Duke Elric - Michael Moorcock [37]
“Fear not,” Elric told him. “Their souls are already eaten.”
But Smiorgan sang on, and his voice was louder, his song more intense, than ever it had been before.
Just before he fell asleep, Elric thought he heard a horse whinny, and he meant to ask Smiorgan if any of the pirates had been mounted, but he fell asleep before he could do so.
CHAPTER THREE
Recalling little of his voyage on the Dark Ship, Elric would never know how he came to reach the world in which he now found himself. In later years he would recall most of these experiences as dreams, and indeed they seemed dreamlike even as they occurred.
He slept uneasily, and in the morning the clouds were heavier, shining with that strange, leaden light, though the sun itself was obscured. Smiorgan Baldhead of the Purple Towns was pointing upward, already on his feet, speaking with quiet triumph:
“Will that evidence suffice to convince you, Elric of Melnibone?” “I am convinced of a quality about the light—possibly about this terrain—which makes the sun appear blue,” Elric replied. He glanced with distaste around him at the carnage. The corpses made a wretched sight and he was filled with a nebulous misery that was neither remorse nor pity.
Smiorgan's sigh was sardonic. “Well, Sir Skeptic, we had best retrace my steps and seek my ship. What say you?”
“I agree,” the albino told him.
“How far had you marched from the coast when you found us?”
Elric told him.
Smiorgan smiled. “You arrived in the nick of time, then. I should have been most embarrassed by today if the sea had been reached and I could show my pirate friends no village! I shall not forget this favour you have done me, Elric. I am a count of the Purple Towns and have much influence. If there is any service I can perform for you when we return, you must let me know.”
“I thank you,” Elric said gravely. “But first we must discover a means of escape.”
Smiorgan had gathered up a satchel of food, some water and some wine. Elric had no stomach to make his breakfast among the dead, so he slung the satchel over his shoulder. “I'm ready,” he said.
Smiorgan was satisfied. “Come—we go this way.”
Elric began to follow the sea-lord over the dry, crunching turf. The steep sides of the valley loomed over them, tinged with a peculiar and unpleasant greenish hue, the result of the brown foliage being stained by the blue light from above. When they reached the river, which was narrow and ran rapidly through boulders giving easy means of crossing, they rested and ate. Both men were stiff from the previous night's fighting; both were glad to wash the dried blood and mud from their bodies in the water.
Refreshed, the pair climbed over the boulders and left the river behind, ascending the slopes, speaking little so that their breath was saved for the exertion. It was noon by the time they reached the top of the valley and observed a plain not unlike the one which Elric had first crossed. Elric now had a fair idea of the island's geography: it resembled the top of a mountain, with an indentation near the centre which was the valley. Again he became sharply aware of the absence of any wildlife and remarked on this to Count Smiorgan, who agreed that he had seen nothing—no bird, fish nor beast since he had arrived.
“It's a barren little world, friend Elric, and a misfortune for a mariner to be wrecked upon its shores.”
They moved on, until the sea could be observed meeting the horizon in the far distance.
It was Elric who first heard the sound behind them, recognizing the steady thump of the hoofs of a galloping horse, but when he looked back over his shoulder he could see no sign of a rider, nor anywhere that a rider could hide. He guessed that, in his tiredness, his ears were betraying him. It had been thunder that he had heard.
Smiorgan strode implacably onward, though he, too, must have heard the sound.
Again it came. Again, Elric