Elric in the Dream Realms - Michael Moorcock [10]
“Oh, master. Thou art dangerous!” In his panic he spoke a tongue more ancient than Melnibonéan and Elric, who had learned such things to aid his studies, recognized it.
“Where came you by that language, by that Opish?” the albino asked.
Even in his terror the boy was surprised. “They call it the gutter cant, here in Quarzhasaat. The thieves’ secret. But I suppose it is common enough to hear it in Nadsokor.”
“Aye, indeed. In Nadsokor, true.” Elric was again intrigued by this minor turn of events. He reached towards the boy, to reassure him.
The motion caused Anigh to jerk up his head and make a noise in his throat. Clearly he set no store by Elric’s attempt to regain his confidence. Without further remark, he left the room, his bare feet pattering down the long corridor and the steps into the narrow street.
Convinced that Anigh was now gone for good, Elric knew a sudden pang of sadness. He regretted only one thing now, that he would never be reunited with Cymoril and return to Melniboné to keep his promise to wed her. He understood that he had always been and probably would always be reluctant to ascend the Ruby Throne again, yet he knew it was his duty to do so. Had he deliberately chosen this fate for himself, to avoid that responsibility?
Elric knew that though his blood was tainted by his strange disease, it was still the blood of his ancestors and it would not have been easy to deny his birthright or his destiny. He had hoped he might, by his rule, turn Melniboné from the introverted, cruel and decadent vestige of a hated empire into a reinvigorated nation capable of bringing peace and justice to the world, of presenting an example of enlightenment which others might use to their own advantage.
For a chance to return to Cymoril he would more than willingly trade the Black Sword. Yet secretly he had little hope that this was possible. The Black Sword was more than a source of sustenance, a weapon against his enemies. The Black Sword bound him to his race’s ancient loyalties, to Chaos, and he could not see Lord Arioch willingly allowing him to break that particular bond. When he considered these matters, these hints at a greater destiny, he found his mind growing confused and he preferred to ignore the questions whenever possible.
“Well, perhaps in folly and in death, I shall break that bond and thwart Melniboné’s bad old friends.”
The breath in his lungs seemed to grow thin and no longer burned. Indeed, it felt cool. His blood moved more sluggishly in his veins as he turned to rise and stagger to the rough wooden table where his few provisions lay. But he could only stare at the stale bread, the vinegary wine, the wizened pieces of dried meat whose origins were best not speculated upon. He could not get up; he could not summon the will to move. He had accepted his dying if not with equanimity then at least with a degree of dignity. Falling into a languorous reverie, he recalled his deciding to leave Melniboné, his cousin Cymoril’s trepidation, his ambitious cousin Yyrkoon’s secret glee, his pronouncements made to Rackhir the Warrior Priest of Phum, who had also sought Tanelorn.
Elric wondered if Rackhir the Red Archer had been any more successful in his quest or whether he lay somewhere in another part of this vast desert, his scarlet costume reduced to rags by the forever sighing wind, his flesh drying on his bones. Elric hoped with all his heart that Rackhir had succeeded in discovering the mythical city and the peace it promised. Then he found that his longing for Cymoril was growing and he believed that he wept.
Earlier he had considered calling upon Arioch, his patron Duke of Chaos, to save him, yet had continued to feel a deep reluctance even to contemplate the possibility. He feared that by employing Arioch’s assistance once more he would lose far more than his life. Each time that powerful supernatural agreed to help, it further strengthened an agreement both implicit