Elric_ The Sleeping Sorceress - Michael Moorcock [26]
As always, greed, weakness and malice mingled to form King Urish’s expression as he regarded the stranger whom one of his courtiers had but lately announced.
Urish had recognized the name and he believed he could guess the Pan Tangian’s business here.
“I heard you were dead, Theleb K’aarna—killed beyond Lormyr, near World’s Edge.” Urish grinned to display the black crags which were the rotting remains of his teeth.
Theleb K’aarna removed the kerchief from his lips and his voice was strangled at first, gaining strength as he remembered the wrongs recently done him. “My magic is not so weak I cannot escape a spell such as was woven that day. I conjured myself below the ground while Myshella’s Noose of Flesh engulfed the Kelmain Host.”
Urish’s disgusting grin widened.
“You crept into a hole, is that it?”
The sorcerer’s eyes burned fiercely. “I’ll not dispute the strength of my powers with—”
He broke off and drew a deep breath which he at once regretted. He stared warily around him at the Beggar Court, all mangled and maimed, which had deposited itself about the filthy hall, mocking him. The beggars of Nadsokor knew the power of poverty and disease—knew how it terrified those who were not used to it. And thus their very squalor was their safeguard against intruders.
A repulsive cough which might have been a laugh now seized King Urish. “And was it your magic that brought you here?” As his whole body shook his bloodshot eyes continued, beadily, to regard the sorcerer.
“I have traveled across the seas and all across Vilmir to be here,” Theleb K’aarna said, “because I had heard there was one you hated above all others . . .”
“And we hate all others—all who are not beggars,” Urish reminded him. The king chuckled and the chuckle became, once more, a throaty, convulsive cough.
“But you hate Elric of Melniboné most.”
“Aye. It would be fair to say that. Before he won fame as the Kinslayer, the traitor of Imrryr, he came to Nadsokor to deceive us, disguised as a leper who had begged his way from the Eastlands beyond Karlaak. He tricked me disgracefully and stole something from my Hoard. And my Hoard is sacred—I will not let another even glimpse it!”
“I heard he stole a scroll from you,” Theleb K’aarna said. “A spell which had once belonged to his cousin Yyrkoon. Yyrkoon wished to be rid of Elric and let him believe that the spell would release the Princess Cymoril from her sorcerous slumber . . .”
“Aye. Yyrkoon had given the scroll to one of our citizens when he went a-begging to the gates of Imrryr. He then told Elric what he had done. Elric disguised himself and came here. With the aid of sorcery he gained access to my Hoard—my Sacred Hoard—and plucked the scroll from it . . .”
Theleb K’aarna looked sideways at the Beggar King. “Some would say that it was not Elric’s fault—that Yyrkoon was to blame. He deceived you both. The spell did not awaken Cymoril, did it?”
“No. But we have a Law in Nadsokor . . .” Urish raised the great cleaver Hackmeat and displayed its ragged, rusty blade. For all its battered appearance, it was a fearsome weapon. “That Law says that any man who looks upon the Sacred Hoard of King Urish must die and die most horribly—at the hands of the Burning God!”
“And none of your wandering citizens has yet managed to take this vengeance?”
“I must pass the sentence personally upon him before he dies. He must come again to Nadsokor, for it is only here that he may be acquainted with his doom.”
Theleb K’aarna said: “I have no love for Elric.”
Urish once more voiced the sound that was half laugh, half wheezing cough. “Aye—I have heard he has chased you all across the Young Kingdoms, that you have brought more and more powerful sorceries against him, yet every time he has defeated you.”
Theleb K’aarna frowned. “Have a care, King Urish. I have had bad luck, yet I am still one of Pan Tang’s greatest sorcerers.”
“But you spend your powers