Elric in the Dream Realms - Michael Moorcock [64]
“I told you,” she said, speaking more warmly now that he had acknowledged the danger, “much of what you witness here is the semi-formed stuff of realities other worlds, such as yours and mine, are yet to witness. To what extent they will come to exist elsewhere I do not know. These places have been fashioned over centuries by a succession of dreamthieves, imposing form on what is otherwise formless.”
Elric was now beginning to understand better what he had been told by Oone. “Rather than making a map of what exists, you impose your own map upon it!”
“To a degree. We do not invent. We merely describe in a particular way. By that means we can make pathways through each of the myriad Dream Realms for, in this alone, the realms comply one with the other.”
“In reality there could be a thousand different lands in each realm?”
“If you would see it so. Or an infinity of lands. Or one with an infinity of aspects. Roads are made so that the traveler without a compass may not wander too far from their destination.” She laughed almost gaily. “The fanciful names we give these places are not from any poetical impulse, nor from whim, but from a certain necessity. Our survival depends on accurate descriptions!”
“Your words have a profundity to them, madam. Though my survival has also tended to depend on a good, sharp blade!”
“While you depend upon your blade, Prince Elric, you condemn yourself to a singular fate.”
“You predict my death, eh, madam?”
Oone shook her head, her beautiful lips forming an expression of utmost sympathy and tenderness. “Death is inevitable to almost all of us, in some shape or another. And I’ll admit, if Chaos ever conquered Chaos, then you would be the instrument of that remarkable conquest. It would be sad indeed, Prince Elric, if in taming Chaos you destroyed yourself and all you loved into the bargain!”
“I promise you, Lady Oone, to do my best to avoid such a fate.” And Elric wondered at the look in the dreamthief’s eyes and then chose not to speculate further.
They walked through a forest of stalagmites and stalactites now, all of the same glowing colours, dark greens and dark blues and rich reds, and there was a musical sound as water splashed from roof to floor. Every so often a huge drop would fall on one or the other of them but such was the nature of the caverns that they were soon dry again. They had begun to relax and walked arm in arm, almost merry, and it was only then that they saw the figures flitting between the upward-thrusting fangs of rock.
“Swordsmen,” murmured Elric. He added ironically, “This is when a weapon would be useful …” His mind was half with the situation, half feeling its way out through the worlds of the elementals, seeking some kind of spell, some supernatural aid, but he was baffled. It seemed that the mental paths he was used to following were blocked to him.
The warriors were veiled. They were dressed in heavy flowing cloaks and their heads were protected by helms of metal and leather. Elric had the impression of cold, hard eyes with tattooed lids and knew at once that these were members of the Sorcerer Assassin Guild from Quarzhasaat, left behind when their fellows had retreated from the Dream Realms. Doubtless they were trapped here. It was clear, however, that they did not intend to parley with Elric and Oone, but were closing in, following a familiar pattern of attack.
Elric was struck by a strangeness about these men. They lacked a certain fluidity of movement and, the closer they came, the more he realized that it was almost possible to see past their eyes and into the hollows of their skulls. These were not ordinary mortals. He had seen men like them in Imrryr once, when he had gone with his father on one of those rare times when Sadric chose to take him upon some local expedition, out to an old arena whose high walls imprisoned certain Melnibonéans who had lost their souls in pursuit of sorcerous knowledge, but whose bodies still lived. They, too, had seemed to