Elric Swords and Roses - Michael Moorcock [110]
“We can create the evidence,” said Elric quietly. “It is within our power to do that. To create order, justice, harmony …”
“You moralize too much, my lord. It is the sign of a morbid mind, sir. An over-burdened conscience, perhaps.”
“I will not be condescended to by such as yourself, Gaynor.” Elric let his body appear to relax, his expression become casual. “A conscience is not always a burden.”
“O, murderer of kin and betrothed! What else but loathing can ye feel for your deficient character?” Gaynor feinted with words even as he feinted with the leechsword, and both were designed to deprive the albino of his faith in his own skills, his will to survive.
“I have killed more villains than I have killed innocents,” said Elric firmly, though it was clear Gaynor knew how to strike at the very vitals of his being. “And I regret only that I cannot have the pleasure of slaying thee, failed Servant of the Balance.”
“Make no mistake, my lord, it would be a pleasure for us both,” said Gaynor—and now he lunged—now Elric must block the blow. And again the energy from the sword was drained in a great gobbling up of cosmic force, and the black-and-yellow leechsword began to pulse with dirty light.
Elric, unprepared for the power of Gaynor’s sword, fell backwards and almost lost his seat, the runesword hanging uselessly from its wrist-thong. The albino, slumping forward in his saddle, gasping for air, saw all they had lately won about to be taken back in moments … He croaked for Princess Tayaratuka, riding close now, to flee—to avoid the leechsword at any cost, for now it was twice as powerful as it had been …
But the princess could not hear him. Even now, with a grace that made her seem almost weightless, she was bearing down upon Gaynor the Damned, the golden sword whistling and ululating in her right hand, her black hair whipped behind her, her violet eyes alight with the prospect of Gaynor’s doom …
… and again Gaynor blocked her blow. Again he laughed. And again, in astonishment, Princess Tayaratuka felt the energy draining from herself and her blade …
… then, almost casually, Gaynor had knocked her from her saddle with the butt of his sword, leaving her to lie helplessly amongst the mangled flesh and bone of the field, and on her horse was riding to where the others fought, still oblivious of the danger he brought …
Princess Tayaratuka lifted her eyes to Elric’s as the albino strove to drag himself upright. “Elric, have you no other sorcery to help us?”
Elric racked his brains, considering all the grimoires and charts and words he had memorized as a child, and could put himself in tune with no psychic power at all …
“Elric,” came Tayaratuka’s hoarse whisper, “see—Gaynor has downed Shanug’a—the horse races with her, beyond control … and now Mishiguya is fallen from her horse … Elric, we are lost! We are lost in spite of all our sorceries!”
And Elric began dimly to recollect an old alliance his folk had had with some near-supernatural creatures who had helped them in the early days of the founding of Melniboné, but he could remember only a name …
“Tangled Woman,” he murmured, his lips dry and cracking. It was as if his whole body were drained of substance and that any movement would snap it in a dozen places. “The Rose will know …”
“Come,” said Tayaratuka, getting to her feet and grabbing hold of his horse’s bridle, “we must tell them …”
But Elric had nothing to tell; merely the memory of a memory, of an old tryst with some natural spirit which owed no loyalty to Law or Chaos; of a nagging hint of a spell—some chant he had been taught as a boy, as an exercise in summoning …
The Tangled Woman.
He