Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [184]
He dressed in the scarlet jerkin and breeks of his caste, a covered quiver of arrows on his back, an unstrung bow slung over his shoulder, a long, light sword at his side. To the island’s people he passed for what they called a “Templar,” though they were surprised he carried no cross insignia on his cloak. That cross was popular here. The mark of the chief god of their pantheon.
Ronan/Rackhir followed the music down into the valley, where a fast-flowing river ran, leading him into a grey stone village over whose roofs hung a haze of peat-smoke. He knew enough of their language and customs now to give his horse up to an ostler at the village inn and fling him one of the copper pieces he had earned here after his encounter with the seabear which attacked his boat off the coast of Lormyr. In the fight, the bear had virtually destroyed his little craft and all but killed him, giving him such a swipe with its massive flipper that he had lost consciousness, to awaken on a beach at the estuary of a river the locals called “Liffé.”
He suspected that since his encounter with the seabear he had slipped into some unearthly realm, though this island was otherwise as real as anything he had experienced in his travels. If a little wet. It had scarcely stopped raining since he had awakened on a shingle beach to be met by a group of strangely dressed children. They had been friendly enough. They had led him to their village and fed him food, which though unpalatable was nourishing. Since then he had traveled on, finding work in the nearest large port. There, some of the other soldiers had taken exception to his foreign ways and inability to understand them, forcing him to travel further and further afield, accepting whatever work he could, mostly as bodyguard, forever hoping to find a ship to take him off the island and on his way to seek a city he knew as Tana Lorn. He cursed himself for giving credence to the old Filkharian wine merchant who had advised him to travel by sea, rather than continue on his way by land.
Unhappily, the seabear had ripped away Ronan’s purse, well-stocked with jewels from his previous adventure in Oi Oi, City of the Pearl Kings. He kept a few gold pieces in the folds of his belt, but he wanted to preserve them as long as possible. The boat had been blown off course, into the path of the seabear and ultimately to the shore of Eerin, this island. Here, he had been surprised that no-one had heard of Phum, let alone the city of Tana Lorn which he sought partly from curiosity and partly because he had heard he might find rest from his soldiering there. He had been told that gods dwelt in the city—gods willing to debate with mortals on the nature of the Seven Spheres, which, apart from the realm of Man, were those of Chaos, Law, Limbo, Dwarves, Giants and Eternals. Only Phum’s paramount god, Krim, existed in all those spheres. Throughout his conscious life Rackhir had brooded upon these seven realms and had entered the priesthood, accepting the harsh training administered to all would-be adepts, in order to learn whatever there was to know, read whatever had been written. And, though they disagreed on many things, all agreed that it was Tana Lorn, where Law and Chaos were forever held in balance, that guarded the secrets of the Seven Spheres. The great wise lords who ruled there would be able, he was sure, to impart the knowledge he desired.
For almost five years, since leaving Phum, Rackhir had sought that city. He had been sure he was nearing it when he had taken bad advice and decided to shorten his journey by the sea route. Instead of growing closer to Tana Lorn, he was borne further away. Now, he was becoming convinced, this was not even his own sphere, though it closely resembled it. Could there be eight realms of existence, as some in Phum believed? Or were there even more? And was this one of those? Or had he died in his own world, slain by the seabear? It would be his bad luck if this realm was some deceptively