Elric_ The Sleeping Sorceress - Michael Moorcock [120]
He reached the trees and passed them, and the touch of his cloak on a branch broke the brittle thing which turned almost at once to ash which was scattered on the wind. Elric drew the cloak closer about his body.
As he approached the rock he became conscious of a sound which seemed to emanate from it. He slowed his pace and put his hand upon the pommel of his sword.
The noise continued—a small, rhythmic noise. Through the gloom Elric peered carefully at the rock, trying to locate the source of the sound.
And then the noise stopped and was replaced by another—a soft scuffle, a padding footfall, and then silence. Elric took a pace backward and drew Aubec’s sword. The first sound had been that of a man sleeping. The second sound was that of a man waking and preparing himself either for attack or to defend himself.
Elric said: “I am Elric of Melniboné. I am a stranger here.”
And an arrow slid past his helm almost at the same moment as a bowstring sounded. Elric flung himself to one side and sought about for cover, but there was no cover save the rock behind which the archer hid.
And now a voice came from behind the rock. It was a firm, rather bleak voice. It said:
“That was not meant to harm you but to display my skill in case you considered harming me. I have had my fill of demons in this world and you look like the most dangerous demon of all, Whiteface.”
“I am mortal,” said Elric, straightening up and deciding that if he must die it would be best to die with some sort of dignity.
“You spoke of Melniboné. I have heard of the place. An isle of demons.”
“Then you have not heard enough of Melniboné. I am mortal as are all my folk. Only the ignorant think us demons.”
“I am not ignorant, my friend. I am a Warrior Priest of Phum, born to that caste and the inheritor of all its knowledge and, until recently, the Lords of Chaos themselves were my patrons. Then I refused to serve them any longer and was exiled to this plane by them. Perhaps the same fate befell you, for the folk of Melniboné serve Chaos, do they not?”
“Aye. And I know of Phum—it lies in the Unmapped East—beyond the Weeping Waste, beyond the Sighing Desert, beyond even Elwher. It is one of the oldest of the Young Kingdoms.”
“All that is so—though I dispute that the East is unmapped, save by the savages of the West. So you are, indeed, to share my exile, it seems.”
“I am not exiled. I am upon a quest. When the quest is done, I shall return to my own world.”
“Return, say you? That interests me, my pale friend. I had thought return impossible.”
“Perhaps it is and I have been tricked. And if your own powers have not found you a way to another plane, perhaps mine will not save me either.”
“Powers? I have none since I relinquished my servitude to Chaos. Well, friend, do you intend to fight me?”
“There is only one upon this plane I would fight and it is not you, Warrior Priest of Phum.” Elric sheathed his sword and at the same moment the speaker rose from behind the rock, replacing a scarlet-fletched arrow in a scarlet quiver.
“I am Rackhir,” said the man. “Called the Red Archer for, as you see, I affect scarlet dress. It is a habit of the Warrior Priests of Phum to choose but a single colour to wear. It is the only loyalty to tradition I still possess.” He had on a scarlet jerkin, scarlet breeks, scarlet shoes and a scarlet cap with a scarlet feather in it. His bow was scarlet and the pommel of his sword glowed ruby-red. His face, which was aquiline and gaunt, as if carved from fleshless bone, was weather-beaten, and that was brown. He was tall and he was thin, but muscles rippled on his arms and torso. There was irony in his eyes and something of a smile