Elric of Melnibone - Michael Moorcock [51]
‘You spoke of Melniboné. I have heard of the place. An isle of demons.’
‘Then you have not heard enough of Melniboné. I am mortal as are all my folk. Only the ignorant think us demons.’
‘I am not ignorant, my friend. I am a Warrior Priest of Phum, born to that caste and the inheritor of all its knowledge and, until recently, the Lords of Chaos themselves were my patrons. Then I refused to serve them longer and was exiled to this plane by them. Perhaps the same fate befell you, for the folk of Melniboné serve Chaos do they not?’
‘Aye. And I know of Phum—it lies in the unmapped East—beyond the Weeping Waste, beyond the Sighing Desert, beyond even Elwher. It is one of the oldest of the Young Kingdoms.’
‘All that is so—though I dispute that the East is unmapped, save by the savages of the West. So you are, indeed, to share my exile, it seems.’
‘I am not exiled. I am upon a quest. When the quest is done, I shall return to my own world.’
‘Return, say you? That interests me, my pale friend. I had thought return impossible.’
‘Perhaps it is and I have been tricked. And if your own powers have not found you a way to another plane, perhaps mine will not save me either.’
‘Powers? I have none since I relinquished my servitude to Chaos. Well, friend, do you intend to fight me?’
‘There is only one upon this plane I would fight and it is not you, Warrior Priest of Phum.’ Elric sheathed his sword and at the same moment the speaker rose from behind the rock, replacing a scarlet-fletched arrow in a scarlet quiver.
‘I am Rackhir,’ said the man. ‘Called the Red Archer for, as you see, I affect scarlet dress. It is a habit of the Warrior Priests of Phum to choose but a single colour to wear. It is the only loyalty to tradition I still possess.’ He had on a scarlet jerkin, scarlet breeks, scarlet shoes and a scarlet cap with a scarlet feather in it. His bow was scarlet and the pommel of his sword glowed ruby-red. His face, which was aquiline and gaunt, as if carved from fleshless bone, was weather-beaten, and that was brown. He was tall and he was thin, but muscles rippled on his arms and torso. There was irony in his eyes and something of a smile upon his thin lips, though the face showed that it had been through much experience, little of it pleasant.
‘An odd place to choose for a quest,’ said the Red Archer, standing with hands on hips and looking Elric up and down. ‘But I’ll strike a bargain with you if you’re interested.’
‘If the bargain suits me, archer, I’ll agree to it, for you seem to know more of this world than do I.’
‘Well—you must find something here and then leave, whereas I have nothing at all to do here and wish to leave. If I help you in your quest, will you take me with you when you return to our own plane?’
‘That seems a fair bargain, but I cannot promise what I have no power to give. I will say only this—if it is possible for me to take you back with me to our own plane, either before or after I have finished my quest, I will do it.’
‘That is reasonable,’ said Rackhir the Red Archer. ‘Now—tell me what you seek.’
‘I seek two swords, forged millennia ago by immortals, used by my ancestors but then relinquished by them and placed upon this plane. The swords are large and heavy and black and they have cryptic runes carved into their blades. I was told that I would find them in the Pulsing Cavern which is reached through the Tunnel Under the Marsh. Have you heard of either of these places?’
‘I have not. Nor have I heard of the two black swords.’ Rackhir rubbed his bony chin. ‘Though I remember reading something in one of the Books of Phum and what I read disturbed me...’
‘The swords are legendary. Many books make some small reference to them—almost always mysterious. There is said to be one tome which records the history of the swords and all who have used them—and all who will use them in the future—a timeless book which contains all time. Some call it the Chronicle of the Black Sword and in it, it is said, men may read their whole destinies.’