Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [139]
But she was uneasy, so she reported to the local Time Centre and the bearded, sullen features of Sergeant Alvarez who welcomed her in white, apologizing for the fact that he had himself only just that morning left the Lower Devonian and had not had time to change.
“It’s the megaflow, as you guessed,” he told her, operating toggles to reveal his crazy display systems. “We’ve lost control.”
“We never really had it.” She lit a Sherman’s and shook her long hair back over the headrest of the swivel chair, opening her military overcoat and loosening her webbing. “Is it worse than usual?”
“Much.” He sipped cold coffee from his battered silver mug. “It cuts through every plane we can pick up—a rogue current swerving through the dimensions. Something of a twister.”
“Jerry?”
“He’s dormant. We checked. But it’s like him, certainly. Most probably another aspect.”
“Oh, sod.” Una straightened her shoulders.
“That’s what I thought,” said Alvarez. “Someone’s going to have to do a spot of rubato.” He studied a screen. It was Greek to Una. For a moment a pattern formed. Alvarez made a note. “Yes. It can either be fixed at the nadir or the zenith. It’s too late to try anywhere in between. I think it’s up to you, Mrs. P.”
She got to her feet. “Where’s the zenith?”
“The End of Time.”
“Well,” she said, “that’s something.”
She opened her bag and made sure of her jar of instant coffee. It was the one thing she couldn’t get at the End of Time.
“Sorry,” said Alvarez, glad that the expert had been there and that he could remain behind.
“It’s just as well,” she said. “This period’s no good for my moral well-being. I’ll be off, then.”
“Someone’s got to.” Alvarez failed to seem sympathetic.
“It’s Chaos out there.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
She entered the makeshift chamber and was on her way to the End of Time.
CHAPTER TWO
In Which the Eternal Champion Finds
Himself at the End of Time
Elric of Melniboné shook a bone-white fist at the greedy, glaring stars—the eyes of all those men whose souls he had stolen to sustain his own enfeebled body. He looked down. Though it seemed he stood on something solid, there was only more blackness falling away below him. It was as if he hung at the centre of the universe. And here, too, were staring points of yellow light. Was he to be judged?
His half-sentient runesword, Stormbringer, in its scabbard on his left hip, murmured like a nervous dog.
He had been on his way to Imrryr, to his home, to reclaim his kingdom from his cousin Yyrkoon; sailing from the Isle of the Purple Towns where he had guested with Count Smiorgan Baldhead. Magic winds had caught the Filkharian trader as she crossed the unnamed water between the Vilmirian peninsula and the Isle of Melniboné. She had been borne into the Dragon Sea and thence to Sorcerers’ Isle, so-called because that barren place had been the home of Cran Liret, the Thief of Spells, a wizard infamous for his borrowings, who had, at length, been dispatched by those he sought to rival. But much residual magic had been left behind. Certain spells had come into the keeping of the Krettii, a tribe of near-brutes who had migrated to the island from the region of The Silent Land less than fifty years before. Their shaman, one Grrodd Ybene Eenr, had made unthinking use of devices buried by the dying sorcerer as the spells of his peers sucked life and sanity from them. Elric had dealt with more than one clever wizard, but never with so mindless a power. His battle had been long and exhausting and had required the sacrifice of most of the Filkharians as well as the entire tribe of Krettii. His sorcery had become increasingly desperate. Sprite fought sprite, devil fell upon devil, in both physical and astral, all around the region of Sorcerers’ Isle. Eventually Elric had mounted a massive Summoning against the allies of Grrodd Ybene Eenr with the result that the shaman had been