Elric_ The Sleeping Sorceress - Michael Moorcock [92]
Suddenly Cymoril knew that Elric was dead and she suspected that Yyrkoon had, in some way, been responsible for Elric’s death. Either Yyrkoon had allowed Elric to be borne down by a group of southland reavers or else he had managed to slay Elric himself. She knew her brother and she recognized his expression. He was pleased with himself as he always had been when successful in some form of treachery or another. Anger flashed in her tear-filled eyes and she threw back her head and shouted at the shifting, ominous sky:
“Oh! Yyrkoon has destroyed him!”
Her guards were startled. The captain spoke solicitously. “Madam?”
“He is dead—and that brother slew him. Take Prince Yyrkoon, captain. Kill Prince Yyrkoon, captain.”
Unhappily, the captain put his right hand on the hilt of his sword. A young warrior, more impetuous, drew his blade, murmuring: “I will slay him, princess, if that is your desire.” The young warrior loved Cymoril with considerable and unthinking intensity.
The captain offered the warrior a cautionary glance, but the warrior was blind to it. Now two others slid swords from scabbards as Yyrkoon, a red cloak wound about him, his dragon crest catching the light from the brands guttering in the wind, stalked forward and cried:
“Yyrkoon is emperor now!”
“No!” shrieked Yyrkoon’s sister. “Elric! Elric! Where are you?”
“Serving his new master, Pyaray of Chaos. His dead hands pull at the sweep of a Chaos ship, sister. His dead eyes see nothing at all. His dead ears hear only the crack of Pyaray’s whips and his dead flesh cringes, feeling nought but that unearthly scourge. Elric sank in his armour to the bottom of the sea.”
“Murderer! Traitor!” Cymoril began to sob.
The captain, who was a practical man, said to his warriors in a low voice: “Sheathe your weapons and salute your new emperor.”
Only the young guardsman who loved Cymoril disobeyed. “But he slew the emperor! My lady Cymoril said so!”
“What of it? He is emperor now. Kneel or you’ll be dead within the minute.”
The young warrior gave a wild shout and leapt towards Yyrkoon, who stepped back, trying to free his arms from the folds of his cloak. He had not expected this.
But it was the captain who leapt forward, his own sword drawn, and hacked down the youngster so that he gasped, half-turned, then fell at Yyrkoon’s feet.
This demonstration of the captain’s was confirmation of his real power and Yyrkoon almost smirked with satisfaction as he looked down at the corpse. The captain fell to one knee, the bloody sword still in his hand. “My emperor,” he said.
“You show a proper loyalty, captain.”
“My loyalty is to the Ruby Throne.”
“Quite so.”
Cymoril shook with grief and rage, but her rage was impotent. She knew now that she had no friends.
Leering, the Emperor Yyrkoon presented himself before her. He reached out his hand and he caressed her neck, her cheek, her mouth. He let his hand fall so that it grazed her breast. “Sister,” he said, “thou art mine entirely now.”
And Cymoril was the second to fall at his feet, for she had fainted.
“Pick her up,” Yyrkoon said to the guard. “Take her back to her own tower and there be sure she remains. Two guards will be with her at all times, in even her most private moments they must observe her, for she may plan treachery against the Ruby Throne.”
The captain bowed and signed to his men to obey the emperor. “Aye, my lord. It shall be done.”
Yyrkoon looked back at the corpse of the young warrior. “And feed that to her slaves tonight, so that he can continue serving her.” He smiled.
The captain smiled, too, appreciating the joke. He felt it was good to have a proper emperor in Melniboné again. An emperor who knew how to behave, who knew how to treat his enemies and who accepted unswerving loyalty as his right. The captain fancied that fine, martial times lay ahead for Melniboné. The