Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [114]
Elric lifted Stormbringer from his belt, gripped the hilt, blocked a blow from a brass-studded mace, slid his sword down the handle and sheared off his attacker’s fingers. He and Dyvim Slorm were soon surrounded, yet he fought on, Stormbringer shrilling a wild, lawless song of death.
But Elric and Dyvim Slorm were still weak from the rigours of their past adventures. Not even Stormbringer’s evil strength was sufficient fully to revitalize Elric’s deficient veins and he was filled with fear—not of the attackers, but of the fact that he was doomed to die or be captured. And he had the feeling that these warriors had no knowledge of their master’s part in the matter of the prophecy, did not realize that, perhaps, he was not meant to die at that moment.
In fact, he decided, as he battled, a great mistake was about to be perpetrated…
“Arioch!” he cried in his fear to the demon-god of Melniboné. “Arioch! Aid me! Blood and souls for thine aid!”
But that intractable entity sent no aid.
Dyvim Slorm’s long blade caught a man just below his gorget and pierced him through the throat. The other Pan Tang horsemen threw themselves at him but were driven back by his sweeping sword. Dyvim Slorm shouted: “Why do we worship such a god when whim decides him so often?”
“Perhaps he thinks our time has come!” Elric yelled back as his runeblade drank another foe’s life-force.
Tiring fast, they fought on until a new sound broke above the clash of arms—the sound of chariots and low, moaning cries.
Then they were sweeping into the mêlée, black men with handsome features and thin, proud mouths, their magnificent bodies half-naked as their cloaks of white fox fur streamed behind them and their javelins were flung with terrible accuracy at the bewildered men of Pan Tang.
Elric sheathed his sword and remained ready to fight or flee. “This is the one—the white-faced one!” cried a black charioteer as he saw Elric. The chariots rolled to a halt, tall horses stamping and snorting. Elric rode up to the leader.
“I am grateful,” he said, half falling from his saddle in weariness. He turned the droop of his shoulders into a bow. “You appear to know me—you are the third I’ve met while on this quest who recognizes me without my being able to return the compliment.”
The leader tugged the fox cape about his naked chest and smiled with his thin lips. “I’m named Sepiriz and you will know me soon enough. As for you, we have known of you for thousands of years. Elric are you not—last king of Melniboné?”
“That is true.”
“And you,” Sepiriz addressed Dyvim Slorm, “are Elric’s cousin. Together you represent the last of the pure line of Melniboné.”
“Aye,” Dyvim Slorm agreed, curiosity in his eyes.
“Then we have been waiting for you to pass this way. There was a prophecy…”
“You are the captors of Zarozinia?” Elric reached for his sword.
Sepiriz shook his head. “No, but we can tell you where she is. Calm yourself. Though I realize the agony of mind you must be suffering, I will be better able to explain all I know back in our own domain.”
“First tell us who you are,” Elric demanded.
Sepiriz smiled slightly. “You know us, I think—or at least you know of us. There was a certain friendship between your ancestors and our folk in the early years of the Bright Empire.” He paused a moment before continuing: “Have you ever heard legends, in Imrryr perhaps, of the Ten from the mountain? The Ten who sleep in the mountain of fire?”
“Many times.” Elric drew in his breath. “Now I recognize you by description. But it is said that you sleep for centuries in the mountain of fire. Why are you roaming abroad in this manner?”
“We were driven by an eruption from our volcano home which had been dormant for two thousand years. Such movements of nature have been taking place all over the Earth of late. Our time, we knew, had come to awaken again. We were servants of Fate—and our mission is strongly bound up with your destiny. We bear a message for you from Zarozinia’s captor—and another from a different source. Would you return now, with