Duke Elric - Michael Moorcock [33]
On foot, the warriors had an even more ruffianly appearance. They grinned among themselves, entertained by Elric's courtesy but not impressed by it.
One, in the feathered helmet of a Pan Tangian sea-chief, with features to match—swarthy, sinister—pushed his head forward on its long neck and said banteringly:
“We've company enough, white-face. And few here are overfond of the man-demons of Melnibone. You must be rich.”
Elric recalled the animosity with which Melniboneans were regarded in the Young Kingdoms, particularly by those from Pan Tang who envied the Dragon Isle her power and her wisdom and, of late, had begun crudely to imitate Melnibone.
Increasingly on his guard, he said evenly, “I have a little money.”
“Then we'll take it, demon.” The Pan Tangian presented a dirty palm just below Elric's nose as he growled, “Give it over and be on your way.”
Elric's smile was polite and fastidious, as if he had been told a poor joke.
The Pan Tangian evidently thought the joke better than did Elric, for he laughed heartily and looked to his nearest fellows for approval.
Coarse laughter infected the night and only the bald-headed, black-bearded man did not join in the jest, but took a step or two back, while all the others pressed forward.
The Pan Tangian's face was close to Elric's own; his breath was foul and Elric saw that his beard and hair were alive with lice, yet he kept his head, replying in the same equable tone:
“Give me some decent food, a flask of water—some wine, if you have it—and I'll gladly give you the money I have.”
The laughter rose and fell again as Elric continued:
“But if you would take my money and leave me with naught—then I must defend myself. I have a good sword.”
The Pan Tangian strove to imitate Elric's irony. “But you will note, Sir Demon, that we outnumber you. Considerably.”
Softly the albino spoke: “I've noticed that fact, but I'm not disturbed by it,” and he had drawn the black blade even as he finished speaking, for they had come at him with a rush.
And the Pan Tangian was the first to die, sliced through the side, his vertebrae sheared, and Stormbringer, having taken its first soul, began to sing.
A Chalalite died next, leaping with stabbing javelin poised, on the point of the runesword, and Stormbringer murmured with pleasure.
But it was not until it had sliced the head clean off a Filkharian pike-master that the sword began to croon and come fully to life, black fire flickering up and down its length, its strange runes glowing.
Now the warriors knew they battled sorcery and became more cautious, yet they scarcely paused in their attack, and Elric, thrusting and parrying, hacking and slicing, needed all of the fresh, dark energy the sword passed on to him.
Lance, sword, axe and dirk were blocked, wounds were given and received, but the dead had not yet outnumbered the living when Elric found himself with his back against the rock and nigh a dozen sharp weapons seeking his vitals.
It was at this point, when Elric had become somewhat less than confident that he could best so many, that the bald-headed warrior, axe in one gloved hand, sword in the other, came swiftly into the firelight and set upon those of his fellows closest to him.
“I thank you, sir!” Elric was able to shout, during the short respite this sudden turn produced. His morale improved, he resumed the attack.
The Lormyrian was cloven from hip to thigh as he dodged a feint; a Filkharian, who should have been dead four hundred years before, fell with the blood bubbling from lips and nostrils, and the corpses began to pile one upon the other. Still Stormbringer sang its sinister battle-song and still the runesword passed its power to its master so that with every death Elric found strength to slay more of the soldiers.
Those who remained now began to express their regret for their hasty attack. Where oaths and threats had issued from their mouths, now came plaintive petitions for