Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [183]
The dwarf pointed into the distance and Elric saw that he indicated something he had earlier taken to be a large hillock.
“And what must I do to gain this horn?” he asked.
The dwarf grinned with a hint of malice in his voice. “You must match that bodkin there ’gainst Roland’s Durandana. His was consecrated by the Forces of Light whereas yours was forged by the Forces of Darkness. It should be an interesting conflict.”
“You say he’s dead—then how can he fight me?”
“He wears the horn by a thong about his neck. If you attempt to remove it, he will defend his ownership, waking from the deathless sleep that seems to be the lot of most heroes in this world.”
Elric smiled. “It seems to me they must be short of heroes if they have to preserve them in that manner.”
“Perhaps,” the dwarf answered carelessly, “for there are a dozen or more who lie sleeping somewhere in this land alone. They are supposed to awaken only when a desperate need arises, yet I’ve known unpleasant things to happen and still they have slept. It could be they await the end of their world, which the gods may destroy if it proves unsuitable, in which case they will fight to prevent such a happening. It is merely a poorly conceived theory of my own and of little weight. Perhaps the legends arise from some dim knowledge of the fate of the Champion Eternal.”
The dwarf bobbed a cynical bow and, hefting his spear, saluted Elric. “Farewell, Elric of Melniboné. When you wish to return I will be here to lead you—and return you must, whether alive or dead, for, as you are probably aware, your very presence, your physical appearance itself, contradicts this environment. Only one thing fits here…”
“What’s that?”
“Your sword.”
“My sword! Strange, I should have thought that would be the last thing.” He shook a growing idea out of his mind. He did not have time to speculate. “I’ve no liking to be here,” he commented as the dwarf clambered over the rocks. He glanced in the direction of the great burial mound and began to advance towards it. Beside him he saw that the stream was moving naturally and he had the impression that though Law influenced this world, it was to some extent still forced to deal with the disrupting influence of Chaos.
The grave barrow, he could now see, was fenced about with giant slabs of unadorned stone. Beyond the stones were olive trees that had dull jewels hanging from their branches, and beyond them, through the leafy apertures, Elric saw a tall, curved entrance blocked by gates of brass embossed with gold.
“Though strong, Stormbringer,” he said to his sword, “I wonder if you’ll be strong enough to war in this world as well as giving my body vitality. Let’s test you.”
He advanced to the gate and drawing back his arm delivered a mighty blow upon it with the runesword. The metal rang and a dent appeared. Again he struck, this time holding the sword with both hands, but then a voice cried from his right.
“What demon would disturb dead Roland’s rest?”
“Who speaks the language of Melniboné?” Elric retorted boldly.
“I speak the language of demons, for I perceive that is what you are. I know of no Mulnebooney and am well-versed in the ancient mysteries.”
“A proud boast,” said Elric, who had not yet seen the speaker. She emerged, then, from around the barrow, and stood staring at him from out of her glowing green eyes. She had a long, beautiful face and was almost as pale as himself, though her hair was jet black. “What’s your name?” he asked. “And are you a native of this world?”
“I am named Vivian, an enchantress, but earthly enough. Your Master knows the name of Vivian who once loved Roland, though he was too upright to indulge her, for she is immortal and