The kneeling figure turned its head and it was Urish. It gasped when it saw Elric and stretched out a maimed hand for its cleaver, abandoned some distance away.

  Elric sighed.

  “Do not fear me, Urish. I’m weary of bloodletting. I do not want your life.”

  The demon opened its eyes.

  “Prince Elric, you have returned,” it said. There seemed to be an indefinable difference in its tone.

  “Aye. Where is your master?”

  “I fear he has fled Nadsokor for ever.”

  “And left you to sit here for eternity.”

  The demon inclined its head.

  Urish put a grimy hand on Elric’s leg. “Elric—help me! I must have my Hoard. It is everything! Destroy the demon and I will give you back the Ring of Kings.”

  Elric smiled. “You are generous, King Urish.”

  Tears streamed down the filth on Urish’s ruined face. “Please, Elric, I beg thee…”

  “It is my intention to destroy the demon.”

  Urish looked nervously about him. “And aught else?”

  “That decision lies with the men of Tanelorn whom you sought to rob and whose friends you caused to be slain in a most foul manner.”

  “It was Theleb K’aarna, not I!”

  “And where is Theleb K’aarna now?”

  “When you unleashed those ape things on our Elenoin he fled the field. He went towards the Varkalk River—towards Troos.”

  Without looking behind him Elric said, “Rackhir? Will you try the arrows now?”

  There was the hum of a bowstring and an arrow struck the demon in the breast. It quivered there and the demon looked at it with mild interest, then breathed in deeply. As he breathed the arrow was drawn further into him and was eventually absorbed altogether.

  “Aaah!” Urish scuttled for his cleaver. “It will not work!”

  A second arrow sped from Rackhir’s scarlet bow and it, too, was absorbed, as was the third.

  Urish was gibbering now, waving his cleaver.

  Elric warned him: “He has a wardpact against swords, King Urish!”

  The demon rattled its scales. “Is that thing a sword, I wonder?”

  Urish hesitated. Spittle ran down his chin and his red eyes rolled. “Demon—begone! I must have my Hoard—it is mine!”

  The demon watched him sardonically.

  With a yell of terror and anguish Urish flung himself at the demon, the cleaver Hackmeat swinging wildly. Its blade came down on the hell-thing’s head, there was a sound like lightning striking metal and the cleaver shivered to pieces. Urish stood staring at the demon in quaking anticipation. Casually the demon reached out four of its hands and seized him. Its jaws opened wider than should have been possible, the bulk of the demon expanded until it was suddenly twice its original size. It brought the kicking Beggar King to its maw and suddenly there were only two legs waving from the mouth and then the demon gave a mighty swallow and there was nothing at all left of Urish of Nadsokor.

  Elric shrugged. “Your wardpact is effective.”

  The demon smiled. “Aye, sweet Elric.”

  Now the tone of voice was very familiar. Elric looked narrowly at the demon. “You’re no ordinary…”

  “I hope not, most beloved of mortals.”

  Elric’s horse reared and snorted as the demon’s shape began to alter. There was a humming sound and black smoke coiled over the throne and then another figure was sitting there, its legs crossed. It had the shape of a man but it was more beautiful than any mortal. It was a being of intense and majestic beauty—unearthly beauty.

  “Arioch!” Elric bowed his head before the Lord of Chaos.

  “Aye, Elric. I took the demon’s place while you were gone.”

  “But you have refused to aid me…”

  “There are larger affairs afoot, as I’ve told you. Soon Chaos must engage with Law and such as Donblas will be dismissed to limbo for eternity.”

  “You knew Donblas spoke to me in the labyrinth of the Burning God?”

  “Indeed I did. That was why I afforded myself the time to visit your plane. I cannot have you patronised by Donblas the Justice Maker and his humourless kind. I was offended. Now I have shown you that my power is greater than Law’s.” Arioch stared beyond Elric at Rackhir, Brut, Moonglum and the rest who were protecting their eyes from his beauty. “Perhaps you fools of Tanelorn now realise that it is better to serve Chaos!”

  Rackhir said grimly: “I serve neither Chaos nor Law!”

  “One day you will be taught that neutrality is more dangerous than side-taking, renegade!” The harmonious voice was now almost vicious.

  “You cannot harm me,” Rackhir said. “And if Elric returns with us to Tanelorn, then he, too, may rid himself of your evil yoke!”

  “Elric is of Melniboné. The folk of Melniboné all serve Chaos—and are greatly rewarded. How else would you have rid this throne of Theleb K’aarna’s demon?”

  “Perhaps in Tanelorn Elric would have no need of his Ring of Kings,” Rackhir replied levelly.

  There was a sound like rushing water, the boom of thunder and Arioch’s form began to grow larger. But as it grew it also began to fade until there was nothing left in the hall but the stench of its garbage.

  Elric dismounted and ran to the throne. Reaching under it he drew out dead Urish’s chest and hacked it open with Stormbringer. The sword murmured as if resenting the menial work. Gems, gold, artefacts scattered through the muck as Elric sought his ring.

  And then at last he held it up in triumph, replacing it on his finger. His step was lighter as he returned to his horse.

  Moonglum had in the meantime dismounted and was scooping the best of the jewels into his pouch. He winked at Rackhir, who smiled.

  “And now,” Elric said, “I go to Troos to seek Theleb K’aarna there. I have still to take my vengeance upon him.”

  “Let him rot in Troos’s sickly forest,” Moonglum said.

  Rackhir placed a hand on Elric’s shoulder. “If Theleb K’aarna hates you so, he will find you again. Why waste your own time in the pursuit?”

  Elric smiled slightly at his old friend. “You were ever clear in your arguments, Rackhir. And it is true that I am weary—both gods and demons have fallen to my blade in the little while since I came to Nadsokor.”

  “Come, rest in Tanelorn—peaceful Tanelorn, where even the greatest Lords of the Higher Worlds cannot come without permission.”

  Elric looked down at the ring on his finger. “Yet I have sworn Theleb K’aarna shall perish…”

  “There will be time yet to fulfil your oath.”

  Elric ran his hand through his milk-white hair and it seemed to his friends that there were tears in his crimson eyes.

  “Aye,” he said. “Aye. Time yet…”

  * * *

  And they rode away from Nadsokor, leaving the beggars to brood in the stink and the foulness and regret that they had aught to do with sorcery or with Elric of Melniboné.

  They rode for Eternal Tanelorn. Tanelorn, which had welcomed and held all troubled wanderers who came upon it. All save one.

  Doom-haunted, full of guilt, of sorrow, of despair, Elric of Melniboné prayed that this time Tanelorn might hold even him…

  BOOK THREE THREE HEROES WITH A SINGLE AIM

  …Elric, of all the manifestations of the Champion Eternal, was to find Tanelorn without effort. And of all those manifestations he was the only one to choose to leave that city of myriad incarnations…

  —The Chronicle of the Black Sword

  1 Tanelorn Eternal

  Tanelorn had taken many forms in her endless existence, but all those forms, save one, had been beautiful.

  She was beautiful now, with the soft sunlight on her pastel towers and her curved turrets and domes. And banners flew from her spires, but they were not battle-banners, for the warriors who had found Tanelorn and had stayed there were weary of war.

  She had been here always. None knew when Tanelorn had been built, but some knew that she had existed before time and would exist after the end of time and that was why she was known as Eternal Tanelorn.

  She had played a significant role in the struggles of many heroes and many gods and because she existed beyond time she was hated by the Lords of Chaos who had more than once sought to destroy her. To the south of her lay the rolling plains of Ilmiora, a land where justice was known to prevail, and to the north of her lay the desolation which was the Sighing Desert, endless wasteland over which hissed a constant wind. If Ilmiora represented Law, then the Sighing Desert certainly mirrored something of the barrenness of Ultimate Chaos. Those who dwelt in Tanelorn had loyalty neither to Law nor to Chaos and they had chosen to have no part in the Cosmic Struggle which was waged continuously by the Lords of the Higher Worlds. There were no leaders and there were no followers in Tanelorn and her citizens lived in harmony with each other, even though many had been warriors of great reputation before they chose to stay there. But one of the most admired citizens of Tanelorn, one who was often consulted by the others, was Rackhir of the ascetic features who had once been a fierce Warrior Priest in the Eastlands where he had gained the name of the Red Archer because his skill with a bow was great and he dressed all in scarlet. His skill and his dress remained the same, but his urge to fight had left him since he had come to live in Tanelorn.

  Close to the low west wall of the city lay a house of two storeys surrounded by a lawn in which grew all manner of wild flowers. The house was of pink and yellow marble and, unlike most of the other dwellings in Tanelorn, it had a tall, pointed roof. This was Rackhir’s house and Rackhir sat outside it now, sprawled on a bench of plain wood while he watched his guest pace the lawn. The guest was his old friend the tormented albino prince of Melniboné.

  Elric wore a simple white shirt and britches of heavy black silk. He had a band of the same black silk tied around his head to keep back the mane of milk-white hair which grew to his shoulders. His crimson eyes were downcast as he paced and he did not look at Rackhir at all.

  Rackhir was unwilling to intrude upon his friend’s reverie and yet he hated to see Elric as he was now. He had hoped that Tanelorn would comfort the albino, drive away the ghosts and the doubts inhabiting his skull, but it seemed that even Tanelorn could not bring Elric tranquillity.

  At last Rackhir broke his silence. “It has been a month since you came to Tanelorn, my friend, yet still you pace, still you brood.”

  Elric looked up with a slight smile. “Aye—still I brood. Forgive me, Rackhir. I am a poor guest.”

  “What occupies your thoughts?”

  “No particular subject. It seems that I cannot lose myself in all this peace. Only violent action helps me drive away my melancholy. I was not meant for Tanelorn, Rackhir.”

  “But violent action—or the results of it—produces further melancholy, does it not?”

  “It is true. It is the dilemma with which I live constantly. It is a dilemma I have been in since the burning of Imrryr—perhaps before.”

  “It is a dilemma known to all men, perhaps,” Rackhir said. “At least to some degree.”

  “Aye—to wonder what purpose there is to one’s existence and what point there is to purpose, even if it should be discovered.”

  “Tanelorn makes such problems seem meaningless to me,” Rackhir told him. “I had hoped that you, too, would be able to dismiss them from your thoughts. Will you stay on in Tanelorn?”

  “I have no other plans. I still thirst for vengeance upon Theleb K’aarna, but I now have no idea of his whereabouts. And, as you or Moonglum told me, Theleb K’aarna is sure to seek me out sooner or later. I remember once, when you first found Tanelorn, you suggested that I bring Cymoril here and forget Melniboné. I wish I had listened to you then, Rackhir, for now, I think, I would know peace and Cymoril’s dead face would not be infesting my nights.”

  “You mentioned this sorceress who, you said, resembled Cymoril…?”

  “Myshella? She who is called Empress of the Dawn? I first saw her in a dream and when I left her side it was I who was in a dream. We served each other to achieve a common purpose. I shall not see her again.”

  “But if she—”

  “I shall not see her again, Rackhir.”

  “As you say.”

  Once more the two friends fell silent and there was only birdsong and the splash of fountains in the air as Elric continued his pacing of the garden.

  Some while later Elric suddenly turned on his heel and went into the house followed by Rackhir’s troubled gaze.

  When Elric came out again he was wearing the great wide belt around his waist—the belt which supported the black scabbard containing his runesword Stormbringer. Over his shoulders was flung a cloak of white silk and he wore high boots.

  “I go riding,” he said. “I will go by myself into the Sighing Desert and I will ride until I am exhausted. Perhaps exercise is all I need.”

  “Be careful of the desert, my friend,” Rackhir cautioned him. “It is a sinister and treacherous wilderness.”

  “I will be careful.”

  “Take the big golden mare. She is used to the desert and her stamina is legendary.”

  “Thank you. I will see you in the morning if I do not return earlier.”

  “Take care, Elric. I trust your remedy is successful and your melancholy disappears.”

  Rackhir’s expression had little of relief in it as he watched his friend stride towards the nearby stables, his white cloak billowing behind him like a sea-fog suddenly risen.

  Then he heard the sound of Elric’s horse as its hoofs struck the cobbles of the street and Rackhir got to his feet to watch as the albino urged the golden mare into a canter and headed for the northern wall beyond which the great yellow waste of the Sighing Desert could be seen.

  Moonglum came out of the house, a large apple in his hand, a scroll under his arm.

  “Where goes Elric, Rackhir?”

  “He looks for peace in the desert.”

  Moonglum frowned and bit thoughtfully into his apple. “He has sought peace in all other places and I fear he’ll not find it there, either.”

  Rackhir nodded his agreement. “But it is my premonition he’ll discover something else, for Elric is not always motivated by his own wishes. There are times when other forces work within him to make him take some fateful action.”

  “You think this is such a time?”

  “It could be.”

  2 Return of a Sorceress

  The sand rippled as the wind blew it so that the dunes seemed like waves in an almost petrified sea. Stark fangs of rock jutted here and there—the remains of mountain ranges which had been eroded by the wind. And a mournful sighing could just be heard, as if the sand remembered when it had been rock and the stones of cities and the bones of men and beasts and longed for its resurrection, sighed at the memory of its death.

  Elric drew the cloak’s cowl over his head to protect it from the fierce sun which hung in the steel-blue sky.

  One day, he thought, I too shall know this peace of death and perhaps then I shall also regret it. He let the golden mare slow to a trot and took a sip of water from one of his canteens.

  Now the desert surrounded him and it seemed infinite. Nothing grew. No animals lived there. There were no birds in the sky.

  For some reason he shuddered and he had a presentiment of a moment in the future when he would be alone, as he was now, in a world even more barren than this desert, without even a horse for company. He shook off the thought, but it had left him so stunned that for a little while he achieved his ambition and did not brood upon his fate and his situation. The wind dropped slightly and the sighing became little more than a whisper.

  Dazed, Elric fingered the pommel of his blade—Stormbringer, the Black Sword—for he associated his presentiment with the weapon but could not tell why. And it seemed to him that he heard an ironic note in the murmuring of the wind. Or did the sound emanate from his sword itself? He cocked his head, listening, but the sound became even less audible, as if aware that he listened.

  The golden mare began to climb the gentle slope of a dune, stumbling once as her foot sank into deeper sand. Elric concentrated on guiding her to firmer ground.

  Reaching the top of the dune he reined his horse in. The desert dunes rolled on, broken only by the occasional rock. He had it in mind then to ride on and on until it would be impossible to return to Tanelorn, until both he and his mount collapsed from exhaustion and were eventually swallowed by the sands. He pushed back his cowl and wiped sweat from his brow.

  Why not? he thought. Life was not bearable. He would try death.

  And yet would death deny him? Was he doomed to live? It sometimes seemed so.

  Then he considered the horse. It would not be fair to sacrifice it to his desire. Slowly he dismounted.

  The wind grew stronger and the sound of its sighing increased. Sand blew around Elric’s booted feet. It was a hot wind and it tugged at his voluminous white cloak. The horse snorted nervously.

  Elric looked towards the north-east, towards the edge of the world.

  And he began to walk.

  * * *

  The horse whinnied enquiringly at him when he did not call it, but he ignored the sound and had soon left his mount behind him. He had not even bothered to bring water with him. He flung back his cowl so that the sun beat directly upon his head. His pace was even, purposeful, and he marched as if at the head of an army.

  Perhaps he did sense an army behind him—the army of the dead, of all those friends and enemies whom he had slain in the course of his pointless search for a meaning to his existence.

  And still one enemy remained alive. An enemy even stronger, even more malevolent than Theleb K’aarna—the enemy of his darker self, of that side of his nature which was symbolised by the sentient blade still resting at his hip. And when he died, then that enemy would also die. A force for evil would be removed from the world.

  For several hours Elric of Melniboné tramped on through the Sighing Desert and gradually, as he had hoped, his sense of identity began to leave him so that it was almost as if he became one with the wind and the sand and, in so doing, was united at last with the world which had rejected him and which he had rejected.