Elric Swords and Roses - Michael Moorcock [53]
From somewhere now could be heard a new sound—human voices yelling with mindless panic—and Mother Phatt sobbed still louder. “It is too late! It is too late!” Wheldrake took hold of one of the horses but it shook itself free and avoided him. He abandoned any further attempt to find himself a mount and instead ran in pursuit of the albino. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, Fallogard Phatt took hold of his mother’s wheelchair while the old woman still opened her mouth in a wail of grieving terror. His niece covered her ears, running beside the chair.
Out into the night now—Elric a raging shadow ahead of them and the massive wheels of the ever-moving villages grinding inexorably forward—into a cold wind carrying rain—the wild night lit by the guttering fires and lamps of the walkers as they marched, of the distant villages of the first rank. There was a certain spring to the road now, which suggested they were approaching the bridge that spanned the bay.
Wheldrake heard snatches of song. He did not break his stride but forced himself to lengthen it, breathing expertly as he had once been taught. He heard laughter, casual conversation, and he wondered for a moment if this were merely a dream, with all the lack of consequence he associated with dreams. But there were other voices ahead—oaths and yells as Elric forced his horse between the walkers, hampered by so many bodies but refusing to use the runesword against this unarmed mass.
And behind him Mother Phatt grew quieter while her granddaughter’s sobs grew louder.
Somehow Wheldrake and the Phatts were able to keep pace with Elric, even getting closer to him as he pushed on through the crowd and Mother Phatt cried “Stop! You must stop!” And all the folk of the Free Gypsy Nation who heard this obscenity upon an old woman’s tongue drew away fastidiously, disgusted.
More confusion followed. Wheldrake began to wonder if they had not acted thoughtlessly, in response to a senile woman’s nightmare. No wheel had stopped turning, no foot had ceased walking; everything was as it should be on the great road around the world. By the time they had made their way through the main mass and were able to move freely, Elric had slowed the horse to a canter, surprised not to be followed by the rest of Trollon’s guard. Wheldrake, however, was prudent and waited until the albino had sheathed the great runesword before approaching him. “What did you see, Elric?”
“Only that the Rose was in danger. Perhaps something else. We must find Duntrollin swiftly. She was foolish to do what she did. I had thought her wiser than that. It was she, after all, who counseled us to caution!”
The wind blew harder and the flags of the Gypsy Nation cracked and snapped in the force of it.
“It will be dawn, soon,” said Wheldrake. He turned to look back at the Family Phatt: three faces bearing the same stamp, of a fear so all-consuming it made them almost entirely blind to their surroundings. Imploring, wailing, shouting warnings, sobbing and shrieking, Mother Phatt led them in a hymn of unspeakable despair and pain. From which the free walkers discreetly removed themselves, casting the occasional disapproving glance.
Calmly onward moves the Gypsy Nation, wheels turning with steady slowness, propelled by her marching millions, making her perpetual progress around the world …
Yet there is something wrong—something profoundly alarming ahead—something which Mother Phatt can already see, which Charion can already hear and which Fallogard Phatt yearns with