Elric_ The Sleeping Sorceress - Michael Moorcock [115]
“Do you not think that Elric has anticipated the threat of the Mirror of Memory, brother?” Cymoril said with relish.
“Anticipate it, aye—but resist it he cannot. He must see to fight. He must either be cut down or open his eyes. No man with eyes can be safe from the power of the mirror.” He glanced around the crudely furnished room. “Where is Valharik? Where is the cur?”
Valharik came running in. “The mirror is being turned, my lord, but it will affect our own men, too. I fear . . .”
“Then cease to fear. What if our own men are drawn under its influence? We can soon feed what they need to know back into their brains—at the same time as we feed our defeated foes. You are too nervous, Captain Valharik.”
“But Elric leads them . . .”
“And Elric’s eyes are eyes—though they look like crimson stones. He will fare no better than his men.”
In the streets around Prince Yyrkoon’s house Elric, Dyvim Tvar and their Imrryrians pushed on, forcing back their demoralized opponents. The attackers had lost barely a man, whereas many Oinish and Yurits lay dead in the streets, beside a few of their renegade Imrryrian commanders. The flame elementals, whom Elric had summoned with some effort, were beginning to disperse, for it cost them dear to spend so much time entirely within Elric’s plane, but the necessary advantage had been gained and there was now little question of who would win as a hundred or more houses blazed throughout the city, igniting others and requiring attention from the defenders lest the whole squalid place burn down about their ears. In the harbour, too, ships were burning.
Dyvim Tvar was the first to notice the mirror beginning to swing into focus on the streets. He pointed a warning finger, then turned, blowing on his war-horn and ordering forward the troops who, up to now, had played no part in the fighting. “Now you must lead us!” he cried, and he lowered his helm over his face. The eye-holes of the helm had been blocked so that he could not see through.
Slowly Elric lowered his own helm until he was in darkness. The sound of fighting continued however, as the veterans who had sailed with them from Melniboné set to work in their place and the other troops fell back. The leading Imrryrians had not blocked their eye-holes.
Elric prayed that the scheme would work.
Yyrkoon, peeking cautiously through a chink in a heavy curtain, said querulously: “Valharik? They fight on. Why is that? Is not the mirror focused?”
“It should be, my lord.”
“Then, see for yourself, the Imrryrians continue to forge through our defenders—and our men are beginning to come under the influence of the mirror. What is wrong, Valharik? What is wrong?”
Valharik drew air between his teeth and there was a certain admiration in his expression as he looked upon the fighting Imrryrians.
“They are blind,” he said. “They fight by sound and touch and smell. They are blind, my lord emperor—and they lead Elric and his men whose helms are so designed they can see nothing.”
“Blind?” Yyrkoon spoke almost pathetically, refusing to understand. “Blind?”
“Aye. Blind warriors—men wounded in earlier wars, but good fighters nonetheless. That is how Elric defeats our mirror, my lord.”
“Agh! No! No!” Yyrkoon beat heavily on his captain’s back and the man shrank away. “Elric is not cunning. He is not cunning. Some powerful demon gives him these ideas.”
“Perhaps, my lord. But are there demons more powerful than those who have aided you?”
“No,” said Yyrkoon. “There are none. Oh, that I could summon some of them now! But I have expended my powers in opening the Shade Gate. I should have anticipated . . . I could not anticipate . . . Oh Elric! I shall yet destroy you, when the runeblades are mine!” Then Yyrkoon frowned. “But how could he have been prepared? What demon . . .? Unless he summoned Arioch himself? But he has not the power to summon Arioch. I could not summon him . . .”
And then, as if in reply, Yyrkoon heard Elric’s battle