Elric of Melnibone - Michael Moorcock [44]
‘Ah, but you shall love me soon, Cymoril. Soon.’
‘Elric will come...’
‘Elric! Ha! He sits twiddling his thumbs in his tower, waiting for news that will never come—save when I bring it to him!’
‘Elric will come,’ she said.
Yyrkoon snarled. A brute-faced Oinish girl brought him his morning wine. Yyrkoon seized the cup and sipped the stuff. Then he spat it at the girl who, trembling, ducked away. Yyrkoon took the jug and emptied it onto the white dust of the roof. ‘This is Elric’s thin blood. This is how it will flow away!’
But again Cymoril was not listening, She was trying to remember her albino lover and the few sweet days they had spent together since they were children.
Yyrkoon hurled the empty jug at the girl’s head, but she was adept at dodging him. As she dodged, she murmured her standard response to all his attacks and insults. ‘Thank you, Demon Lord,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Demon Lord.’
Yyrkoon laughed. ‘Aye. Demon Lord. Your folk are right to call me that, for I rule more demons than I rule men. My power increases every day!’
The Oinish girl hurried away to fetch more wine, for she knew he would be calling for it in a moment. Yyrkoon crossed the roof to stare through the slats in the fence at the proof of his power, but as he looked upon his ships he heard sounds of confusion from the other side of the roof. Could the Yurits and the Oinish be fighting amongst themselves? Where were their Imrryrian centurions. Where was Captain Valharik?
He almost ran across the roof, passing Cymoril who appeared to be sleeping, and peered down into the streets.
‘Fire?’ he murmured. ‘Fire?’
It was true that the streets appeared to be on fire. And yet it was not an ordinary fire. Balls of fire seemed to drift about, igniting rush-thatched roofs, doors, anything which would easily burn—as an invading army might put a village to the torch.
Yyrkoon scowled, thinking at first that he had been careless and some spell of his had turned against him, but then he looked over the burning houses at the river and he saw a strange ship sailing there, a ship of great grace and beauty, that somehow seemed more a creation of nature than of man—and he knew they were under attack. But who would attack Dhoz-Kam? There was no loot worth the effort. It could not be Imrryrians...
It could not be Elric.
‘It must not be Elric,’ he growled. ‘The Mirror. It must be turned upon the invaders.’
‘And upon yourself, brother?’ Cymoril had risen unsteadily and leaned against a table. She was smiling. ‘You were too confident, Yyrkoon. Elric comes.’
‘Elric! Nonsense! Merely a few barbarian raiders from the interior. Once they are in the centre of the city, we shall be able to use the Mirror of Memory upon them.’ He ran to the trapdoor which led down into his house. ‘Captain Valharik! Valharik where are you?’
Valharik appeared in the room below. He was sweating. There was a blade in his gloved hand, though he did not seem to have been in any fighting as yet.
‘Make the mirror ready, Valharik. Turn it upon the attackers.’
‘But, my lord, we might...’
‘Hurry! Do as I say. We’ll soon have these barbarians added to our own strength—along with their ships.’
‘Barbarians, my lord? Can barbarians command the fire elementals? These things we fight are flame spirits. They cannot be slain any more than fire itself can be slain.’
‘Fire can be slain by water,’ Prince Yyrkoon reminded his lieutenant. ‘By water, Captain Valharik. Have you forgotten?’
‘But, Prince Yyrkoon, we have tried to quench the spirits with water—and the water will not move from our buckets. Some powerful sorcerer commands the invaders. He has the aid of the spirits of fire and water.’
‘You are mad, Captain Valharik,’ said Yyrkoon firmly. ‘Mad. Prepare the mirror and let us have no more of these stupidities.’
Valharik wetted his dry lips. ‘Aye, my lord.’ He bowed his head and went to do his master’s bidding.
Again