Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [58]
Some of the Melnibonéan warriors were becoming impatient. There were a few who muttered that Elric had, once again, betrayed them. Dyvim Tvar and Moonglum did not believe this. They had seen the signs of conflict—and heard them—in the forest.
They waited, hoping for a signal from the castle itself.
They watched the castle’s great main gate—and their patience at last proved of value. The huge wood and metal gate swung inwards on chains and a white-faced man in the tattered regalia of Melniboné appeared between two desert warriors. They were supporting him, it seemed. They pushed him forward—he staggered a few yards along the causeway of slimy stone which bridged the moat.
Then he fell. He began to crawl wearily, painfully, forward.
Moonglum growled. “What have they done to him? I must help him.” But Dyvim Tvar held him back.
“No—it would not do to betray our presence here. Let him reach the forest first, then we can help him.”
Even those who had cursed Elric, now felt pity for the albino as, staggering and crawling alternately, he dragged his body slowly towards them. From the battlements of the fortress a tittering laugh was borne down to the ears of those below. They also caught a few words.
“What now, wolf?” said the voice. “What now?”
Moonglum clenched his hands and trembled with rage, hating to see his proud friend so mocked in his weakness. “What’s happened to him? What have they done?”
“Patience,” Dyvim Tvar said. “We’ll find out in a short while.”
It was an agony to wait until Elric finally crawled on his knees into the undergrowth.
Moonglum went forward to aid his friend. He put a supporting arm around Elric’s shoulders but the albino snarled and shook it off, his whole countenance aflame with terrible hate—made more terrible because it was impotent. Elric could do nothing to destroy that which he hated. Nothing.
Dyvim Tvar said urgently: “Elric, you must tell us what happened. If we’re to help you—we must know what happened.”
Elric breathed heavily and nodded his agreement. His face partially cleared of the emotion he felt and weakly he stuttered out the story.
“So,” Moonglum growled, “our plans come to nothing—and you have lost your strength for ever.”
Elric shook his head. “There must be a way,” he gasped. “There must!”
“What? How? If you have a plan, Elric—let me hear it now.”
Elric swallowed thickly and mumbled. “Very well, Moonglum, you shall hear it. But listen carefully, for I have not the strength to repeat it.”
Moonglum was a lover of the night, but only when it was lit by the torches found in cities. He did not like the night when it came to open countryside and he was not fond of it when it surrounded a castle such as Nikorn’s, but he pressed on and hoped for the best.
If Elric had been right in his interpretation, then the battle might yet be won and Nikorn’s palace taken. But it still meant danger for Moonglum and he was not one deliberately to put himself into danger.
As he viewed the stagnant waters of the moat with distaste he reflected that this was enough to test any friendship to the utmost. Philosophically, he lowered himself down into the water and began to swim across it.
The moss on the fortress offered a flimsy handhold, but it led to ivy which gave a better grip. Moonglum slowly clambered up the wall. He hoped that Elric had been right and that Theleb K’aarna would need to rest for a while before he could work more sorcery. That was why Elric had suggested he make haste. Moonglum clambered on, and eventually reached the small unbarred window he sought. A normal-size man could not have entered, but Moonglum’s small frame was proving useful.
He wriggled through the gap, shivering with cold, and landed on the hard stone of a narrow staircase which ran both up and down the interior