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Elric pondered for a moment, then he lifted his white face and said: “I am in haste to claim vengeance, Sepiriz. But if what you can tell me will lead me closer to claiming it, I’ll come.”

“Then come!” The black giant jerked the reins of his horse and turned the chariot about.

It was a journey of a day and a night to the Chasm of Nihrain, a huge gaping fissure high in the mountains, a place avoided by all; it had supernatural significance for those who dwelt near the mountains.

The lordly Nihrain conversed little on the journey and at last they were above the chasm, driving their chariots down the steep path which wound into its dark depths.

About half a mile down no light penetrated, but they saw ahead of them flickering torches that illuminated part of the carved outline of an unearthly mural or betrayed a gaping opening in the solid rock. Then, as they guided their horses down further, they saw, in detail, the awe-inspiring city of Nihrain which outsiders had not glimpsed for many centuries. The last of the Nihrain now lived here; ten immortal men of a race older even than that of Melniboné which had a history of twenty thousand years.

Huge columns rose above them, hewn ages before from the living rock, giant statues and wide balconies, many-tiered. Windows a hundred feet high and sweeping steps cut into the face of the chasm. The Ten drove their yellow chariots through a mighty gate and into the caverns of Nihrain, carved to their entire extent with strange symbols and stranger murals. Here slaves, wakened from a sleep of centuries to tend their masters, ran forward. Even these did not fully bear resemblance to the men that Elric knew.

Sepiriz gave the reins to a slave as Elric and Dyvim Slorm dismounted, staring about them in awe.

He said: “Now—to my own chambers and there I’ll inform you of what you wish to know—and what you must do.”

Led by Sepiriz, the kinsmen stalked impatiently through galleries and into a large chamber full of dark sculpture. A number of fires burned behind this hall, in big grates. Sepiriz folded his great body in a chair and bade them sit in two similar chairs, carved from solid blocks of ebony. When they were all seated before one of the fires, Sepiriz took a long breath, staring around the hall, perhaps remembering its earlier history.

Somewhat angered by this show of casualness, Elric said impatiently: “Forgive me, Sepiriz—but you promised to pass on your message to us.”

“Yes,” Sepiriz said, “but so much do I have to tell you that I must pause one moment to collect my thoughts.” He settled himself in the chair before continuing.

“We know where your wife is,” he said at last, “and know also that she is safe. She will not be harmed since she is to be bargained for something which you possess.”

“Then tell me the whole story,” Elric demanded bleakly.

“We were friendly with your ancestors, Elric. And we were friendly with those they superseded, the ones who forged that blade you bear.”

Elric was interested in spite of his anxiety. For years he had attempted to rid himself of the runesword, but had never succeeded. All his efforts had failed and he still needed to carry it, although drugs now gave him most of his strength.

“Would you be rid of your sword, Elric?” Sepiriz said.

“Aye—it’s well known.”

“Then listen to this tale.

“We know for whom and for what the blade—and its twin—were forged. They were made for a special purpose and for special men. Only Melnibonéans may carry them, and of those only the blood of the royal line.”

“There is no hint of any special purpose for the swords in Melnibonéan history or legend,” Elric said leaning forward.

“Some secrets are best kept fully guarded,” Sepiriz said calmly. “Those blades were forged to destroy a group of very powerful beings. Among them are the Dead Gods.”

“The Dead Gods—but, by their very name, you must know that they perished long ages ago.”

“They ‘perished’ as you say. In human terms they are dead. But they chose to die, chose to rid themselves of material