Elric of Melnibone - Michael Moorcock [23]
‘Murderer! Traitor!’ Cymoril began to sob.
The captain, who was a practical man, said to his warriors in a low voice: ‘Sheath your weapons and salute your new emperor.’
Only the young guardsman who loved Cymoril disobeyed. ‘But he slew the emperor! My lady Cymoril said so!’
‘What of it? He is emperor now. Kneel or you’ll be dead within the minute.’
The young warrior gave a wild shout and leapt towards Yyrkoon, who stepped back, trying to free his arms from the folds of his cloak. He had not expected this.
But it was the captain who leapt forward, his own sword drawn; and hacked down the youngster so that he gasped, half-turned, then fell at Yyrkoon’s feet.
This demonstration of the captain’s was confirmation of his real power and Yyrkoon almost smirked with satisfaction as he looked down at the corpse. The captain fell to one knee, the bloody sword still in his hand. ‘My emperor,’ he said.
‘You show a proper loyalty, captain.’
‘My loyalty is to the Ruby Throne.’
‘Quite so.’
Cymoril shook with grief and rage, but her rage was impotent. She knew now that she had no friends.
Leering, the Emperor Yyrkoon presented himself before her. He reached out his hand and he caressed her neck, her cheek, her mouth. He let his hand fall so that it grazed her breast. ‘Sister,’ he said, ‘thou art mine entirely now.’
And Cymoril was the second to fall at his feet, for she had fainted.
‘Pick her up,’ Yyrkoon said to the guard. ‘Take her back to her own tower and there be sure she remains. Two guards will be with her at all times, in even her most private moments they must observe her, for she may plan treachery against the Ruby Throne.’
The captain bowed and signed to his men to obey the emperor. ‘Aye, my lord. It shall be done.’
Yyrkoon looked back at the corpse of the young warrior. ‘And feed that to her slaves tonight, so that he can continue serving her.’ He smiled.
The captain smiled, too, appreciating the joke. He felt it was good to have a proper emperor in Melniboné again. An emperor who knew how to behave, who knew how to treat his enemies and who accepted unswerving loyalty as his right. The captain fancied that fine, martial times lay ahead for Melniboné. The golden battle-barges and the warriors of Imrryr could go a-spoiling again and instil in the barbarians of the Young Kingdoms a sweet and satisfactory sense of fear. Already, in his mind, the captain helped himself to the treasures of Lormyr, Argimiliar and Pikarayd, of Ilmiora and Jadmar. He might even be made governor, say, of the Isle of the Purple Towns. What luxuries of torment would he bring to those upstart sealords, particularly Count Smiorgan Baldhead who was even now beginning to try to make the isle a rival to Melniboné as a trading port. As he escorted the limp body of the Princess Cymoril back to her tower, the captain looked on that body and felt the swellings of lust within him. Yyrkoon would reward his loyalty, there was no doubt of that. Despite the cold wind, the captain began to sweat in his anticipation. He, himself, would guard the Princess Cymoril. He would relish it.
Marching at the head of his army, Yyrkoon strutted for the Tower of D’a’rputna, the Tower of Emperors, and the Ruby Throne within. He preferred to ignore the litter which had been brought for him and to go on foot, so that he might savour every small moment of his triumph. He approached the tower, tall among its fellows at the very centre of Imrryr, as he might approach a beloved woman. He approached it with a sense of delicacy and without haste, for he knew that it was his.
He looked about him. His army marched behind him. Magum Colim and Dyvim Tvar led the army. People lined the twisting streets and bowed low to him. Slaves prostrated themselves. Even the beasts of burden were made to kneel as he strode by. Yyrkoon could almost taste the power as one might taste a luscious fruit. He drew deep breaths of the air. Even the air was his. All Imrryr was his. All Melniboné, soon would all the world be his. And he would squander