The Weird of the White Wolf

by Michael Moorcock

  “Let us hope that your memory is not too faulty, now. These Marshes are infamous the world over, but by all accounts, only natural hazards wait for us.” He grimaced and put his fingers around the hilt of his runesword. “Best go first, Shaarilla, but stay close. Lead the way.”

  She nodded, dumbly, and turned her horse's head towards the north, galloping along the bank until she came to a place where a great, tapering rock loomed. Here, a grassy path, four feet or so across, led out into the misty marsh. They could only see a little distance ahead, because of the clinging mist, but it seemed that the trail remained firm for some way. Shaarilla walked her horse on to the path and jolted forward at a slow trot, Elric following imme­diately behind her.

  Through the swirling, heavy mist which shone whitely, the horses moved hesitantly and their riders had to keep them on short, tight rein. The mist padded the marsh with silence and the gleaming, watery fens around them stank with foul putres­cence. No animal scurried, no bird shrieked above them. Everywhere was a haunting, fear-laden silence which made both horses and riders uneasy.

  With panic in their throats, Elric and Shaarilla rode on, deeper and deeper into the unnatural Marshes of the Mist, their eyes wary and even their nostrils quivering for scent of danger in the stinking morass.

  Hours later, when the sun was long past its zenith, Shaarilla's horse reared, screaming and whinnying. She shouted for Elric, her exquisite features twisted in fear as she stared into the mist. He spurred his own bucking horse forwards and joined her.

  Something moved, slowly, menacingly in the cling­ing whiteness. Elric's right hand whipped over to his left side and grasped the hilt of Stormbringer.

  The blade shrieked out of its scabbard, a black fire gleaming along its length and alien power flow­ing from it into Elric's arm and through his body. A weird, unholy light leapt into Elric's crimson eyes and his mouth was wrenched into a hideous grin as he forced the frightened horse further into the skulking mist.

  “Arioch, Lord of the Seven Darks, be with me now!” Elric yelled as he made out the shifting shape ahead of him. It was white, like the mist, yet some­how darker. It stretched high above Elric's head. It was nearly eight feet tall and almost as broad. But it was still only an outline, seeming to have no face or limbs—only movement: darting, malevolent move­ment! But Arioch, his patron god, chose not to hear.

  Elric could feel his horse's great heart beating be­tween his legs as the beast plunged forward under its rider's iron control. Shaarilla was screaming some­thing behind him, but he could not hear the words. Elric hacked at the white shape, but his sword met only mist and it howled angrily. The fear-crazed horse would go no further and Elric was forced to dismount.

  “Keep hold of the steed,” he shouted behind him to Shaarilla and moved on light feet towards the dart­ing shape which hovered ahead of him, blocking his path.

  Now he could make out some of its saliencies. Two eyes, the colour of thin, yellow wine, were set high in the thing's body, though it had no separate head. A mouthing, obscene slit, filled with fangs, lay just beneath the eyes. It had no nose or ears that El­ric could see. Four appendages sprang from its upper parts and its lower body slithered along the ground, unsupported by any limbs. Elric's eyes ached as he looked at it. It was incredibly disgusting to behold and its amorphous body gave off a stench of death and decay. Fighting down his fear, the albino inched forward warily, his sword held high to parry any thrust the thing might make with its arms. Elric recognised it from a description in one of his gri­moires. It was a Mist Giant—possibly the only Mist Giant, Bellbane. Even the wisest wizards were uncer­tain how many existed—one or many. It was a ghoul of the swamp-lands which fed off the souls and the blood of men and beasts. But the Marshes of this Mist were far to the east of Bellbane's reputed haunts.

  Elric ceased to wonder why so few animals in­habited that stretch of the swamp. Overhead the sky was beginning to darken.

  Stormbringer throbbed in Elric's grasp as he called the names of the ancient Demon-Gods of his people. The nauseous ghoul obviously recognised the names. For an instant, it wavered backwards. El­ric made his legs move towards the thing. Now he saw that the ghoul was not white at all. But it had no colour to it that Elric could recognise. There was a suggestion of orangeness dashed with sickening greenish yellow, but he did not see the colours with his eyes—he only sensed the alien, unholy tinctures.

  Then Elric rushed towards the thing, shouting the names which now had no meaning to his surface con­sciousness. “Balaan—Marthim! Aesma! Alastor! Sae­bos! Verdelet! Nizilfkm! Haborym! Haborym of the Fires Which Destroy!” His whole mind was torn in two. Part of him wanted to run, to hide, but he had no control over the power which now gripped him and pushed him to meet the horror. His sword blade hacked and slashed at the shape. It was like trying to cut through water—sentient, pul­sating water. But Stormbringer had effect. The whole shape of the ghoul quivered as if in dreadful pain. Elric felt himself plucked into the air and his vision went. He could see nothing—do nothing but hack and cut at the thing which now held him.

  Sweat poured from him as, blindly, he fought on.

  Pain which was hardly physical—a deeper, horrify­ing pain, filled his being as he howled now in agony and struck continually at the yielding bulk which embraced him and was pulling him slowly towards its gaping maw. He struggled and writhed in the ob­scene grasp of the thing. With powerful arms, it was holding him, almost lasciviously, drawing him closer as a rough lover would draw a girl. Even the mighty power intrinsic in the runesword did not seem enough to kill the monster. Though its efforts were somewhat weaker than earlier, it still drew Elric nearer to the gnashing, slavering mouth-slit.

  Elric cried the names again, while Stormbringer danced and sang an evil song in his right hand. In agony, Elric writhed, praying, begging and promis­ing, but still he was drawn inch by inch towards the grinning maw.

  Savagely, grimly, he fought and again he screamed for Arioch. A mind touched his—sardonic, powerful, evil—and he knew Arioch responded at last! Almost imperceptibly, the Mist Giant weakened. Elric pressed his advantage and the knowledge that the ghoul was losing its strength gave him more power. Blindly, agony piercing every nerve of his body, he struck and struck.

  Then, quite suddenly, he was falling.

  He seemed to fall for hours, slowly, weightlessly until he landed upon a surface which yielded beneath him. He began to sink.

  Far off, beyond time and space, he heard a distant voice calling to him. He did not want to hear it; he was content to lie where he was as the cold, comfort­ing stuff in which he lay dragged him slowly into it­self.

  Then some sixth sense made him realise that it was Shaarilla's voice calling him and he forced him­self to make sense out of her words.

  “Elric—the marsh! You're in the marsh. Don't move!”

  He smiled to himself. Why should he move? Down he was sinking, slowly, calmly—down into the welcoming marsh . . . Had there been another time like this; another marsh?

  With a mental jolt, full awareness of the situation came back to him and he jerked his eyes open. Above him was mist. To one side a pool of unnam­able colouring was slowly evaporating, giving off a foul odour. On the other side he could just make out a human form, gesticulating wildly. Beyond the human form were the barely discernible shapes of two horses. Shaarilla was there. Beneath him—

  Beneath him was the marsh.

  Thick, stinking slime was sucking him downwards as he lay spread-eagled upon it, half-submerged al­ready. Stormbringer was still in his right hand. He could just see it if he turned his head. Carefully, he tried to lift the top half of his body from the sucking morass. He succeeded, only to feel his legs sink deeper. Sitting upright, he shouted to the girl.

  “Shaarilla! Quickly—a rope!”

  “There is no rope, Elric!” She was ripping off her top garment, frantically tearing it into strips.

  Still Elric sank, his feet finding no purchase beneath them.<
br />
  Shaarilla hastily knotted the strips of cloth. She flung the makeshift rope inexpertly towards the sink­ing albino. It fell short. Fumbling in her haste, she threw it again. This time his groping left hand found it. The girl began to haul on the fabric. Elric felt himself rise a little and then stop.

  “It's no good, Elric—I haven't the strength.”

  Cursing her, Elric shouted: “The horse—tie it to the horse!”

  She ran towards one of the horses and looped the cloth around the pommel of the saddle. Then she tugged at the beast's reins and began to walk it away.

  Swiftly, Elric was dragged from the sucking bog and, still gripping Stormbringer was pulled to the inadequate safety of the strip of turf.

  Gasping, he tried to stand, but found his legs in­credibly weak beneath him. He rose, staggered, and fell. Shaarilla knelt down beside him.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Elric smiled in spite of his weakness. “I don't think so.”

  “It was dreadful. I couldn't see properly what was happening. You seemed to disappear and then—then you screamed that—that name!” She was trembling, her face pale and taut.

  “What name?” Elric was genuinely puzzled. “What name did I scream?”

  She shook her head. “It doesn't matter—but what­ever it was—it saved you. You reappeared soon after­wards and fell into the marsh ....”

  Stormbringer's power was still flowing into the al­bino. He already felt stronger.

  With an effort, he got up and stumbled unsteadily towards his horse.

  “I'm sure that the Mist Giant does not usually haunt this marsh—it was sent here. By what—or whom—I don't know, but we must get to firmer ground while we can.”

  Shaarilla said: “Which way—back or forward?”

  Elric frowned. “Why, forward, of course. Why do you ask?”

  She swallowed and shook her head. “Let's hurry, then,” she said.

  They mounted their horses and rode with little caution until the marsh and its cloak of mist was be­hind them.

  Now the journey took on a new urgency as Elric realised that some force was attempting to put obsta­cles in their way. They rested little and savagely rode their powerful horses to a virtual standstill.

  On the fifth day they were riding through barren, rocky country and a light rain was falling.

  The hard ground was slippery so that they were forced to ride more slowly, huddled over the sodden necks of their horses, muffled in cloaks which only inadequately kept out the drizzling rain. They had ridden in silence for some time before they heard a ghastly cackling baying ahead of them and the rattle of hooves.

  Elric motioned towards a large rock looming to their right. “Shelter there,” he said. “Something comes towards us—possibly more enemies. With luck, they'll pass us.” Shaarilla mutely obeyed him and to­gether they waited as the hideous baying grew nearer.

  “One rider—several other beasts,” Elric said, listen­ing intently. “The beasts either follow or pursue the rider.”

  Then they were in sight—racing through the rain. A man frantically spurring an equally frightened horse—and behind him, the distance decreasing, a pack of what at first appeared to be dogs. But these were not dogs—they were half-dog and half-bird, with the lean, shaggy bodies and legs of dogs but possessing birdlike talons in place of paws and sav­agely curved beaks which snapped where muzzles should have been.

  “The hunting dogs of the Dharzi!” gasped Shaa­rilla. “I thought that they, like their masters, were long extinct!”

  “I, also,” Elric said. “What are they doing in these parts? There was never contact between the Dharzi and the dwellers of this Land.”

  “Brought here—by something,” Shaarilla whispered. “Those devil-dogs will scent us to be sure.”

  Elric reached for his runesword. “Then we can lose nothing by aiding their quarry,” he said, urging his mount forward. “Wait here, Shaarilla.”

  By this time, the devil-pack and the man they pur­sued were rushing past the sheltering rock, speeding down a narrow defile. Elric spurred his horse down the slope.

  “Ho there!” he shouted to the frantic rider. “Turn and stand, my friend—I'm here to aid you!”

  His moaning runesword lifted high, Elric thun­dered towards the snapping, howling devil-dogs and his horse's hooves struck one with an impact which broke the unnatural beast's spine. There were some five or six of the weird dogs left. The rider turned his horse and drew a long sabre from a scabbard at his waist. He was a small man, with a broad ugly mouth. He grinned in relief.

  “A lucky chance, this meeting, good master!”

  This was all he had time to remark before two of the dogs were leaping at him and he was forced to give his whole attention to defending himself from their slashing talons and snapping beaks.

  The other three dogs concentrated their vicious at­tention upon Elric. One leapt high, its beak aimed at Elric's throat. He felt foul breath on his face and hastily brought Stormbringer round in an arc which chopped the dog in two. Filthy blood spattered Elric and his horse and the scent of it seemed to increase the fury of the other dogs' attack. But the blood made the dancing black runesword sing an almost ec­static tune and Elric felt it writhe in his grasp and stab at another of the hideous dogs. The point caught the beast just below its breastbone as it reared up at the albino. It screamed in terrible ag­ony and turned its beak to seize the blade. As the beak connected with the lambent black metal of the sword, a foul stench, akin to the smell of burning, struck Elric's nostrils and the beast's scream broke off sharply.

  Engaged with the remaining devil-dog, Elric caught a fleeting glimpse of the charred corpse. His horse was rearing high, lashing at the last alien ani­mal with flailing hooves. The dog avoided the horse's attack and came at Elric's unguarded left side. The albino swung in the saddle and brought his sword hurtling down to slice into the dog's skull and spill brains and blood on the wetly gleaming ground. Still somehow alive, the dog snapped feebly at Elric, but the Melnibonean ignored its futile at­tack and turned his attention to the little man who had dispensed with one of his adversaries, but was having difficulty with the second. The dog had grasped the sabre with its beak, gripping the sword near the hilt.

  Talons raked towards the little man's throat as he strove to shake the dog's grip. Elric charged forward, his runesword aimed like a lance to where the devil-dog dangled in mid-air, its talons slashing, trying to reach the flesh of its former quarry. Stormbringer caught the beast in its lower abdomen and ripped upwards, slitting the thing's underparts from crutch to throat. It released its hold on the small man's sabre and fell writhing to the ground. Elric's horse trampled it into the rocky ground. Breathing heav­ily, the albino sheathed Stormbringer and warily re­garded the man he had saved. He disliked unnecessary contact with anyone and did not wish to be embar­rassed by a display of emotion on the little man's part.

  He was not disappointed, for the wide, ugly mouth split into a cheerful grin and the man bowed in the saddle as he returned his own curved blade to its scabbard.

  “Thanks, good sir,” he said lightly. “Without your help, the battle might have lasted longer. You de­prived me of good sport, but you meant well. Moonglum is my name.”

  “Elric of Melnibone, I,” replied the albino, but saw no reaction on the little man's face. This was strange, for the name of Elric was now infamous throughout most of the world. The story of his treachery and the slaying of his cousin Cymoril had been told and elaborated upon in taverns through­out the Young Kingdoms. Much as he hated it, he was used to receiving some indication of recognition from those he met. His albinoism was enough to mark him.

  Intrigued by Moonglum's ignorance, and feeling strangely drawn towards the cocky little rider, Elric studied him in an effort to discover from what land he came. Moonglum wore no armour and his clothes were of faded blue material, travel-stained and worn. A stout leather belt carried the sabre, a dirk and a woollen purse. Upon his feet, Moon
glum wore ankle-length boots of cracked leather. His horse-fur­niture was much used but of obviously good quality. The man himself, seated high in the saddle, was barely more than five feet tall, with legs too long, in proportion, to the rest of his slight body. His nose was short and uptilted, beneath grey-green eyes, large and innocent-seeming. A mop of vivid red hair fell over his forehead and down his neck, unre­strained. He sat his horse comfortably, still grinning but looking now behind Elric to where Shaarilla rode to join them.

  Moonglum bowed elaborately as the girl pulled her horse to a halt.

  Elric said coldly, “The Lady Shaarilla—Master Moonglum of—?”

  “Of Elwher,” Moonglum supplied, “The mercantile capital of the East—the finest city in the world.”

  Elric recognised the name. “So you are from El­wher, Master Moonglum. I have heard of the place. A new city, is it not? Some few centuries old. You have ridden far.”

  “Indeed I have, sir. Without knowledge of the lan­guage used in these parts, the journey would have been harder, but luckily the slave who inspired me with tales of his homeland taught me the speech thoroughly.”

  “But why do you travel these parts—have you not heard the legends?” Shaarilla spoke incredulously.

  “Those very legends were what brought me hence—and I'd begun to discount them, until those unpleasant pups set upon me. For what reason they decided to give chase, I will not know, for I gave them no cause to take a dislike to me. This is, indeed, a barbarous land.”

  Elric was uncomfortable. Light talk of the kind which Moonglum seemed to enjoy was contrary to his own brooding nature. But in spite of this, he found that he was liking the man more and more.

  It was Moonglum who suggested that they travel together for a while. Shaarilla objected, giving Elric a warning glance, but he ignored it.

  “Very well then, friend Moonglum, since three are stronger than two, we'd appreciate your company. We ride towards the mountains.” Elric, himself, was feeling in a more cheerful mood.