The Weird of the White Wolf - Michael Moorcock [36]
His strength was seeping swiftly from him. It was incredible. What alien laws governed this cavern world? He could not guess—and all he was concerned with was regaining his waning strength. Without the runesword's power, this was impossible!
Moonglum's curved blade had disembowelled the remaining beast and the little man was busily tossing the dead thing over the side. He turned, grinning triumphantly, to Elric.
“A good fight,” he said.
Elric shook his head. “We must cross this sea speedily,” he replied, “else we're lost—finished. My power is gone.”
“How? Why?”
“I know not—unless the forces of Entropy rule more strongly here. Make haste—there is no time for speculation.”
Moonglum's eyes were disturbed. He could do nothing but act as Elric said.
Elric was trembling in his weakness, holding the billowing sail with draining strength. Shaarilla moved to help him, her thin hands close to his; her deep-set eyes bright with sympathy.
“What were those things?” Moonglum gasped, his teeth naked and white beneath his back-drawn lips, his breath coming short.
“Clakars,” Shaarilla replied. “They are the primeval ancestors of my people, older in origin than recorded time. My people are thought the oldest inhabitants of this planet.”
“Whoever seeks to stop us in this quest of yours had best find some—original means.” Moonglum grinned. “The old methods don't work.” But the other two did not smile, for Elric was half-fainting and the woman was concerned only with his plight. Moonglum shrugged, staring ahead.
When he spoke again, sometime later, his voice was excited. “We're nearing land!”
Land it was, and they were traveling fast towards it. Too fast. Elric heaved himself upright and spoke heavily and with difficulty. “Drop the sail!” Moonglum obeyed him. The boat sped on, struck another stretch of silver beach and ground up it, the prow ploughing a dark scar through the glinting shingle. It stopped suddenly, tilting violently to one side so that the three were tumbled against the boat's rail.
Shaarilla and Moonglum pulled themselves upright and dragged the limp and nerveless albino on to the beach. Carrying him between them, they struggled up the beach until the crystalline shingle gave way to thick, fluffy moss, padding their footfalls. They laid the albino down and stared at him worriedly, uncertain of their next actions.
Elric strained to rise, but was unable to do so. “Give me time,” he gasped. “I won't die—but already my eyesight is fading. I can only hope that the blade's power will return on dry land.”
With a mighty effort, he pulled Stormbringer from its scabbard and he smiled in relief as the evil runesword moaned faintly and then, slowly, its song increased in power as black flame flickered along its length. Already the power was flowing into Elric's body, giving him renewed vitality. But even as strength returned, Elric's crimson eyes flared with terrible misery.
“Without this black blade,” he groaned, “I am nothing, as you see. But what is it making of me? Am I to be bound to it for ever?”
The others did not answer him and they were both moved by an emotion they could not define—an emotion blended of fear, hate and pity—linked with something else ...
Eventually, Elric rose, trembling, and silently led them up the mossy hillside towards a more natural light which filtered from above. They could see that it came from a wide chimney, leading apparently