Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [71]
“And you are master of your sword?”
“I often wonder. Without it, I am helpless.” He put his hand around Stormbringer’s hilt. “I should be grateful to it.” Once again his red eyes seemed to become deeper, protecting some bitter emotion rooted at the core of his soul.
“I’m sorry if I revived unpleasant recollection…”
“Do not feel sorry, Lady Zarozinia. The pain is within me—you did not put it there. In fact I’d say you relieve it greatly by your presence.”
Half-startled, she glanced at him and smiled. “I am no wanton, sir,” she said, “but…”
He got up quickly.
“Moonglum, is the fire going well?”
“Aye, Elric. She’ll stay in for the night.” Moonglum cocked his head on one side. It was unlike Elric to make such empty queries, but Elric said nothing further so the Eastlander shrugged, turned away to check his gear.
Since he could think of little else to say, Elric turned and said quietly, urgently: “I’m a killer and a thief, not fit to…”
“Lord Elric, I am…”
“You are infatuated by a legend, that is all.”
“No! If you feel what I feel, then you’ll know it’s more.”
“You are young.”
“Old enough.”
“Beware. I must fulfill my destiny.”
“Your destiny?”
“It is no destiny at all, but an awful thing called doom. And I have no pity except when I see something in my own soul. Then I have pity—and I pity. But I hate to look and this is part of the doom which drives me. Not Fate, nor the Stars, nor Men, nor Demons, nor Gods. Look at me, Zarozinia—it is Elric, poor white chosen plaything of the Gods of Time—Elric of Melniboné who causes his own gradual and terrible destruction.”
“It is suicide!”
“Aye. I drive myself to slow death. And those who go with me suffer also.”
“You speak falsely, Lord Elric—from guilt-madness.”
“Because I am guilty, lady.”
“And does Sir Moonglum go to doom with you?”
“He is unlike others—he is indestructible in his own self-assurance.”
“I am confident, also, Lord Elric.”
“But your confidence is that of youth, it is different.”
“Need I lose it with my youth?”
“You have strength. You are as strong as we are. I’ll grant you that.”
She opened her arms, rising. “Then be reconciled, Elric of Melniboné.”
And he was. He seized her, kissing her with a deeper need than that of passion. For the first time Cymoril of Imrryr was forgotten as they lay down, together on the soft turf, oblivious of Moonglum who polished away at his curved sword with wry jealousy.
They all slept and the fire waned.
Elric, in his joy, had forgotten, or not heeded, that he had a watch to take and Moonglum, who had no source of strength by himself, stayed awake for as long as he could but sleep overcame him.
In the shadows of the awful trees, figures moved with shambling caution.
The misshapen men of Org began to creep inwards towards the sleepers.
Then Elric opened his eyes, aroused by instinct, stared at Zarozinia’s peaceful face beside him, moved his eyes without turning his head and saw the danger. He rolled over, grasped Stormbringer and tugged the runeblade from its sheath. The sword hummed, as if in anger at being awakened.
“Moonglum! Danger!” Elric bellowed in fear, for he had more to protect than his own life. The little man’s head jerked up. His curved sabre was already across his knees and he jumped to his feet, ran towards Elric as the men of Org closed in.
“I apologize,” he said.
“My fault, I…”
And then the men of Org were at them. Elric and Moonglum stood over the girl as she came awake, saw the situation and did not scream. Instead she looked around for a weapon but found none. She remained still, where she was, the only thing to do.
Smelling like offal, the gibbering creatures, some dozen of them, slashed at Elric and Moonglum with heavy blades like cleavers, long and dangerous.
Stormbringer whined and smote through a cleaver, cut into a neck and beheaded the owner. Blood gurgled from