Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [87]
“Is that the way to address your master, spell-maker? Still, no matter. We have guests to entertain—men who have promised to lead us to fat merchant cities. We require you to do a few minor tricks for them.”
“I’m no petty conjuror. You cannot ask this of one of the greatest sorcerers in the world!”
“We do not ask—we order. Come, make the evening lively. What do you need for your magic-making? A few slaves—the blood of virgins? We shall arrange it.”
“I’m no mumbling shaman—I need no such trappings.”
Suddenly the sorcerer saw Elric. The albino felt the man’s powerful mind tentatively probing his own. He had been recognized as a fellow sorcerer. Would Drinij Bara betray him?
Elric was tense, waiting to be denounced. He leaned back in his chair and, as he did so, made a sign with his hand which would be recognized by Western sorcerers—would the Easterner know it?
He did. For a moment he faltered, glancing at the barbarian leader. Then he turned away and began to make new passes in the air, muttering to himself.
The beholders gasped as a cloud of golden smoke formed near the roof and began to metamorphose into the shape of a great horse bearing a rider which all recognized as Terarn Gashtek. The barbarian leader leaned forward, glaring at the image.
“What’s this?”
A map showing great land areas and seas seemed to unroll beneath the horse’s hoofs. “The Western lands,” cried Drinij Bara. “I make a prophecy.”
“What is it?”
The ghostly horse began to trample the map. It split and flew into a thousand smoky pieces. Then the image of the horseman faded, also, into fragments.
“Thus will the mighty Flame Bringer rend the bountiful nations of the West,” shouted Drinij Bara.
The barbarians cheered exultantly, but Elric smiled thinly. The Eastern wizard was mocking Terarn Gashtek and his men.
The smoke formed into a golden globe which seemed to blaze and vanish.
Terarn Gashtek laughed. “A good trick, magic-maker—and a true prophecy. You have done your work well. Take him back to his kennel!”
As Drinij Bara was dragged away, he glanced questioningly at Elric but said nothing.
Later that night, as the barbarians drank themselves into a stupor, Elric and Moonglum slipped out of the tent and made their way to the place where Drinij Bara was imprisoned.
They reached the small hut and saw that a warrior stood guard at the entrance. Moonglum produced a skin of wine and, pretending drunkenness, staggered towards the man. Elric stayed where he was.
“What do you want, Outlander?” growled the guard.
“Nothing my friend, we are trying to get back to our own tent, that’s all. Do you know where it is?”
“How should I know?”
“True—how should you? Have some wine—it’s good—from Terarn Gashtek’s own supply.”
The man extended a hand. “Let’s have it.”
Moonglum took a swig of the wine. “No, I’ve changed my mind. It’s too good to waste on common warriors.”
“Is that so?” The warrior took several paces towards Moonglum. “We’ll find out won’t we? And maybe we’ll mix some of your blood with it to give it flavour, my little friend.”
Moonglum backed away. The warrior followed.
Elric ran softly towards the tent and ducked into it to find Drinij Bara, wrists bound, lying on a pile of uncured hides. The sorcerer looked up.
“You—what do you want?”
“We’ve come to aid you, Drinij Bara.”
“Aid me? But why? You’re no friend of mine. What would you gain? You risk too much.”
“As a fellow sorcerer, I thought I’d help you,” Elric said.
“I thought you were that. But, in my land, sorcerers are not so friendly to one another—the opposite, in fact.”
“I’ll tell you the truth—we need your aid to halt the barbarian’s bloody progress. We have a common enemy. If we can help you regain your soul, will you help?”
“Help—of course. All I do is plan the way I’ll avenge myself. But for my sake be careful—if he suspects that you’re here to aid me, he’ll slay the cat and slay us, too.”
“We’ll try to bring the cat to you. Will that be what you need?”
“Yes. We must exchange blood, the cat and I, and my soul will then pass back into my own body.