Elric Swords and Roses - Michael Moorcock [24]
“Would you return there, Master Wheldrake?”
“Indeed I would, sir. I’m growing a little long in the tooth for extra-dimensional adventuring, and I tend to form firm attachments, so it is rather hard on me, you know, to miss so many friends.”
“Well, sir. I hope you will find them again.”
“And you, sir. Good luck with whatever it is you hope to discover. Though I suspect you are the kind who’s forever searching for the numinous.”
“Perhaps,” said Elric soberly, chewing upon a tender leg, “but I think the numinosity of what I presently seek would surprise you greatly …”
Wheldrake was about to ask more when he changed his mind and stared instead, with abiding pride, at his spit and his catch. Elric’s own cares were considerably lightened by his relish for the little man’s company and quirks of character.
And now Master Wheldrake has found his sought-for volume and has a handy candle to light at the fire so that he might read aloud to the last Prince of Melniboné an account of some demigod of his own dimension and his challenge of a kingship, when there comes a sound of a horse walking slowly through the wheat—a horse which hesitates with every few steps as if controlled by a clever master. So Elric shouts out—
“Greetings, horseman. Would you share our meat?”
There’s a pause, then the answering voice is muffled, distant, yet courteous:
“I’d share your heat, sir, for a while. It’s mighty cold just now, to me.”
The horse continues towards them at the same pace, still pausing from time to time, still cautious, until at last they see its shadow against the firelight and a rider dismounts, walking softly towards them, a silhouette of alarming symmetry, a big man clad from head to foot in armour that flashes silver, gold, sometimes blue-grey. On his helm is a plume of dark yellow and his breastplate is etched with the yellow-and-black Arms of Chaos, the arms of a soulbonded servant of the Lords of Unlikelihood, which are eight arrows radiating from a central hub, representing the variety and multiplicity of Chaos. Behind him his perfect war-stallion was furnished with a hood and surcoat of radiant black-and-silver silk, a high saddle of ornamental ivory and ebony, and silver harness bound with gold.
Elric got to his feet, ready for confrontation but chiefly puzzled by the stranger’s appearance. The newcomer wore a helm apparently without a visor, but all of a piece from neck to crown. Only the eye-slits relieved the smoothness of the coruscating steel, which seemed to contain living matter just below its polished surface: matter that flowed and stirred and threatened. Through those slits peered a pair of eyes displaying an angry pain which Elric understood. He was unable to identify a feeling of close affinity with the man as he came up to the fire and stretched gauntleted hands towards the flames. The firelight caught the metal and again suggested that something living was contained in it, trapped in it—some enormous energy, so powerful it could be observed through the steel. And yet the fingers stretched and curled like any fleshly finger warmed back to circulation, and the stranger’s sigh was one of simple comfort.
“Will you take a little rabbit, sir?” Wheldrake gestured towards the roasting coney.
“Thank you, no, sir.”
“Will you unburden yourself of your helm and sit with us? You’re in no danger.”
“I believe you, sir. But I am unable to remove this helm at present and have not, I’ll be frank, fed upon commonplace sustenance for some while.”
At this Wheldrake raised a ruddy eyebrow. “Does Chaos send her servants to become cannibals, these days, sir?”
“She’s had servants a-plenty who have been that,” said the armoured man, turning his back now to the fire’s heat, “but I am not of their number. I have not eaten flesh, fruit or vegetable, sir, for nigh on two thousand years. Or it could be more. I ceased attempting such a reckoning long ago. There are realms that are always Night and realms