Elric_ The Sleeping Sorceress - Michael Moorcock [112]
“Will you not accept something else in place of the ship, King Grome?” said Dyvim Tvar suddenly. “Some other gift.”
Grome shook his monstrous head. “How could a mortal give me something? It is mortals who take from me all the time. They steal my bones and my blood and my flesh. Could you give me back all that your kind has taken?”
“Is there not one thing?” Elric said.
Grome closed his eyes.
“Precious metals? Jewels?” suggested Dyvim Tvar. “We have many such in Melniboné.”
“I have plenty,” said King Grome.
Elric shrugged in despair. “How can we bargain with a god, Dyvim Tvar?” He gave a bitter smile. “What can the Lord of the Soil desire? More sun, more rain? These are not ours to give.”
“I am a rough sort of god,” said Grome, “if indeed god I am. But I did not mean to kill your comrades. I have an idea. Give me the bodies of the slain. Bury them in my earth.”
Elric’s heart leapt. “That is all you wish of us?”
“It would seem much to me.”
“And for that you will let us sail on?”
“On water, aye,” growled Grome. “But I do not see why I should allow you to sail over my land. It is too much to expect of me. You can go to yonder river, but from now this ship will only possess the properties bestowed upon it by my brother Straasha. No longer shall it cross my domain.”
“But, King Grome, we need this ship. We are upon urgent business. We need to sail to the city yonder.” Elric pointed in the direction of Dhoz-Kam.
“You may go to the river, but after that the ship will sail only on water. Now give me what I ask.”
Elric called down to the bosun who, for the first time, seemed amazed by what he was witnessing. “Bring up the bodies of the three dead men.”
The bodies were brought up from below. Grome stretched out one of his great, earthy hands and picked them up.
“I thank you,” he growled. “Farewell.”
And slowly Grome began to descend into the ground, his whole huge frame becoming, atom by atom, absorbed with the earth until he was gone.
And then the ship was moving again, slowly towards the river, on the last short voyage it would ever make upon the land.
“And thus our plans are thwarted,” said Elric.
Dyvim Tvar looked miserably towards the shining river. “Aye. So much for that scheme. I hesitate to suggest this to you, Elric, but I fear we must resort to sorcery again if we are to stand any chance of achieving our goal.”
Elric sighed.
“I fear we must,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The City and the Mirror
Prince Yyrkoon was pleased. His plans went well. He peered through the high fence which enclosed the flat roof of his house (three storeys high and the finest in Dhoz-Kam); he looked out towards the harbour at his splendid, captured fleet. Every ship which had come to Dhoz-Kam and which had not flown the standard of a powerful nation had been easily taken after its crew had looked upon the great mirror which squatted on its pillars above the city. Demons had built those pillars and Prince Yyrkoon had paid them for their work with the souls of all those in Oin and Yu who had resisted him. Now there was one last ambition to fulfill and then he and his new followers would be on their way to Melniboné . . .
He turned and spoke to his sister. Cymoril lay on a wooden bench, staring unseeingly at the sky, clad in the filthy tatters of the dress she had been wearing when Yyrkoon abducted her from her tower.
“See our fleet, Cymoril! While the golden barges are scattered we shall sail unhampered into Imrryr and declare the city ours. Elric cannot defend himself against us now. He fell so easily into my trap. He is a fool! And you were a fool to give him your affection!”
Cymoril made no response. Through all the months she had been away, Yyrkoon had drugged her food and drink and produced in her a lassitude which rivaled Elric’s undrugged condition. Yyrkoon’s own experiments with his sorcerous powers had turned him gaunt, wild-eyed and somewhat mangy; he ceased to take any pains with his physical appearance. But Cymoril had a wasted, haunted look to her, for all that beauty remained. It was