Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [31]
“We should need help,” Rackhir replied, “supernatural help if need be.”
“Would the Grey Lords help us?” Zas the One-handed asked the question. He was an old, torn wanderer who had once gained a throne and lost it again.
“Aye—the Grey Lords!” Several voices chorused this hopefully.
“Who are the Grey Lords?” said Uroch, but no-one heard him.
“They are not inclined to aid anyone at all,” Zas the One-handed pointed out, “but surely Tanelorn, coming as it does under neither the Forces of Law nor the Lords of Chaos, would be worth their while preserving. After all, they have no loyalties either.”
“I’m for seeking the Grey Lords’ aid,” Brut nodded. “What of the rest of us?” There was general agreement, then silence when they realized that they knew of no means of contacting the mysterious and insouciant beings. At last Zas pointed this out.
Rackhir said: “I know a seer—a hermit who lives in the Sighing Desert. Perhaps he can help.”
“I think that, after all, we should not waste time looking for supernatural assistance against this beggar rabble,” Uroch said. “Let us prepare, instead, to meet the attack with physical means.”
“You forget,” Brut said wearily, “that they are led by Narjhan of Chaos. He is not human and has the whole strength of Chaos behind him. We know that the Grey Lords are pledged neither to Law nor to Chaos but will sometimes help either side if the whim takes them. They are our only chance.”
“Why not seek the aid of the forces of Law, sworn enemies of Chaos and mightier than the Grey Lords?” Uroch said.
“Because Tanelorn is a city owing allegiance to neither side. We are all of us men and women who have broken our pledge to Chaos but have made no new one to Law. The forces of Law, in matters of this kind, will help only those sworn to them. The Grey Lords only may protect us, if they would.” So said Zas.
“I will go to find my seer,” Rackhir the Red Archer said, “and if he knows how I may reach the Domain of the Grey Lords, then I’ll continue straight on, for there is so little time. If I reach them and solicit their help you will soon know I have done so. If not, you must die in Tanelorn’s defense and, if I live, I will join you in that last battle.”
“Very well,” Brut agreed, “go quickly, Red Archer. Let one of your own arrows be the measure of your speed.”
And taking little with him save his bone bow and quiver of scarlet-fletched arrows, Rackhir set off for the Sighing Desert.
From Nadsokor, south-west through the land of Vilmir, even through the squalid country of Org which has in it the dreadful forest of Troos, there was flame and black horror in the wake of the beggar horde, and insolent, disdainful of them though he led them, rode a being completely clad in black armour with a voice that rang hollow in the helm. People fled away at their approach and the land was made barren by their passing. Most knew what had happened, that the beggar citizens of Nadsokor had, contrary to their traditions of centuries, vomited from their city in a wild, menacing horde. Someone had armed them—someone had made them go northwards and westwards towards the Sighing Desert. But who was the one who led them? Ordinary folk did not know. And why did they head for the Sighing Desert? There was no city beyond Karlaak, which they had skirted, only the Sighing Desert—and beyond that the edge of the world. Was that their destination? Were they heading, lemminglike, to their destruction? Everyone hoped so, in their hate for the horrible horde.
Rackhir rode through the mournful wind of the Sighing Desert, his face and eyes protected against the particles of sand which flew about. He was thirsty and had been riding a day. Ahead of him at last were the rocks he sought.
He reached the rocks and called above the wind.
“Lamsar!”
The hermit came out in answer to Rackhir’s shout. He was dressed in oiled leather