And Elric looked about him, his eyes widening, and he began to scream.
He fell to his knees in terror. He turned pleadingly to her.
"No, Myshella! No. I do not desire this! "
Hastily she made yet another sign.
Moonglum helped his friend to his feet. "What was it? What did you see?"
Elric straightened his back and rested his hand on his sword and said grimly and quietly to Myshella:
"Lady, I would kill you for that if I did not understand you sought only to please me."
He studied the ground for a moment before continuing:
"Know this. Elric cannot have what he desires most. What he desires does not exist. What he desires is dead. All Elric has is sorrow, guilt, malice, hatred. This is all he deserves and all he will ever desire."
She put her hands to her own face and walked back to the room where he had first seen her. Elric followed.
Moonglum started after them but then he stopped and remained where he stood.
He watched them enter the room and saw the door close.
He walked back on to the battlements and stared into the darkness. He saw wings of silver and gold flashing in the moonlight and they became smaller and smaller until they had vanished.
He sighed. It was cold.
He went back into the castle and settled himself with his back against a pillar, preparing to sleep.
But a little while later he heard laughter come from the room in the highest tower.
And the laughter sent him running through the passages, through the great hall where the fire had died, out of the door, into the night to seek the stables where he could feel more secure.
But he could not sleep that night, for the distant laughter still pursued him.
And the laughter continued until morning.
BOOK TWO
To Snare the Pale Prince
"... but it was in Nadsokor, City of Beggars, that Elric found an old friend and learned something concerning an old enemy..."
-The Chronicle of the Black Sword
CHAPTER ONE
The Beggar Court
Nadsokor, city of Beggars, was infamous throughout the Young Kingdoms. Lying near the shores of that ferocious river, the Varkalk, and not too far from the Kingdom of Org in which blossomed the frightful Forest of Troos, and exuding a stink which seemed thick enough ten miles distant, Nadsokor was plagued by few visitors.
From this unlovely place sallied out her citizens to beg their way about the world and steal what they could and bring it back to Nadsokor where half of their profits were handed over to their king in return for his protection.
Their king had ruled for many years. He was called Urish the Seven-fingered, for he had but four fingers on his right hand and three upon his left. Veins had burst all over his once handsome face and filthy, infested hair framed that seedy countenance upon which age and grime had traced a thousand lines. From out of all this ruin peered two bright, pale eyes.
As the symbol of his power Urish had a great cleaver called Hackmeat which was forever at his side. His throne was of crudely carved black oak, studded with bits of raw gold, bones and semi-precious gems. Beneath this throne was Urish's Hoard-a chest of treasure which he let none but himself look upon.
For the best part of every day Urish would lounge on his throne, presiding over a gloomy, festering hall throned with his Court: a rabble of rascals too foul in appearance and disposition to be tolerated anywhere but here.
For heat and light there burned permanently braziers of garbage which gave out oily smoke and a stink which dominated all the other stinks in the hall.
And now there was a visitor at Urish's Court.
He stood before the dais on which the throne was mounted and from time to time he raised a heavily scented kerchief to his red, full lips.
His face, which was normally dark in complexion, was somewhat grey and his eyes had something of a haunted, tortured look in them as they glanced from begrimed beggar to pile of rubbish to guttering brazier. Dressed in the loose brocade robes of the folk of Pan Tang, the visitor had black eyes, a great hooked nose, blue-black ringlets and a curling beard. Kerchief to mouth, he bowed low when he reached Urish's throne.
As always, greed, weakness and malice mingled to form King Urish's expression as he regarded the stranger whom one of his courtiers had but lately announced.
Urish had recognised the name and he believed he could guess the Pan Tangian's business here.
"I heard you were dead, Theleb K'aarna-killed beyond Lormyr, near World's Edge." Urish grinned to display the black crags which were the rotting remains of his teeth.
Theleb K'aarna removed the kerchief from his lips and his voice was strangled at first, gaining strength as he remembered the wrongs recently done him. "My magic is not so weak I cannot escape a spell such as was woven that day. I conjured myself below the ground while Myshella's Noose of Flesh engulfed the Kelmain Host."
Urish's disgusting grin widened.
"You crept into a hole, is that it?"
The sorcerer's eyes burned fiercely. "I'll not dispute the strength of my powers with-"
He broke off and drew a deep breath which he at once regretted. He stared warily around him at the Beggar Court, all manged and maimed, which had de posited itself about the filthy hall, mocking him. The beggars of Nadsokor knew the power of poverty and disease-knew how it terrified those who were not used to it. And thus their very squalor was their safeguard against intruders.
A repulsive cough which might have been a laugh now seized King Urish. "And was it your magic that brought you here?" As his whole body shook his bloodshot eyes continued, beadily, to regard the sorcerer.
"I have travelled across the seas and all across Vilmir to be here, " Theleb K'aarna said, "because I had heard there was one you hated above all others...."
"And we hate all others-all who are not beggars, " Urish reminded him. The king chuckled and the chuckle became, once more, a throaty, convulsive cough.
"But you hate Elric of Melnibone most."
"Aye. It would be fair to say that. Before he won fame as the Kinslayer, the traitor of Imrryr, he came to Nadsokor to deceive us, disguised as a leper who had begged his way from the Eastlands beyond Karlaak. He tricked me disgracefully and stole something from my Hoard. And my Hoard is sacred-I will not let another even glimpse it! "
"I heard he stole a scroll from you, " Theleb K'aarna said. "A spell which had once belonged to his cousin Yyrkoon. Yyrkoon wished to be rid of Elric and let him believe that the spell would release the Princess Cymoril from her sorcerous slumber...."
"Aye. Yyrkoon had given the scroll to one of our citizens when he went a-begging to the gates of Imrryr. He then told Elric what he had done. Elric disguised himself and came here. With the aid of sorcery he gained access to my Hoard-my sacred Hoard-and plucked the scroll from it...."
Theleb K'aarna looked sideways at the Beggar King. "Some would say that it was not Elric's fault-that Yyrkoon was to blame. He deceived you both. The spell did not awaken Cymoril, did it?"
"No. But we have a Law in Nadsokor..." Urish raised the great cleaver Hackmeat and displayed its
ragged, rusty blade. For all its battered appearance, it was a fearsome weapon. "That Law says that any man who looks upon the sacred Hoard of King Urish must die and die most horribly-at the hands of the Burning God! "
"And none of your wandering citizens have yet managed to take this vengeance?"
"I must pass the sentence personally upon him before he dies. He must come again to Nadsokor, for it is only here that he may be acquainted with his doom."