Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [112]
They had not spoken for some hours. Yedn-pad-Juizev was obviously dying and they could do nothing for him. He knew this also and expected nothing, merely rode with them for company. He was very tall for a Tarkeshite, his scarlet plume still bobbing on his dented blue-metal helmet, his breastplate scarred and smeared with his own blood and others’. His beard was black and shiny with oil, his nose a jutting crag on the rock of his soldier’s face, his eyes half-glazed. He was bearing the pain well. Though they were impatient to reach the comparative safety of the mountain range, the others matched their pace to his, half in respect and half in fascination that a man could cling to life for so long.
Night came and a great yellow moon hung in the sky over the mountains. The sky was completely clear of cloud and stars shone brightly. The warriors wished that the night had been dark, storm-covered, for they could have then sought more security in the shadows. As it was the night was lighted and they could only hope that they reached the mountains soon—before the hunting tigers of Pan Tang discovered their tracks and they died under the rending claws of those dreadful beasts.
Elric was in a grim and thoughtful mood. For a while the Dharijorian and Pan Tang conquerors would be busy consolidating their new-won empire. Perhaps there would be quarrels between them when this was done, perhaps not. But soon, anyway, they would be very powerful and threatening the security of other nations on the Southern and Eastern Continents.
But all this, however much it overshadowed the fate of the whole world, meant little to Elric for he still could not clearly see his way to Zarozinia. He remembered the dead creature’s prophecy, part of which had now come about. But still it meant little. He felt as if he were being driven constantly westwards, as if he must go further and further into the sparsely settled lands beyond Jharkor. Was it here his destiny lay? Was it here that Zarozinia’s captors were? Beyond the ocean brews a battle; Beyond the battle blood shall fall…
Well, had the blood fallen, or was it yet to fall? What was the “twin” that Elric’s kinsman, Dyvim Slorm, bore? Who was the one who should not live?
Perhaps the secret lay in the mountains ahead of them?
Beneath the moon they rode, and at last came to a gorge. Halfway along it they located a cave and lay down inside to rest.
In the morning, Elric was awakened by a sound outside the cave. Instantly he drew Stormbringer and crept to the mouth of the cave. What he saw caused him to sheathe the blade and call in a soft voice to the battered man who was riding up the gorge towards the cave. “Here, herald! We are friends!”
The man was one of Yishana’s heralds. His surcoat was in ribbons, his armour crumpled on his body. He was swordless and without a helmet, a young man with his face made gaunt by weariness and despair. He looked up and relief came when he recognized Elric.
“My lord Elric—they said you were slain on the field.”
“I’m glad they did, since that makes pursuit less likely. Come inside.”
The others were awake now—all but one. Yedn-pad-Juizev had died, sleeping, in the night. Orozn yawned and jerked a thumb at the corpse. “If we do not find food soon, I’ll be tempted to eat our dead friend.”
The man looked at Elric for response to this jest, but seeing the albino’s expression he was abashed and retreated to the depths of the cave grumbling and kicking at loose stones.
Elric leaned against the wall of the cave near the opening. “What news have you?” he asked.
“Dark news, my lord. From Shazaar to Tarkesh black misery prevails and iron and fire beat across nations like an unholy storm. We are fully conquered. Only small