Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [102]
“By Chardros—not—not—aahhh!”
He died knowing that even his soul was not safe from the hellblade borne by the wolf-faced albino.
Elric wrenched Stormbringer from the corpse, feeling his own vitality increase as the sword passed on its stolen energy, refusing to consider the knowledge that the more he used the sword, the more he needed it.
On the deck of the trireme, only the galley-slaves were left alive. But the deck was tilting badly, for the trireme’s ram and grapples still tied it to the sinking Tarkeshite ship.
“Cut the grappling ropes and back water—quickly!” Elric yelled. Sailors, realizing what was happening, leapt forward to do as he ordered. The slaves backed water, and the ram came out with a groan of split wood. The grapples were cut and the doomed galley set adrift.
Elric counted the survivors. Less than half the crew were alive, and their captain had died in the first onslaught. He addressed the slaves.
“If you’d have your freedom, row well towards Dhakos,” he called. The sun was setting, but now that he was in command he decided to sail through the night by the stars.
Moonglum shouted incredulously: “Why offer them their freedom? We could sell them in Dhakos and thus be paid for today’s exertion!”
Elric shrugged. “I offer them freedom because I choose to, Moonglum.”
The redhead sighed and turned to supervise the throwing of the dead and wounded overboard. He would never understand the albino, he decided. It was probably for the best.
And that was how Elric came to enter Dhakos in some style, when he had originally intended to slip into the city without being recognized.
Leaving Moonglum to negotiate the sale of the trireme and divide the money between the crew and himself, Elric drew his hood over his head and pushed through the crowd which had collected, making for an inn he knew of by the west gate of the city.
CHAPTER TWO
Later that night, when Moonglum had gone to bed, Elric sat in the tavern room drinking. Even the most enthusiastic of the night’s roisterers had left when they had noticed with whom they shared the room; and now Elric sat alone, the only light coming from a guttering reed torch over the outside door.
Now the door opened and a richly dressed youth stood there, staring in.
“I seek the White Wolf,” he said, his head at a questioning angle. He could not see Elric clearly.
“I’m sometimes called that name in these parts,” Elric said calmly. “Do you seek Elric of Melniboné?”
“Aye. I have a message.” The youth came in, keeping his cloak wrapped about him, for the room was cold though Elric did not notice it.
“I am Count Yolan, deputy-commander of the city guard,” the youth said arrogantly, coming up to the table at which Elric sat and studying the albino rudely. “You are brave to come here so openly. Do you think the folk of Jharkor have such short memories they can forget that you led their king into a trap scarce two years since?”
Elric sipped his wine, then said from behind the rim of his cup: “This is rhetoric, Count Yolan. What is your message?”
Yolan’s assured manner left him; he made a rather weak gesture. “Rhetoric to you, perhaps—but I for one feel strongly on the matter. Would not King Dharmit be here today if you had not fled from the battle that broke the power of the sea-lords and your own folk? Did you not use your sorcery to aid you in your flight, instead of using it to aid the men who thought they were your comrades?”
Elric sighed. “I know your purpose here was not to bait me in this manner. Dharmit died on board his flagship during the first attack on Imrryr’s sea-maze, not in the subsequent battle.”
“You sneer at my questions and then proffer lame lies to cover your own cowardly deed,” Yolan said bitterly. “If I had my way you’d be fed to your hellblade there—I’ve heard what happened earlier.”
Elric rose slowly. “Your taunts tire me. When you feel ready to deliver your message, give it to the inn-keeper.”
He walked around the table, moving towards the stairs, but stopped as Yolan turned and plucked at his sleeve.