Revenge of the Rose by Michael Moorcock Read Free Book Online Page A

rabbit’s carcass
turning on a spit (also of Wheldrake’s devising) Elric said that, for all his
sorcerous education, he was not the familiar traveler through the realms that
Wheldrake seemed to be.
                 “Not
by choice, sir, I assure you. I blame a certain Doctor Dee, whom I consulted on
the Greeks. It was to do with metre, sir. A metric question. I needed, I
thought, to hear the language of
Plato. Well, the story’s long and not especially novel to those of us who
travel, willy-nilly, through the multiverse, but I spent some while on one
particular plane, shifting a little, I must admit, through time (but not the
other dimensions) until I had come to rest, I was sure, in Putney.”
                 “Would
you return there, Master Wheldrake?”
                 “Indeed
I would, sir. I’m growing a little long in the tooth for extra-dimensional
adventuring, and I tend to form firm attachments, so it is rather hard on me,
you know, to miss so many friends.”
                 “Well,
sir. I hope you will find them again.”
                 “And
you, sir. Good luck with whatever it is you hope to discover. Though I suspect
you are the kind who’s forever searching for the numinous.”
                 “Perhaps,”
said Elric soberly, chewing upon a tender leg, “but I think the numinosity of
what I presently seek would surprise you greatly …”
                 Wheldrake
was about to ask more when he changed his mind and stared instead, with abiding
pride, at his spit and his catch. Elric’s own cares were considerably lightened
by his relish for the little man’s company and quirks of character.
                 And
now Master Wheldrake has found his sought-for volume and has a handy candle to
light at the fire so that he might read aloud to the last Prince of Melniboné
an account of some demigod of his own dimension and his challenge of a
kingship, when there comes a sound of a horse walking slowly through the wheat—a
horse which hesitates with every few steps as if controlled by a clever master.
So Elric shouts out—
                 “Greetings,
horseman. Would you share our meat?”
                 There’s
a pause, then the answering voice is muffled, distant, yet courteous:
                 “I’d
share your heat, sir, for a while. It’s mighty cold just now, to me.”
                 The
horse continues towards them at the same pace, still pausing from time to time,
still cautious, until at last they see its shadow against the firelight and a
rider dismounts, walking softly towards them, a silhouette of alarming
symmetry, a big man clad from head to foot in armour that flashes silver, gold,
sometimes blue-grey. On his helm is a plume of dark yellow and his breastplate
is etched with the yellow-and-black Arms of Chaos, the arms of a soulbonded
servant of the Lords of Unlikelihood, which are eight arrows radiating from a
central hub, representing the variety and multiplicity of Chaos. Behind him his
perfect war-stallion was furnished with a hood and surcoat of radiant
black-and-silver silk, a high saddle of ornamental ivory and ebony, and silver
harness bound with gold.
                 Elric
got to his feet, ready for confrontation but chiefly puzzled by the stranger’s
appearance. The newcomer wore a helm apparently without a visor, but all of a
piece from neck to crown. Only the eye-slits relieved the smoothness of the
coruscating steel, which seemed to contain living matter just below its
polished surface: matter that flowed and stirred and threatened. Through those
slits peered a pair of eyes displaying an angry pain which Elric understood. He
was unable to identify a feeling of close affinity with the man as he came up
to the fire and stretched gauntleted hands towards the flames. The firelight
caught the metal and again suggested that something living was contained in