Elric of Melnibone - Michael Moorcock [56]
Rackhir, testing each footstep with his unstrung bow-stave, followed behind, whistling a small, complicated tune as he went along. Another of his race would have recognised the tune as the Song of the Son of the Hero of the High Hell who is about to Sacrifice his Life, a popular melody in Phum, particularly amongst the caste of the Warrior Priest.
Elric found the tune irritating and distracting, but he said nothing, for he concentrated every fragment of his attention on keeping his balance upon the slippery surface of the slab, which now appeared to rock slightly, as if it floated on the surface of the marsh.
And now they were halfway to the monument whose shape could be clearly distinguished: A great eagle with spread wings and a savage beak and claws extended for the kill. An eagle in the same black marble as the slab on which they tried to keep their balance. And Elric was reminded of a tomb. Had some ancient hero been buried here? Or had the tomb been built to house the Black Swords—imprison them so that they might never enter the world of men again and steal men’s souls?
The slab rocked more violently. Elric tried to remain upright but swayed first on one foot and then the other, the brand waving crazily. Both feet slid from under him and he went flying into the marsh and was instantly buried up to his knees.
He began to sink.
Somehow he had managed to keep his grip on the brand and by its light he could see the red-clad archer peering forward.
‘Elric?’
‘I’m here, Rackhir.’
‘You’re sinking?’
‘The marsh seems intent on swallowing me, aye.’
‘Can you lie flat?’
‘I can lie forward, but my legs are trapped.’ Elric tried to move his body in the ooze which pressed against it. Something rushed past him in front of his face, giving voice to a kind of muted gibbering. Elric did his best to control the fear which welled up in him. ‘I think you must give me up, friend Rackhir.’
‘What? And lose my means of getting out of this world? You must think me more selfless than I am, Comrade Elric. Here...’ Rackhir carefully lowered himself to the slab and reached out his arm towards Elric. Both men were now covered in clinging slime; both shivered with cold. Rackhir stretched and stretched and Elric leaned forward as far as he could and tried to reach the hand, but it was impossible. And every second dragged him deeper into the stinking filth of the marsh.
Then Rackhir took up his bow-stave and pushed that out.
‘Grab the bow, Elric. Can you?’
Leaning forward and stretching every bone and muscle in his body, Elric just managed to get a grip on the bow-stave.
‘Now, I must—Ah!’ Rackhir, pulling at the bow, found his own feet slipping and the slab beginning to rock quite wildly. He flung out one arm to grab the far lip of the slab and with his other hand kept a grip on the bow, ‘Hurry, Elric! Hurry!’
Elric began painfully to pull himself from the ooze. The slab still rocked crazily and Rackhir’s hawklike face was almost as pale as Elric’s own as he desperately strove to keep his hold on both slab and bow. And then Elric, all soaked in mire, managed to reach the slab and crawl onto it, the brand still sputtering in his hand, and lie there gasping and gasping and gasping.
Rackhir, too, was short of breath, but he laughed. ‘What a fish I’ve caught!’ he said. ‘The biggest yet, I’d wager!’
‘I am grateful to you, Rackhir the Red Archer. I am grateful, Warrior Priest of Phum. I owe you my life,’ said Elric after a while. ‘And I swear that whether I’m successful in my quest or not I’ll use all my powers to see you through the Shade Gate and back into the world from which we have both come.’
Rackhir said quietly: ‘You are a man, Elric of Melniboné. That is why I saved you. There are few men in any world.’ He shrugged and grinned. ‘Now I suggest we continue towards yonder monument on our knees. Undignified it might be, but safer it is also. And it is but a short way to crawl.’
Elric agreed.
Not much more time had passed in that timeless darkness before they had reached a little