Elric in the Dream Realms - Michael Moorcock [107]
Wearing his crown of iron feathers, Old Sadric, gaunt and haunted, stares from a window at his departing son, then turns his mind to more important matters.
Sadric, the old Sorcerer Emperor, hated his son, blamed Elric for killing his mother in childbirth.
Sadric had read the portents, heard the omens.
Was there any other interpretation?
Elric must bring shame to his own blood and drag destruction down on all the world …
Watched by the human woman Arisand, who holds back in a gesture of supplication, Sadric pushes open the doors of the great Hall of Steel. Here are the weapons, banners and armour of his ancestors.
So Sadric cared little where his son rode or with whom. Sadric had a colder choice to make …
Sadric has come to stand before the traditional armour of a Melnibonéan Sorcerer Emperor. This is constituted pretty much how Whelan depicts it on the DAW covers. A breastplate decorated with dragon motif, backplate matching. The dragon helm—crowned by a slender dragon about to take flight, with pieces protecting nose, eyes, ears. Grieves and gauntlets of similar design. A great war-shield, also of similar design. He’s reaching to take down the helmet…
SADRIC: “My old armour. The armour of all Melniboné’s emperors.”
As he removes it, the helmet falls from his ancient, palsied hands and rolls on the stone slabs at his feet.
Proudly, Sadric peers down at the helm.
SADRIC: “Not a dent. Not a scratch. Sorcery or science? I once knew what it was. But I forget everything. So addictive, so corrosive, that ancient magic…”
He runs a still-sensuous hand over the complicated metalwork.
SADRIC: “I had a warrior’s body once, to match a warrior’s heart. Now, my hands can barely hold such power.”
He replaces the helmet.
SADRIC: “Who shall wear it? My strong, cruel nephew. Or my weakling son. To survive we have always been ruthless. It is our duty.”
He inspects obscene-looking daggers, mysterious cutting weapons, odd armour.
Wearing his crown of iron plumes, Sadric is in the upper part of the tower. From this curve four apparent flying buttresses. These also house the great chambers, such as the Hall of Steel, off his main living quarters. Now he looks out across the forest of ancient towers which is Melniboné. Behind him stands the human girl Arisand.
ARISAND: “A human is neither as wise nor as well educated as a Melnibonéan, master. But it seems to me your son puts aside his youthful weaknesses and becomes increasingly what you would wish him to be.”
SADRIC (coolly): “Deficient blood, my dear. That’s the problem. The test will come on the dream couches. That is where one or the other will prove their fitness. Now …”
He waves her away and she leaves through a door.
SADRIC: “…I must return to my grimoires…”
Next we see her making an entrance, slipping through another curtain. She has removed her over-dress. She is more sensuously clad.
Yyrkoon’s bed of concubines is not far from where she now seats herself in a great, baroque chair.
Yyrkoon has his back to us. He will be seen to be leaning towards the great port of Imrryr, with its cliffs surrounding the harbour not fronted by the city. The sea-maze swirls. Ships are still loading and unloading.
Without looking back at her, Yyrkoon speaks to Arisand:
YYRKOON: “So, madam.”
YYRKOON: “A score of our finest merchantmen will sail with the evening tide when they should have been warships!”
He turns. She smiles.
YYRKOON: “Did you discover my uncle’s wishes? Will he make me his heir over that weakling?”
ARISAND: “He cannot bring himself to choose. All will be decided on the couches. If Elric survives the four dream-quests, he will rule.”
Yyrkoon takes this information thoughtfully. Then he grins as if to Arisand, but actually directly addressing us, like a knowing, Jacobean villain …
YYRKOON: “That is good news for me, I think. We can challenge destiny!”
Last panel will be a small one of Elric and Cymoril riding over open, if slightly weird, countryside. We read Yyrkoon’s words over this panel