Phoenix in Obsidian

by Michael Moorcock

  Once again the beast opened its bovine snout and sent up a huge bellowing. Then the noise dropped as it moaned to itself.

  Would it decide to enter the sea again? To heal its wounds in the salt?

  I waited tensely for it to decide. But then there was another rattle of harpoons against rock and antlers and the monster screamed and backed into the cave.

  Again I was forced to dodge its tail.

  I prayed that the harpooners would return—at least long enough to give me the chance to get past the stag to a safer position.

  The stag snorted, dragging its whalelike body first one way and then another across the floor of the cave, as it, too, expected the arrival of the warriors.

  But nothing happened.

  Did they think me dead?

  Were they abandoning the chase?

  I listened for shouts, but heard nothing.

  Another bellow. Another movement of the unnatural body.

  I began to edge along the wall of the cave, moving as softly as possible. I was halfway to the cave-mouth when my foot struck a yielding object. It was the corpse of one of the harpooners. I lifted my leg to step over the thing but my foot then caught on a piece of loose armour and sent it clattering across the obsidian floor.

  The beast snorted and turned its baleful eyes to regard me.

  I stood stock-still, hoping it would not realise that I lived.

  It shook its horns again and dragged its body round. My mouth and throat were dry.

  It raised its muzzle and bellowed, its lips curling back from its huge teeth. Blood now encrusted those lips and it was plainly half blind in one eye.

  Then, horrifyingly, it raised its body up and its strange flippers, with their clublike appendages, thrashed at the air, fell back to the ground, shook the floor of the cavern.

  The antlers were lowered.

  The stag charged.

  I saw the huge horns bearing down on me and I had seen how they could impale a man. I flung my body flat against the wall and to one side. The antlers crashed within inches of my right shoulder and the stag’s massive forehead—as wide as my body was long—was a foot from my face.

  The idea I had had earlier came back to me. I believed there was only one chance of defeating the monster.

  I jumped.

  I leapt towards that forehead, grabbed the oily pelt, literally ran up its snout and then wrapped my legs and one arm around the branches of the left antler.

  The beast was puzzled. I do not think it realised I was there.

  I raised the axe.

  The stag looked about the cavern for me, still snorting.

  I brought the axe down.

  It bit deep into its skull. It roared and screamed and shook its head rapidly from side to side. But I had expected this and I clung to the branches as tenaciously as was possible, striking again at the exact place I had struck before.

  I split the bone. A little blood came. But all this served to do was to make the stag’s movements more frantic. Its body sliding behind it, it waddled on its flippers, moving rapidly about the cave, scraping its antlers on roof and walls, trying to dislodge me.

  But I hung on.

  And I struck again.

  This time pieces of bone flew into the air and a stream of blood poured from the skull.

  Another fearsome bellow which became a scream of rage and terror.

  Another blow.

  The axe haft snapped with the force of my striking and I was left holding nothing but a piece of broken pole.

  But the blade had buried itself in the brain.

  The bulk of the stag crashed to the floor as the strength went out of the flippers.

  It moaned pathetically. It tried to rise.

  With a spluttering noise the last mixture of breath and blood left its body.

  The head fell to one side and I fell with it, leaping free just as the antlers reached the floor.

  The sea-stag was dead. I had killed it single-handed.

  I tried to tug the broken haft of the axe out of the beast’s head, but it was buried too deep. I left my axe there and stumbled, half dazed, from the mouth of the cave.

  “It is over,” I said. “Your quarry is vanquished.”

  I felt no pride in my accomplishment. I looked towards the ship.

  But no ship was there.

  Bishop Belphig’s sea-chariot had rolled away, presumably back to Rowernarc—doubtless because they thought me dead.

  “Belphig!” I shouted, hoping my voice would carry over the waters where my eye could not see. “Morgeg! I am alive! I have killed the stag!”

  But there was no reply.

  I looked at the low, brown clouds. At the murky, moody ocean.

  I had been abandoned in the middle of a nightmare sea through which, as Belphig had said, no ships passed. I was alone save for the corpses of the harpooners, the carcass of the sea-stag.

  Panic seized me.

  “BELPHIG! COME BACK!”

  A slight echo. Nothing more.

  “I AM ALIVE!”

  And the echo seemed stronger this time and it seemed sardonic.

  I could not stay alive for long on that bleak sliver of rock which was less than fifty yards across. I stumbled up the sides, climbing as high as I could. But what point was there in that when the twilight sea had no horizon that was not obscured on all sides by the brown cloud banks?

  I sat down on a small ledge, the only reasonably flat surface on the entire rock.

  I was trembling. I was afraid.

  The air seemed to grow colder and I drew my coat about me but it would not keep out the chill that grasped my bones, my liver, my heart.

  An Immortal I might be. A phoenix forever reborn. A wanderer in eternity.

  But if I was to die here, that dying would seem to take an eternity. If I were a phoenix, then I was a phoenix trapped in obsidian as a fly is trapped in amber.

  At that thought all my courage went out of me and I contemplated my fate with nothing but despair.

  BOOK THREE

  VISIONS AND REVELATIONS

  Destiny’s Champion,

  Fate’s Fool.

  Eternity’s Soldier,

  Time’s Tool.

  — The Chronicle of the Black Sword

  1

  THE LAUGHING DWARF

  THE FIGHT WITH the sea-stag had so exhausted me that, after a while, I fell asleep with my back against the rock and my legs stretched before me on the ledge.

  When I awoke it was with some of my courage returned, though I could see no easy solution to my plight.

  From the mouth of the cave below, the stench had increased as the stag’s flesh began to rot. There was also an unpleasant slithering sound. Peering over the edge I saw that small snakelike creatures were wriggling into the cave in their thousands. Doubtless these were the carrion eaters of the sea. Hundreds of black bodies were tangled together as they moved up the rock to where the sea-stag lay.

  Any thought I might have entertained of using the stag’s carcass as meat to sustain me disappeared completely. I hoped the disgusting creatures would finish their meal quickly and leave. At least there were harpoons in the cave. As soon as I could reach them I would gather them up. They would be useful for defence against any other monster that might lurk in these waters and there might also be fish of some kind in the shallows, though I rather doubted it.

  It occurred to me that Bishop Belphig might have planned to maroon me all along, simply because my questions were embarrassing him.

  Had he planned the hunt with that in mind? If so, by going with the men into the sea-stag’s lair, I had played completely into his hands.

  For want of anything else to do, I made a circuit of the island. It did not take long. My first impression had been the right one. Nothing grew here. There was no drinkable water. The people of Rowernarc got their water from melting ice, but there was no ice on that jagged spur of obsidian.

  The writhing carrion creatures were still entering the cavern w
hich was now filled with a slithering and hissing as they fought over the carcass.

  Momentarily a rent appeared in the bank of clouds overhead and the faint rays of the dying sun were reflected on the black waters.

  I returned to my ledge. There was nothing to do until the carrion eaters had finished their meal.

  Hope of finding Ermizhad had waned, for it was unlikely I could ever return to Rowernarc. And if I died I might find myself in an incarnation worse than this one. I might not even remember Ermizhad, just as I could now not remember why the Black Sword was such an important factor in my destiny.

  I remembered Ermizhad’s lovely face. I recalled the beauty of the planet to which I had brought tranquility at the cost of genocide.

  I began to doze again and soon I was no longer alone, for the familiar visions and voices returned. I fought to drive them from my brain, keeping my eyes open and staring into the gloom. But soon the visions imposed themselves against the clouds and the sea, the words seemed to come from all sides.

  “Leave me in peace,” I begged. “Let me die in peace!”

  The slithering and hissing from the cavern of death mingled with the whispers and the echoes of the ghostly voices.

  “Leave me alone!”

  I was like a child, frightened by the things it imagines in the dark. My voice was the impotent pleading of a child.

  “Please leave me alone!”

  I heard laughter. It was low, sardonic laughter and it seemed to come from above. I looked up.

  Once again a dream seemed to have assumed physical reality, for I saw the figure quite clearly. It was climbing down the rock towards me.

  It was a dwarf with bandy legs and a light beard. Its face was young and its eyes bright with humour.

  “Greetings,” it said.

  “Greetings,” I replied. “Now vanish, I beg you.”

  “But I have come to pass the time with you.”

  “You are a creature of my imagination.”

  “I resent that. Besides, you must have an unpleasant imagination if you can create so poor a thing as myself. I am Jermays the Crooked. Do you not remember me?”

  “Why should I remember you?”

  “Oh, we have met once or twice before. Like you, I have no existence in time as most people understand it—as you once understood it, if my memory serves. I have been of assistance to you in the past.”

  “Mock me not, phantom.”

  “Sir Champion, I am not a phantom. At least, not much of one. True I live for the most part in the shadow worlds, the worlds which have little true substance. A trick played on me by the gods that made me the crooked thing I am.”

  “Gods?”

  Jermays winked. “Those who claim to be gods. Though they’re as much slaves of fate as we are. Gods—powers—superior entities—they are called many things. And we, I suppose, are demigods—the tools of the gods.”

  “I have no time for mystical speculation of that kind.”

  “My dear Champion, at this moment you have time for anything. Are you hungry?”

  “You know that I am.”

  The dwarf reached into his green jerkin and pulled out half a loaf of bread. He handed it to me. It seemed substantial enough. I bit it. It seemed quite real. I ate it and I felt my stomach filled.

  “I thank you,” I said. “If I am to go mad, then this seems the best way.”

  Jermays sat beside me on the ledge, resting the spear he carried against the rock. He smiled. “You are certain my face is not familiar?”

  “I have never seen you before.”

  “Strange. But then perhaps our temporal identities are in different phases and you have not yet met me, though I have met you.”

  “Quite possible.”

  Jermays had a wineskin hanging on his belt. He unhooked it, took a swig and handed it to me.

  The wine was good. I drank sparely and gave him back the skin.

  “I see you do not have your sword with you,” he commented.

  I gave him a searching look, but there seemed no irony in his voice. “I have lost it,” I said.

  He laughed heartily. “Lost it! Lost that black blade! Oh! ho! ho! ho! You are making fun of me, Sir Champion.”

  I frowned impatiently. “It is true. What do you know of the Black Sword?”

  “What all know. It is a sword that has possessed many names, as you have possessed many names. It has appeared in different guises, just as your physical appearance is not always the same.

  They say it was forged by the Forces of Darkness for the one destined to be their champion, but that is a rather unsophisticated view, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I would.”

  “The Black Sword is said to exist on many planes and it is also said to have a twin. Once when I knew you you were called Elric and the blade was called Stormbringer—its twin Mournblade. However, some say that the duality is an illusion, that there is only one Black Sword and that it existed before the gods, before Creation.”

  “These are legends,” I said. “They do not explain the nature of the thing at all. I have been told it is my destiny to bear it, yet I refuse. Does that mean aught to you?”

  “It means that you must be an unhappy man. The Champion and the Sword are One. If man betrays blade or blade betrays man, then a great crime is committed.”

  “Why is this so?”

  Jermays shrugged and smiled. “I know not. The gods know not. It has always been. Believe me, Sir Champion, it is the same as asking what created the universes through which you and I move so freely.”

  “Is there any means of staying on one plane, on one world?”

  Jermays pursed his lips. “I have never considered the problem. It suits me to travel as I do.” He grinned. “But, then, I am not a Hero.”

  “Have you heard of a place called Tanelorn?”

  “Aye. You might call it a veteran’s town.” He rubbed his long nose and winked. “It’s said to be in the domain of the Grey Lords, those who serve neither Law nor Chaos…”

  A faint memory stirred. “What do you mean by Law and Chaos?”

  “Some call them Light and Darkness. Again there are disputes among philosophers and the like as to what defines them. Others believe that they are one—part of the same force. On different worlds, in different times, they believe different things. And what they believe, I suppose, is true.”

  “But where is Tanelorn?”

  “Where? A strange question for you to ask. Tanelorn is always there.”

  I rose impatiently. “Are you part of my torment, Master Jermays? You further complicate the riddles.”

  “Untrue, Sir Champion. But you ask impossible questions of me. Perhaps a wiser being could tell you more, but I cannot. I am not a philosopher or a hero—I am just Jermays the Crooked.” His smile wavered and I saw sadness in his eyes.

  “I am sorry,” I said. I sighed. “But I feel there is no solution to my dilemma. How did you get to this place?”

  “A gap in the fabric of another world. I do not know how I go from plane to plane, but I do and there it is.”

  “Can you leave?”

  “I will, when it is time to leave. But I do not know when that will be.”

  “I see.” I peered out at the gloomy sea.

  Jermays wrinkled his nose. “I have seen few places as unpleasant as this. I can see why you should want to leave. Perhaps if you took up the Black Sword again…?”

  “No!”

  He was startled. “Forgive me. I did not comprehend that you were so adamant about the matter.”

  I spread my hands. “Something spoke from within me. Something that refuses—at all costs—to accept the Black Sword.”

  “Then you…”

  Jermays was gone.

  Again I was alone. Again I wondered if he had been an illusion, if my whole experience here was an illusion, if this entire thing were not some event taking place in the sleeping or insane brain of John Daker…

  * * *

  The air
before me suddenly shivered and became bright. It was as if I looked through a window into another world. I moved towards the window but it always remained the same distance from me.

  I peered through the window and I saw Ermizhad. She looked back at me.

  “Erekosë?”

  “Ermizhad. I will return to you.”

  “You cannot, Erekosë, until you have taken up the Black Sword again…”

  And the window closed and I saw only the dark sea again.

  I roared my rage to the lowering sky.

  “Whoever you are who has done this thing to me—I will have my vengeance on you!”

  My words were absorbed by stark silence.

  I knelt upon the ledge and sobbed.

  * * *

  “CHAMPION!”

  A bell tolled. The voice called.

  “CHAMPION!”

  I stared about and saw nothing.

  “CHAMPION!”

  * * *

  Now a whisper: “Black Sword. Black Sword. Black Sword.”

  “No!”

  “You avoid the destiny for which you were created. Take up the Black Sword again, Champion. Take it up and know glory!”

  “I know only misery and guilt. I will not wield the Sword.”

  “You will.”

  * * *

  The statement was a positive one. It had no threat in it, only certainty.

  * * *

  The slithering carrion eaters had retreated to the sea. I made my way down to the cave and discovered the bones of the mighty sea-stag, the skeletons of my companions. The huge skull with its proud antlers regarded me as if in accusation. Quickly I found the harpoons, wrenched my broken axe from the skull and retreated back to my ledge.

  I frowned, remembering the sword of Erekosë. That strange, poisoned blade had seemed powerful enough. I had had little reluctance to wield it. But perhaps that sword had been, as Jermays had hinted, merely an aspect of the Black Sword. I shrugged the thought off.

  On my ledge, I arranged my weapons about me and waited for another vision.

  Sure enough, it came.

  * * *

  It was a large raft, fashioned rather like a huge sleigh and reminiscent, in ornament, of the sea-chariot that had brought me here. But this was not drawn by sea-beasts. Instead it was pulled over the waters by birds that were like overgrown herons covered not by feathers but with dull, gleaming scales.