Stormbringer - Michael Moorcock [18]
"I have an impossible choice, Sepiriz. If I give up Stormbringer I can probably survive on herbs and the like. But if I do give it up for Zarozinia, then Chaos will be unleashed to its full extent and I will have a monstrous crime upon my conscience."
"The choice is yours alone to make."
Elric deliberated but could think of no way of solving the problem.
"Bring the other blade," he said at last.
Sepiriz rejoined them a while later, with a scabbarded sword that seemed little different from >Stormbringer.
"So, Elric—is the prophecy explained?" he asked, still keeping hold of Mournblade.
"Aye—here is the twin of that I bear. But the last part—where are we to go?"
"I will tell you in a moment. Though the Dead Gods, and the powers of Chaos, are aware that we possess the sister blade, they do not know whom we really serve. Fate, as I told you, is our master, and Fate has wrought a fabric for this earth which would be hard to alter. But it could be altered and we are entrusted to see that Fate is not cheated. You are about to undergo a test. How you fare in it, what your decision is, will decide what we must tell you upon your return to Nihrain."
"You wish me to return here?"
"Yes."
"Give me Mournblade," Elric said quickly.
Sepiriz handed him the sword and Elric stood there with one twin blade in each hand, as if weighing something between them.
Both blades seemed to moan in recognition and their powers swam through his body so that he seemed to be built of steel-hard fire.
"I remember now that I hold them both that their powers are greater than I realise. There is one quality they possess when paired, a quality we may be able to use against this Dead God." He frowned. "But more of that in a moment." He stared sharply at Sepiriz. "Now tell me, where is Darnizhaan?"
"The Vale of Xanyaw in Myyrrhn!"
Elric handed Mournblade to Dyvim Slorm who accepted it gingerly.
"What will your choice be?" Sepiriz asked.
"Who knows?" Elric said with bitter gaiety. "Perhaps there is a way to beat this Dead God ... But I tell you this, Sepiriz—given the opportunity I shall make that God rue his homecoming, for he has done the one thing that can move me to real anger. And the anger of Elric of Melniboné and his sword Stormbringer can destroy the world!"
Sepiriz rose from his chair, his eyebrows lifting.
"And gods, Elric, can it destroy gods?"
Five
Elric rode like a giant scarecrow, gaunt and rigid on the massive back of the Nihrainian steed. His grim face was set fast in a mask that hid emotion and his crimson eyes burned like coals in their sunken sockets. The wind whipped his hair this way and that, but he sat straight, staring ahead, one long-fingered hand gripping Stormbringer's hilt.
Occasionally Dyvim Slorm, who bore Mournblade both proudly and warily, heard the blade moan to its sister and felt it shudder at his side. Only later did he begin to ask himself what the blade might make him, what it would give him and demand of him. After that, he kept his hand away from it as much as possible.
Close to the borders of Myyrrhn, a pack of Dharijorian hirelings—native Jharkorians in the livery of their conquerors—came upon them. Unsavoury louts they were, who should have known better than to ride across Elric's path. They steered their horses towards the pair, grinning. The black plumes of their helmets nodded, armour straps creaked and metal clanked. The leader, a squint-eyed bully with an axe at his belt, pulled his mount short in front of Elric.
At a direction from its master, the albino's horse came to a stop. His expression unchanged, Elric drew Stormbringer in an economic, catlike gesture. Dyvim Slorm copied him, eyeing the silently laughing men. He was surprised at how easily the blade sprang from its scabbard.
Then, with no challenges, Elric began to fight.
He fought like an automaton, quickly, efficiently, expressionlessly, cleaving the leader's shoulder plate in a stroke that cut through the man from shoulder to stomach in one raking movement which peeled back armour and flesh, rupturing