Revenge of the Rose by Michael Moorcock Read Free Book Online

climb the yielding
filth, disturbing bones and vermin with every movement and making slow
progress, while around him birds and winged rats hissed and chittered at him.
Again he wondered what kind of creature could have created such a path, if path
it were. It could not, he felt sure, be the work of any human agency and this
made him all the more anxious to return to the known qualities of the
wheatfield.
                 He
had reached the rim and was clambering along it to find a firmer foothold down.
Scattering rotted matter and angry rodents as he went, he wondered what kind of
culture brought its waste to line a track created by some supernatural being. Then
he thought he saw something larger shift below, near where the wheat grew, but
the light was bad and he put it down to his imagination. Was the refuse some
kind of holy offering? Did this realm’s people worship a god who patrolled from
one habitation to another in the form of a gigantic snake?
                 There
was another movement below him, as he slid down a few feet and came to rest on
an old cistern, and he saw a soft felt hat rise above a pile of rags and an
avian face stare up at him in astonished amusement. “Good heavens, sir. This
cannot be coincidence! But what purpose has Fate for pairing we two, do you
think?” It was Wheldrake, stumbling up from the wheatfield. “What lies behind
you, sir, that’s duller than this? More corn? Why, sir, this seems a world of
corn!”
                 “Of
corn and garbage and a somewhat idiosyncratic pathway of baffling purpose which
slices through all, from east to west. It has a sinister air to it.”
                 “So
you go the other way, sir?”
                 “To
avoid whichever unpleasant creation of Chaos has chosen to slither this route
and take its choice of these offerings. My horses, I suppose, were not carried
through the dimensions with you?”
                 “Not
to my knowledge, sir. I’d guessed you eaten, by now. But the reptile was one of
those with a sentimental weakness for heroes, I take it?”
                 “Something
of the sort.” Elric smiled, grateful in an odd way for the red-headed poet’s
ironies. They were preferable to his most recent conversation with his father.
As he slid down some powdery and decomposing substance alive with maggots, he
embraced the little man who almost chirped with pleasure at their reunion. “My
dear sir!”
                 Whereupon,
arm in arm they went, back to the bottom and the sweetening wheat, back in the
direction of a river Elric had seen from his dragon steed. There had been a
town upon that river which, he guessed, might be reached in less than a day. He
spoke of this to Wheldrake, adding that they were sadly short of provisions or
the means of obtaining any, unless they chewed the unripe wheat.
                 “I
regret my poaching days in Northumberland are long behind me, sir. But as a lad
I was apt enough with snare and a gun. It might be, since your scarf is rather
badly the worse for wear, that you would not mind if I unraveled it a little
more. It’s just possible I might remember my old skills.”
                 With
an amiable shrug, Elric handed the birdlike poet his scarf and watched as the
little fingers worked swiftly, unraveling and reknotting until he had a length
of thin cord. “With evening drawing close, sir, I’d best get to work at once.”
                 By
now they were some distance from the wall of garbage and could smell only the
rich, restful scents of the summer fields. Elric took his ease amongst the
wheatstalks while Wheldrake went to work and within a short space of time, having
cleared a wide area and dug a pit, they were able to enjoy a young rabbit while
they speculated at such a strange world which grew such vast fields and yet
seemed to have so few farmsteads or villages. Staring at the