Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [192]
“Let fly!” she cried. “Now! Now!”
He obeyed.
A second arrow whispered from the thrumming string, and a second orb was pierced. Again came that terrible noise, half-howl, half-shriek. And the darkness of the barrow shook to the thing’s massive convulsions. The noise grew, at once deafening and deep, shrill as the cry of some enormous seabird.
Then the warriors were upon him and he was forced to tug the axe free of his belt and strike two down, ducking beneath the sweep of their swords. A third fell, head split in two by the bright, bronze blade. He grew aware of her back against his as her own deadly sword and poignard whispered and shivered in the darkness. Blood spattered against the Red Archer’s face. He spat it out in disgust, carrying the attack to two more of the warriors. He was encouraged suddenly by the realization that they could see hardly better than he could. The pressure on his back was gone, however. He had lost contact with the woman. Where was she? Had she betrayed him? Had she left him to his death? Was this what she had done with all the others who had ventured here to steal what she called the Original Seed?
Again, he had no time to call out, to demand her continuing aid. With astonishing speed, one brilliant viridian orb came closer and closer. It was almost upon him. Yet still all around him he felt the press of the warriors defending the Seed. Stinking breath struck his face. He continued to hack blindly, this way and that. His arm cut an arc of death. He was soaked in that thick, green, unnatural blood.
“Rackhir!” She no longer whispered. There was tangible terror in her voice. “Shoot! Shoot! If you do not, we are both doomed!”
He stepped to one side, slammed his battle axe into another body and, using it as a temporary shield, raised his bow and his remaining arrow.
“Rackhir! Let fly!”
Drawing the long shaft back, he aimed and loosed in one fluid, instinctive movement.
There came a pause. A terrible, threatening silence.
Now an unhuman scream shrilled loud enough to threaten both his hearing and his sanity. He saw the outline of the arrow quivering above him, then to his right, then his left, then below. Light streamed behind it, veining the darkness everywhere. Filthy liquid stung his skin. The stench grew stronger and stronger and he staggered, retching, fearing he must surely pass out. Then he would certainly die…
“Now, Ronan! Guard my back!”
Black shadows moved towards him and he sensed red rage threatening again. He had a glimpse of her lithe body against the failing light and once more resisted an urge to clap his hand over his ears. Again his hand gripped the long-shafted war-axe. Again he buried the blade deep into flesh, then swung backwards to catch the warrior threatening him from behind. He feared he might strike her by mistake. There arose a strange, pulsing green fog, outlining the huge, reptilian body thrashing from side to side now, flinging corpses and living men indiscriminately about the earthern sphere. And all the while came the noise, that deafening, hellish screaming.
Then she was beside him and he smelled something infinitely sweet. In the dying light of the last orb he saw her pale features and knew she had succeeded in getting what she sought.
“They are distracted by the beast’s death-throes now, if indeed she does die. They hardly know whether to fight or flee. This is our moment—our only moment—to leave.”
She took his arm and he backed along the serpentine corridor, striking out at more shadows as they approached.
The labyrinth narrowed, becoming marginally easier to defend. His eyes were better accustomed to the gloom. He could glimpse his enemies by the faint, reflected green light in their eyes.
And then at last they had reached the oaken gates. She pulled