” petulantly urged the patrician-featured Vilmirian, Naclon. “Let's hear what you have to say, lad, if it's worth hearing.”

  Yaris looked towards Jiku the dandy, who yawned impolitely and scratched his long nose.

  “Well!” Smiorgan was impatient. “What d'you say, Yaris?”

  “I say that we should start now and waste no more time waiting on Elric's pleasure! He's laughing at us in some tavern a hundred miles from here—or else plotting with the Dragon Princes to trap us. For years we have planned this raid. We have little time in which to strike—our fleet is too big, too notice­able. Even if Elric has not betrayed us, then spies will soon be running eastwards to warn the Dragons that there is a fleet massed against them. We stand to win a fantastic fortune—to vanquish the greatest merchant city in the world—to reap immeasurable riches—or horrible death at the hands of the Dragon Princes, if we wait overlong. Let's bide our time no more and set sail before our prize hears of our plan and brings up reinforcements!”

  “You always were too ready to mistrust a man, Yaris.” King Naclon of Vilmir spoke slowly, care­fully—distastefully eyeing the taut-featured youth. “We could not reach Imrryr without Elric's knowledge of the maze-channels which lead to its secret por
ts. If Elric will not join us—then our en­deavour will be fruitless—hopeless. We need him. We must wait for him—or else give up our plans and return to our homelands.”

  “At least I'm willing to take a risk,” yelled Yaris, anger lancing from his slanting eyes. “You're getting old—all of you. Treasures are not won by care and forethought but by swift slaying and reckless attack.”

  “Fool!” Dharmit's voice rumbled around the fire-flooded hall. He laughed wearily. “I spoke thus in my youth—and lost a fine fleet soon after. Cunning and Elric's knowledge will win us Imrryr—that and the mightiest fleet to sail the Sighing Sea since Melnibone's banners fluttered over all the nations of the Earth. Here we are—the most powerful Sea Lords in the world, masters, every one of us, of more than a hundred swift vessels. Our names are feared and famous—our fleets ravage the coasts of a score of lesser nations. We hold power!” He clenched his great fist and shook it in Yaris' face. His tone became more level and he smiled viciously, glaring at the youth and choosing his words with precision.

  “But all this is worthless—meaningless—without the power which Elric has. That is the power of knowledge—of sorcery, if I must use the cursed word. His fathers knew of the maze which guards Imrryr from sea-attack. And his fathers passed that secret on to him. Imrryr, the Dreaming City, dreams in peace—and will continue to do so unless we have a guide to help us steer a course through the treacher­ous waterways which lead to her harbours. We need Elric—we know it, and he knows it. That's the truth!”

  “Such confidence, gentlemen, is warming to the heart.” There was irony in the heavy voice which came from the entrance to the hall. The heads of the six Sea Lords jerked towards the doorway.

  Yaris' confidence fled from him as he met the eyes of Elric of Melnibone. They were old eyes in a fine featured, youthful face. Crimson eyes which stared into eternity. Yaris shuddered, turned his back on Elric, preferring to look into the bright glare of the fire.