Duke Elric - Michael Moorcock [52]
Elric crawled up the sloping deck until he could grasp the spar and test it. “This one's still good. Use your belt or whatever else you can and tie yourself to it!”
The wind wailed through the disintegrating rigging of the ship; the sea smashed at the sides, driving great holes below the waterline.
The ruffians who had crewed her were in a state of complete panic, some trying to unship small boats which crumbled even as they swung them out, others lying flat against the rotted decks and praying to whatever gods they still worshipped.
Elric strapped himself to the broken yard as firmly as he could and Smiorgan followed his example. The next wave to hit the ship full on lifted them with it, cleanly over what remained of the rail and into the chilling, shouting waters of that terrible sea.
Elric kept his mouth tight shut against the water and reflected on the irony of his situation. It seemed that, having escaped so much, he was to die a very ordinary death, by drowning.
It was not long before his senses left him and he gave himself up to the swirling and somehow friendly waters of the ocean.
He awoke, struggling.
There were hands upon him. He strove to fight them off, but he was too weak. Someone laughed, a rough, good-humoured sound.
The water no longer roared and crashed around him. The wind no longer howled. Instead there was a gentler movement. He heard waves lapping against timber. He was aboard another ship.
He opened his eyes, blinking in warm, yellow sunlight. Red-cheeked Vilmirian sailors grinned down at him. “You're a lucky man—if man you be!” said one.
“My friend?” Elric sought for Smiorgan.
“He was in better shape than were you. He's down in Duke Avan's cabin now.”
“Duke Avan?” Elric knew the name, but in his dazed condition could remember nothing to help him place the man. “You saved us?”
“Aye. We found you both drifting, tied to a broken yard carved with the strangest designs I've ever seen. A Melnibonean craft, was she?”
“Yes, but rather old.”
They helped him to his feet. They had stripped him of his clothes and wrapped him in woolen blankets. The sun was already drying his hair. He was very weak. He said:
“My sword?”
“Duke Avan has it, below.”
“Tell him to be careful of it.”
“We're sure he will.”
“This way,” said another. “The duke awaits you.”
BOOK THREE
SAILING TO THE PAST
CHAPTER ONE
ELRIC SAT BACK in the comfortable, well-padded chair and accepted the wine-cup handed him by his host. While Smiorgan ate his fill of the hot food provided for them, Elric and Duke Avan appraised one another.
Duke Avan was a man of about forty, with a square, handsome face. He was dressed in a gilded silver breastplate, over which was arranged a white cloak. His britches, tucked into black knee-length boots, were of cream-coloured doeskin. On a small sea-table at his elbow rested his helmet crested with scarlet feathers.
“I am honoured, sir, to have you as my guest,” said Duke Avan. “I know you to be Elric of Melnibone. I have been seeking you for several months, ever since news came to me that you had left your homeland (and your power) behind and were wandering, as it were, incognito in the Young Kingdoms.”
“You know much, sir.”
“I, too, am a traveler by choice. I almost caught up with you in Pikarayd, but I gather there was some sort of trouble there. You left quickly and then I lost your trail altogether. I was about to give up looking for your aid when, by the greatest of good fortune, I found you floating in the water!” Duke Avan laughed.
“You have the advantage of me,” said Elric, smiling. “You raise many questions.”
“He's Avan Astran of Old Hrolmar,” grunted Count Smiorgan from the other side of a huge ham bone. “He's well known as an adventurer—explorer—trader. His reputation's the best. We can trust him, Elric.”
“I recall the name now,” Elric told the duke. “But why should you seek my aid?”
The smell of the food from the table had at last impinged and Elric got up. “Would you mind if I ate something while