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Yyrkoon turned, a ghastly grin on his face. “Mortal weapons are useless here,” he said.

Elric said to Rackhir. “He must be right. And your life is in danger, Rackhir. Go . . .”

Rackhir gave him a puzzled look. “No, I must stay here and help you . . .”

Elric shook his head. “You cannot help, you will only die if you stay. Go.”

Reluctantly the Red Archer unstrung his bow, glanced suspiciously up at the two black swords, then squeezed his way through the doorway and was gone.

“Now, Yyrkoon,” said Elric, letting Aubec’s sword fall to the floor. “We must settle this, you and I.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Two Black Swords

And then the runeblades Stormbringer and Mournblade were gone from where they had hung so long.

And Stormbringer had settled into Elric’s right hand. And Mournblade lay in Prince Yyrkoon’s right hand.

And the two men stood on opposite sides of the Pulsing Cavern and regarded first each other and then the swords they held.

The swords were singing. Their voices were faint but could be heard quite plainly. Elric lifted the huge blade easily and turned it this way and that, admiring its alien beauty.

“Stormbringer,” he said.

And then he felt afraid.

It was suddenly as if he had been born again and that this runesword was born with him. It was as if they had never been separate.

“Stormbringer.”

And the sword moaned sweetly and settled even more smoothly into his grasp.

“Stormbringer!” yelled Elric and he leapt at his cousin.

“Stormbringer!”

And he was full of fear—so full of fear. And the fear brought a wild kind of delight—a demonic need to fight and kill his cousin, to sink the blade deep into Yyrkoon’s heart. To take vengeance. To spill blood. To send a soul to hell.

And now Prince Yyrkoon’s cry could be heard above the thrum of the sword-voices, the drumming of the pulse of the cavern.

“Mournblade!”

And Mournblade came up to meet Stormbringer’s blow and turn that blow and thrust back at Elric who swayed aside and brought Stormbringer round and down in a side-stroke which knocked Yyrkoon and Mournblade backward for an instant. But Storm-bringer’s next thrust was met again. And the next thrust was met. And the next. If the swordsmen were evenly matched, then so were the blades, which seemed possessed of their own wills.

And the clang of the metal upon metal turned into a wild, metallic song which the swords sang. A joyful song as if they were glad at last to be back to battling, though they battled each other.

And Elric barely saw his cousin, Prince Yyrkoon, at all, save for an occasional flash of his dark, wild face. Elric’s attention was given entirely to the two black swords, for it seemed that the swords fought with the life of one of the swordsmen as a prize (or perhaps the lives of both, thought Elric) and that the rivalry between Elric and Yyrkoon was nothing compared with the brotherly rivalry between the swords who seemed full of pleasure at the chance to engage again after many millennia.

And this observation, as he fought—and fought for his soul as well as his life—gave Elric pause to consider his hatred of Yyrkoon.

Kill Yyrkoon he would, but not at the will of another power. Not to give sport to these alien swords.

Mournblade’s point darted at his eyes and Stormbringer rose to deflect the thrust once more.

Elric no longer fought his cousin. He fought the will of the two black swords.

Stormbringer dashed for Yyrkoon’s momentarily undefended throat. Elric clung to the sword and dragged it back, sparing his cousin’s life. Stormbringer whined almost petulantly, like a dog stopped from biting an intruder.

And Elric spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll not be your puppet, runeblade. If we must be united, let it be upon a proper understanding.”

The sword seemed to hesitate, to drop its guard, and Elric was hard put to defend himself against the whirling attack of Mournblade which, in turn, seemed to sense its advantage.

Elric felt fresh energy pour up his right arm and into his body. This was what the