Elric of Melnibone - Michael Moorcock [48]
‘Elric. Elric. Elric.’
And gradually, by an effort which he had experienced only once before when he had summoned Arioch to the plane of the Earth, he managed to extinguish all those alien memories and assert his own until, shaken and feeble, he lowered his hands from his ears and no longer shouted his own name. And then he stood up and looked about him.
More than two thirds of his men were dead, blind or otherwise. The big bosun was dead, his eyes wide and staring, his lips frozen in a scream, his right eye-socket raw and bleeding from where he had tried to drag his eye from it. All the corpses lay in unnatural positions, all had their eyes open (if they had eyes) and many bore the marks of self-mutilation, while others had vomited and others had dashed their brains against the wall. Dyvim Tvar was alive, but curled up in a corner, mumbling to himself and Elric thought he might be mad. Some of the other survivors were, indeed, mad, but they were quiet, they afforded no danger. Only five, including Elric, seemed to have resisted the alien memories and retained their own sanity. It seemed to Elric, as he stumbled from corpse to corpse, that most of the men had had their hearts fail.
‘Dyvim Tvar?’ Elric put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Dyvim Tvar?’
Dyvim Tvar took his head from his arm and looked into Elric’s eyes. In Dyvim Tvar’s own eyes was the experience of a score of millennia and there was irony there, too. ‘I live, Elric.’
‘Few of us live now.’
A little later they left the warehouse, no longer needing to fear the mirror, and found that all the streets were full of the dead who had received the mirror’s memories. Stiff bodies reached out hands to them. Dead lips formed silent pleas for help. Elric tried not to look at them as he pressed through them, but his desire for vengeance upon his cousin was even stronger now.
They reached the house. The door was open and the ground floor was crammed with corpses. There was no sign of Prince Yyrkoon.
Elric and Dyvim Tvar led the few Imrryrians who were still sane up the steps, past more imploring corpses, until they reached the top floor of the house.
And here they found Cymoril.
She was lying upon a couch and she was naked. There were runes painted on her flesh and the runes were, in themselves, obscene. Her eyelids were heavy and she did not at first recognise them. Elric rushed to her side and cradled her body in his arms. The body was oddly cold.
‘He—he makes me—sleep...’ said Cymoril. ‘A sorcerous sleep—from which—only he can wake me...’ She gave a great yawn. ‘I have stayed awake—this long—by an effort of—will—for Elric comes...’
‘Elric is here,’ said her lover, softly. ‘I am Elric, Cymoril.’
‘Elric?’ She relaxed in his arms. ‘You—you must find Yyrkoon—for only he can wake me...’
‘Where has he gone?’ Elric’s face had hardened. His crimson eyes were fierce. ‘Where?’
‘To find the two black swords—the runeswords—of—our ancestors—Mournblade...’
‘And Stormbringer,’ said Elric grimly. ‘Those swords are cursed. But where has he gone, Cymoril? How has he escaped us?’
‘Through—through—through the—Shade Gate—he conjured it—he made the most fearful pacts with demons to go through... The—other—room . . .’
Now Cymoril slept, but there seemed to be a certain peace on her face.
Elric watched as Dyvim Tvar crossed the room, sword in hand, and flung the door open. A dreadful stench came from the next room, which was in darkness. Something flickered on the far side.
‘Aye—that’s sorcery, right enough,’ said Elric. ‘And Yyrkoon has thwarted me. He conjured the Shade Gate and passed through it into some nether-world. Which one, I’ll never know, for there is an infinity of them. Oh, Arioch, I would give much to follow my cousin!’
‘Then follow him you shall,’ said a sweet, sardonic