Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [91]
“I’d spare you that,” said Elric coolly.
“You are generous—but I’d rather you accepted my invitation.”
“Let us pass,” said Moonglum.
The barbarians’ faces hardened. “Speak you so to the conquerors of the world?” said the leader.
Moonglum took a step back and drew his sword, the cat squirming in his left hand.
“We’d best get this done,” said Elric to his friend. He tugged his runeblade from its scabbard. The sword sang a soft and mocking tune and the barbarians heard it. They were disconcerted.
“Well?” said Elric, holding the half-sentient blade out.
The barbarian who had challenged him looked uncertain of what to do. Then he forced himself to shout: “Clean iron can withstand any sorcery,” and launched himself forward.
Elric, grateful for the chance to take further vengeance, blocked his swing, forced the scimitar back and aimed a blow which sliced the man’s torso just above the hip. The barbarian screamed and died. Moonglum, dealing with a couple more, killed one but another came in swiftly and his sweeping sword sliced the little Eastlander’s left shoulder. He howled—and dropped the cat. Elric stepped in, slew Moonglum’s opponent, Stormbringer wailing a triumphant dirge. The rest of the barbarians turned and ran off.
“How bad is your wound?” gasped Elric, but Moonglum was on his knees staring through the gloom.
“Quick, Elric—can you see the cat? I dropped it in the struggle. If we lose it—we too are lost.”
Frantically, they began to hunt through the camp.
But they were unsuccessful, for the cat, with the dexterity of its kind, had wriggled free of its bindings and hidden itself.
A few moments later they heard the sounds of uproar coming from the house which Terarn Gashtek had commandeered.
“He’s discovered that the cat’s been stolen!” exclaimed Moonglum. “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know—keep searching and hope he does not suspect us.”
They continued to hunt, but with no result. While they searched, several barbarians came up to them. One of them said:
“Our leader wishes to speak with you.”
“Why?”
“He’ll inform you of that. Come on.”
Reluctantly, they went with the barbarians to be confronted by a raging Terarn Gashtek. He clutched the stuffed rabbit skin in one clawlike hand and his face was warped with fury.
“My hold over the sorcerer has been stolen from me,” he roared. “What do you know of it?”
“I don’t understand,” said Elric.
“The cat is missing—I found this rag in its place. You were caught talking to Drinij Bara recently, I think you were responsible.”
“We know nothing of this,” said Moonglum.
Terarn Gashtek growled: “The camp’s in disorder, it will take a day to reorganize my men—once loosed like this they will obey no-one. But when I’ve restored order, I shall question the whole camp. If you tell the truth, then you will be released, but meanwhile you will be given all the time you need to speak with the sorcerer.” He jerked his head. “Take them away, disarm them, bind them and throw them in Drinij Bara’s kennel.”
As they were led away, Elric muttered: “We must escape and find that cat, but meanwhile we need not waste this opportunity to confer with Drinij Bara.”
Drinij Bara said in the darkness: “No, Brother Sorcerer, I will not aid you. I will risk nothing until the cat and I are united.”
“But Terarn Gashtek cannot threaten you any more.”
“What if he recaptures the cat—what then?”
Elric was silent. He shifted his bound body uncomfortably on the hard boards of the wagon. He was about to continue his attempts at persuasion when the awning was thrown aside and he saw another trussed figure thrown towards them. Through the blackness he said in the Eastern tongue: “Who are you?”
The man replied in the language of the West: “I do not understand you.”
“Are you, then, a Westerner?” asked Elric in the common speech.
“Yes—I am an Official Messenger from Karlaak. I was captured by these odorous jackals as I returned to the city.”
“What? Are you the man we sent to Dyvim Slorm, my