The Weird of the White Wolf - Michael Moorcock [7]
Earl Aubec's weakness had lain in his strength, she thought. By now he had vanished into the heaving mists.
She felt a trifle sad that this time the execution of the task given her by the Lords of Law had not brought her the usual pleasure.
Yes perhaps, she thought, she felt a more subtle pleasure in his steadfastness and the means she had used to convince him.
For centuries had the Lords of Law entrusted her with Kaneloon and its secrets. But the progress was slow, for there were few heroes who could survive Kaneloon's dangers—few who could defeat self-created perils.
Yet, she decided with a slight smile on her lips, the task had its various rewards. She moved into another chamber to prepare for the transition of the castle to the new edge of the world.
Thus were the seeds sewn of the Age of the Young Kingdoms, the Age of Men, which was to produce the downfall of Melniboné.
Book One
THE DREAMING CITY
Which tells how Elric came back to Imrryr, what he did there, and how, at last, his weird fell upon him ...
ONE
* * *
“What's the hour?” The black-bearded man wrenched off his gilded helmet and flung it from him, careless of where it fell. He drew off his leathern gauntlets and moved closer to the roaring fire, letting the heat soak into his frozen bones.
“Midnight is long past,” growled one of the other armoured men who gathered around the blaze. “Are you still sure he'll come?”
“It's said that he's a man of his word, if that comforts you.”
It was a tall, pale-faced youth who spoke. His thin lips formed the words and spat them out maliciously. He grinned a wolf-grin and stared the new arrival in the eyes, mocking him.
The newcomer turned away with a shrug. “That's so—for all your irony, Yaris. He'll come.” He spoke as a man does when he wishes to reassure himself.
There were six men, now, around the fire. The sixth was Smiorgan—Count Smiorgan Baldhead of the Purple Towns. He was a short, stocky man of fifty years with a scarred face partially covered with a thick, black growth of hair. His eyes smouldered morosely and his lumpy fingers plucked nervously at his rich-hilted longsword. His pate was hairless, giving him his name, and over his ornate, gilded armour hung a loose woollen cloak, dyed purple.
Smiorgan said thickly, “He has no love for his cousin. He has become bitter. Yyrkoon sits on the Ruby Throne in his place and has proclaimed him an outlaw and a traitor. Elric needs us if he would take his throne and his bride back. We can trust him.”
“You're full of trust tonight, Count,” Yaris smiled thinly, “a rare thing to find in these troubled times. I say this—” He paused and took a long breath, staring at his comrades, summing them up. His gaze flicked from lean-faced Dharmit of Jharkor to Fadan of Lormyr who pursed his podgy lips and looked into the fire.
“Speak up, Yaris,” petulantly urged the patrician-featured Vilmirian, Naclon. “Let's hear what you have to say, lad, if it's worth hearing.”
Yaris looked towards Jiku the dandy, who yawned impolitely and scratched his long nose.
“Well!” Smiorgan was impatient. “What d'you say, Yaris?”
“I say that we should start now and waste no more time waiting on Elric's pleasure! He's laughing at us in some tavern a hundred miles from here—or else plotting with the Dragon Princes to trap us. For years we have planned this raid. We have little time in which to strike—our fleet is too big, too noticeable. Even if Elric has not betrayed us, then spies will soon be running eastwards to warn the Dragons that there is a fleet massed against them. We stand to win a fantastic fortune—to vanquish the greatest merchant city in the world—to reap immeasurable riches—or horrible death at the hands of the Dragon Princes, if we wait overlong. Let's bide our time no more and set sail before our prize hears of our plan and brings up reinforcements!