The Bane of the Black Sword - Michael Moorcock [41]
Elric pretended to flinch and stumbled hurriedly from the tent.
A lone man in the livery of an Official Messenger of Karlaak goaded his horse southwards. The mount galloped over the crest of a hill and the messenger saw a village ahead. Hurriedly he rode into it, shouting at the first man he saw.
"Quickly, tell me—know you ought of Dyvim Slorm and his Imrryrian mercenaries? Have they passed this way?"
"Aye—a week ago. They went towards Rignariom by Jadmar's border, to offer their services to the Vilmirian Pretender."
"Were they mounted or on foot?"
"Both."
"Thanks, friend," cried the messenger behind him and galloped out of the village in the direction of Rignariom.
The messenger from Karlaak rode through the night—rode along a recently made trail. A large force had passed that way. He prayed that it had been Dyvim Slorm and his Imrryrian warriors.
In the sweet-smelling garden city of Karlaak, the atmosphere was tense as the citizens waited for news they knew they could not expect for some time. They were relying on both Elric and on the messenger. If only one were successful, there would be no hope for them. Both had to be successful. Both.
THREE
The tumbling sound of moving men cut through the weeping morning and the hungry voice of Terarn Gashtek lashed at them to hurry.
Slaves packed up his tent and threw it into a wagon. He rode forward and wrenched his tall war-lance from the soft earth, wheeled his horse and rode westwards, his captains, Elric and Moonglum among them, behind him.
Speaking the Western tongue, Elric and Moonglum debated their problem. The barbarian was expecting them to lead him to his prey, his outriders were covering wide distances so that it would be impossible to lead him past a settlement. They were in a quandary for it would be disgraceful to sacrifice another township to give Karlaak a few days' grace, yet. . .
A little later two whooping outriders came galloping up to Terarn Gashtek.
"A town, lord! A small one and easy to take!"
"At last—this will do to test our blades and see how easy Western flesh is to pierce. Then we'll aim at a bigger target." He turned to Elric: "Do you know this town?"
"Where does it lie?" asked Elric thickly.
"A dozen miles to the south-west," replied the outrider.
In spite of the fact that the town was doomed, Elric felt almost relieved. They spoke of the town of Gorjhan. "I know it," he said.
Cavim the Saddler, riding to deliver a new set of horse furniture to an outlying farm, saw the distant riders, their bright helmets caught by a sudden beam of sunlight. That the riders came from off the Weeping Waste was undoubtable—and he recognised menace in their massed progress.
He turned his mount about and rode with the speed of fear, back the way he had come to the town of Gorjhan.
The flat, hard mud of the street trembled beneath the thudding hooves of Cavim's horse and his high, excited shout knifed through shuttered windows.
"Raiders come! 'Ware the raiders!"
Within a quarter of an hour, the head-men of the town had met in hasty conference and debated whether to run or to fight. The older men advised their neighbours to flee the raiders, other younger men preferred to stay ready, armed to meet a possible attack. Some argued that their town was too poor to attract any raider.
The townspeople of Gorjhan debated and quarrelled, and the first wave of raiders came screaming to their walls.
With the realisation that there was no time for further argument came the realisation of their doom, and they ran to the ramparts with their pitiful weapons.
Terarn Gashtek roared through the milling barbarians who churned the mud around Gorjhan: "Let's waste no time in siege. Fetch the sorcerer!"
They dragged Drinij Bara forward. From his garments, Terarn Gashtek produced the small black cat and held an iron blade at its throat.
"Work your spell, sorcerer, and tumble the walls quickly."
The sorcerer