Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [143]
Almost unconsciously, he found himself moving downwards, realizing that the cave had become a tunnel. He was feeling hungry but, apart from the monster and the woman in the magical carriage, had seen no sign of life. Even the cavern did not seem entirely natural.
It widened; there was phosphorescent light. He realized that the walls were of transparent crystal, and behind the walls were all manner of artifacts. He saw crowns, sceptres and chains of precious jewels; cabinets of complicated carving; weapons of strangely turned metal; armour, clothing, things whose use he could not guess—and food. There were sweetmeats, fruits, flans and pies, all out of reach.
Elric groaned. This was torment. Perhaps deliberately planned torment. A thousand voices whispered to him in a beautiful, alien language.
“Bie-meee…Bie-meee…” the voices murmured. “Baa-gen, baa-gen…”
They seemed to be promising every delight, if only he could pass through the walls; but they were of transparent quartz, lit from within. He raised Stormbringer, half-tempted to try to break down the barrier, but he knew that even his sword was, at its most powerful, incapable of destroying the magic of Chaos.
He paused, gasping with astonishment at a group of small dogs which looked at him with large brown eyes, tongues lolling, and jumped up at him.
“O, Nee Tubbens!” intoned one of the voices.
“Gods!” screamed Elric. “This torture is too much!” He swung his body this way and that, threatening with his sword, but the voices continued to murmur and promise, displaying their riches but never allowing him to touch.
The albino panted. His crimson eyes glared about him. “You would drive me insane, eh? Well, Elric of Melniboné has witnessed more frightful threats than this. You will need to do more if you would destroy his mind!”
And he ran through the whispering passages, looking to neither his right nor his left, until, quite suddenly, he had run into blazing daylight and stood staring down into pale infinity—a blue and endless void.
He looked up. And he screamed.
Overhead were the gentle hills and dales of a rural landscape, with rivers, grazing cattle, woods and cottages. He expected to fall, headlong, but he did not. He was on the brink of the abyss. The cliff-face of red sandstone fell immediately below and then was the tranquil void. He looked back:
“Baa-gen…O, Nee Tubbens…”
A bitter smile played about the albino’s bloodless lips as, decisively, he sheathed his sword.
“Well, then,” he said. “Let them do their worst!”
And, laughing, he launched himself over the brink of the cliff.
CHAPTER FIVE
In Which Werther de Goethe Makes a Wonderful Discovery
With a gesture of quiet pride, Werther de Goethe indicated his gigantic skull.
“It is very large, Werther,” said Mistress Christia, the Everlasting Concubine, turning a power ring to adjust the shade of her eyes so that they perfectly matched the day.
“It is monstrous,” said Werther modestly. “It reminds us all of the Inevitable Night.”
“Who was that?” enquired golden-haired Gaf the Horse in Tears, at present studying ancient legendry. “Sir Lew Grady?”
“I mean Death,” Werther told him, “which overwhelms us all.”
“Well, not us,” pointed out the Duke of Queens, as usual a trifle literal-minded. “Because we’re immortal, as you know.”
Werther offered him a sad, pitying look and sighed briefly. “Retain your delusions, if you will.”
Mistress Christia stroked the gloomy Werther’s long, dark locks. “There, there,” she said. “We have compensations, Werther.”
“Without Death,” intoned the Last Romantic, “there