The Stealer of Souls by Michael Moorcock Read Free Book Online

outlandish gear—for his eyes and skin were enough to mark him.
    Elric, Last Lord of Melniboné, was a pure albino who drew his power from a secret and terrible source.
    Smiorgan sighed. “Well, Elric, when do we raid Imrryr?”
    Elric shrugged. “As soon as you like; I care not. Give me a little time in which to do certain things.”
    “Tomorrow? Shall we sail tomorrow?” Yaris said hesitantly, conscious of the strange power dormant in the man he had earlier accused of treachery.
    Elric smiled, dismissing the youth’s statement. “Three days’ time,” he said, “Three—or more.”
    “Three days! But Imrryr will be warned of our presence by then!” Fat, cautious Fadan spoke.
    “I’ll see that your fleet’s not found,” Elric promised. “I have to go to Imrryr first—and return.”
    “You won’t do the journey in three days—the fastest ship could not make it.” Smiorgan gaped.
    “I’ll be in the Dreaming City in less than a day,” Elric said softly, with finality.
    Smiorgan shrugged. “If you say so, I’ll believe it—but why this necessity to visit the city ahead of the raid?”
    “I have my own compunctions, Count Smiorgan. But worry not—I shan’t betray you. I’ll lead the raid myself, be sure of that.” His dead-white face was lighted eerily by the fire and his red eyes smouldered. One lean hand firmly gripped the hilt of his runesword and he appeared to breathe more heavily. “Imrryr fell, in spirit, five hundred years ago—she will fall completely soon—for ever! I have a little debt to settle. This is my sole reason for aiding you. As you know I have made only a few conditions—that you raze the city to the ground and a certain man and woman are not harmed. I refer to my cousin Yyrkoon and his sister Cymoril…”
    Yaris’s thin lips felt uncomfortably dry. Much of his blustering manner resulted from the early death of his father. The old sea-king had died—leaving the youthful Yaris as the new ruler of his lands and his fleets. Yaris was not at all certain that he was capable of commanding such a vast kingdom—and tried to appear more confident than he actually felt. Now he said: “How shall we hide the fleet, Lord Elric?”
    The Melnibonéan acknowledged the question. “I’ll hide it for you,” he promised. “I go now to do this—but make sure all your men are off the ships first—will you see to it, Smiorgan?”
    “Aye,” rumbled the stocky count.
    He and Elric departed from the hall together, leaving five men behind; five men who sensed an air of icy doom hanging about the overheated hall.
    “How could he hide such a mighty fleet when we, who know this fjord better than any, found nowhere?” Dharmit of Jharkor said bewilderedly.
    None answered him.
    They waited, tensed and nervous, while the fire flickered and died untended. Eventually Smiorgan returned, stamping noisily on the boarded floor. There was a haunted haze of fear surrounding him; an almost tangible aura, and he was shivering, terribly. Tremendous, racking undulations swept up his body and his breath came short.
    “Well? Did Elric hide the fleet—all at once? What did he do?” Dharmit spoke impatiently, choosing not to heed Smiorgan’s ominous condition.
    “He has hidden it.” That was all Smiorgan said, and his voice was thin, like that of a sick man, weak from fever.
    Yaris went to the entrance and tried to stare beyond the fjord slopes where many campfires burned, tried to make out the outlines of ships’ masts and rigging, but he could see nothing.
    “The night mist’s too thick,” he murmured, “I can’t tell whether our ships are anchored in the fjord or not.” Then he gasped involuntarily as a white face loomed out of the clinging fog. “Greetings, Lord Elric,” he stuttered, noting the sweat on the Melnibonéan’s strained features.
    Elric staggered past him, into the hall. “Wine,” he mumbled, “I’ve done what’s needed and it’s cost me hard.”
    Dharmit fetched a jug