Elric_ The Sleeping Sorceress - Michael Moorcock [14]
For all they had been sustained by the wine and meat Moonglum had thought to bring, they were weary from their walk across the steppe.
They made their way through the rumbustious crowd—laughing, red-cheeked women and burly, fur-swathed men whose breath steamed in the air, mingling with the smoke from the braziers, as they took huge swallows from gourds of beer or skins of wine, conducting their business with the slightly less bucolic merchants of the more sophisticated townships.
Elric was looking for news and he knew that if he found it anywhere it would be in the taverns. He waited while Moonglum followed his nose to the best of Alorasaz’s inns and came back with the news of where it could be found.
They walked a short distance and entered a rowdy tavern crammed with big wooden tables and benches on which were jammed more traders and more merchants all arguing cheerfully, holding up furs to display their quality or to mock their worthlessness, depending on which point of view was taken.
Moonglum left Elric standing in the doorway and went to speak with the landlord, a hugely fat man with a glistening scarlet face.
Elric saw the landlord bend and listen to Moonglum. The man nodded and raised an arm to bellow at Elric to follow him and Moonglum.
Elric inched his way through the press and was knocked half off his feet by a gesticulating trader who apologized cheerfully and profusely and offered to buy him a drink.
“It is nothing,” Elric said faintly.
The man got up. “Come on, sir, it was my fault . . .” His voice tailed off as he saw the albino’s face. He mumbled something and sat down again, making a wry remark to one of his companions.
Elric followed Moonglum and the landlord up a flight of swaying wooden stairs, along a landing and into a private room which, the landlord told them, was all that was available.
“Such rooms as these are expensive during the winter market,” the landlord said apologetically.
And Moonglum winced as, silently, Elric handed the man another precious ruby worth a small fortune.
The landlord looked at it carefully and then laughed. “This inn will have fallen down before your credit’s up, master. I thank thee. Trading must be good this season! I’ll have drink and viands sent up at once!”
“The finest you have, landlord,” said Moonglum, trying to make the best of things.
“Aye—I wish I had better.”
Elric sat down on one of the beds and removed his cloak and his sword belt. The chill had not left his bones.
“I wish you would give me charge of our wealth,” Moonglum said as he removed his boots by the fire. “We might have need of it before this quest is ended.”
But Elric seemed not to hear him.
After they had eaten and discovered from the landlord that a ship was leaving the day after tomorrow for Iosaz, Elric and Moonglum went to their separate beds to sleep.
Elric’s dreams were troubled that night. More than usual did phantoms come to walk the dark corridors of his mind.
He saw Cymoril screaming as the Black Sword drank her soul. He saw Imrryr burning, her fine towers crumbling. He saw his cackling cousin Yyrkoon sprawling on the Ruby Throne. He saw other things which could not possibly be part of his past . . .
Never quite suited to be ruler of the cruel folk of Melniboné, Elric had wandered the lands of men only to discover that he had no place there, either. And in the meantime Yyrkoon had usurped the kingship, had tried to force Cymoril to be his and, when she refused, put her into a deep and sorcerous slumber from which only he could wake her.
Now Elric dreamed that he had found a Nanorion, the mystic gem which could awaken even the dead. He dreamed that Cymoril was still alive, but sleeping, and that he placed the Nanorion on her forehead and that she woke up and kissed him and left Imrryr with him, sailing through the skies on Flamefang, the great Melnibonéan battle dragon, away to a peaceful castle in the snow.
He awoke with a start.
It was the dead of night.
Even the noise from the tavern