They spoke little, for it was difficult to be heard over the Signing wind, and each man became sunk into himself, dwelling on personal thoughts.
Brie had long since fallen into what was virtually a mindless trance, letting the horse carry him over the desert He had fought against his own churning thoughts and emotions, finding it hard, as he often did, to retain any objective impression of his predicament. His past had been too troubled, his background too morbid for him to do much now to see clearly.
Always he had been a slave to his melancholic emotions, his physical failings and to the very blood flowing in his veins. He saw life not as a consistent pattern, but as a series of random events. He had fought all his life to assemble his thoughts and, if necessary, accept the chaotic nature of minds, learn to live with it but, except in moments of extreme personal crisis, had rarely managed to think coherently for any length of time. He was, perhaps, because of his outlawed life, his albinoism, his very reliance on his runesword for strength, obsessed with the knowledge of his own doom.
What was thought, he asked himself, what was emotion? What was control and was it worth achieving? Better, maybe, to live by instinct than to theorise and be wrong; better to remain the puppet of the gods, letting them move you this way and that at their pleasure than to seek control of your own fate, dash with the will of the Lords of the Higher Worlds and perish for your pains.
So he considered as he rode into the searing lash of the wind, already striving against natural hazard. And what was the difference between an earthly hazard and the hazard of uncontrolled thought and emotion? Both held something of the same qualities.
But his race, though they had ruled the world for ten thousand years, had lived under the dominance of a different star. They had been neither true men nor true members of the ancient races who had come before men. They were an intermediary type and Elric was half-consciously aware of this; aware that he was the last of an inbred line who had, without effort, used Chaos-given sorcery as others used their earthly dolls-for convenience. His race had been of Chaos, having no need of self-control or the self-restrictions of the new races who had emerged with the Age of the Young Kingdoms, and even these, according to the seer Sepiriz, were not the true men who would one day walk an Earth where order - and progress might become the rule and Chaos rarely exert Influence-if Brie triumphed, destroying the world he knew. This thought added to his gloom, for he had no destiny but death, no purpose save what fate willed. Why fight against if, why bother to sharpen his wits or put his mind in order when this was little more than a sacrifice on the altar of destiny? He breathed deeply of the hot dry air and expelled it from his stinging lungs, spitting out the clogging sand which had managed to enter his mouth and nostrils.
Dyvim Slonn shared something of Elric's mood, though his feelings were not so strong. He had a more ordered life than had Elric, though they were of the same blood. Whereas Elric had questioned the custom of his folk, even renounced king affair that he might explore the new lands of the Young Kingdoms and compare their way of life with his own, Dyvim Slorm had never indulged in such questioning. He had suffered bitterness when through Elric's renegade activities, the Dreaming City of Imrryr, last stronghold of the old race of Melnibone, had been razed; shock, too, of a kind, when he saw what remained of the Imrryrians had been forced out late the world, also, to make their living as mercenaries of most they considered upstart kings of lowly and contemptible peoples. Dyvim Slorm, who had never questioned, did not question now, though he was disturbed.
Moonglum was less self-absorbed. Since the time, many -years before, when he and Elric had met and fought against the Dharzi together, he had felt a peculiar sympathy, even empathy, with his friend. When Elric sank into such moods as the one he was in now, Moonglum felt tormented only because he could not help him. Many times he had sought the means of pulling Elric out of his gloomy depression, but these days he had learned that it was impossible. By nature cheerful and optimistic, even he felt dominated by the doom which was on them.
Rackhir, too, who was of a calmer and more philosophical frame of mind than his fellows, did not feel capable of fully grasping the implications of their mission. He had thought to spend the rest of his days in contemplation and meditation in the peaceful city of Tanelorn, which exerted a strange calming influence on all who lived there. But this call to aid in the fight against Chaos had been impossible to ignore and he had unwillingly strapped on his quiver of Arrows of Law and taken up his bow again to ride from Tanelorn with a small party of those who wished to accompany him and offer their services to Elric.
Peering through the sand-filled air he saw something looming ahead-a single mountain rising from the wastes of the desert, as if placed there by means other than natural.
He called, pointing: «Elric! There! That must be Mordaga's castle! »
Elric roused himself and let his eyes follow Rackhir's pointing hand. «Aye, » he sighed. «We are there. Let us pause now and rest, recuperating our strength before we ride the final distance.»
They reined in their steeds and dismounted, easing their aching limbs and stretching their legs to allow the blood to flow freely again.
They raised their tent against the wind-blown sand and ate their meal in a mood of companionship, created by the knowledge that after they reached the mountain, they might never see one another alive again.
Six
The steps wound up around the mountain. High above they could see the gleam of masonry and, just where the steps curved and disappeared for the first time, they saw an elder tree. It looked like an ordinary tree, but it became a symbol for them-there was their initial antagonist. How would it fight? What influence would it exert on them?
Elric placed a booted foot on the first step. It was high, built for the feet of a giant.
He began to climb, the other three following behind him.
Now, as he reached the tenth step, he unsheathed Stormbringer, felt it quiver and send energy into him. The climbing instantly became easier.
As he came close to the elder, he heard it rustle, saw that there was an agitation in its branches. Yes, it was certainly sentient.
He was only a few steps from the tree when he heard Dyvim Slorm shout: «Gods! The leaves-look at the leaves! »
The green leaves, their veins seeming to throb in the sunlight, were beginning to detach themselves from the branches and drift purposefully towards the group.
One settled on Elric's bare hand. He attempted to brush it off, but it clung. Others began to settle on different parts of his body. They were coming in a green wave now, and he felt a peculiar stinging sensation in his hand. With a curse he peeled it off, and to his horror saw that tiny pin-pricks of blood were left where it had been. His body twitched in nausea and he ripped the rest from his face, slashing at others with his crooning runesword. As they were touched by the blade, so they shrivelled, but they were swiftly replaced.
He knew, instinctively, that they were sucking not only blood from his veins, but the soul-force from his being; he was weakening slightly already.
Behind him, his companions were experiencing the same with yells of terror.
These leaves were being directed and he knew where the direction came from-the tree itself. He clambered up the remaining steps, fighting off the leaves which swarmed like locusts around him. With grim intention he began hacking at the trunk which gave out an angry groaning and the branches sought to reach him. He slashed them away and then plunged Stormbringer deep into the tree. Sods of earth spattered upwards as the roots threshed. The tree screamed and began to heel over towards him as if, in death, it sought to kill him also. He wrenched at Stormbringer, which sucked greedily at the half-sentient tree's life-stuff, failed to tug the sword out, and leapt aside as the tree crashed down over the steps, barely missing him. One branch slashed his face and drew blood. He gasped and staggered, feeling the life draining from him.