Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [49]
They had set a pattern that was no pattern, which would last until they became bored with their domain again and brought about another Time of the Change.
Then their heads turned and all regarded Elric expectantly.
Teshwan said a trifle wearily, “There—you have seen what we can do.”
“You are artists, indeed,” said Elric, “and I am so amazed by what I have witnessed that I need a little time to think. Will you grant it me?”
“A little time—a little time only—we want to see what you prepare for us while the excitement is still upon us.”
And Elric placed his white albino’s head upon his fist and thought deeply.
Many ideas occurred to him, only to be discarded, but at length he straightened his back and said: “Give me the power to create and I will create.”
So Teshwan said smilingly, “You have the power—use it well. A joke and a paradox is all we require.”
“The reward for failure?”
“To be forever conscious.”
At this, Elric shivered and put his mind to concentrating, searching his memory until a manlike figure formed before him. Then he placed features on its head and clothes on its body until there stood before Elric and the Lords of Chaos a perfect replica—of Elric.
Puzzledly, Teshwan said: “This is splendid impertinence, I grant you—but this is nothing new—you already sit here beside us.”
“Indeed,” replied Elric, “but look in the man’s mind.”
They frowned and did as he asked. Then, smiling, they nodded: “The paradox is good,” said Teshwan, “and we see your point. We have, for an eternity, created the effect. You, in your pride and innocence, have created the cause. In that man’s mind was all that could ever exist.”
“You have noted the paradox?” asked Elric, anxious that the correct interpretation had been divulged.
“Of course. For though the mind contains the variety beloved of we of Chaos, it contains the order that those barren Lords of Law would foist on the world. Truly, young mortal, you have created everything with a stroke. And thank you, also, for the joke.”
“The joke?”
“Why truly—the best joke is but a simple statement of truth. Farewell. Remember, friend mortal, that the Lords of Chaos are grateful to you.”
And with that, the whole domain faded away and Elric stood on the grassy plain. In the distance he observed the city of Bakshaan which had been his original destination, and nearby was his horse to take him there.
He mounted, flapped the reins, and, as the grey gelding broke into a trot, he said to himself: “A joke indeed, but it is a pity that men do not laugh at it more often.”
Reluctantly, he headed for the city.
THE GREATER CONQUEROR
Just how “great” was Alexander? Considering his ultimate destiny, were there other agencies at work using him as a springboard for a vaster design?
—John Carnell, SCIENCE FANTASY No. 58, April 1963
THE GREATER CONQUEROR
CHAPTER ONE
HE FELT HE was much more than one man. Not one god, even, but many…There seemed to be a hundred other entities writhing within him. Writhing to release themselves. Every limb, every projection of bone seemed to be part of another being.
He lay on the fur-strewn bed, sweating, dominated by movements in his mind and body which he was incapable of controlling. Alexander the Great groaned in torment.
The buxom Corinthian woman spat into the rushes on the floor of the tavern.
“That for the God-King!”
But the silence around her put a stop to her enlarging the theme. The Thracian known as Simon of Byzantium lifted his bronze cup, the sleeve of his silk-trimmed jerkin falling back down his brown arm, and sucked sweet Persian wine into his throat. He sensed the discomfort the other roisterers felt towards the woman and, because he could be cautious, dropped his arm from her thick waist and pushed her from him.
He looked down his long nose. His scarred face moved and he smiled as he addressed an old Persian soldier.
“You say you were in the army Darius led against Alexander?”
“That’s right—a charioteer. His cavalry ran rings round us.”
“What did