«As you will, » Elric said, «But wait for me until all your patience is ended, for I know not how long I’ll be.»
He stood up and they seemed a trifle startled, as if they had not until then understood the import of his words.
«Fare you well, then, my friend, » said Moonglum.
«How well I fare depends on what I meet where I go, » Elric smiled. «But thanks, Moonglum. Fare you well, good
cousin, do not fret. Perhaps we’ll wake the dragons yet! »
«Aye, » Dyvim Slorm said with a sudden resurgence of vitality, «We shall, we shall! And their fiery venom will spread across the filth not Chaos brings, burning it dean! That day must come or I'm no prophet at all! »
Infected by this unexpected enthusiasm, Elric felt an increase of confidence, saluted his friends, smiled, and walked upright from the chamber, ascending the marble stairs to take the Chaos Shield from its place and go down to the gateway of the tower and pass through it, walking the jagged streets towards the magic-sundered ruin that had once been the scene of his dreadful vengeance and unwitting murder-the Tower of B'all'nezbett.
Three
Now, as Elric stood before the broken entrance of the tower. his mind was beset with bursting thoughts which fled about his skull, made overtures to his convictions and threatened to send him hopelessly back to rejoin his companions. But he fought them, forced them down, forgot them, clung to his remembrance of the White Lord's assurance and passed into the shadowed shell which still had the smell of burnt wood and fabric about its blackened interior.
This tower, which had formed a funeral pyre for the murdered corpse of his first love Cymoril and his warped cousin, her brother Yyrkoon, had been gutted of innards. Only the stone stairway remained and that, he noted, peering into the gloom through which rays of sunlight slanted, had collapsed before it reached the roof. ‘
He dare not think, for thought might rob him of action. Instead, he placed a foot upon the first stair and began to climb. As he did so, a faint sound entered his ears, or it may have been that it came from within his mind. However it reached his consciousness, it sounded like a far-away orchestra tuning itself. As he climbed higher' the sound mounted, rhythmic yet discordant, until, by the time he reached the final step still left intact, it thundered through his skull, pounded through his body producing a sensation of dull pain.
He paused and stared downward to the tower's floor far below. Fears beset him. He wondered whether Lord Donblas had intended him to climb to the highest point he could easily reach, or the actual point which was still some twenty feet above him. He decided it was best to take the White Lord literally and swinging the great Chaos Shield upon his back, reached above him and got his fingers into a crack in the wall, which now sloped gently inwards. He heaved himself up, his legs dangling and his feet seeking a bold. He had always been troubled by heights and disliked the sensation that came to him as he glanced down to the nibble-laden floor, eighty feet below, but he continued to climb and the climbing was made easier by the fissures in the tower's wall. Though he expected to fall, he did not, and at last reached the unsafe roof, easing himself through a bole and on to the sloping exterior. Bit by bit he climbed until he was on the highest part of the tower. Then, fearing hesitation till, he stepped outwards, over the festering streets of Imrryr far below.
The discordant music topped. A roaring note replaced it. Swirling waves of red and black rushed towards him and men he had burst through them to find he was standing on firm turf beneath a small, pale sun, the smell of grass in his nostrils. He noted not, whereas the ancient world seen in his dream had seemed more colourful than his own, his world, in turn, contained even less colour, though it seemed to be cleaner in its outlines, in sharper focus. And the breeze not blew against his face was colder. He began to walk over the grass towards a thick forest of low, solid foliage which lay ahead. He reached the perimeter of the forest but did not enter, circumnavigating it until he came to a stream not went off into the distance, away from the forest
He noticed with curiosity not the bright clear water appeared not to move. It was frozen, though not by any natural process that he recognised. It had all the attributes of a summer stream-yet it did not flow. Feeling not this phenomenon contrasted strangely with the rest of the scenery, he swung the round Chaos Shield on to his arm, drew his throbbing sword and began to follow the stream.
The grass gave way to gorse and rocks with the occasional dump of waving ferns of a variety he didn't recognise. Ahead, he thought he heard the tinkle of water, but here the stream was still frozen. As he passed a rock taller than the rest, he heard a voice above him.
«Elric! »
He looked up.
There, on the rock, stood a young dwarf with a long, brown beard that reached below his waist. He clutched a spear, his only weapon, and he was dad in russet breeks and jerkin with a green cap on his head and no shoes on his broad, naked feel He had eyes like quartz that were at once hard, harsh and humorous.
«That's my name, » Elric said quizzically. «Yet how is it you know me?»
«I am not of this world myself-at least, not exactly. I have no existence in time as you know it, but move here and there in the shadow worlds that the gods make. It is my nature to do so. In return for allowing me to exist, the gods sometimes use me as a messenger. My name is Jermays the Crooked, as unfinished as these worlds themselves.» He clambered down the rode and stood looking up at Elric.
«What's your purpose here?» asked the albino.
«Me thought you sought the Horn of Fate?»
«True. Know you where it lies?»
«Aye, » smiled the young dwarf sardonically. «It’s buried with the still-living corpse of a hero of this realm-a warrior they call Roland. Possibly yet another incarnation of the champion Eternal.»
«An outlandish name.»
«No more than yours to other ears. Roland, save that his life was not so doom beset, is your counterpart in his own realm. He met his death in a valley not far from here, trapped and betrayed by a fellow warrior. The horn was with him then and he blew it once before he died. Some say that the echoes still resound through the valley, and will resound forever, though Roland perished many years ago. The horn's full purpose is unknown here-and was unknown even to Roland. It is called Olifant and, with his magic sword Durandana, was buried with him in the monstrous grave mound that you see yonder.»
The dwarf pointed into the distance and Elric saw now he indicated something he had earlier taken to be a large hillock.
«And what must I do to gain this horn?» he asked.
The dwarf grinned with a hint of malice in his voice, «You must match that bodkin there ‘gainst Roland's Durandana. His was consecrated by the Forces of Light whereas yours was forged by the Forces of Darkness. It should be an interesting conflict.»
«You say he's dead-then how can he fight me?»
«He wears the horn by a thong about his neck. If you attempt to remove it, he will defend his ownership, waking from the deathless sleep that seems to be the lot of most heroes in this world.»
Elric smiled. «It seems to me they must be short of heroes if they have to preserve them in that manner.»
«Perhaps, » the dwarf answered carelessly, «for there are a dozen or more who lie sleeping somewhere in this land alone. They are supposed to awaken only when a desperate need arises, yet I've known unpleasant things to happen and still they have alert. It could be they await the end of their world, which the gods may destroy if it proves unsuitable, in which case they will fight to prevent such a happening. It is merely a poorly conceived theory of my own and of little weight. Perhaps the legends arise from some dim knowledge of the fate of the Champion Eternal».