Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [37]
Elric reached for his runesword. “Then we can lose nothing by aiding their quarry,” he said, urging his mount forward. “Wait here, Shaarilla.”
By this time, the devil-pack and the man they pursued were rushing past the sheltering rock, speeding down a narrow defile. Elric spurred his horse down the slope.
“Ho there!” he shouted to the frantic rider. “Turn and stand, my friend—I’m here to aid you!”
His moaning runesword lifted high, Elric thundered towards the snapping, howling devil-dogs and his horse’s hoofs struck one with an impact which broke the unnatural beast’s spine. There were some five or six of the weird dogs left. The rider turned his horse and drew a long sabre from a scabbard at his waist. He was a small man, with a broad ugly mouth. He grinned in relief.
“A lucky chance, this meeting, good master.”
This was all he had time to remark before two of the dogs were leaping at him and he was forced to give his whole attention to defending himself from their slashing talons and snapping beaks.
The other three dogs concentrated their vicious attention upon Elric. One leapt high, its beak aimed at Elric’s throat. He felt foul breath on his face and hastily brought Stormbringer round in an arc which chopped the dog in two. Filthy blood spattered Elric and his horse and the scent of it seemed to increase the fury of the other dogs’ attack. But the blood made the dancing black runesword sing an almost ecstatic tune and Elric felt it writhe in his grasp and stab at another of the hideous dogs. The point caught the beast just below its breastbone as it reared up at the albino. It screamed in terrible agony and turned its beak to seize the blade. As the beak connected with the lambent black metal of the sword, a foul stench, akin to the smell of burning, struck Elric’s nostrils and the beast’s scream broke off sharply.
Engaged with the remaining devil-dog, Elric caught a fleeting glimpse of the charred corpse. His horse was rearing high, lashing at the last alien animal with flailing hoofs. The dog avoided the horse’s attack and came at Elric’s unguarded left side. The albino swung in the saddle and brought his sword hurtling down to slice into the dog’s skull and spill brains and blood on the wet and gleaming ground. Still somehow alive, the dog snapped feebly at Elric, but the Melnibonéan ignored its futile attack and turned his attention to the little man who had dispensed with one of his adversaries, but was having difficulty with the second. The dog had grasped the sabre with its beak, gripping the sword near the hilt.
Talons raked towards the little man’s throat as he strove to shake the dog’s grip. Elric charged forward, his runesword aimed like a lance to where the devil-dog dangled in mid-air, its talons slashing, trying to reach the flesh of its former quarry. Stormbringer caught the beast in its lower abdomen and ripped upwards, slitting the thing’s underparts from crutch to throat. It released its hold on the small man’s sabre and fell writhing to the ground. Elric’s horse trampled it into the rocky ground. Breathing heavily, the albino sheathed Stormbringer and warily regarded the man he had saved. He disliked unnecessary contact with anyone and did not wish to be embarrassed by a display of emotion on the little man’s part.
He was not disappointed, for the wide, ugly mouth split into a cheerful grin and the man bowed in the saddle as he returned his own curved blade to its scabbard.
“Thanks, good sir,” he said lightly. “Without your help, the battle might have lasted longer. You deprived me of good sport, but you meant well. Moonglum is my name.”
“Elric of Melniboné, I,” replied the albino, but saw no reaction on the little man’s face. This was strange, for the name of Elric was now infamous throughout most of the world. The story of his treachery and the slaying of his cousin Cymoril had been told and elaborated upon in taverns throughout the Young Kingdoms. Much as he hated it, he was used to receiving some indication of recognition