Duke Elric - Michael Moorcock [50]
“All these years. Only my horse could follow you. The horse of Tendric, my father, also of Melnibone, and also a sorcerer.”
“If I had known that, then, I'd have slain you cleanly and sent the horse to limbo.”
“Jealousy weakened you, Earl Saxif D'Aan. But now we fight as we should have fought then—man to man, with steel, for the hand of the one who loves us both. It is more than you deserve.”
“Much more,” agreed the sorcerer. And he brought up his sword to lunge at the young man who, Smiorgan guessed, could only be Prince Carolak himself.
The fight was predetermined. Saxif D'Aan knew that, if Carolak did not. Saxif D'Aan's skill in arms was up to the standard of any Melnibonean nobleman, but it could not match the skill of a professional soldier, who had fought for his life time after time.
Back and forth across the deck, while Saxif D'Aan's rascals looked on in open-mouthed astonishment, the rivals fought a duel which should have been fought and resolved two centuries before, while the girl they both plainly thought was the reincarnation of Gratyesha watched them with as much concern as might her original have watched when Saxif D'Aan first encountered Prince Carolak in the gardens of his palace, so long ago.
Saxif D'Aan fought well, and Carolak fought nobly, for on many occasions he avoided an obvious advantage, but at length Saxif D'Aan threw away his sword, crying: “Enough. I'll give you your vengeance, Prince Carolak. I'll let you take the girl. But you'll not give me your damned mercy—you'll not take my pride.”
And Carolak nodded, stepped forward, and struck straight for Saxif D'Aan's heart.
The blade entered clean and Earl Saxif D'Aan should have died, but he did not. He crawled along the deck until he reached the base of the mast, and he rested his back against it, while the blood pumped from the wounded heart. And he smiled.
“It appears,” he said faintly, “that I cannot die, so long have I sustained my life by sorcery. I am no longer a man.”
He did not seem pleased by this thought, but Prince Carolak, stepping forward and leaning over him, reassured him. “You will die,” he promised, “soon.”
“What will you do with her—with Gratyesha?”
“Her name is Vassliss,” said Count Smiorgan insistently. “She is a merchant's daughter, from Jharkor.”
“She must make up her own mind,” Carolak said, ignoring Smiorgan.
Earl Saxif D'Aan turned glazed eyes on Elric. “I must thank you,” he said. “You brought me the one who could bring me peace, though I feared him.”
“Is that why, I wonder, your sorcery was so weak against me?” Elric said. “Because you wished Carolak to come and release you from your guilt?”
“Possibly, Elric. You are wiser in some matters, it seems, than am I.”
“What of the Crimson Gate?” Smiorgan growled. “Can that be opened? Have you still the power, Earl Saxif D'Aan?”
“I think so.” From the folds of his bloodstained garments of gold, the sorcerer produced à large crystal which shone with the deep colours of a ruby. “This will not only lead you to the gate, it will enable you to pass through, only I must warn you …” Saxif D'Aan began to cough. “The ship”—he gasped, “the ship—like my body—has been sustained by means of sorcery—therefore …” His head slumped forward. He raised it with a huge effort and stared beyond them at the girl who still held the reins of the white stallion. “Farewell, Gratyesha, Princess of Fwem-Omeyo. I loved you.” The eyes remained fixed upon her, but they were dead eyes now.
Carolak turned back to look at the girl. “How do you call yourself, Gratyesha?”
“They call me Vassliss,” she told him. She smiled up into his youthful, battle-scarred face. “That is what they call me, Prince Carolak.”
“You know who I am?”
“I know you now.”
“Will you come with me, Gratyesha? Will you be my bride, at last, in the strange new lands I have found, beyond the world?”
“I will come,” she said.
He helped her up into the saddle of his white stallion and climbed so that he sat behind her. He bowed to Elric of Melnibone. “I thank you