Elric in the Dream Realms - Michael Moorcock [82]
Queen Sough had remained silent since she had answered Elric’s question, and a peculiar atmosphere had developed between the three of them. Yet all the uneasiness failed to affect Elric’s delight at the world they had entered. The skies (if skies they were) were full of pearly cloud, tinged by pink and the faintest yellow, and a little white smoke rose up from the flat-roofed house some distance away. The barge had come to rest in a pool of still, sparkling water and Queen Sough gestured for them to disembark.
“You will come with us to the Fortress?” asked Oone.
“She does not know. I do not know if it is permitted,” said the queen, her eyes hooded above her veil.
“Then I shall say farewell now.” Elric bowed and kissed the woman’s soft hand. “I thank you for your assistance, madam, and trust you will forgive me for the crudeness of my manners.”
“Forgiven, yes.” Elric, looking up, thought Queen Sough smiled.
“I thank you also, my lady.” Oone spoke almost intimately, as to one with whom she might share a secret. “Know you how we shall find the Fortress of the Pearl?”
“That one will know.” The queen pointed towards the distant cottage. “Farewell, as you say. You can save her. Only you.”
“I am grateful for your confidence, also,” said Elric. He stepped almost jauntily onto the turf and followed Oone as they made their way across the fields to the little house. “This is a great relief, my lady. A contrast, indeed to the Land of Madness!”
“Aye.” She responded a trifle cautiously, and her hand went to the hilt of her sword. “But remember, Prince Elric, that madness takes many forms in all worlds.”
He did not allow her wariness to let him lose his enjoyment. He was determined to restore himself to the peak of his energies, in preparation for whatever might lie ahead.
Oone was first to reach the door of the white house. Outside were two chickens scratching in the gravel, an old dog, tethered to a barrel, who looked up at them over a grey muzzle and grinned, a pair of short-coated cats cleaning their silvery fur on the roof over the lintel. Oone knocked and the door was opened almost immediately. A tall, handsome young man stood there, his head covered by an old burnouse, his body clad in a light brown robe with long sleeves. He seemed pleased to see visitors.
“Greetings to you,” he said. “I am Chamog Borm, currently in exile. Have you come with good news from the Court?”
“We have no news at all, I fear,” said Oone. “We are travelers and we seek the Fortress of the Pearl. Is it close by here?”
“At the heart and the centre of those mountains.” He waved with his hand towards the peaks. “Will you join me for some refreshment?”
The name the young man had given, together with his extraordinary looks, caused Elric again to rack his brains, trying to recall why all this was so familiar to him. He knew that he had only recently heard the name.
Within the cool house, Chamog Borm brewed them an herbal drink. He seemed proud of his domestic skills and it was clear he was no simple farmer. In one corner of the room was heaped a pile of rich armour, steel chased with silver and gold, a helm decorated with a tall spike, that spike decorated with ornamental snakes and falcons locked in conflict. There were spears, a long, curved sword, daggers—weapons and accoutrements of every description.
“You are a warrior by trade?” said Elric as he sipped the hot liquid. “Your armour is very handsome.”
“I was once a hero,” said Chamog Borm sadly, “until I was dismissed from the Court of the Pearl.”
“Dismissed?” Oone was thoughtful. “On what charge?”
Chamog Borm lowered his eyes. “I was charged