Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [47]
—John Carnell, SCIENCE FANTASY No. 51, February 1962
THE STEALER OF SOULS
CHAPTER ONE
IN A CITY called Bakshaan, which was rich enough to make all other cities of the north-east seem poor, in a tall-towered tavern one night, Elric, Lord of the smoking ruins of Melniboné, smiled like a shark and dryly jested with four powerful merchant princes whom, in a day or so, he intended to pauperize.
Moonglum the Outlander, Elric’s companion, viewed the tall albino with admiration and concern. For Elric to laugh and joke was rare—but that he should share his good humour with men of the merchant stamp, that was unprecedented. Moonglum congratulated himself that he was Elric’s friend and wondered upon the outcome of the meeting. Elric had, as usual, elaborated little of his plan to Moonglum.
“We need your particular qualities as swordsman and sorcerer, Lord Elric, and will, of course, pay well for them.” Pilarmo, overdressed, intense and scrawny, was main spokesman for the four.
“And how shall you pay, gentlemen?” enquired Elric politely, still smiling.
Pilarmo’s colleagues raised their eyebrows and even their spokesman was slightly taken aback. He waved his hand through the smoky air of the tavern-room which was occupied only by the six men.
“In gold—in gems,” answered Pilarmo.
“In chains,” said Elric. “We free travelers need no chains of that sort.”
Moonglum bent forward out of the shadows where he sat, his expression showing that he strongly disapproved of Elric’s statement.
Pilarmo and the other merchants were plainly astonished, too. “Then how shall we pay you?”
“I will decide that later,” Elric smiled. “But why talk of such things until the time—what do you wish me to do?”
Pilarmo coughed and exchanged glances with his peers. They nodded. Pilarmo dropped his tone and spoke slowly:
“You are aware that trade is highly competitive in this city, Lord Elric. Many merchants vie with one another to secure the custom of the people. Bakshaan is a rich city and its populace is comfortably off, in the main.”
“This is well known,” Elric agreed; he was privately likening the well-to-do citizens of Bakshaan to sheep and himself to the wolf who would rob the fold. Because of these thoughts, his scarlet eyes were full of a humour which Moonglum knew to be malevolent and ironic.
“There is one merchant in this city who controls more warehouses and shops than any other,” Pilarmo continued. “Because of the size and strength of his caravans, he can afford to import greater quantities of goods into Bakshaan and thus sell them for lower prices. He is virtually a thief—he will ruin us with his unfair methods.” Pilarmo was genuinely hurt and aggrieved.
“You refer to Nikorn of Ilmar?” Moonglum spoke from behind Elric.
Pilarmo nodded mutely.
Elric frowned. “This man heads his own caravans—braves the dangers of the desert, forest and mountain. He has earned his position.”
“That is hardly the point,” snapped fat Tormiel, beringed and powdered, his flesh aquiver.
“No, of course not.” Smooth-tongued Kelos patted his colleague’s arm consolingly. “But we all admire bravery, I hope.” His friends nodded. Silent Deinstaf, the last of the four, also coughed and wagged his hairy head. He put his unhealthy fingers on the jeweled hilt of an ornate but virtually useless poignard and squared his shoulders. “But,” Kelos went on, glancing at Deinstaf with approval, “Nikorn takes no risks selling his goods cheaply—he’s killing us with his low prices.”
“Nikorn is a thorn in our flesh,” Pilarmo elaborated unnecessarily.
“And you gentlemen require myself and my companion to remove this thorn,” Elric stated.
“In a nutshell, yes.” Pilarmo was sweating. He seemed more than a trifle wary of the smiling albino. Legends referring to Elric and his dreadful, doom-filled exploits were many and elaborately detailed.