On the other hand, the Ghost Worlds might be nothing to do with me. They might belong to a universe which had never been inhabited by men (though the Eldren researches did not suggest this).
“Is there nothing else we can discover?” I asked Prince Arjavh.
“I am continuing my investigations. It is all I can do.”
Gloomily, I left his laboratory and returned to the chambers where Ermizhad awaited me. We had planned to ride out over the familiar fields surrounding Loos Ptokai, but now I told her that I did not feel like riding.
Noting my mood, she said: “Are you remembering what passed a century ago, Erekosë?”
I shook my head. Then I told her what Arjavh had said.
She, too, became thoughtful. “It was probably a coincidence,” she said. But there was little conviction in her tone. There was a trace of fear in her eyes when she looked up at me.
I took her in my arms.
“I should die, I think, if you were taken from me, Erekosë,” she said.
My lips were dry, my throat tight. “If I were taken,” I told her, “I would spend eternity in finding you again. And I would find you again, Ermizhad.”
When she spoke next, it was almost in astonishment. “Is your love for me that strong, Erekosë?”
“It is stronger, Ermizhad.”
She drew away from me, holding my hands in hers. Those hands, hers and mine, were trembling. She tried to smile, to banish the premonitions filling her, but she could not.
“Why, then,” she said, “there is nothing at all to fear!”
But that night, as I slept beside her, the dreams which I had experienced as John Daker, which had plagued me in my first year on this new world, began to creep back into the caverns of my mind.
* * *
First there were no images. Only names. A long list of names chanted in a booming voice that seemed to have a trace of mockery in it.
Corum Jhaelen Irsei. Konrad Arflane. Von Bek. Urlik Skarsol. Aubec of Kaneloon. Shaleen. Artos. Alerik. Erekosë…
I tried to stop the voice there. I tried to shout, to say that I was Erekosë—only Erekosë. But I could not speak.
The roll continued:
Ryan. Hawkmoon. Powys. Cornell. Brian. Umpata. Sojan. Klan. Clovis Marca. Pournachas. Oshbek-Uy. Ulysses. Ilanth. Renark…
My own voice came now:
“NO! I AM ONLY EREKOSË.”
“Champion Eternal. Fate’s Soldier.”
“NO!”
Elric. Mejink-La-Kos. Cornelius.
“NO! NO! I AM WEARY. I CAN WAR NO MORE!”
The sword. The armour. The battle banners. Fire. Death. Ruin.
“NO!”
* * *
“Erekosë!”
“YES! YES!”
I was screaming. I was sweating. I was sitting upright in the bed. And it was Ermizhad’s voice that was calling my name now. Panting, I fell back onto the pillows, into her arms.
“The dreams have returned.”
I lay my head upon her breast and I wept.
“This means nothing,” she said. “It was only a nightmare. You fear that you will be recalled and your own mind gives substance to that fear. That is all.”
“Is it, Ermizhad?”
She stroked my head.
I looked up and saw her face through the darkness. It was strained. There were tears in her blue-flecked eyes.
“Is it?”
“Yes, my love. Yes.”
But I knew that the same sense of doom that lay upon my heart now lay upon hers.
We slept no more that night.
3
OF A VISITATION
NEXT MORNING I went straight to Prince Arjavh’s laboratory and told him of the voice that had come to me in my sleep.
It was plain that he was distressed and plain also that he felt impotent to help me.
“If the voice was a mere nightmare—and I agree that it might be—then I could give you a potion to ensure dreamless sleep,” he said.
“And if not?”
“There is no way I can protect you.”
“Then the voice could be calling from the Ghost Worlds?”
“Even that is not certain. It could be that the information I gave you yesterday merely triggered some empathetic impulse in your own brain—which allowed this ‘voice’ to make contact with you again. Perhaps the tranquility you have known here made it impossible for you to be reached. Now that your brain is again in torment, then whatever it is that seeks to speak to you might now be able to do so.”
“These suppositions do not ease my mind,” I said bitterly.
“I know they do not, Erekosë. Would that you had never come to my laboratory, and learned of the Ghost Worlds. I should have kept this from you.”
“It would have made no difference, Arjavh.”
“Who knows?”
I stretched out my hand. “Give me the potion of which you spoke. At least we’ll be able to put the theory to the test—that my own brain conjures this mocking voice.”
He went to a chest of glowing crystal and opened the lid, taking a small leather bag from it.
“Pour this powder into a goblet of wine tonight and drink all down.”
“Thank you,” I said as I took the bag.
He paused before he spoke again. “Erekosë, if you are called from us, we shall waste no time in trying to find you. You are loved by all the Eldren and we would not lose you. If, somewhere in those unimaginable regions of Time and Space, you can be found—we shall find you.”
I was a little comforted by this assurance. Yet the speech was too much like a leave-taking for me to like it greatly. It was as if Arjavh had already accepted that I would be going.
Ermizhad and I spent the rest of that day walking hand in hand among the bowers of the palace garden. We spoke little, but gripped each other tightly and hardly dared look into each other’s eyes for fear of the grief which would be mirrored there.
From hidden galleries came the intricate melodies of the great Eldren composers, played by musicians placed there by Prince Arjavh. The music was sweet, monumental, harmonious. To some degree it eased the dread that filled my brain.
A golden sun, huge and warm, hung in a pale blue sky. It shone its rays on delicately scented flowers in a multitude of hues, on vines and trees, on the white walls of the gardens.
We climbed the walls and looked out over the gentle hills and plains of the southern continent. A herd of deer was grazing. Birds sailed lazily in the sky.
I could not leave all this beauty to return to the noise and the filth of the world I had left, to the sad existence of John Daker.
Evening came and the air was filled with birdsong and the heavier perfume of the flowers. Slowly we walked back to the palace. Tightly we held each other’s hands.
Like a condemned man, I mounted the steps that led to our chambers. Disrobing myself, I wondered if I should ever wear such clothes again. Lying down upon the bed while Ermizhad prepared the sleeping draught, I prayed that I should not rise next morning in the apartment in the city where John Daker had lived.
I stared up at the fluted ceiling of the chamber, looked around at the bright wall hangings, the vases of flowers, the finely wrought furnishings, and I attempted to fix all this in my mind, just as I had already fixed Ermizhad’s face.
She brought me the drink. I looked deep into her tear-filled eyes and drank.
It was a parting. A parting we dare not admit.
* * *
Almost immediately I sank into a heavy slumber and it seemed to me at that moment that perhaps Ermizhad and Arjavh had been right and that the voice was simply a manifestation of my unease.
I do not know at what hour I was disturbed in that deep, drugged sleep. I was barely conscious. My brain seemed swaddled in fold upon fold of dark velvet, but muffled, and as if from far off, I faintly heard the voice again.
I could make out no words this time and I believe I smiled to myself, feeling relief that the drug
was guarding me from that which sought to call me away. The voice became more urgent, but I could ignore it. I stirred and reached out for Ermizhad, throwing one arm across her slumbering body.
Still the voice called. Still I ignored it. Now I felt that if I could last this night, the voice would cease its attempt to recall me. I would know that I could not be drawn away so easily from the world where I had found love and tranquility.
The voice faded and I slept on, with Ermizhad in my arms, with hope in my heart.
The voice returned some time later, but still I could ignore it.
Then the voice apparently ceased altogether and I sank again into my heavy sleep.
I think it must have been an hour or two before dawn that I heard a noise not within my head but in the room. Thinking that Ermizhad must have arisen, I opened my eyes. It was dark. I saw nothing. But Ermizhad was beside me. Then I heard the noise again. It was like the slap of a scabbarded sword against an armoured leg. I sat upright. My eyes were clogged with sleep, my head felt muzzy under the effects of the drug. I peered drowsily about the room.
And then I saw the figure who stood there.
“Who are you?” I asked, rather querulously. Maybe it was some servant? In Loos Ptokai there were no thieves, no threats of assassination.
The figure did not answer. It seemed to be staring at me. Gradually I distinguished more details and then I knew that this was no Eldren.
The figure had a barbaric appearance, though its apparel was rich and finely made. It wore a huge, grotesque helmet which completely framed a heavily bearded face. On its broad chest was a metal breastplate, as intricately ornamented as the helm. Over this was a thick, sleeveless coat of what appeared to be sheepskin. On his legs were breeches of lacquered hide, black and with sinuous designs picked out in gold and silver. Greaves on his legs matched the breastplate and his feet were encased in boots of the same shaggy, white pelt as his long coat. On his hip was a sword.
The figure did not move, but continued to regard me from the shadow cast by the peak of the grotesque helmet. The eyes were visible now. They burned. They were urgent.
This was no human of this world, no follower of King Rigenos who had somehow escaped the vengeance I had brought. A faint recollection came and went. But the garb was not that of any period of history I could remember from my life as John Daker.
Was this a visitor from the Ghost Worlds?
If so, his appearance was very different from that of the other Ghost Worlds dwellers who had once helped Ermizhad when she was a prisoner of King Rigenos.
I repeated my question.
“Who are you?”
The figure tried to speak but plainly could not.
He raised both hands to his head. He removed his helmet. He brushed back black, long hair from his face. He moved nearer to the window.
The face was familiar.
It was my own.
* * *
I shrank back in the bed. Never before had I felt such complete terror. I do not think I have felt it since.
“What do you want?” I screamed. “What do you want?”
In some other part of my churning brain I seem to remember wondering why Ermizhad did not awake but continued to sleep peacefully at my side.
The figure’s mouth moved as if he was speaking, but I heard no words.
Was this a nightmare induced by the drug? If so, I think I should have preferred the voice.
“Get out of here! Begone!”
The visitation made several gestures which I could not interpret. Again its mouth moved, but no words reached me.
Screaming, I leapt from the bed and rushed at the figure which bore my face. But it moved away, a puzzled expression on its features.
There were no swords now in the Eldren palace, or I would have found one and used it against the figure. I think I had some mindless scheme to grasp his sword and use it against him.
“Begone! Begone!”
Then I tripped, fell scrabbling on the flagstones of the bedchamber, shaking still with terror, screaming at the apparition which continued to look down at me. I rose again, tottered and was falling, falling, falling…
And as I fell, the voice filled my ears once again. It was full of triumphant joy.
“URLIK,” it cried. “URLIK SKARSOL! URLIK! URLIK! ICE-HERO, COME TO US!”
“I WILL NOT!”
But now I did not deny that the name was mine. I tried to refuse the one or ones who called it. As I whirled and tumbled through the corridors of eternity, I sought to fling myself back—back to Ermizhad and the world of the Eldren.
“URLIK SKARSOL! COUNT OF THE WHITE WASTES! LORD OF THE FROZEN KEEP! PRINCE OF THE SOUTHERN ICE! MASTER OF THE COLD SWORD! HE WILL COME IN FURS AND METAL, HIS CHARIOT DRAWN BY BEARS, HIS BLACK BEARD BRISTLING, TO CLAIM HIS BLADE, TO AID HIS FOLK!”
“I WILL GIVE YOU NO AID! I DESIRE NO BLADE! LET ME SLEEP! I BEG YOU—LET ME SLEEP!”
“AWAKE, URLIK SKARSOL. THE PROPHECY DEMANDS IT!”
Now fragments of a vision came to me. I saw cities carved from cliffs of volcanic rock—obsidian and moody, built on the shores of sluggish seas, beneath dark, livid skies. I saw a sea that was like grey marble veined with black and I realised it was a sea on which floated great ice-floes.
The vision filled me with grief—not because it was strange and unfamiliar, but because it was familiar.
I knew for certain then that, weary with war, I had been called to fight yet another fight…
BOOK TWO
THE CHAMPION’S ROAD
The Warriors are in Silver,
The Citizens in Silk.
In Brazen Car the Champion rides,
A Hero clad in Grief.
— The Chronicle of the Black Sword
1
THE ICE WASTES
I WAS STILL travelling, but it was no longer as if I had been tugged down into a maelstrom. I was moving slowly forward, though I was not moving my legs.
My vision cleared. The scene before me was concrete enough, though scarcely reassuring. I clung to a wisp of hope that I was still dreaming, but everything in me told me that this was not so. Just as John Daker had been called against his will to the world of the Eldren, so had Erekosë been called to this world.
And I knew my name. It had been repeated often enough. But I knew it as if it had always been mine. I was Urlik Skarsol of the South Ice.
The scene before me confirmed it, for I stared across a world of ice. It came to me that I had seen other ice plains in other incarnations, but this one I recognised for what it was. I was travelling over a dying planet. And in the sky above me was a small, dim red sun—a dying sun. That the world was Earth, I was certain, but it was an Earth at the end of its cycle. John Daker would have seen it as being in his distant future, but I had long since ceased to make easy definitions of “past” and “future”. If Time were my enemy, then she was an enemy without face or form; an enemy I could not see; an enemy I could not fight.
I was travelling in a chariot which seemed fashioned of silver and bronze, its heavy decoration reminiscent of the decoration I had seen on the armour of my voiceless visitor. Its four great iron-shod wheels had been bolted to skis apparently made of polished ebony. In the shafts at the front were the four creatures which dragged the chariot over the ice. The creatures were larger, longer-legged variations of the polar bears which had existed on John Daker’s world. They loped at a regular and surprisingly rapid speed. I stood upright in the chariot, holding their reins. Before me was a chest designed to fit the space. It seemed made of some hard wood overlaid with silver, its corners strengthened with strips of iron. It had a great iron lock and handle at the centre of the lid and the whole chest was decorated in black, brown and blue enamelwork depicting dragons, warriors, trees and flowers, all flowing and intertwining. There were strange, flowing runes picked out around the lock and I was surprised that I could read them easily: This is the chest of Count Urlik Skarsol, Lord of the Frozen Keep. On the right o
f the chest three heavy rings had been soldered to the side of the chariot and through the rings was placed the silver-and brass-shod haft of a lance which must have been at least seven feet long, ending in a huge, cruelly barbed head of gleaming iron. On the other side of the chest was a weapon whose haft was the twin to the spear’s, but whose head was that of a great, broad-bladed axe, as beautifully decorated as the trunk, with delicately engraved designs. I felt at my belt. There was no sword there, only a pouch and, on my right hip, a key. I unhooked the key from my belt and looked at it curiously. I bent and inserted it with some difficulty (for the chariot had a tendency to lurch on the rough ice) and opened the trunk, expecting to find a sword there.
But there was no sword, only provisions, spare clothing and the like—the things a man would take with him if he were making a long journey.
I smiled despairingly. I had made a very long journey. I closed the chest and locked it, replacing the key on my belt.
And then I noticed what I was wearing. I had a heavily decorated iron breastplate, a huge coat of thick, coarse wool, a leather jerkin, breeches of lacquered leather, greaves of the same design as the breastplate, boots apparently of the same sheepskin-like stuff as the coat. I reached up to my head and touched metal. I ran my fingers over the serpentine designs which had been raised on the helmet.
With a growing sense of terror I moved my hands to my face. Its contours were familiar enough, but there was now a thick moustache on my upper lip, a great crop of black whiskers on my chin.
I had seen a hand-mirror in the chest. I seized the key, unlocked the bolt, flung back the lid, rummaged until I found the mirror which was of highly polished silver and not glass. I hesitated for a moment and then forced my hand to raise the mirror to my face.
I saw the face and helmet of my visitor—of the apparition which had come to me in the night.
I was now that apparition.
* * *
With a moan, with a sense of foreboding in my heart which I was unable to vocalise, I dropped the mirror back into the chest and slammed the lid shut. My hand went out to grip the haft of the tall lance and I clung to it, thought I must snap it with the force I applied.
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