Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [81]
And the Forest of Troos was a warning.
Weary and yet relieved, the three saw the outlines of Troos in the distance, behind the blazing funeral pyre.
And yet, in his happiness, Elric had a fresh problem on his mind now that danger was past.
“Why do you frown now, love?” asked Zarozinia.
“Because I think you spoke the truth. Remember you said I placed too much reliance on my runeblade here?”
“Yes—and I said I would not dispute with you.”
“Agreed. But I have a feeling that you were partially right. On the burial mound and in it I did not have Stormbringer with me—and yet I fought and won, because I feared for your safety.” His voice was quiet. “Perhaps, in time, I can keep my strength by means of certain herbs I found in Troos and dispense with the blade for ever?”
Moonglum shouted with laughter hearing these words.
“Elric—I never thought I’d witness this. You daring to think of dispensing with that foul weapon of yours. I don’t know if you ever shall, but the thought is comforting.”
“It is, my friend, it is.” He leaned in his saddle and grasped Zarozinia’s shoulders, pulling her dangerously towards him as they galloped without slackening speed. And as they rode he kissed her, heedless of their pace.
“A new beginning!” he shouted above the wind. “A new beginning, my love!”
And then they all rode laughing towards Karlaak by the Weeping Waste, to present themselves, to enrich themselves, and to attend the strangest wedding the Northern lands had ever witnessed.
The tide of evil surrounding Elric is beginning to change since his marriage to Zarozinia (“Kings in Darkness,” No. 54) but he is still called upon to exert his necromantic powers in order to save a fellow sorcerer as well as his own city.
—John Carnell, SCIENCE FANTASY No. 55, October 1962
THE CARAVAN OF FORGOTTEN DREAMS
(originally titled The Flame Bringers)
CHAPTER ONE
BLOODY-BEAKED HAWKS soared on the frigid wind. They soared high above a mounted horde inexorably moving across the Weeping Waste.
The horde had crossed two deserts and three mountain ranges to be there and hunger drove them onwards. They were spurred on by remembrances of stories heard from travelers who had come to their Eastern homeland, by the encouragements of their thin-lipped leader who swaggered in his saddle ahead of them, one arm wrapped around a ten-foot lance decorated with the gory trophies of his pillaging campaigns.
The riders moved slowly and wearily, unaware that they were nearing their goal.
Far behind the horde, a stocky rider left Elwher, the singing, boisterous capital of the Eastern World, and came soon to a valley.
The hard skeletons of trees had a blighted look and the horse kicked earth the colour of ashes as its rider drove it fiercely through the sick wasteland that had once been gentle Eshmir, the golden garden of the East.
A plague had smitten Eshmir and the locust had stripped her of her beauty. Both plague and locust went by the same name—Terarn Gashtek, Lord of the Mounted Hordes, sunken-faced carrier of destruction; Terarn Gashtek, insane blood-drawer, the shrieking flame bringer. And that was his other name—Flame Bringer.
The rider who witnessed the evil that Terarn Gashtek had brought to gentle Eshmir was named Moonglum. Moonglum was riding, now, for Karlaak by the Weeping Waste, the last outpost of the Western civilization of which those in the Eastlands knew little. In Karlaak, Moonglum knew he would find Elric of Melniboné who now dwelt permanently in his wife’s graceful city. Moonglum was desperate to reach Karlaak quickly, to warn Elric and to solicit his help.
He was small and cocky, with a broad mouth and a shock of red hair, but now his mouth did not grin and his body was bent over the horse as he pushed it on towards Karlaak. For Eshmir, gentle Eshmir, had been Moonglum’s home province, and with his ancestors had formed him into what he was.
So, cursing, Moonglum rode for Karlaak.
But so did Terarn Gashtek.