Elric of Melnibone - Michael Moorcock [45]
‘It is Elric,’ said Cymoril quietly. She smiled. ‘Elric comes to take vengeance on you, brother.’
Yyrkoon sniggered. ‘Think you? Think you? Well, should that be the case, he’ll find me gone, for I still have a means of evading him—and he’ll find you in a condition which will not please him (though it will cause him considerable anguish). But it is not Elric. It is some crude shaman from the steppes to the east of here. He will soon be in my power.’
Cymoril, too, was peering through the fence.
‘Elric,’ she said. ‘I can see his helm.’
‘What?’ Yyrkoon pushed her aside. There, in the streets, Imrryrian fought Imrryrian, there was no longer any doubt of that. Yyrkoon’s men—Imrryrian, Oinish and Yurit—were being pushed back. And at the head of the attacking Imrryrians could be seen a black dragon helm such as only one Melnibonéan wore. It was Elric’s helm. And Elric’s sword, that had once belonged to Earl Aubec of Malador, rose and fell and was bright with blood which glistened in the morning sunshine.
For a moment Yyrkoon was overwhelmed with despair. He groaned. ‘Elric. Elric. Elric. Ah, how we continue to underestimate each other. What curse is on us?’
Cymoril had flung back her head and her face had come to life again. ‘I said he would come, brother!’
Yyrkoon whirled on her. ‘Aye—he has come—and the mirror will rob him of his brain and he will turn into my slave, believing anything I care to put in his skull. This is even sweeter than I planned, sister. Ha!’ He looked up and then flung his arms across his eyes as he realised what he had done. ‘Quickly—below—into the house—the mirror begins to turn.’ There came a great creaking of gears and pulleys and chains as the terrible Mirror of Memory began to focus on the streets below. ‘It will be only a little while before Elric has added himself and his men to my strength. What a splendid irony!’ Yyrkoon hurried his sister down the steps leading from the roof and he closed the trapdoor behind him. ‘Elric himself will help in the attack on Imrryr. He will destroy his own kind. He will oust himself from the Ruby Throne!’
‘Do you not think that Elric has anticipated the threat of the Mirror of Memory, brother?’ Cymoril said with relish.
‘Anticipate it, aye—but resist it he cannot. He must see to fight. He must either be cut down or open his eyes. No man with eyes can be safe from the power of the mirror.’ He glanced around the crudely furnished room. ‘Where is Valharik? Where is the cur?’
Valharik came running in. ‘The mirror is being turned, my lord, but it will affect our own men, too. I fear...’
‘Then cease to fear. What if our own men are drawn under its influence? We can soon feed what they need to know back into their brains—at the same time as we feed our defeated foes. You are too nervous, Captain Valharik.’
‘But Elric leads them...’
‘And Elric’s eyes are eyes—though they look like crimson stones. He will fare no better than his men.’
In the streets around Prince Yyrkoon’s house Elric, Dyvim Tvar and their Imrryrians pushed on, forcing back their demoralised opponents. The attackers had lost barely a man, whereas many Oinish and Yurits lay dead in the streets, beside a few of their renegade Imrryrian commanders. The flame elementals, whom Elric had summoned with some effort, were beginning to disperse, for it cost them dear to spend so much time entirely within Elric’s plane, but the necessary advantage had been gained and there was now little question of who would win as a hundred or more houses blazed throughout the city, igniting others and requiring attention from the defenders lest the whole squalid place burn down about their ears. In the harbour, too, ships were burning.
Dyvim Tvar was the first to notice the mirror beginning to swing