Duke Elric - Michael Moorcock [48]
Earl Saxif D'Aan sighed. There seemed to be genuine sorrow in his voice. “If you are determined to lose your lives …” he began.
“I should like to know why you set such importance upon the speed with which we make up our minds,” Elric said. “Why cannot we wait until we reach Fhaligarn?”
Earl Saxif D'Aan's expression was calculating, and again he looked full into Elric's crimson eyes. “I think you know,” he said, almost in-audibly.
But Elric shook his head. “I think you give me too much credit for intelligence.”
“Perhaps.”
Elric knew that Saxif D'Aan was attempting to read his thoughts; he deliberately blanked his mind, and suspected that he sensed frustration in the sorcerer's demeanour.
And then the albino had sprung at his kinsman, his hand chopping at Saxif D'Aan's throat. The earl was taken completely off guard. He tried to call out, but his vocal cords were numbed. Another blow, and he fell to the deck, senseless.
“Quickly, Smiorgan,” Elric shouted, and he had leaped into the rigging, climbing swiftly upward to the top yards. Smiorgan, bewildered, followed, and Elric had drawn his sword, even as he reached the crow's nest, driving upward through the rail so that the lookout was taken in the groin scarcely before he realized it.
Next, Elric was hacking at the ropes holding the mainsail to the yard. Already a number of Saxif D'Aan's ruffians were climbing after them.
The heavy golden sail came loose, falling to envelop the pirates and take several of them down with it.
Elric climbed into the crow's nest and pitched the dead man over the rail in the wake of his comrades. Then he had raised his sword over his head, holding it in his two hands, his eyes blank again, his head raised to the blue sun, and Smiorgan, clinging to the mast below, shuddered as he heard a peculiar crooning come from the albino's throat.
More of the cut-throats were ascending, and Smiorgan hacked at the rigging, having the satisfaction of seeing half a score go flying down to break their bones on the deck below, or be swallowed by the waves.
Earl Saxif D'Aan was beginning to recover, but he was still stunned.
“Fool!” he was crying. “Fool!” But it was not possible to tell if he referred to Elric or to himself.
Elric's voice became a wail, rhythmical and chilling, as he chanted his incantation, and the strength from the man he had killed flowed into him and sustained him. His crimson eyes seemed to flicker with fires of another, nameless colour, and his whole body shook as the strange runes shaped themselves in a throat which had never been made to speak such sounds.
His voice became a vibrant groan as the incantation continued, and Smiorgan, watching as more of the crew made efforts to climb the mainmast, felt an unearthly coldness creep through him.
Earl Saxif D'Aan screamed from below:
“You would not dare!”
The sorcerer began to make passes in the air, his own incantation tumbling from his lips, and Smiorgan gasped as a creature made of smoke took shape only a few feet below him. The creature smacked its lips and grinned and stretched a paw, which became flesh even as it moved, towards Smiorgan. He hacked at the paw with his sword, whimpering.
“Elric!” cried Count Smiorgan, clambering higher so that he grasped the rail of the crow's nest. “Elric! He sends demons against us now!”
But Elric ignored him. His whole mind was in another world, a darker, bleaker world even than this one. Through grey mists, he saw a figure, and he cried a name. “Come!” he called in the ancient tongue of his ancestors. “Come!”
Count Smiorgan cursed as the demon became increasingly substantial. Red fangs clashed and green eyes glared at him. A claw stroked his boot and no matter how much he struck with his sword, the demon did not appear to notice the blows.
There was no room for Smiorgan in the crow's nest, but he stood on the outer rim, shouting with terror, desperate for aid. Still Elric continued to chant.
“Elric! I am doomed!”
The demon's paw grasped Smiorgan by his ankle.
“Elric!”
Thunder rolled out at sea; a bolt of lightning