Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [185]
However, in daylight and with no chance of avoiding the angered knight, Elric retaliated with all the energy he had been saving until this moment. Shield high, sword swinging, he now took the attack, surprising Roland who was evidently unused to this behaviour on the part of an opponent. Stormbringer snarled as it bit into Roland’s poorly forged armour of iron, riveted with big unsightly nails, painted on the front with a dull red cross that was a scarcely adequate insignia for so famous a hero. But there was no mistaking Durandana’s powers for, though seemingly as crudely forged as the armour, it did not lose its edge and threatened to bite through the Chaos Shield with every stroke. Elric’s left arm was numb from the blows and his right arm ached. Lord Donblas had not lied to him when he had said that the strength of his weapons would be diminished on this world.
Roland paused, shouting something, but Elric did not heed him, seized his opportunity and rushed in to crush his shield against Roland’s body. The knight reeled and staggered, his sword giving off a keening note. Elric struck at a gap between Roland’s helmet and gorget. The head sprang off the shoulders and rolled grotesquely away, but no blood pumped from the jugular. The eyes of the head remained open, staring at Elric.
Vivian screamed and shouted something in the same language which Roland had used. Elric stepped back, his face grim.
“Oh, his legend, his legend!” she cried. “The only hope the people have is that Roland will some day ride once more to their aid. Now you have slain him! Fiend!”
“Possessed I may be,” he said quietly as she sobbed by the headless corpse, “but I was ordained by the gods to do this work. I’ll take my leave of your drab world, now.”
“Have you no sorrow for the crime you’ve done?”
“None, madam, for this is only one of many such acts which, I’m told, serve some greater purpose. That I sometimes doubt the truth of this consolation need not concern you. Know you this, though, I have been told that it is the fate of such as your Roland and myself never to die—always to be reborn. Farewell.”
And he walked away from there; passed through the olive grove and the tall stones, the Horn of Fate cold against his heart.
He followed the river towards the high rock where he saw a small figure poised and, when he reached it, looked up at the young dwarf Jermays the Crooked, took the horn from his jerkin and displayed it.
Jermays chuckled. “So Roland is dead, and you, Elric, have left a fragment of a legend in this world, if it survives. Well, shall I escort you back to your own place?”
“Aye, and hurry.”
Jermays skipped down the rocks and stood beside the tall albino. “Hmm,” he mused, “that horn could prove troublesome to us. Best replace it in your jerkin and keep it covered by your shield.”
Elric obeyed the dwarf and followed him down to the banks of the strangely frozen river. It looked as if it should have been moving, but it evidently was not. Jermays leapt into it and, incredibly, began to sink. “Quickly! Follow!”
Elric stepped in after him and for a moment stood on the frozen water before he, also, began to sink.
Though the stream was shallow, they continued to sink until all similarity to water was gone and they were passing down into rich darkness that became warm