Elric of Melnibone - Michael Moorcock [57]
‘A trap?’ mused Rackhir.
‘Or does Yyrkoon assume us perished in Ameeron?’ said Elric, wiping himself free of slime as best he could. He sighed. ‘Let’s enter and be done with it.’
And so they entered.
They found themselves in a small room. Elric cast the faint light of a brand about the place and saw another doorway. The rest of the room was featureless-each wall made of the same faintly glistening black marble. The room was filled with silence.
Neither man spoke. Both walked unfalteringly towards the next doorway and, when they found steps, began to descend the steps, which wound down and down into total darkness.
For a long time they descended, still without speaking, until eventually they reached the bottom and saw before them the entrance to a narrow tunnel which was irregularly shaped so that it seemed more the work of nature than of some intelligence. Moisture dripped from the roof of the tunnel and fell with the regularity of heartbeats to the floor, seeming to echo a deeper sound, far, far away, emanating from somewhere in the tunnel itself.
Elric heard Rackhir clear his throat.
‘This is without doubt a tunnel,’ said the Red Archer, ‘and it, unquestionably leads under the marsh.’
Elric felt that Rackhir shared his reluctance to enter the tunnel. He stood with the guttering brand held high, listening to the sound of the drops falling to the floor of the tunnel, trying to recognise that other sound which came so faintly from the depths.
And then he forced himself forward, almost running into the tunnel, his ears filled with a sudden roaring which might have come from within his head or from some other source in the tunnel. He heard Rackhir’s footfalls behind him. He drew his sword, the sword of the dead hero Aubec, and he heard the hissing of his own breath echo from the walls of the tunnel which was now alive with sounds of every sort.
Elric shuddered, but he did not pause.
The tunnel was warm. The floor felt spongy beneath his feet, the smell of brine persisted. And now he could see that the walls of the tunnel were smoother, that they seemed to shiver with quick, regular movement. He heard Rackhir gasp behind him as the archer, too, noted the peculiar nature of the tunnel.
‘It’s like flesh,’ murmured the Warrior Priest of Phum. ‘Like flesh.’
Elric could not bring himself to reply. All his attention was required to force himself forward. He was consumed by terror. His whole body shook. He sweated and his legs threatened to buckle under him. His grip was so weak that he could barely keep his sword from falling to the floor. And there were hints of something in his memory, something which his brain refused to consider. Had he been here before? His trembling increased. His stomach turned. But he still stumbled on, the brand held before him.
And now the soft, steady thrumming sound grew louder and he saw ahead a small, almost circular aperture at the very end of the tunnel. He stopped, swaying.
‘The tunnel ends,’ whispered Rackhir. ‘There is no way through.’
The small aperture was pulsing with a swift, strong beat.
‘The Pulsing Cavern,’ Elric whispered. ‘That is what we should find at the end of the Tunnel Under the Marsh. That must be the entrance, Rackhir.’
‘It is too small for a man to enter, Elric,’ said Rackhir reasonably.
‘No...’
Elric stumbled forward until he stood close to the opening. He sheathed his sword. He handed the brand to Rackhir and then, before the Warrior Priest of Phum could stop him, he had flung himself headfirst through the gap, wriggling his body through—and the walls of the aperture parted for him and then closed behind him, leaving Rackhir on the other side.
Elric got slowly to his feet. A faint, pinkish light now came from the walls and ahead of him was another entrance, slightly larger than the other through which he