Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [163]
“I agree it’s extraordinary,” Moonglum said feelingly.
“I grieve for Kargan. He was a good friend.”
“Elric,” Moonglum said urgently. “You know that Kargan’s death was not your responsibility. It was fated.”
“Aye, but why must I always be the executioner of fate? I hesitate to list the names of the good friends and useful allies whose souls my sword has stolen. I hate it enough that it must suck souls out to give me my vitality—but that it should be most partial to my friends, that is what I cannot bear. I’ve half a mind to venture into the heart of Chaos and there sacrifice us both! The guilt is indirectly mine, for if I was not so weak I must bear such a blade, many of those who have befriended me might be alive now.”
“Yet the blade’s major purpose seems a noble one,” Moonglum said in a baffled voice. “Oh, I fail to understand all this—paradox, paradox upon paradox. Are the gods mad or are they so subtle we cannot fathom the workings of their minds?”
“It’s hard enough at times like these to remember any greater purpose,” Dyvim Slorm agreed. “We are pressed so sorely, that we haven’t a moment for thought, but must fight the next battle and the next, forgetting often why it is we fight.”
“Is the purpose, indeed, greater and not lesser,” Elric smiled bitterly. “If we are the toys of the gods—are not perhaps the gods themselves mere children?”
“These questions are of no present importance,” said Straasha from his throne.
“And at least,” Moonglum told Elric, “future generations will thank Stormbringer if she fulfills her destiny.”
“If Sepiriz is right,” Elric said, “future generations will know nothing of any of us—blades or men!”
“Perhaps not consciously—but in the depths of their souls they will remember us. Our deeds will be spoken of as belonging to heroes with other names, that is all.”
“That the world forgets me is all I ask,” Elric sighed.
As if growing impatient with this fruitless discussion, the sea-king rose from his throne and said: “Come, I will make certain that you are transported to land, if you have no objection to traveling back in the same manner as you came here?”
“None,” said Elric.
CHAPTER FIVE
They staggered wearily onto the beach of the Isle of the Purple Towns and Elric turned back to address the sea-king, who remained in the shallows.
“Again I thank you for saving us, Lord of the Sea,” he said respectfully. “And thanks also for telling me more of the sad giant’s shield. By this action you have perhaps, given us the opportunity to make certain that Chaos will be swept away from the ocean—and the land, also.”
“Aahh,” the sea-king nodded, “yet even if you are successful and the sea is unspoiled, it will mean the passing of us both, will it not?”
“True.”
“Then let it be so, for I at least am weary of my long existence. But come—now I must return to my folk and hope to withstand Chaos for a little longer. Farewell!”
And the sea-king sank into the waves again and vanished.
When they eventually reached the Fortress of Evening, heralds ran out to assist them.
“How went the battle? Where is the fleet?” one asked Moonglum.
“Have the survivors not yet returned?”
“Survivors? Then…?”
“We were defeated,” Elric said hollowly. “Is my wife still here?”
“No, she left soon after the fleet sailed, riding for Karlaak.”
“Good. At least we shall have time to erect new defenses against Chaos before they reach that far. Now, we must have food and wine. We must devise a fresh plan of battle.”
“Battle, my lord? With what shall we fight?”
“We shall see,” Elric said, “we shall see.”
Later they watched the battered survivors of the fleet sailing into the harbour. Moonglum counted despairingly. “Too few,” he said. “This is a black day.”
From behind them in the courtyard a trumpet sounded.
“An arrival from the mainland,” Dyvim Slorm said.
They strode together down to the courtyard in time to see a scarlet-clad archer dismounting from his horse. His near-fleshless face might have been carved from bone. He stooped with weariness.
Elric was surprised. “Rackhir!