* * *

  The Boatmen prepared their weapons and made themselves ready for war. Their black faces had a concentrated look and they grinned in their bushy beards. War-harness clothed them and they bristled with weapons—long, barbed tridents, nets of steel mesh, curved swords, long harpoons. Rackhir stood in the prow of the leading ship, his quiver packed with slim arrows loaned him by the Boatmen. Below him he saw Tanelorn and was relieved that the city still stood.

  He could see the milling warriors below, but it was hard to tell, from the air, which were friends and which were foes. Lamsar called to the frisking fire elementals, instructing them. Timeras grinned and held his sword ready as the ships rocked on the wind and dropped lower.

  Now Rackhir observed Narjhan with Sorana beside him.

  “The bitch has warned him—he is ready for us,” Rackhir said, wetting his lips and drawing an arrow from his quiver.

  Down the Ships of Xerlerenes dropped, coursing downwards on the currents of air, their golden sails billowing, the warrior crews straining over the side and keen for battle.

  Then Narjhan summoned the Kyrenee.

  * * *

  Huge as a storm cloud, black as its native hell, the Kyrenee grew from the surrounding air and moved its shapeless bulk forward towards the Ships of Xerlerenes, sending out flowing tendrils of poison towards them. Boatmen groaned as the coils curled around their naked bodies and crushed them.

  Lamsar called urgently to his fire elementals and they rose again from where they had been devouring beggars, came together in one great blossoming of flame which moved to do battle with the Kyrenee.

  The two masses met and there was an explosion which blinded the Red Archer with multicoloured light and sent the ships rocking and shaking so that several capsized and sent their crews hurtling downwards to death.

  Blotches of flame flew everywhere and patches of poison blackness from the body of the Kyrenee were flung about, slaying those they touched before disappearing.

  There was a terrible stink in the air—a smell of burning, a smell of outraged elements which had never been meant to meet.

  The Kyrenee died, lashing about and wailing, while the flame elementals, dying or returning to their own sphere, faded and vanished. The remaining bulk of the great Kyrenee billowed slowly down to the earth where it fell upon the scrabbling beggars and killed them, leaving nothing but a wet patch on the ground for yards around, a patch glistening with the bones of beggars.

  Now Rackhir cried: “Quickly—finish the fight before Narjhan summons more horrors!”

  And the boats sailed downwards while the Boatmen cast their steel nets, pulling large catches of beggars aboard their ships and finishing the wriggling starvelings with their tridents or spears.

  * * *

  Rackhir shot arrow after arrow and had the satisfaction of seeing each one take a beggar just where he had aimed it. The remaining warriors of Tanelorn, led by Brut who was covered in sticky blood but grinning in his victory, charged towards the unnerved beggars.

  Narjhan stood his ground, while the beggars, fleeing, streamed past him and the girl. Sorana seemed frightened, looked up and her eyes met Rackhir’s. The Red Archer aimed an arrow at her, thought better of it and shot instead at Narjhan. The arrow went into the black armour but had no effect upon the Lord of Chaos.

  Then the Boatmen of Xerlerenes flung down their largest net from the vessel in which Rackhir sailed and they caught Lord Narjhan in its coils and caught Sorana, too.

  Shouting their exhilaration, they pulled the struggling bodies aboard and Rackhir ran forward to inspect their catch. Sorana had received a scratch across her face from the net’s wire, but the body of Narjhan lay still and dreadful in the mesh.

  Rackhir grabbed an axe from a Boatman and knocked back the helm, his foot upon the chest.

  “Yield, Narjhan of Chaos!” he cried in mindless merriment. He was near hysterical with victory, for this was the first time a mortal had ever bested a Lord of Chaos.

  But the armour was empty, if it had ever been occupied by flesh, and Narjhan was gone.

  * * *

  Calm settled aboard the Ships of Xerlerenes and over the city of Tanelorn. The remnants of the warriors had gathered in the city’s square and were cheering their victory.

  Friagho, the Captain of Xerlerenes, came up to Rackhir and shrugged. “We did not get the catch we came for—but these will do. Thanks for the fishing, friend.”

  Rackhir smiled and gripped Friagho’s black shoulder. “Thanks for the aid—you have done us all a great service.” Friagho shrugged again and turned back to his nets, his trident poised. Suddenly Rackhir shouted: “No, Friagho—let that one be. Let me have the contents of that net.”

  Sorana, the contents to which he’d referred, looked anxious as if she had rather been transfixed on the prongs of Friagho’s trident. Friagho said: “Very well, Red Archer—there are plenty more people on the land.” He pulled at the net to release her.

  She stood up shakily, looking at Rackhir apprehensively.

  * * *

  Rackhir smiled quite softly and said: “Come here, Sorana.” She went to him and stood staring up at his bony hawk’s face, her eyes wide. With a laugh he picked her up and flung her over his shoulder.

  “Tanelorn is safe!” he shouted. “You shall learn to love its peace with me!” And he began to clamber down the trailing ladders that the Boatmen had dropped over the side.

  Lamsar waited for him below. “I go now, to my hermitage again.”

  “I thank you for your aid,” said Rackhir. “Without it Tanelorn would no longer exist.”

  “Tanelorn will always exist while men exist,” said the hermit. “It was not a city you defended today. It was an ideal. That is Tanelorn.”

  And Lamsar smiled.

  STORMBRINGER

  For J.G. Ballard, whose enthusiasm for Elric gave me encouragement to begin this particular book, my first attempt at a full-length novel, and for Jim Cawthorn, whose illustrations based on my ideas in turn gave me inspiration for certain scenes in this book, and for Dave Britton, who kept the magazines in which the serial first appeared and who kindly loaned them to me so that I could restore this novel to its original shape and length.

  STORMBRINGER

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK ONE: DEAD GOD’S HOMECOMING

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  BOOK TWO: BLACK SWORD’S BROTHERS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  BOOK THREE: SAD GIANT’S SHIELD

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BOOK FOUR: DOOMED LORD’S PASSING

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  PROLOGUE

  There came a time when there was great movement upon the Earth and above it, when the destiny of Men and Gods was hammered out upon the forge of Fate, when monstrous wars were brewed and mighty deeds were designed. And there rose up in this time, which was called the Age of the Young Kingdoms, heroes. Greatest of these heroes was a doom-driven adventurer who bore a crooning runeblade that he loathed.

  His name was Elric of Melniboné, king of ruins, lord of a scattered race that had once ruled the ancient world. Elric, sorcerer and swordsman, slayer of kin, despoiler of his homeland, white-faced albino, last of his line.

  Elric, who had come to Karlaak by the Weeping Waste and had married a wife in whom he found some peace, some surcease from the torment in him.

  And Elric, who had within him a greater destiny than he knew, now dwelt in Karlaak with Zarozinia, his wife, and his sleep was troubled, his dream dark, one brooding night in the Month of Anemone…

  BOOK ONE DEAD GOD’S HOMECOMING

  In which, at long last, Elric’s fate begins to be revealed to him as the forces of Law and Chaos gather strength for the final battle which will decide the future of Elric’s world…

  1

  Above the rolling Earth great clouds tumbled down and bolts of lightning charged groundwards to slash the midnight black, split trees in twain and sear through roofs that cracked and broke.

  The dark mass of forest trembled with the shock and out of it crept six hunched, unhuman figures who paused to stare beyond the low hills towards the outline of a city. It was a city of squat walls and slender spires, of graceful towers and domes; and it had a name which the leader of the creatures knew. Karlaak by the Weeping Waste it was called.

  Not of natural origin, the storm was ominous. It groaned around the city of Karlaak as the creatures skulked past the open gates and made their way through shadows towards the elegant palace where Elric slept. The leader raised an axe of black iron in its clawed hand. The group came to a stealthy halt and regarded the sprawling palace which lay on a hill surrounded by languorously scented gardens. The earth shook as lightning lashed it and thunder prowled across the turbulent sky.

  “Chaos has aided us in this matter,” the leader grunted. “See—already the guards fall in magic slumber and our entrance is thus made simple. The Lords of Chaos are good to their servants.”

  He spoke the truth. Some supernatural force had been at work and the warriors guarding Elric’s palace had dropped to the ground, their snores echoing the thunder. The servants of Chaos crept past the prone guards, into the main courtyard and from there into the darkened palace. Unerringly they climbed twisting staircases, moved softly along gloomy corridors, to arrive at length outside the room where Elric and his wife lay in uneasy sleep.

  As the leader laid a hand upon the door, a voice cried out from within the room: “What’s this? What things of hell disrupt my rest?”

  “He sees us!” sharply whispered one of the creatures.

  “No,” the leader said, “he sleeps—but such a sorcerer as this Elric is not so easily lulled into a stupor. We had best make speed and do our work, for if he wakes it will be the harder!”

  He twisted the handle and eased the door open, his axe half raised. Beyond the bed, heaped with tumbled furs and silks, lightning gashed the night again, showing the white face of the albino close to that of his dark-haired wife.

  Even as they entered, he rose stiffly in the bed and his crimson eyes opened, staring out at them. For a moment the eyes were glazed and then the albino forced himself awake, shouting: “Begone, you creatures of my dreams!”

  The leader cursed and leapt forward, but he had been instructed not to slay this man. He raised the axe threateningly.

  “Silence—your guards cannot aid you!”

  Elric jumped from the bed and grasped the thing’s wrist, his face close to the fanged muzzle. Because of his albinism he was physically weak and required magic to give him strength. But so quickly did he move that he had wrested the axe from the creature’s hand and smashed the shaft between its eyes. Snarling, it fell back, but its comrades jumped forward. There were five of them, huge muscles moving beneath their furred skins.

  Elric clove the skull of the first as others grappled with him. His body was spattered with the thing’s blood and brains and he gasped in disgust at the foetid stuff. He managed to wrench his arm away and bring the axe up and down into the collarbone of another. But then he felt his legs gripped and he fell, confused but still battling. Then there came a great blow on his head and pain blazed through him. He made an effort to rise, failed and fell back insensible.

  Thunder and lightning still disturbed the night when, with throbbing head, he awoke and got slowly to his feet using a bedpost as support. He stared dazedly around him.

  Zarozinia was gone. The only other figure in the room was the stiff corpse of the beast he had killed. His black-haired girl-wife had been abducted.

  Shaking, he went to the door and flung it open, calling for his guards, but none answered him.

  His runesword Stormbringer hung in the city’s armoury and would take time to get. His throat tight with pain and anger, he ran down the corridors and stairways, dazed with anxiety, trying to grasp the implications of his wife’s disappearance.

  Above the palace, thunder still crashed, eddying about in the noisy night. The palace seemed deserted and he had the sudden feeling that he was completely alone, that he had been abandoned. But as he ran out into the main courtyard and saw the insensible guards he realised at once that their slumber could not be natural. Realisation was coming even as he ran through the gardens, through the gates and down to the city, but there was no sign of his wife’s abductors.

  Where had they gone?

  He raised his eyes to the shouting sky, his white face stark and twisted with frustrated anger. There was no sense to it. Why had they taken her? He had enemies, he knew, but none who could summon such supernatural help. Who, apart from himself, could work this mighty sorcery that made the skies themselves shake and a city sleep?

  To the house of Lord Voashoon, Chief Senator of Karlaak and father of Zarozinia, Elric ran panting like a wolf. He banged with his fists upon the door, yelling at the astonished servants within.

  “Open! It is Elric. Hurry!”

  The doors gaped back and he was through them. Lord Voashoon came stumbling down the stairs into the chamber, his face heavy with sleep.

  “What is it, Elric?”

  “Summon your warriors. Zarozinia has been abducted. Those who took her were demons and may be far from here by now—but we must search in case they escaped by land.”

  Lord Voashoon’s face became instantly alert and he shouted terse orders to his servants between listening to Elric’s explanation of what had happened.

  “And I must have entrance into the armoury,” Elric concluded. “I must have Stormbringer!”

  “But you renounced the blade for fear of its evil power over you!” Lord Voashoon reminded him quietly.

  Elric replied impatiently. “Aye—but I renounced the blade for Zarozinia’s sake, too. I must have Stormbringer if I am to bring her back. The logic is simple. Quickly, give me the key.”

  In silence Lord Voashoon fetched the key and led Elric to the armoury where the weapons and armour of his ancestors were held, unused for centuries. Through the dusty place strode Elric to a dark alcove that seemed to contain something which lived.

  He heard a soft moaning from the great black battle-blade as he reached out a slim-fingered white hand to take it. It was heavy, yet perfectly balanced, a two-handed broadsword of prodigious size, with its wide crosspiece and its blade smooth and broad, stretching for over five feet from the hilt. Near the hilt, mystic runes were engraved and even Elric did not know what they fully signified.

  “Again I must make use of you, Stormbringer,” he said as he buckled the sheath about his waist, “and I must conclude that we are too closely linked now for less than death to separate us.”

  With that he was striding from the armoury and back to the courtyard where mounted guards were already sitting nervous steeds, awaiting his instructions.

  Standing before them, he drew Stormbringer so that the sword’s strange, black radiance flickered around him, his white face, as pallid as bleached bone, staring out of it at the horsemen.

  “You go to chase demons this night. Search the countryside, scour forest and plain for those who have done this thing to our princess! Though it’s likely that her abductors used supernatural means to make their escape, we cannot be sure. So search—and search well!”

  * * *

  All through the raging night they searched but could find no trace of either the creatures or Elric’s wife. And when dawn came, a smear of blood in the morning sky, his men returned to Karlaak where Elric awaited them, now filled with the nigromantic vitality which his sword supplied.

  “Lord Elric—shall we retrace our trail and see if daylight yields a clue?” cried one.

  “He does not hear you,” another murmured as Elric gave no sign.

  But then Elric turned his pain-racked head and he said bleakly, “Search no more. I have had time to meditate and must seek my wife with the aid of sorcery. Disperse. You can do nothing further.”

  Then he left them and went back towards his palace, knowing that there was still one way of learning where Zarozinia had been taken. It was a method which he ill-liked, yet it would have to be employed.

  Curtly, upon returning, Elric ordered everyone from his chamber, barred the door and stared down at the dead thing. Its congealed blood was still on him, but the axe with which he had slain it had been taken away by its comrades.

  Elric prepared the body, stretching out its limbs on the floor. He drew the shutters of the windows so that no light filtered into the room, and lit a brazier in one corner. It swayed on its chains as the oil-soaked rushes flared. He went to a small chest by the window and took out a pouch. From this he removed a bunch of dried herbs and with a hasty gesture flung them on the brazier so that it gave off a sickly odour and the room began to fill with smoke. Then he stood over the corpse, his body rigid, and began to sing an incantation in the old language of his forefathers, the Sorcerer Emperors of Melniboné. The song seemed scarcely akin to human speech, rising and falling from a deep groan to a high-pitched shriek.

  * * *

  The brazier speared flaring red light over Elric’s face and grotesque shadows skipped about the room. On the floor the dead corpse began to stir, its ruined head moving from side to side. Elric drew his runesword and placed it before him, his two hands on the hilt. “Arise, soulless one!” he commanded.