Elric of Melnibone - Michael Moorcock [28]
‘Stop this!’ he cried. He bumped into another body and fell to his knees. He began to crawl, desperately trying to peer through the mist. Now faces formed in the mist—frightful faces, more terrifying than any he had ever seen, even in his worst nightmares.
‘Cymoril!’ he cried. ‘Cymoril!’
And one of the faces became the face of Cymoril—a Cymoril who leered at him and mocked him and whose face slowly aged until he saw a filthy crone and, ultimately, a skull on which the flesh rotted. He closed his eyes, but the image remained.
‘Cymoril,’ whispered the voices. ‘Cymoril.’
And Elric grew weaker as he became more desperate. He cried out for Dyvim Tvar, but heard only a mocking echo of the name, as he had heard Cymoril’s. He shut his lips and he shut his eyes and, still crawling, tried to free himself from the groaning mist. But hours seemed to pass before the groans became whines and the whines became faint strands of sound and he tried to rise, opening his eyes to see the mist fading, but then his legs buckled and he fell down against the first step which led to the Ruby Throne. Again he had ignored Cymoril’s advice concerning her brother—and again she was in danger. Elric’s last thought was a simple one:
‘I am not fit to live,’ he thought.
4
To Call the Chaos Lord
* * *
AS SOON AS he recovered from the blow which had knocked him unconscious and thus wasted even more time, Elric sent for Dyvim Tvar. He was eager for news. But Dyvim Tvar could report nothing. Yyrkoon had summoned sorcerous aid to free him, sorcerous aid to effect his escape. ‘He must have had some magical means of leaving the island, for he could not have gone by ship,’ said Dyvim Tvar.
‘You must send out expeditions,’ said Elric. ‘Send a thousand detachments if you must. Send every man in Melniboné. Strive to wake the dragons that they might be used. Equip the golden battle-barges. Cover the world with our men if you must, but find Cymoril.’
‘All those things I have already done,’ said Dyvim Tvar, ‘save that I have not yet found Cymoril.’
A month passed and Imrryrian warriors marched and rode through the Young Kingdoms seeking news of their renegade countrymen.
‘I worried more for myself than for Cymoril and I called that “morality”,’ thought the albino. ‘I tested my sensibilities, not my conscience.’
A second month passed and Imrryrian dragons sailed the skies to South and East, West and North, but though they flew across mountains, and seas, and forests and plains and, unwittingly, brought terror to many a city, they found no sign of Yyrkoon and his band.
‘For, finally, one can only judge oneself by one’s actions,’ thought Elric. ‘I have looked at what I have done, not at what I meant to do or thought I would like to do, and what I have done has, in the main, been foolish, destructive and with little point. Yyrkoon was right to despise me and that was why I hated him so.’
A fourth month came and Imrryrian ships stopped in remote ports and Imrryrian sailors questioned other travelers and explorers for news of Yyrkoon. But Yyrkoon’s sorcery had been strong and none had seen him (or remembered seeing him).
‘I must now consider the implications of all these thoughts,’ said Elric to himself.
Wearily, the swiftest of the soldiers began to return to Melniboné, bearing their useless news. And as faith disappeared and hope faded, Elric’s determination increased. He made himself strong, both physically and mentally. He experimented with new drugs which would increase his energy rather than replenish the energy he did not share with other men. He read much in the library, though this time he read only certain grimoires and he read those over and over again.
These grimoires were written in the High Speech of Melniboné—the ancient language